by Cathy Pegau
I’ll bet you do.
Charlotte stood, her notebook clasped tightly. “Whatever you, your husband, and Brigit have schemed, it wasn’t worth a girl’s life.”
It was a risk to say so much, but if Tess, Frank, and Brigit were responsible for Darcy’s murder, they needed to know they wouldn’t get away with it.
The other woman’s mouth dropped open. Her face turned red. “Mrs. Popovich! Miss Brody is ready to leave.”
The housekeeper must have been standing at the kitchen door, awaiting her mistress’s summons, because she hurried in, smiling, until she saw the distress on Tess’s face. The smile fell, and Mrs. Popovich gestured for Charlotte to precede her to the foyer.
Tess glared at her. “I don’t appreciate your accusations, Miss Brody. You’re wrong, and if you print a single word otherwise, I’ll sue you and your magazine.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Kavanagh, when my article comes out, there will be only the truth of this ugly matter.”
Chapter 14
James was going to kill her.
The thought looped through her brain as Charlotte trekked down the hill toward Sullivan’s. She had no proof that Tess and Brigit knew each other, except for gut instinct and a few facts that could be mere coincidence. Based on that alone, she’d accused the mayor’s wife of deceit and murder. A brutal murder, at that.
Yep, he was going to kill her.
Charlotte entered Sullivan’s, wiped her feet on the provided mat, and continued on to her room. She opened the door, half expecting another note, but found nothing. She removed her coat and gently shook off the rain before hanging it to dry. Slipping off her boots, she turned on the table lamp. The yellow glow helped brighten the gloom of the room, if not her attitude. That would require something else.
My gut’s usually on target, she assured herself. At least with things she wasn’t personally involved with. The Kavanaghs and Brigit were hiding something, and Darcy had known it. Charlotte was sure of that much.
But murder? There was motivation, of course, but that was a huge conclusion to jump to without solid evidence. There might have been others who wanted Darcy dead for completely different reasons. If so, who and why?
In Charlotte’s experience, the “why” was usually the key to the “who.”
“The baby,” Charlotte said to the empty room. She opened the valve on the radiator and held her chilled hands out. Deep in the wall, pipes pinged and moaned as steam circulated. “Or the blackmail?”
She sat down and jotted all she knew of the Kavanaghs, Brigit, Darcy, and the newspaper articles. The timeline of the murder came next. There were still many questions and blanks, of course.
Just after five, Charlotte perused the pages she’d written that afternoon. She didn’t dare tell Michael what she was doing when he came to collect her for an evening at the Empress Theater. The antics of the comedic acts and toe-tapping music helped distract her, but thoughts of the case were never far from her mind.
Even as she fell asleep that evening, possibilities of who might have wanted Darcy Dugan dead and why swirled in her brain.
A loud crash and sudden pain woke Charlotte. She bolted upright in bed, her hand to her face. She felt sticky blood as the papers on the table and a few that had scattered onto the floor went up in a rush of flames.
The acrid stench of gasoline and alcohol seared her nostrils. She scrambled out of bed, snatching the blanket as she set her bare feet on the floor. Sharp points of pain in her right foot made her yelp and lift her foot. Broken glass. The window had been smashed, and her room was on fire.
Fear and pain gripped Charlotte, twisting her stomach and tightening her chest. She grabbed for the pitcher on the table. Too light. She hadn’t filled it before bed.
Oh, God! Now what?
Move! Better a few cuts than to die here.
Favoring her injured foot, Charlotte swept the floor in front of her with the blanket, clearing away glass as she made a path to the door. The pages on the table burned. Glowing bits floated on the breeze from the broken window. One touched near her ear. She jerked away, slapping at the heat and pain.
A second bottle through the window crashed at her feet. Charlotte screamed. The blanket caught fire. Flames licked at her nightgown.
She tossed the fiery blanket into the room and yanked the door open. “Fire! Fire!” She pounded on the door across the hall. “Fire!”
Her heart beat loud in her head, and smoke filled her lungs. Beating on doors, coughing and yelling, she took the stairs as fast as her injured foot would allow. Doors slammed open as the women who lived on the ground floor scrambled out. The light in the upstairs hall showed several sleepy men staring at her from their doorways.
“Fire!” She yelled again. “Get everyone out!”
She didn’t wait to see if they’d move, but hobbled back down the stairs. Her bloody foot slipped. Charlotte cried out as pain radiated from her sole to her ankle.
Go, go, go! Make sure Mrs. Sullivan gets out!
The main floor was filling with smoke drifting through the hall to the open door. Shouts of “Fire!” sounded outside.
Coughing, her eyes watering, Charlotte pounded on the landlady’s door. “Mrs. Sullivan! Mrs. Sullivan!”
She turned the knob. Inside, the cozy room was dark. Charlotte plowed into a low table, sending knickknacks crashing to the floor. She stumbled to the bedroom door and threw it open. Faint light through a single window allowed her to see Mrs. Sullivan sitting up in bed.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Her voice was high with fear.
“Fire. Come on.”
Charlotte hoisted the older woman up by the arm, dragged the blanket off the bed to wrap around her, and half carried her out of the building. People were running to the nearby laundry with buckets. Bells clanged down the street.
Rain and wind whooshed up the street, drenching them. Charlotte crossed the road to the front of McGruder’s store where another older woman stood under the awning. She held her arms out to Mrs. Sullivan.
“Thank goodness you’re safe, Alice.”
Charlotte let Mrs. McGruder take the landlady in hand. She looked back at the rooming house. In the early glow of dawn, she saw thick, black smoke billowing from the building. A bucket brigade had started to set up from the laundry to the back of the house.
“Is everyone out?” she asked as she started forward.
A strong hand grabbed her arm. “Stay put.”
She tried to pull out of James’s grasp, but he held tight. “There may be some who—”
“I’ll go. You’re barefoot.” He glanced down. When he brought his gaze back up to her face, there was concern in his eyes. “And bleeding.”
Charlotte looked at her foot. After the initial pain, adrenaline must have taken over, for the most part, allowing her to function without feeling the wound. But now it started to hurt. Another gust of autumnal wind and rain set her to shivering.
James whipped off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. He reached into the side pocket, withdrawing a flashlight. “Stay here,” he said, pointing the device at her.
He bolted toward the burning building, leaving no room for argument.
She drew his jacket closer, feeling his warmth as she watched the smoke thicken. Several dozen people were gathered in front of the burning building while a bucket brigade handed water down the line until the fire truck could arrive.
Flames flickered over the roof at the back of the rooming house. Beside her, Mrs. Sullivan gasped.
Finally, a clatter of hooves and shouting came from up the street. A team of six horses drew the tank cart in front of the building, snorting and stamping as the driver reined them in. Another carriage with four horses, its bell clanging and men atop it yelling, came up behind the first. Eight men scrambled to the pumping lever, four to a side. Two men attached the hose from the pump to the tank. Several other men unwound a hose coiled on the pump truck and hauled it to the back of the rooming house.
“Ready!” shouted one of the men at the tank.
“Ready!” replied someone on the hose.
The four men on one side of the pump pulled down while the others pushed up. The alternating action drew water from the tank and sent it into the hose. The line of the brigade continued passing sloshing buckets of water to the fire and empty ones back to the laundry.
Shivering, Charlotte leaned against the wall of McGruder’s store, slid down onto her backside, and drew her knees up to her chest. From the front, Sullivan’s looked intact. The fire seemed to have been contained at the rear. For now.
A few of Sullivan’s residents watched in glassy-eyed shock. Did everyone get out? God, she hoped so. She glanced at Mrs. Sullivan and Mrs. McGruder. The landlady’s face was drawn with fear and sorrow.
I should go over to Mrs. Sullivan, Charlotte thought, but she wasn’t sure her shaky legs would hold her.
The sound of shattering glass made her jump.
“My God, Charlotte, are you hurt?” Michael knelt beside her, his black leather doctor’s bag in hand. Gently, he held her chin and angled the left side of her face toward the light. “That doesn’t look too deep.”
She’d forgotten about the cut on her cheek. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice rough. “Just a little smoke. And my foot.”
Michael squinted at her foot in the poor light, touching the wound with the tip of his finger. Pain burned through her sole. Charlotte sucked in a breath and winced, jerking her foot out of his hand.
“Sorry. That piece is in pretty deep. I’ll need better light to get it out and to clean the wound properly.”
James crossed the street, his soaked shirt clinging to his body and his hair plastered to his face. Soot streaked his clothing and cheeks. “Fire’s under control. Back rooms are pretty bad.”
“Anyone else hurt?” Michael asked, rising.
The deputy shook his head. “A few minor cuts and scrapes, but nothing serious. Everyone got out.” He squatted down on the other side of Charlotte. “I think you got the worst of it. How’s your foot?”
“She’ll need stitches,” Michael said. “I have to get her to my office.”
James helped her to her feet. He held her arm, and, though she was feeling steady enough, she didn’t mind having him there to lean on. “You can’t walk. I can carry you.”
“Deputy,” someone called. “We need to move these people out of here.”
He shot the man—the head fireman by his leather helmet—a glare.
“I can get her to my place,” Michael said.
Charlotte swallowed hard and touched James’s arm, stopping him before he went back to work. “How bad is it? The building?”
“The fire spread pretty quick. Would have jumped to the neighboring buildings if we hadn’t had so much rain. We’ll take a look when it’s light, but I think you’ll need to get some new clothes.”
“And my typewriter?” She’d had a few pages of her manuscript on the table. Those were gone. Luckily, she’d sent off the bulk of the story several days before.
James’s features softened. “We’ll have to see.”
“Do you know how it started?” Michael asked.
“Someone threw something through the window,” she said, reciting the facts. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Charlotte knew she should be more emotional than her words portrayed. Shock. The force of what happened would hit her later. “That’s what woke me up. The crash, and glass hitting my face.” She shook her head. “Why would someone risk the lives of everyone in the house just to get to me?”
James leaned closer, his voice low. “Because anyone willing to kill a pregnant girl probably doesn’t have much regard for anyone who might be in the way.” He glanced at Michael. “I’ll be by later to talk to you, Charlotte.” She started to shrug off his coat. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on to that.”
Her face and body warmed despite the cold seeping into her nightgown. But the effect didn’t last long, and she started shivering again. Michael put his arm around her shoulder.
“Send anyone with injuries down to me. I’ll be up for a while.”
“Will do.” James touched his fingers to his forehead in his typical salute, then strode off, calling for people to clear the area.
“I need to talk to Mrs. Sullivan before we go.”
Michael leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Don’t mention anything about someone threatening you. Not yet. It’ll only scare her.”
She had been ready to apologize to the poor woman, but he had a point. When Charlotte reached Mrs. Sullivan, leaning on Michael to walk, she took the landlady’s cold hands in her own. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry this happened.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Michael’s worried face, but he didn’t say anything.
“Oh, my dear, such a terrible thing. Thank you so very much for waking me. I’d have been dead otherwise.” Mrs. Sullivan squeezed her fingers. “Mrs. McGruder here will take me in for now, and I think the others have places to stay. Will you be all right?”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll be at my brother’s.”
“All our things . . .” Mrs. Sullivan’s voice trailed off, and she gazed sadly at her business. Her home.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can to help clean up,” Charlotte said. “I just hope the damage is limited and the building is safe.”
“There’s a builder or two in town who can inspect it,” Mrs. McGruder said. She was no taller than Mrs. Sullivan, but thin as a rail. “Come on, Alice. Let’s get you inside and out of this rain.”
The older women entered the store. The McGruders lived above it, if the lights burning in the windows on the second floor were any indication.
“All right, let’s go.” Michael turned his back to Charlotte and crouched down a bit. “Get on.”
“Michael, we’ll look silly.” What a thing for the townspeople to see, their up-and-coming doctor carrying his sister piggyback. What would Ruth think? Charlotte covered her mouth to stifle the laugh that threatened. Good Lord, she was near hysterical from the morning’s excitement. That had to be it.
“Better silly than you trying to walk three blocks on an injured foot,” he said over his shoulder. “I’d never hear the end of that, for sure. Now get on.”
She climbed on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck and legs around his waist. Michael hooked his arms under her legs and hoisted her into a more comfortable position.
“Tally-ho!” Charlotte said, gently tapping his thigh with her uninjured heel.
“Ruth’s right.” He grunted when he shifted her weight again. “You are such a card.”
She hugged him tighter, and off they went.
Charlotte pulled on a pair of Michael’s canvas trousers, tucked in the worn cotton shirt he’d lent her, and decided she needed a belt. The clothes were roomy and comfortable, and part of her envied men for the privilege of wearing pants in public. Women here learned the impracticality of wearing a dress or a skirt while doing physical labor. And trousers were considerably warmer. She’d been known to wear pants beneath her skirt on particularly cold days back in New York, but her mother would have been appalled to see Charlotte outside the house in them alone.
Luckily, Mother wasn’t here. Besides, with Charlotte’s own clothes destroyed in the fire and the pending mess of cleanup, trousers were the best choice for the time being.
She didn’t want to think about what she’d find at Sullivan’s. Not yet. Her nose scrunched with the acrid scent that still burned in her nostrils, even after several hours and a washup with Michael’s strong antiseptic soap. The movement pulled at the drying plaster and bandage on her cheek. Reopening the cut might cause a larger scar than she suspected she’d have anyway, so she set her features to be as neutral as she could manage.
Hitching the pants up by the waistband, Charlotte limped to the other side of Michael’s living quarters to the chest of drawers against the wall to search for a belt. She was able to put a
little weight on the side of her foot with the cushioning from the wrap and a pair of thick socks. Michael had cleaned and stitched the wound, then wrapped it in a thick layer of bandages. Removing the piece of glass had hurt more than the stitches. The shard had felt like a knife blade, but was no larger than the pearl in one of her earrings.
She pulled open the top drawer. Socks, underwear, and long johns were stuffed inside. Charlotte searched for a tell-tale coil of leather. Her hand touched something crinkly. Several somethings, in fact. Curiosity getting the better of her, she pulled one out of the drawer and unfolded it. As she made out the obvious shape of a prophylactic, Michael came in from the exam room.
“Charlotte, Eddington’s here to—” He stopped short, looking at what was in her hand. His face turned crimson, and he stiffly walked over to take the condom from her. “Do you mind?”
“I was looking for a belt, I swear. Not snooping.” His lips pressed together; he didn’t believe her. “I wouldn’t do that, Michael. Besides, what does it matter? You and Ruth are adults who are soon to be married.” Charlotte could scarcely believe her future sister-in-law would agree to get a jump on the honeymoon. By the deepening color on Michael’s face and the way his gaze dropped, maybe she hadn’t. “You’re not using them with Ruth, are you?”
He stuffed the packets back under his clothing, focusing on the placement of socks and garters. “No,” he said, his voice rough. His admission stunned her. Michael was cheating on his fiancée. Having relations with another woman. The world had surely gone insane. “A man has needs.”
Shock changed to scorn. “Oh, please, Michael. Not that pathetic argument.”
Though she couldn’t fathom how he and Ruth had become a couple, let alone engaged, she couldn’t condone infidelity.
“She knew.”
Charlotte blinked up at her brother. “And she was fine with it?” That was not the Ruth she would have expected. “Wait, you said she knew, not she knows. Have you stopped seeing this other woman?”