by Cathy Pegau
All she could see through the frosted glass was a vague, dark figure. The streetlight must have gone out again. Who would be out on a night such as this? Toliver wouldn’t have knocked, as he had his own key.
“Michael or James,” she answered herself as she rose, her voice rough in her own ears.
Back in New York, she would have ignored a nighttime visitor. Or taken her brother’s old baseball bat with her. Here, she was fairly confident the person outside wasn’t going to hurt her. Besides, she’d left the bat at her parents’ house.
She opened the door. A gust of cold, wet wind blew in, making her shiver.
Deputy Marshal James Eddington stood at the threshold, melting slush dripping off the brim of his hat. “You shouldn’t be opening the door without asking who it is.”
“Are you saying you’re unable to keep the streets of Cordova safe enough for a woman to be at her own place of employment without worry?” She smiled as she said it, letting him know she was just teasing. James was a very good deputy, committed to his job, and most everyone in town knew he and Marshal Blaine weren’t to be trifled with when it came to breaking the laws of the Territory.
His black eyebrows met in a scowl, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Common sense should come into play, even here. There are some unsavory elements about.”
She’d certainly learned that in her three months in town.
“I’ll be more careful from now on,” she promised. “Come in and warm up. I’m almost done.”
James slipped in when Charlotte stepped aside. She closed the door after him. He swept his hat from his head, shook off the excess water carefully to avoid wetting her, and hung it on a peg screwed into the wall alongside her own hat and coat.
“More snow since early evening. Cold and slick out there,” he said as he unbuttoned his coat. “Wanted to make sure you get home okay.”
Though warmed by his concern, Charlotte rubbed her chilled bare arms, her sleeves held up by an old pair of garters so they wouldn’t get dirtied by the linotype. “That’s very kind of you. Sit for a minute while I finish a few things. Mr. Toliver should be here soon. Would you like some tea? I think the water’s still hot.”
“Toliver doesn’t have anything stronger stashed in his desk?” James asked with a sly smile.
He did, but friend or not, Charlotte wasn’t about to admit it to a deputy who enforced Alaska’s dry laws. “Just tea.”
“Then tea’d be great, thanks.” He sat on the straight-back chair on the other side of the desk while she went to the stove to check the kettle. Still hot enough to make a decent cup.
Charlotte prepared their tea and brought the cups to the desk. She sat in Toliver’s padded chair, suddenly at a loss of what to say to James. They’d been friendly enough since she’d arrived in Cordova in August, and he was easy to talk to. They’d even gone to dinner, and another time a show at the Empress Theater with her brother and her friend Brigit. And they’d shared a kiss.
So why was she unable to come up with small talk now, as they sat in a dimly lit office while the wind blew outside?
“Anything exciting in tomorrow’s paper?” He watched her over the rim of the cup as he sipped.
Relieved to have something to talk about, she passed him the originals of the articles she’d transcribed. “Mostly the usual, though there are a few that should get some attention.”
How would Deputy Eddington and Marshal Blaine take her editorial? They already knew her personal stance on Prohibition, and Blaine had more or less agreed with her that enforcement was difficult. Putting it in print for all of Cordova to see was another matter.
He glanced through the drafts, stopping at a page and frowning. “This damn arsonist is driving us crazy.”
“At least there hasn’t been any serious damage or injury.” Charlotte had written three pieces about fires set over the last month. Abandoned sheds and piles of brush seemed to be the arsonist’s main source of entertainment.
“Not so far,” James said, “but this is the third year he’s done it. Sets a few fires, then stops. I’d rather not have this be an annual event.”
“How unusual. Are you sure it’s the same person?” There was no evidence pointing to anyone or any particular pattern other than the timing.
“Not really, but in a way, I hope so.” He shook his head slowly. “We don’t need a copycat—”
A muffled boom from somewhere not too distant cut him off, followed by three more smaller ones in quick succession. The explosions weren’t loud, more like when she’d stood on the street in New York City for a parade and heard the bands’ bass drums while they were still a couple of blocks away.
James set his tea cup down quickly, sloshing liquid onto the pages on the desk, and bolted from his seat. Charlotte followed him. Throwing open the door, he stood on the walk and looked up and down Main Street. His eyes widened as he faced west, toward the canneries. “It looks like Fiske’s. Call the firehouse,” he said, already running in that direction.
Charlotte took a quick look. Though she didn’t see flames, there was an unnatural glow coming from two streets away. She about-faced, dashed back to the desk, and snatched up the candlestick phone. Placing the earpiece against her ear, she flicked the bracket several times.
After a few long moments, a drowsy voice answered. “Operator.”
“There’s been an explosion and a fire,” Charlotte said. “At Fiske’s Hardware.”
“I’ll call it in,” the operator replied, perkier now. “Anyone hurt?”
“I don’t know. Deputy Eddington went down there. Hurry.”
Charlotte hung up before the operator. She grabbed her notepad and a pencil from the desk and practically broke her neck hopping one foot to the other as she pulled off her shoes. Thank goodness single buckles and slip-ons had replaced high-laced styles, but they weren’t good in snow. She hurried to the door, shoved her feet into her heavy boots, on top of her wool socks stuffed inside, and yanked her hat and coat off their pegs.
Struggling to get her coat on while she slipped and slid in the slush, Charlotte made her way to the end of the street. By the time she turned toward Fiske’s, fire licked at the side window of the building. Luckily, there was some distance between the hardware store and its nearest neighbor. The idea of a block-long inferno scared the hell out of her.
“James!”
He was nowhere in sight. The door was open and black smoke poured out, dimming the streetlight on the far corner. The acrid stench of burning chemicals made Charlotte’s eyes water. The smell made her heart race and her palms sweat, despite the cold. She stepped back, rubbing the thin scar beneath her left eye. Not long ago, she’d been caught in a burning room, and the memory was too fresh to allow her to get any closer.
“James!” she called again, praying he hadn’t gone inside.
The smoke was getting thicker, the flames growing larger and louder. The upper floor seemed untouched, for the moment, but that wouldn’t last long.
Charlotte heard the bell clanging from the firehouse near the harbor. If any of the volunteers had spent the night there, they would be on the scene soon. But would it be soon enough?
She reached into her pocket for the notebook and pencil. Taking notes and focusing on the facts for the article she’d write kept her worry for James at bay, for the moment.
Several people joined her on the corner, some with coats pulled on over nightclothes.
“Anyone call the fire department?”
“I heard the bells going.”
“What the hell happened? Anyone inside?”
Charlotte glanced up at the building as the flames snapped and flashed through the windows. God, she hoped the building had been empty. A shudder ran through her. She shoved her notebook into her pocket, buttoned her coat, and crossed her arms against the cold. Thank goodness she’d worn an old pair of long johns under her skirt.
By the time the sound of yelling and the clang of the fire engine bell came
up the road, the fire had grown and smoke billowed out of the upper floor window. The four horse-drawn pump car with six men hanging on was followed by the six-horse tank. The firemen leaped off their carts before they came to a complete stop, boots squishing in the icy mud. Two men connected the tank hose to the pump. Others connected the fire hose to the other end of the pump and unrolled the rubberized canvas toward Fiske’s.
Three men donned hard leather masks that covered their heads, the eye pieces giving them an insectoid appearance. Hopefully the air canisters attached to the backs of the masks would sustain them long enough to extinguish the flames. When their equipment was secure, they hurried to the hose.
“Ready!” came the muffled cry of the man at the front. He pointed the nozzle toward the open door. Four men operated the pump mechanism, two to a side. After a few pumps, water shot out of the nozzle. The man in the front slowly walked forward.
James came around from the back of the building, and Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. He strode directly to Chief Parker, who wore a black, hardened leather helmet with a metal crest on the front, and began talking and gesturing. Charlotte couldn’t hear what they were saying over the rush of water, the roar of flames, and the chatter of the men near her.
“Charlotte, are you all right?”
She turned toward her brother. Like some of the other men, Michael wore his mackinaw over a stripped pajama shirt and hastily donned trousers.
“I’m fine. Did you get a call? Is someone hurt?” Charlotte hadn’t seen anyone come out of Fiske’s with an injury. Maybe he’d been contacted as a precaution.
“No, I heard the commotion. But I have my bag, just in case.” He held up his leather satchel, then turned his gaze to the building. “I pray I won’t need it.”
James nodded at something the chief said, then walked over to them. Melted snow plastered his hair to his head, but he didn’t seem to be feeling the effects. “Doc,” he said, greeting Michael. “Shouldn’t have been anyone inside, but if you’ll stick around to make sure the firemen are okay, I’d be obliged.”
“Of course,” Michael replied. “Has anyone gotten word to Fiske?”
“One of Parker’s sons was sent to the house. He’s not back yet.”
The men manning the hose hadn’t gone far beyond the front door. One inside shouted something. The men stepped back several steps as a loud crash sounded within the building. Black smoke billowed out of the windows and over their heads.
The onlookers startled and stepped back. Though they were far enough away to be safe from the flames, the chemical smell burned Charlotte’s nose and eyes. Several men wiped sleeves across their faces.
“There’s the chief’s son,” James said, nodding toward a lanky youth jogging down the road as fast as the slick surface allowed. He joined Parker, but the young man was shaking his head. James returned to Charlotte and Michael, his brow deeply furrowed. “Fiske wasn’t at home. No one but the housekeeper was there.”
“Caroline’s out of town,” Charlotte said. She recalled placing the travel announcement and Caroline Fiske’s promise of a holiday party upon her return on the social page of the paper. “She gets back any day now.”
“That’s what the housekeeper told the kid. Helluva homecoming,” James said.
All of them looked back at the building. Dread solidified in the pit of Charlotte’s stomach.
“Maybe he’s at one of the clubs or something,” Michael suggested.
“I’ll check around.” James raked his fingers through his wet hair. “I need to catch that damn arsonist. This has gone too far.”
It seemed like hours before the firemen trudged out of the building, smudged with soot and dripping. The outer walls of the hardware store had scorched, but remained intact from what Charlotte could see. Thank goodness they lived in such a wet environment. The interior, however, was likely a total loss.
The chief met with one man as he and his companions helped each other remove their masks, taking care with the air canisters. Charlotte couldn’t hear their conversation, but the man gestured back to the building, curving his hand as if giving direction. Parker’s frown deepened. Even from where she stood, Charlotte heard his emphatic “Son of a bitch.”
He looked out toward the crowd, his gaze falling on James. “Deputy,” he called, waving James over. “You too, Doc.”
The three of them exchanged glances, and the dread in Charlotte’s gut turned to a bilious cramping. There was only one reason to request Michael, the town’s coroner, as well as one of its doctors.
“Damnation,” James muttered, heading to the chief.
Michael and Charlotte followed. Both men stopped and turned to her.
“No,” James said, holding up a hand. “This is no place for you.”
Irritation bristled at the back of her neck. “I beg to differ, Deputy. As a journalist I have an obligation to report suspected crimes.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”
She scowled at him.
“And as Deputy Marshal,” James said, “my investigation into suspected crimes trumps your journalistic obligation. I’ll relay any pertinent information to you, Miss Brody, but right now I’m ordering you to remain out here. If you don’t, I’ll handcuff you to the lightpost. Understood?”
He’d do it, too. Charlotte resisted her natural inclination to argue with anyone who told her she couldn’t do this or that and gave him a curt nod. James nodded back. They’d known each other only a few short months and had quickly come to respect each other’s duties. When James felt it was time to disclose information for public consumption and safety, he’d do it. Pushing him too far, too fast, would likely land her in one of his jail cells. Or cuffed to a post.
James and Michael made their way to the door of the hardware store with the chief. Two firemen loaned them their masks. The fire may have been out, but smoldering embers and toxic fumes from whatever chemicals Fiske had in his inventory could prove dangerous, if not outright fatal. The three men disappeared into the blackened store. Charlotte caught a few glimpses of smoky light from Parker’s flashlight.
Worry gnawed around the edges of her irritation. What was inside the charred store? No amount of craning her neck allowed her to see past the front door.
“What’s happening, Miss Brody?”
Charlotte gave Henry, one of her paper boys and a server at the café, a nod of greeting. What was he doing out so late? “The chief asked Deputy Eddington and Michael to look at something inside.”
Under the wan electric streetlight, Henry’s ruddy cheeks paled. “What would they need the doctor for? Someone inside get hurt?”
She wouldn’t be the one to start rumors or set off wild speculation. James would never forgive her that transgression. “I couldn’t say.”
Henry stared at the front door and broken window leaking smoke, his expression the same as the few remaining gawkers who stayed to see what James and Michael might find. “It’s not Mr. Fiske, is it? I mean, who else would be in his store at this hour?”
“We don’t know what’s what, Henry, so let’s not jump to conclusions.” She sounded a lot like James, but the words offered a small amount of hope that Lyle Fiske was all right.
“Even so,” Henry said, “the store’s a goner.” He glanced at Charlotte. “Do they think the arsonist did it?”
Charlotte and others had entertained the same thought. “I’m sure the fire department and the marshal’s office will investigate every possibility. But the three other fires were smaller, in places where no one was around. This seems like a jump in destructive intent to me.”
Henry nodded, his attention back on the building and the firemen putting their equipment away.
Finally, Michael emerged from the hardware store. A fireman helped him with the mask. Michael took a deep breath of fresh air, but his face was drawn.
Charlotte started toward him. “Excuse me, Henry.”
Her feet slid in the slushy road. It was particularly
mucky where the water tank had been dripping, adding to the mess of the wet snow. As she reached Michael, James exited the building with the fire chief, the two of them talking low, their expressions similar to Michael’s. James held something heavy wrapped in cloth and under his jacket to protect it from the snow.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Charlotte kept her voice low and her back turned so the onlookers wouldn’t pick up on their conversation. No need to get rumors started. “Lyle Fiske?”
Michael nodded. “It looks like it. They’ll bring the body over to the basement of the hospital. The new morgue is up and running. Just wish we didn’t need it so damn soon.”
“You’ll confirm who it is and manner of death for an article, won’t you?” Charlotte had no desire to attend this autopsy. One was enough for her lifetime.
“I don’t want anything out about this yet,” James said as he joined them. He looked cold and wet, his hair dripping. “There are circumstances that need clearing up.”
“Like what?” she asked. “How the fire started? Do you think it was the arsonist?”
“Those questions, and who’d want Lyle Fiske dead.”
“You’re sure it was intentional?” What a terrible idea.
“The fire may not have been,” James said, bringing the cloth-wrapped items out from under his coat, “but the knife and hammer near his body suggest his death was.”
Charlotte shifted on the uncomfortable chair in Michael’s outer office. Staying late at the Times’ office, she’d typed up a short piece for the morning edition, just a few lines of facts and observations of the fire department’s activities. Mr. Toliver had arrived by the time the fire department was finishing up. He manned the linotype, encouraging Charlotte to go home and get some rest.
Sleep had been nearly impossible. Speculation about how the fire had started, why, and the identity of the unfortunate victim were left out of the article, but not her thoughts. The discovery of a possible murder weapon contributed to theories about what had happened.
Poor Mr. Fiske. Charlotte hoped he was dead before the fire started. Awful as that sounded, she couldn’t imagine the terror of being conscious while the building burned.