Borrowing Death

by Cathy Pegau

  “Nothing unusual,” Brigit said. “Folks grumbled here and there. He and Otto Kenner had a yelling match in the middle of a Businessmen’s Association meeting, I heard.”

  “Otto Kenner?” The name sounded familiar, but Charlotte couldn’t quite place him.

  “Big, burly guy.” Brigit held her hands over her shoulders to illustrated Otto Kenner’s physique. “He’s a builder and carpenter. His brother Adam has an office just across from yours, above the barber shop.”

  Charlotte still couldn’t picture either man. They probably didn’t cross paths often.

  “Anyway, Fiske was the only game in town, really, as far as the hardware store went. It’s expensive to bring goods up here. I think he was decent about not gouging customers. Much.”

  Something was missing at the end of that sentence. “But?”

  “There are things you shouldn’t know, that I can’t tell you.” When Charlotte started to protest, Brigit covered her hand with her own, stopping her. “Not because I don’t trust you. I do. But your relationship with a certain deputy puts you—and me—in a precarious position. If you know something and don’t tell James, and he asks about it, you could get into trouble. None of us wants that.” She smiled at Charlotte. “Especially James, I’d wager.”

  If she was speaking to anyone else, Charlotte would have pushed for more, but Brigit was her friend. “Can you give me a hint? Something I can try to work out for myself? That way if I happen to learn anything you won’t get into trouble.”

  Brigit pressed her lips together, her brow furrowed as she contemplated Charlotte’s request. “Let’s just say the Fiskes were better off than they seemed.”

  “Was he doing some creative accounting?”

  Lying about business income and expenditure wasn’t new, though Fiske didn’t have investors to steal from. None that were known, at any rate.

  Brigit shook her head. “I can’t say more. Truly, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte squeezed her hand in understanding. “Thank you for that much. It gives me something else to go on.”

  “Are you going to talk to James about the Fiskes’ marriage?”

  She wasn’t sure how to read the look on Brigit’s face. “I think I should, don’t you? It could be vital to finding out who killed Fiske. I promise not to tell him where I got the idea. You can be my anonymous source.”

  Brigit laughed. “I’m sure James Eddington will have a good idea where you got your information, but as long as I don’t say anything specific, we should both be all right.”

  “Exactly.” Charlotte spooned up some more soup. “This really is delicious.”

  “I’ll give you the recipe, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, no,” Charlotte said. “I’d much rather visit you to get some.”

  She grinned at Brigit’s pinkening cheeks, and the two of them finished their lunch.

  * * *

  On her way back to the office, Charlotte saw James standing in front of the federal building, talking to a woman. She wore a fashionable cloche hat despite the cold and wet. Her back was to Charlotte, making it impossible to identify her. Bundled up as everyone was in this weather, it was difficult to recognize who was who most of the time. The woman patted James on the arm and leaned forward to peck him on the cheek before she hurried up the street.

  A pang went through Charlotte, stopping her momentarily. Who was that?

  Charlotte shook off whatever it was she felt. Not jealousy, exactly. Surprise? She had no claim on him, nor he on her. They were friends, free to see whomever they chose, to have another person kiss them, if that’s what they wanted.

  She started toward him again and called out before he went inside. “James, do you have a minute?”

  He turned his head as he unlocked the main door. The marshal’s office occupied the ground floor. Up a wide staircase was the post office, which was closed for the afternoon. “About that,” he said. “I have a meeting with the fire chief.”

  He held the door for her, then unlocked the interior office door as well. The room smelled of leather, gun oil, and tobacco. Both James and Marshal Blaine enjoyed a pipe or cigar now and again.

  “I won’t hold you up. How did it go with Caroline last night?”

  James went to his desk and rifled through a drawer. “Much as you’d expect.”

  “Did she have any idea who’d try to rob them or hurt Lyle?” It was a long shot of a question, of course. Chances were good the robbery was a random act and the murder of Lyle Fiske a terrible result of circumstances.

  He closed the drawer with a bit more force than necessary. “No, she didn’t. According to Mrs. Fiske, he had no enemies, and no one in his employ had reason to hurt him or the business.”

  Charlotte narrowed her gaze. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “It’s the rare businessman who becomes successful without ruffling at least a few feathers. Or being ruffled himself.”

  “I was just saying as much.” She always felt heartened when she and James seemed to follow similar thought processes. “I heard he and Otto Kenner weren’t exactly friendly.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too, but that isn’t motive for murder.”

  “But what if it turned into something more?”

  James lifted one eyebrow. As much as they seemed drawn to similar conclusions, she also knew that look of skepticism. “Do you know anything specific, or are you just flinging things out there?”

  She shrugged. “Mostly flinging. Never hurts to speculate.”

  “No, but I need more than a list of who didn’t like the man.” He came around the desk and gestured for her to precede him to the door. “Right now, it looks like a robbery that got out of hand. The thief, caught by surprise, grabs the closest thing he could use as a weapon. This time it happened to be a big hunting knife from the display case. People make mistakes when a situation gets excitable. They don’t think straight and it goes from bad to worse.”

  It certainly had at that.

  He held up the folder. “Your brother’s report. That’s what I’m meeting Parker about, to confirm the explosion of the solvents covered Fiske with debris that snuffed out the flames on his body. Had Fiske’s body burned further, Michael might not have found the fatal wound. This case is now officially a homicide investigation rather than an unfortunate accidental fire.”

  “Do you think the arsonist is responsible?” Charlotte was starting to have her doubts. This event was well beyond the arsonist’s typical behavior.

  “I’m not ruling anything out just yet,” James said. “It’s possible our firebug broke in to steal some solvent and got caught by Fiske.”

  They were back in the shared entry. James tucked the file under his arm and secured the inner door.

  “What about Mrs. Fiske?” she asked.

  James’s head came up, his eyebrows arched. “As a suspect? How? And why? She was on a ship, two days from port.”

  “But her lover probably wasn’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Lover?”

  Was he unaware of the Fiskes’ open relationship, or feeling out what Charlotte knew?

  “I understand Caroline was seeing someone. Whom Lyle knew. Is it possible Lyle confronted him, or vice versa?”

  Lovers’ quarrels and triangles that led to murder seemed to be the thing of dime-store novels, but they happened. How many men and women were killed “in the heat of passion” by their spouses or lovers or rivals?

  “Of course it’s possible. A man can only take being a cuckold for so long.” James practically spat the words out, angry. Something had touched a nerve. “But unless someone has a name to go with this supposition, there’s not much I can do.”

  “Caroline wouldn’t be keen on giving up that information.”

  “Not likely.” James gestured toward the outer door, giving her an expectant look when she didn’t move. “What?”

  Charlotte considered a possible scenario. “Lyle calls the lover to the store to tell him to stop seeing his wife. Th
ings get heated, out of control, and the other man grabs the knife in rage.” She pantomimed snatching the hunting knife out of the display behind the counter. “And in his anger—”

  She thrust the imaginary knife upward, hitting James just under the sternum with her fist.

  He wrapped his large hand gently around her wrist. “Or the lover goes to Fiske to demand he divorce Caroline. Lyle refuses. Fight. Stab.”

  He thumped her fist against the same spot on his chest.

  “Or,” Charlotte said, easing her hand from his grip and lowering it, “there was another reason the killer wanted Lyle dead.”

  “Other than an interrupted robbery.”

  “Yes. Keeping a business going is difficult, especially in a small, remote town. What if Fiske’s business dealings weren’t so legitimate?”

  “I’d be more surprised if they were completely legitimate.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing specific.” That was true enough. Brigit had been willing to hint, not divulge. Charlotte was jumping to an awfully big conclusion without any detail. “But it’s worth considering, yes?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll see what I can dig up. Probably need to talk to Caroline again.”

  Charlotte headed toward the outer door.

  “We’re still having dinner tonight, aren’t we?” James asked.

  She stopped, her heart fluttering. She’d forgotten about his invitation.

  It’s just dinner.

  “Of course,” she said. “Meet you at The Wild Rose at six.”

  Charlotte left the federal building, fully intent on getting back to the Times office to work, but her eye was drawn toward the harbor road. Specifically to Fiske’s. She couldn’t quite see the building from Main Street, but she could swear she smelled the burnt wood and acrid chemical bite of the air. Bypassing the office, she made her way to the devastated store.

  The scorched siding around the open door and broken windows reminded her of a night three months ago. She shivered, recalling the fire meant to scare her, if not kill her. Charlotte had ignored the note she’d received about involving herself in Darcy Dugan’s murder, but the fire made it clear she’d been getting too close to the truth. Hopefully nothing like that would happen again. Touching a fingertip to the small scar under her left eye, Charlotte shook off the memory and went through the gaping door.

  Even days later, a residual stench hung in the air, though the worst of the offensive aroma from the fire seemed to have dissipated. Watery light penetrated the gaps in the building, leaving deep shadows between the head-high shelves that hadn’t completely succumbed to flames or the firefighters’ drenching. Tools, boxes, and small appliances littered the floor. Glass crunched under her boots. The deeper she went, the more dank and oppressive the air became.

  “I should have brought my flashlight,” she muttered aloud. She’d needed to change the batteries and forgot to put it back in her coat pocket. Though she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. A clue as to who killed Lyle, but what did she expect to find in these ruins?

  The charred service counter across the rear of the room separated the store from what she figured was Fiske’s office. The blackened door was open and a light flickered within the back room.

  “Damnation!” A woman’s voice, coming from the office.

  Charlotte hurried behind the scorched counter, past the equally blackened gilded till. She peeked around the doorjamb.

  In a room dimly illuminated by wintery light coming through the empty narrow windows, Caroline Fiske, in widow’s black, knelt in front of a squat safe, her profile to Charlotte. A balled-up coat cushioned her knees. The rear of the office had escaped the worst of the fire damage. The safe sat beside Fiske’s sodden but mostly intact wood desk.

  Caroline’s head was bowed, her eyes closed, and a pinched expression on her face. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Staring hard at the combination lock, she turned the dial with care while holding a flashlight in the other hand. Right. Left. Right. She tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

  Caroline slapped her palm against the safe and let out a frustrated growl.

  “Mrs. Fiske?” Charlotte had no reason to hide from the widow, and her curiosity bade her to question the woman.

  Caroline startled and swung the light toward her. “Who’s that?” Charlotte ducked her head slightly to keep the light from her eyes. Caroline lowered the beam. “Oh, Miss Brody. What are you doing here?”

  “My apologies. I was going to do a follow-up article about the fire, and the possible connection to the arsonist, when I saw your light. I’m so sorry about your husband.”

  Caroline rose, dusting off her skirt. “Thank you.”

  Dark smudges of sleeplessness marred the pale skin beneath her brown eyes. Despite her foray into the sooty remains of the store, Caroline’s face was otherwise clean and clear, and her black hair remained in its neat bun.

  “Is there something I might help you with?” Charlotte glanced between Caroline and the safe.

  The woman closed her eyes, collecting herself. Her shoulders stiffened, and her back straightened. With an almost regal bearing, she focused on Charlotte again. “I was looking for insurance papers.”

  Charlotte felt a kick of adrenaline. Insurance? Money was as strong a motivator as love. Perhaps stronger for some people.

  “I’m sure that sounds perfectly horrible,” Caroline said, pain deepening lines along her mouth and between her eyes. “I’ve been wandering around the house most of the day feeling out of sorts and useless, and figured at the very least I could look into taking care of the store.”

  It hadn’t bothered her that she was in the place where her husband had been robbed and murdered? Had she no feelings for the man?

  “That’s understandable,” Charlotte said despite the thoughts she had. “But you don’t know the combination?”

  “I do, or thought I did.” Caroline glanced at the safe. “The numbers seem to have left my head. I was sure it was—Oh!”

  She quickly knelt down again and spun the dial. Right. Left. Right. This time, when she pushed down on the handle, it clicked.

  Charlotte made her way over some debris to stand behind the woman. Had the safe been emptied like the till?

  Caroline pulled the heavy door open. She shined her light inside. Papers, folders, several stacks of federal reserve notes, a canvas coin sack. All lay neatly on the shelves, undisturbed.

  So much for robbery.

  Caroline reached in, shoving aside the papers and cash. A small whimper escaped her. “It’s gone. Where did he put it?”

  Chapter 5

  Caroline jumped to her feet, nearly knocking Charlotte over. She ran to the desk and yanked open drawers. “Where is it? Where’d you put it, Lyle?”

  Anxiety raised her voice half an octave. A drawer crashed to the floor. She gave the mess a cursory search, then pulled out another when she didn’t find whatever she was looking for. The flashlight’s beam bobbed in time with her frantic movement.

  “What are you looking for, Caroline?” Charlotte came around the desk, wary of flying papers, pen nibs, and ink pots.

  “A black metal box with a gold border around the lid.” Caroline straightened from a crouch, turning this way and that as she swept the room with the light. “It’s gone. He kept it in the safe, and now it’s gone.”

  Charlotte scanned the room as well, though she had no sense she’d actually find the missing box. “Would Lyle have brought it home? Did you look there?”

  Caroline shook her head. “No. No, he kept everything here. This is the most secure place.” She turned to a set of shelves behind the desk and began pulling out waterlogged catalogues and papers, scattering them across the floor with wet thuds. “Where could it be?”

  “Could someone have taken it?” If the box contained papers important enough for Caroline to be in a panic over it, perhaps the thief had wanted it as well.

  Caroline stopped emptying t
he shelf and her head snapped up. Her dark eyes were wide, the whites visible in the low light. Did she have an idea who might have the box?

  “Hey! Who’s in there?” a gruff voice called from the other room. Heavy footsteps pounded closer. “If any of you kids—Oh.” A flashlight beam cut across Charlotte. She raised a hand to block the light from her eyes. “Miss Brody. What are you doing here?”

  Fire chief Donald Parker stood in the doorway. Filled it, more accurately. He was a tall, barrel-shaped man. His hardened-leather chief’s hat almost touched the top of the frame.

  Before Charlotte could say anything, Caroline stood up, putting herself in his light.

  “I couldn’t help myself, Donald.” She gave Charlotte an unreadable look. “I came to find some papers, but Lyle must have moved them.”

  The complete opposite of what she’d told Charlotte, that Lyle would never have moved them. That’s what Caroline’s glance had indicated, a request that Charlotte go along with what she’d told Parker. What sort of game was Caroline Fiske playing?

  “Mrs. Fiske. Didn’t see you there, ma’am. It’s too dangerous for you to be poking around in here.” Parker’s walrus mustache bristled. “Fire and water damage the structural integrity. The ceiling could collapse and you’d be hurt, or worse.” He shined the light on Charlotte again. “And what about you, Miss Brody?”

  “Doing a little investigative journalism, is all.”

  Chief Parker harrumphed and frowned, telling her exactly how he felt about that. “Nothing to investigate as far as you’re concerned. Eddington and I will let you know what we find. I think you ladies should leave. If you want to search the premises again, Mrs. Fiske, please come see me first. I want someone with you, as a precaution.”

  Caroline casually picked up her coat and walked over to the safe. She closed and locked it. “Thank you, Chief. I’ll send Joe and Randall, or Ben, to check in with you before they get this safe and bring it to the house.”

  Joe Fisher and Randall Towers were the Fiske Hardware employees. According to James’s questioning, both men had gotten on well with Lyle and had alibis for the night. Who was Ben?