by Cathy Pegau
As Caroline walked toward the door, with Charlotte following, she visually swept the room again, as if hoping the box would miraculously appear. When it didn’t, she sighed, her shoulders sagging.
Parker led the way back to the safety of the street. They all blinked as their eyes adjusted to the relatively bright light.
“Charlotte, what are you doing here?” James asked striding toward them, the displeasure clear on his face. His expression changed to sympathetic confusion when he saw Caroline. “Mrs. Fiske. I recommended you not come here.”
He wanted to save her the heartache of seeing where her husband died. Once again, Charlotte was impressed by the sensitivity of the outwardly gruff deputy.
“I know, deputy,” Caroline said, “but I was beside myself and unable to just sit there at the house. I decided to look for some important business papers, to keep my mind occupied. Lyle kept them in a box in the safe, but the box isn’t there. Perhaps he moved it, or the thief you mentioned took it.”
But why take the box and not the money? Charlotte wondered. It made no sense.
“It’s been such an ordeal,” Caroline continued. Tears welled but didn’t fall. “I just can’t think straight. I should go home.”
“Let me walk with you,” Charlotte said. Maybe she could carefully question Caroline.
“No, that’s all right.” Caroline smiled wanly. “I’d prefer to be alone for now.”
Damn.
Caroline bade them good-bye. She picked her way through the snowy street up toward the main road. Rather than continue straight, to her home, Caroline turned onto Main Street, away from her house.
“Now, Charlotte—” James began.
“She’s hiding something.”
James and the chief exchanged startled glances.
“In the office,” Charlotte said, “she was frantic, searching for the black box, saying Lyle kept it in that safe and that safe only. Inside the safe is several hundred dollars in federal reserve notes. Why would a thief take the box and not the money?”
James focused on the dark door, eyes narrowed as he thought it through. “Maybe Fiske had the box out already. The thief takes it and cleans out the till. Somewhere in there, Fiske comes along and gets himself killed.”
“Then the thief sets fire to cover his tracks,” the chief said. He shook his head. “I’ll let you work out the robbery and murder angle, Eddington. I’m going back inside to confirm how this damn fire got started.”
“I’ll be in as soon as I finish with Miss Brody,” James said. The chief grunted, flicked on his flashlight, and headed back into the burned-out store. James locked his gaze on her again. “The question is, which came first? Did the thief go after the money, the box, or Lyle?”
“I don’t think it’s all about the money,” Charlotte said. “There’s something about that box and whatever’s in it. But how would he open the safe?”
“If the box wasn’t already out, maybe he forced Lyle to open it.” The deputy’s lips pressed together. “Or he had the combination.”
“From Lyle or from Caroline,” she said. James frowned at her suggestion. “Joe or Randall might have had the combination. Caroline knows it. She could have given the alleged thief the combination.”
James shook his head. “Then why is she so panicked about the box? If she knew someone was going to get into the safe, she’d realize who else could have taken it.”
“We don’t know how much money was in the safe to begin with,” Charlotte said. “He may have been told to take the money, to make it look like a robbery, but discovered something better inside the box. If she planned it, Caroline wouldn’t want the box ‘found’ until after she returned. She wouldn’t have needed to come here today.”
“If her hired thief was tasked with getting it, she could have said it was in their home all the time and no one would dispute it. But you said she was shocked that the box wasn’t in the safe, maybe on the verge of panic.” James looked skeptical. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through to avoid divorce.”
Charlotte agreed, but she also knew people did strange things when it came to personal relationships, and ending them. “As much as I like Caroline, if she’s cheating on her husband—with or without his acceptance—she might be tired of juggling two lives. Perhaps she wanted Lyle out of the way permanently, so she could have the store, her social status intact, and still keep her relationship with her lover.”
James stared at her for several moments. “It would take a helluva cold woman to pull off something like that.”
They both knew that a woman was as likely as any man to be brutal and coldhearted, despite outward appearances of gentility.
The idea gave Charlotte an uncomfortable feeling, like there was an itch in the middle of her back she couldn’t reach. She didn’t want to think of Caroline as an engineer of murder, but that didn’t preclude the new widow from suspicion.
James removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t shaved in several days. The scruff on his face and his mussed hair made him look dog-weary. “If we could figure out who he is, we might get somewhere.”
Charlotte felt the thrill of his saying “we” when it came to the case. That he did so without thinking made her question his earlier protests of her involvement, and that made her smile.
“I’ll talk to the housekeeper again,” James said. “They’re usually privy to family secrets.”
“Mrs. Munson’s only been there a month,” Charlotte reminded him.
“A lot can happen in a month.”
“What if she doesn’t know or won’t reveal anything about the Fiskes’ private lives?”
“I’ll figure something out.” He scowled at her even before Charlotte opened her mouth to make a suggestion. “No. You may not talk to her or Caroline or anyone else.”
Charlotte’s joy at his earlier referral to their working together withered. “I just want to help.”
“The last time you helped, you nearly got killed.” His expression softened. “I won’t have you put yourself in danger again, Charlotte.”
“I don’t think asking the housekeeper a few questions will lead to anything dangerous,” she said. “Besides, last time was an unusually brutal case. I don’t think this one is like that.”
Charlotte forced the memory of Darcy Dugan’s bloody and broken body out of her head.
He crossed his arms. “Playing psychologist, are you?”
“Just my observations of human nature.” A shiver ran through her, though from the cold or from considering all she’d seen of human nature, she couldn’t tell. “I’m going to head to the office to work and warm up. Will you tell me anything you find at dinner?”
“Not the conversation I was hoping for,” he said with an overdramatic sigh.
She grinned. He had a subtle sense of humor that was always a delight to see come forward. “Oh? What were you hoping to talk about?”
James shrugged. “Opera. Literature. World politics. The usual fodder of Cordova existence.”
She laughed and patted his arm. “I’ll be sure to brush up.”
He caught her hand before she moved it away. Gently tugging her closer, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. His lips were warm against her chilled skin.
“See you later,” he said, then headed into the burnt building.
With a flurry of mixed emotions, Charlotte hurried toward the Fiske home.
* * *
The Fiskes lived on a quiet side road three streets up—literally, as the road was at a steep incline—from the hardware store. The house, gray with dark blue trim, looked out over the town, with a view of the harbor and clam canneries.
Charlotte stopped and caught her breath before the black-ribbon-draped door. The walk up hill wouldn’t have been too bad on a dry road, but the addition of slush and ice had been more tiring than usual. Careful not to disturb the ribbon, she knocked. When no one responded to her second knock, Charlotte made her way around to the side of the house.
As she approached the open gate leading to the side yard, she heard the thump of an axe.
A broad-shouldered man took another swing at a wedge of wood on a round section of a tree set on end. His back to Charlotte, his brown coat and hat were speckled with water spots; his canvas trousers were tucked into knee-high leather boots.
He swung, swift and sure. The blade cleaved the wedge in two with a crack.
As he levered the axe out, Charlotte cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”
The man whipped around, axe raised. The cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth jumped. “Christ, woman, don’t sneak up on a man like that.”
He appeared to be in his early twenties, his features set in a frown and black brows furrowed over almost black eyes. The complexion of his skin suggested Native blood.
Charlotte hadn’t thought she was sneaking, but she wasn’t about to argue with a man holding an axe. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for Mrs. Fiske.”
She was quite sure Caroline wasn’t home. Charlotte preferred not to lie so blatantly, but talking to the Fiskes’ people while Caroline was away from the house might allow them to relax enough to divulge something. As long as James didn’t find out. Defying him wasn’t her favorite thing to do, but sometimes he made the most irrational requests.
The man eyed her, smoke clouding his around his face. “Mrs. Fiske left a while ago. Mrs. Munson’s inside.”
“I knocked, but I guess Mrs. Munson didn’t hear me.” Charlotte took a step into the yard. “Are you a friend of the Fiskes?”
Maybe he was helping the family now that Lyle was gone.
The man snorted a laugh. He swung the axe with one hand, embedding the blade near the edge of the round of wood he’d been using as a cutting platform. “Not hardly. I’m what you’d call a handyman.”
“Oh, so you don’t work at the store, Mr.?”
“Derenov. Ben Derenov. No, I don’t. No one does now, do they?” He lifted a half-round of wood from a mound of others and set it on the cutting surface.
“No, I guess they don’t.” Charlotte watched him for a few moments, the fluid motion of his swing and the thud of the contact between metal and wood almost mesmerizing. Swish. Thunk. Swish. Thunk. “Are you from around here, Mr. Derenov? You seem familiar.”
Another lie. Good thing she wasn’t required to go to confession on Sundays.
“Grew up here.” Swish. Thunk. “But I’ve been down south for the last few years.” He stopped and turned to her. “My mother worked for the Fiskes until she died a few months back.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Two deaths surrounding the Fiskes in the span of months. How sad.
Derenov shrugged. Not a man to dwell on emotions, Charlotte figured. “Thanks. You should try up front again. See if Mrs. Munson can help you.”
“I will. Thank you, Mr. Derenov.”
The swish and thud of the axe were his only response.
Charlotte returned to the front door and knocked louder than before. Within a few moments, a short, roundish woman of fifty or so wearing a navy blue wool dress answered.
“Yes?”
“Good afternoon. My name’s Charlotte Brody. I’ve come to pay my respects to Mrs. Fiske. If she’s taking visitors, that is.” Charlotte dug one of her cards out of her coat pocket and handed it to the woman. One of the corners was bent, but otherwise it was presentable, with her name in flowing script.
Mrs. Munson studied the simple card, her lips pressed together. “The missus isn’t in just now, but I’ll tell her you called.”
“Thank you. Oh, could I write something the back of the card, please?”
“Of course. Come in.” Mrs. Munson stepped aside and gestured for Charlotte to enter the house. “Let me find you a pen.” She checked the drawer of an occasional table near the door. Not finding what she was looking for, she headed into the parlor to the right.
Charlotte didn’t offer to use her own pencil, which she kept in her other pocket with her notebook. A few moments alone allowed her to take in the Fiske home. Narrow stairs led to the upper floor. The wall along the stairs was lined with framed photographic portraits of men, women, children, and small groups. To the right, the parlor, where Mrs. Munson searched the drawers of a rolltop desk. The room to the left was closed off with sliding pocket doors. The house was eerily silent and smelled of wood oil and dampness.
“We’ll have church services tomorrow at noon,” the housekeeper said when she returned to the entry hall. She handed Charlotte a fountain pen. “There will be a visitation here between two and four. No casket, of course. A private burial will be in a few days.”
Considering the condition of the body, Charlotte wasn’t surprised Caroline chose to not have a viewing at the funeral parlor.
“Thank you.” She jotted the Times office telephone number on the back of the card and left it and the pen on the table so the ink could dry. “Will the church service be private? I work for Mr. Toliver at the paper and can make sure the announcement is in the morning edition.”
Mrs. Munson’s lips pressed together again. Because Charlotte was a reporter? “I believe a notice was delivered to your office this morning. It won’t be private, considering the Fiskes’ standing in the community, but we expect more attendance at the visitation here.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Thank you very much. Tell Mrs. Fiske I’m sorry to have missed her, and I’ll be sure to come by tomorrow.”
She left the house and, as she walked down the slick street, Charlotte wondered if Caroline Fiske had hurried off to deliver the notice of her husband’s service herself after searching the safe, or if she’d gone elsewhere. Charlotte’s money was on elsewhere, since she could have handed Charlotte any notice she wanted printed. But where had Caroline been going? Or perhaps the better question was, who had she been in such a hurry to see?
* * *
An envelope had been pushed into the message box slot attached to the door of the Times office. When Mr. Toliver was the only person running the paper, he relied on that method to have Cordova residents inform him of happenings about town. Charlotte checked the box daily. Now, a neatly written note signed by Caroline Fiske was in her hand, detailing the services and visitation Mrs. Munson had mentioned.
The cuckoo clock reminded her that she had a job to tend, and Charlotte quickly removed her outerwear and boots.
While she worked on rekindling the fire in the stove, she considered the Fiske murder. Both the thief and Fiske must have been inside at eight o’clock. Even a loud argument or fight would have been enclosed in the building. The businesses closer to Fiske’s might have heard something, if it was loud enough, but it was likely no one was about at that hour.
James had just been on the street, though presumably coming from town, nowhere near the hardware store. If he had passed it by and suspected anything, he would have stopped.
Once she got the fire going again, Charlotte went to the desk. Mr. Toliver had left instructions for particular articles he wished to have included in the next edition. The teletype hadn’t been too busy, or the line was down, limiting the number of news items that had come in for her to transcribe. Charlotte would have to gather a few more stories to fill out the rest of the pages. A call back East was in order.
She took up the telephone, lifted the earpiece, and flicked the bracket.
“Operator. How may I direct your call?”
Charlotte couldn’t help but smile at the formality in the voice. “Hello, Mrs. Jensen. This is Charlotte Brody at the Times. Could you connect me to Miss Cameron at Modern Woman Review magazine in Albany, New York?”
It would be early evening back home, but Kit was known to be at the office until quite late. Since she’d been taken on by Mr. Toliver, Charlotte called Kit if the Times’s pages were looking sparse and for any news items that might not have been sent via teletype. The twice-monthly conversations also gave them a chance to catch up. Charlotte felt only a little twinge of guilt about chatting with her friend
on the Times’s dime.
“I have that number here, Miss Brody.”
Mrs. Jensen kept meticulous records, noting names, numbers and times. Charlotte used to suspect the operator secretly listened in on calls, but after meeting the woman once she knew that was not the case. Mrs. Jensen was the epitome of professionalism and integrity. The night operator, however, was a different story.
“I’ll put your call in right away and ring you when it goes through.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jensen.”
Charlotte placed the earpiece back in the bracket. She collected the articles Mr. Toliver had set out and began perusing them for errors. Fifteen minutes into copyediting, the telephone jangled, startling her out of her thoughts.
She picked up the earpiece and base. “Cordova Times.”
“Your call is ready, Miss Brody,” Mrs. Jensen said. “Go ahead, please, Miss Cameron.”
A few clicks and a burst of static later, Kit’s voice came over the line. “Charlotte! How ya doin’, kid?”
Charlotte grinned at her friend’s usual boisterous tone. Kit had always been the one to grab on to the latest slang and cadence of language, though she was a consummate professional when it came to editing Modern Woman.
“I’m fine. How are you? Happy early birthday.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Mother and Dad are trying to ignore the fact I’m nearly thirty and not married. They don’t know what to make of me some days.” She laughed, but Charlotte knew the Camerons were anxious for her to settle down. Kit was always busy with Modern Woman or some cause. She went out frequently, but had no one steady.
“I know what you mean.” Charlotte’s parents had been supportive of her career and activity in the suffrage movement, but she suspected they were waiting for her to find a husband. Considering her relationship record, she was in no hurry.
Her nearly yearlong association with Richard had initially pleased the Brodys, and they’d dropped more than a few hints last year about engagements and weddings. Charlotte’s sudden termination of the relationship a year ago this past August had raised a few questions from her parents. Surprisingly, they’d been sensitive to her distress and had not pushed for more details. They knew nothing of the real reason for the breakup and probably never would.