by Cathy Pegau
He shrugged. “My brothers and sisters and I got sent to different families. I hated it. Ran away and came up here when I was thirteen.”
Kids who’d lost parents often grew up too fast, requiring them to figure what was what in the world. It took a certain motivation—and a great deal of luck—for a thirteen-year-old boy to travel from Kansas to Alaska.
“How did you manage that?”
“Stowed away on a steamer.” Henry raised his head, his dark eyes filled with sorrow, and something Charlotte couldn’t quite place. “I had to get away from there, Miss Brody. Too many memories.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “That’s understandable, given the circumstances.”
He shook his head, wincing. “No, you don’t understand. My parents dying was my fault. And I couldn’t stop doing it.”
What could a ten-year-old have done that made him think he was responsible for his parents’ death?
“Doing what?”
He started to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Tears trickled down his face. He trembled beneath Charlotte’s hand. “It was an accident, I swear. I just liked to watch the flames.”
Oh, Henry, no.
She knew where he was headed even before he continued, her heart breaking for him.
“One night, I was too close to the back of the barn. A spark flew up and caught the hay loft on fire. Ma and Pa ran in to save the animals and never came out.” He was breathing fast now, his chest heaving and his voice rough. “Even after that. I couldn’t stop doing it. I tried, I really did, but . . .”
He lowered his head, shoulders shaking as he cried.
Charlotte knelt on the floor beside his chair and wrapped her arms around him. At sixteen, he was almost a man, but right now he was a scared and hurt little boy.
“It was an accident, Henry. You didn’t mean to hurt them.” To be so young and have such a heavy burden of guilt, accident or not. But his obsession with fire, the jittery way he’d been acting lately, and his presence at Fiske’s that night led to only one conclusion. Despite her sympathy for him, Charlotte knew she had to get him to speak the truth. “You’re the one who’s been setting the fires here the last couple of years.”
He nodded, guilt and sadness etching years into his young face. Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a slow, shaky exhalation. Charlotte returned to her seat. After swallowing a few times and wiping his face on his sleeve, he seemed calmer, more in control of himself. “I’ve been able to stop doing it all the time, but near the anniversary of their death, I—I just have to get it out of my system. I’ve been real careful though.”
It was true. None of the fires this year or last year posed any danger to anyone or damaged property. The arsonist had made sure the flames would go out on their own, as long as something like a brisk wind didn’t spread them.
But she had the feeling Henry wasn’t just there to confess his past crimes.
“What about the Fiske fire, Henry?”
His expression changed, his eyes widening with shock. “No, that wasn’t me, I swear. I was looking to snatch a few pieces of dry wood from Fiske’s stock alongside the store, but that was it. I didn’t have anything to do with that.” He swept an X over his chest with his forefinger. “Cross my heart, Miss Brody.”
Charlotte welcomed the relief running through her. Though she and James suspected a thief had started the fire to cover Lyle’s murder, she wanted to be certain of Henry’s innocence.
“You were there that night,” she said. “You came up and spoke to me while the fire was going.” He nodded, scared and guilty all at once. “I believe you didn’t set that fire, Henry, but you saw something.”
He nodded again and swallowed hard. “Just as I was getting close to Fiske’s, I saw someone run out the front door. He left it open. I was going to go in, to check it out, then I saw the flames.”
He closed his eyes and the tension seemed to fade. Was he seeing the fire again in his mind? What sort of obsession did he have? Charlotte had to give him some credit for self-control, considering he’d managed to contain his activities to a few instances in a year, all around the time of his parents’ deaths. Not that it meant he was okay. Henry needed some help to get over his guilt. But that was a conversation for another time.
“Who did you see running from the store?”
He blinked a few times. “I-I don’t know. A man, for sure. It was dark, and I was hiding behind Mr. Fiske’s truck, off to the side.”
“Was he a big man?” If one of the Kenner brothers were involved, Henry’s description could help narrow it down.
“Not tall, but kind of wide shoulders. Dark hair. No hat. He was carrying something.”
The black box, most likely.
“Which way did he run?” Not that it mattered. Most of Cordova was up the street and away from Fiske’s.
“Into town, but he didn’t pass under the streetlamp at the corner. He kept going straight up, then I lost sight of him.” Henry’s face scrunched in dismay. “Sorry, Miss Brody. I know that isn’t much help.”
She patted his arm. “It’s plenty of help, Henry.”
“You see why I couldn’t tell Deputy Eddington what I saw, right?”
Charlotte nodded. “I understand. But why are you telling me?”
He seemed startled by the question. “You and me, we’re friends, right?”
“Well, yes, but I’m not a priest or a lawyer, Henry. If you’d been involved in Mr. Fiske’s death, I would have been obligated to tell Deputy Eddington, or at least strongly encourage you to confess.”
He hung his head again, looking up at her through his lashes. “I know, and I’m hoping this isn’t something you need to tell.”
Charlotte considered his request. The earlier fires had been a problem, but no real harm had been done. The marshal’s office and the public were more concerned about the fires spreading or the arsonist going after occupied buildings than any damage that had been done so far. “No, I won’t tell him about that, but we’ll need to do something to help you, all right?”
Maybe Michael would have some ideas. He wasn’t a psychologist, but he might know someone Henry could talk to.
Relief smoothed the stress lines on his face. “Thank you, Miss Brody.”
“I’ll tell Deputy Eddington what you told me about the night of the Fiske fire, but I’ll cite you as an anonymous source.” He nodded again, more at ease than Charlotte had seen him in the past week. “Okay. Finish your dinner and have another cookie.”
Chapter 10
I hope James gets back soon, Charlotte thought as she fought with the key in the frozen office door late Monday afternoon. She’d gone to his cabin the day before to talk to him about what she’d learned from Henry, but he wasn’t there. A note on the marshal’s office door said he had traveled out the rail line and would be back late Sunday or early Monday. But he hadn’t returned by lunch Monday.
Worry gnawed at Charlotte’s gut, along with anticipation of talking to James about the case. Surely he was fine, and just delayed by weather or people bending his ear.
“Miss Brody?”
Glancing up, Charlotte saw Rebecca Derenov come toward her. “Hello, Rebecca,” she said, removing the key and rubbing it between her mittened hands. “How was school today?”
Bundled head to toe, her cheeks red with the cold, the girl smiled. “Great. I got one hundred percent on my math test.”
“Good for you!” Math wasn’t Charlotte’s strong suit, and she admired anyone who could do well in the subject.
Rebecca reached under her coat and drew out a wrinkled piece of paper. “I have this week’s School Happenings for the Times.”
Charlotte breathed on the key then inserted it into the lock. After a bit more rattling, it clicked open. Finally! She’d leave the door unlocked if Toliver wasn’t so worried about vandals and mischief-makers. “Thank you for bringing it by,” she said, pushing the door open. “I’ll make sure it gets into tomorrow’s edition.
”
She held her hand out for the paper, but Rebecca didn’t relinquish it. She looked up at Charlotte, nervous but determined. “Can I watch you?”
They stepped into the small entry of the office. Charlotte shut the door and removed her coat. “You want to watch me set the Linotype?”
Working the Linotype was one thing, but watching someone do it sounded boring to Charlotte. Then again, if you’d never seen the thing in action maybe it seemed exciting enough.
Rebecca smiled, her eyes glinting with anticipation. “Oh, yes, please! I promise to stay out of the way and just watch. I won’t bug you by talking or asking questions or anything.”
Her enthusiasm was catching and Charlotte found herself excited to show the girl how she spent much of her day. “I’d be terribly disappointed if you didn’t ask me questions. Hang up your coat and come on back.”
Rebecca gave her the lined, handwritten page and quickly doffed her coat, hat, and scarf. She followed Charlotte deeper into the office, slowing as she read the framed front pages along the walls. While Rebecca perused those, Charlotte stoked the coal stove. She waited for Rebecca at the desk, sorting through the articles she wanted to set for the next edition.
“Ready?” she called to Rebecca.
The girl hurried to meet Charlotte at the door of the Linotype and printing room. Rebecca stared at the machines, her mouth open in an O of wonder.
“Wow.”
Charlotte had seen the metal mammoth almost every day for the past three months and had become used to its size; at seven feet tall and six feet deep, it took up the corner of the room. But it was the intricate connections of the shuttles, elevators, keyboard, and magazine of letters that she was seeing again as if for the first time through Rebecca’s eyes. Waiting silently, it was a thing of engineering beauty, and the Linotype wasn’t even running yet. She couldn’t wait to see Rebecca’s expression once she got it going.
Charlotte donned a printer’s apron, passed one to Rebecca, and secured her sleeves with an old pair of garters. “We don’t want to get lead bits or ink on our clothes,” she said.
Rebecca tied the apron strings as she followed Charlotte to the stool in front of the Linotype. “It’s warm over here.”
“A bucket of molten metal will stay hot for some time.” Charlotte pointed out the crucible of lead and the thick leather gloves used to open the lid when adding old slugs to be reliq-uefied. She gave the girl a quick rundown of how the Linotype worked. “The keyboard is used to type in the lines of the article. Each keystroke releases a letter, number, or punctuation mold from the magazines up here.” She pointed to the encased rack of molds held in place at the top of the machine, then to a floor-to-ceiling cabinet against the far wall. “Those magazines over there hold different fonts and point sizes. The molds, called matrices, or mats, drop down, spacers get inserted, creating a line of type, and are infused with the hot lead. Here, let me show you. It’s going to be a bit loud.”
Charlotte flipped the switch for the electric motor that ran the gears and chains. The growl filled the room. She typed Rebecca’s full name. As she pressed the keys, the letter matrices dropped into place with a clatter. Another lever filled the molds with lead, giving off a whiff of hot metal. The lead slug dropped into the rack to her left.
From the corner of her eye, Charlotte watched Rebecca gaze in awe as the machine worked. It was rather amazing, she thought. Mergenthaler’s innovation had revolutionized printing, making it possible for a one- or two-person operation to put out a daily eight-page newspaper rather than a weekly one. Not since Guttenberg’s printing press had the industry been so completely transformed.
While the piece cooled for a few seconds, she operated another lever to return the matrices to the magazine that held hundreds of the letter, number, and punctuation molds.
Plucking the slug off the rack, Charlotte juggled it a little to help cool it down. “Still quite warm. Be careful.”
She handed the thin line of lead to Rebecca. The girl read it. A wide smile curved her mouth.
“Want to try?” Charlotte asked. She could hardly move off of the stool fast enough for Rebecca.
It took nearly an hour for them to set the type for the school activities section of the newspaper, three times longer than it would have taken Charlotte to do it herself. But she didn’t mind the fact she’d have to stay later than usual that evening to finish her work. Rebecca was an enthusiastic student, asking many questions, some of which Charlotte couldn’t answer. She’d have to remember to pass the girl’s queries on to Mr. Toliver.
After the school piece was finished, Charlotte showed her how to place the lines in the printing frame, double-check alignment, and run a test print with a hand-rolled layer of ink and a piece of paper. Satisfied that all was ready, it was time to type up another article for that page.
“But first,” Charlotte said, “a cup of tea and some cookies.”
Rebecca grinned, the smudge of ink on her cheek making her look like a professional already. Charlotte led the way back into the office and closed the door. It didn’t take long to prepare the tea, as the kettle on the coal stove was hot. Rebecca sat on the other side of the desk. Charlotte put a plate of cookies she’d brought in earlier in front of her.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she sat down and relaxed.
After several sips of tea and nibbles of cookie, Rebecca asked, “Did you always want to be a reporter, Miss Brody?”
“Ever since I read Nellie Bly’s Ten Days in a Mad-House. Though I confess, what she went through scared the jeepers out of me.”
Bly’s 1887 exposé of the horrendous treatment of patients at the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island, New York, had made the young woman’s journalistic career. Her investigation—at the risk of being permanently remanded—had resulted in calls for better care and assessment of the seriously ill. Charlotte admired Bly’s bravery and determination, and strived to fight a similar, if not as extreme, fight for justice and basic human rights. Nellie Bly had been one of her heroes growing up.
“Oh, I loved reading about her race around the world.” Rebecca sat at the edge of the chair and gave Charlotte an enthusiastic version of the thirty-year-old competition between Nellie Bly and Elizabeth Bisland.
Charlotte had read the account numerous times years ago, and let Rebecca describe the story to her without interruption. She listened to the girl’s use of words and phrasing, how she was able to create dramatic tension. Rebecca had a knack for storytelling.
When she was finished with her breathless rendition, Rebecca sank back in the chair, a smile on her face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that told with quite the same gusto,” Charlotte said. “Even from Miss Bly herself.”
Rebecca’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve met her?”
“I have. I attended a lecture she gave about the trip, then got a chance to talk to her for a few minutes afterward.” Charlotte smiled at the girl’s look of awe. It was pretty amazing to have met the woman who had spurred her own career. “She can weave a fine tale, that’s for sure.”
“I love adventure stories, real ones or made up ones. It doesn’t matter.” Rebecca ate a cookie in two bites. “Miss Atkins—that’s my teacher—says I’m a good writer.”
“I’m not surprised.” Charlotte sipped her tea. “Are you thinking about a writing career of some sort when you’re older?”
She’d almost said “grown up,” but Rebecca’s manner and intelligence made her practically an adult to Charlotte.
“If I can,” Rebecca said. The air seemed to go out of her, like a flat tire. “You need to go to school for that, don’t you? College or something?”
“Well, it depends.” Charlotte was a proponent of higher education for all who could get it, despite having dropped out of journalism school herself. “It would definitely benefit you to go as far as you can.”
Rebecca’s gaze dropped to her lap. She grasped the gold and ruby ring strung around he
r neck, stroking it as if it brought some sort of comfort. “I don’t think that’ll be very far.”
Charlotte wasn’t surprised the girl understood her current circumstances. Rather than go into a rant about the importance of education—Rebecca had that one figured out already—Charlotte changed the subject to something she hoped was more pleasant.
“That’s a beautiful ring.”
Rebecca looked up, smiling. “My mother’s. I thought we’d gone through all of her stuff and sold everything, but then Ben found this. He said I had to keep it, no matter what.”
“I’m glad you have that to remember her by,” Charlotte said.
Rebecca’s smile turned sad. “Me too. She didn’t wear any other jewelry except this and her wedding ring.”
No other jewelry? Just because she didn’t wear other pieces didn’t mean Mrs. Derenov didn’t own others. Before Charlotte had the chance to ask her about the earrings Ben had tried to sell the other day, the outer door whooshed open.
“There you are,” Ben Derenov said, slamming the door behind him. Snow dusted his hat and coat, clumps of slush slid off his boots. “What the hell are you doing here? Went all the way to school and Miss Atkins said you were dropping something off here. You shoulda been home an hour ago.”
Charlotte and Rebecca got to their feet.
“I was bringing Miss Brody the school news, and I asked her to show me the Linotype. You should see it, Ben. It clicks and clacks, and gears and chains move to make the letters fall into place so Miss Brody and Mr. Toliver can put out the newspaper every day. And look.” Rebecca dug into the pocket of her apron to retrieve the lead slug Charlotte had made her. “My name.”
Ben glared at the bit of metal, then at Charlotte. “She was supposed to be home.”
Charlotte came around the desk to stand beside Rebecca. “That’s my fault, Mr. Derenov. I should have made sure it was all right for her to stay here so late. I’m sure Rebecca will square it with you next time—”