Borrowing Death

by Cathy Pegau

  “I brought some things over when Mrs. Derenov was ill, God rest her soul,” Caroline said. “They live humbly, but Mrs. Derenov and Rebecca kept the place quite clean and tidy.”

  “Thank you. And sorry to bother you at dinner.” Charlotte turned toward the door, which Mrs. Munson was already starting to open.

  “Just a moment, Charlotte,” Caroline said. “Mrs. Munson, can you tell Mr. and Mrs. Adler I’ll be with them momentarily, and please close the sliding door.”

  The housekeeper gave Charlotte another annoyed glare. Mrs. Munson nodded to her employer, then did as she was bade, closing the door and leaving Charlotte and Caroline alone in the entry.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “It’s fine.” Caroline waved off her intrusion, obviously concerned about something else. “Adam told me his brother has been arrested for illegal transport of alcohol.”

  “He has. I have a small article ready for the paper tomorrow.” Was Caroline going to ask her to pull the piece? Charlotte lifted her chin, ready for a fight. She’d had it with being told what the Times should be reporting.

  But Caroline nodded thoughtfully. “Good.”

  Good? That wasn’t quite the reaction Charlotte expected. There didn’t seem to be much love lost between Caroline and Otto, considering how he distained his brother’s relationship with Mrs. Fiske, but “good”?

  “Shouldn’t you at least feel bad for Adam’s sake?”

  “I do,” Caroline said. “Adam was quite distraught when the marshal and the deputy came into their home and arrested Otto. They accused him of colluding with his brother, but Otto rightfully and truthfully said Adam had nothing to do with anything.” She smiled wryly. “Though he claimed his own innocence.”

  “It’s difficult to claim innocence when evidence is staring the marshal in the face.” Granted, the method of obtaining that evidence wasn’t quite as pure as the marshal believed, but that wasn’t the point at the moment. “Do you know if Otto was competing with Lyle over this as well as the hardware business market?”

  Caroline didn’t say anything at first. Staring at Charlotte, her jaw tightened, then she said, “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Denial, of course, was expected.

  “No, Lyle wasn’t one to let you help with the business, was he? So how could you possibly know he was running contraband? And I’ll assume you knew nothing of his pawn operation either.”

  Her face darkened. “I’ll thank you not to come into my home and accuse my dead husband of such things, Miss Brody.”

  “Is that why you wanted the box?” Charlotte asked. “Because it had his contacts down in Seattle, perhaps the codes he used to order certain items? That would certainly help you to maintain your current standard of living. Perhaps you and Otto had considered going into business together after Lyle was gone. Did you ask Adam if Otto had the black box? Or do you think Adam really did know about Otto’s dealings? How could he not, being his accountant?”

  Caroline paled, but from shock or guilt it was difficult to say. “Get out, Miss Brody. And if you print a word of any of this . . . this nonsense without proof, I will sue you and Andrew Toliver for everything you have.”

  That certainly wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans.

  “I won’t print anything that isn’t true, Mrs. Fiske. I actually hope you aren’t guilty, that whoever killed your husband did so without your knowledge.” Charlotte believed Adam Kenner was innocent of killing Lyle, that Caroline was truly upset, for her own reasons, that her husband was dead before it would be in her best interest. But something didn’t add up. “I can’t exactly condone your affair with Adam, but I can see why you have a relationship with him. And why you chose to stay married. I sincerely wish you the best.”

  It wasn’t much in the way of apologies for accusing the widow and her lover, though it was the truth.

  Caroline opened the door. “Good-bye, Miss Brody.”

  Charlotte retrieved her flashlight from her pocket and left, barely clearing the frame as the door slammed behind her. She hadn’t wanted to make an enemy of the woman, but there was still too much circumstantial evidence that Otto Kenner had killed Lyle. How could Adam not have known what his brother was up to? How could Caroline not have known Lyle was selling illegal goods?

  But knowledge of running a black market was not the same as conspiring to commit murder.

  Navigating the frozen path back down to more level ground, Charlotte turned up the side street, then turned again onto Third, as if she was heading home. She passed the big spruce tree she and James had hidden behind when they saw Ben Derenov down the first alley. What had he been doing there? No evidence showed him to be interested in more than peeking inside Kermit’s window, perhaps just looking for his friend.

  Charlotte turned down the fourth alley. There were three homes squeezed together along the narrow lane. Her light fell upon a white house with a blue door and blue window boxes, peeling paint revealing the weathered gray wood underneath. The window to the left of the door had been replaced with a dozen or so green bottles roughly the same size, mortared together with mud. Window glass was expensive; it made sense that one would use anything at hand to replace it. Soft light filtered through the green glass from within. Someone was home.

  Charlotte knocked. She waited a few moments, then knocked again, louder.

  Ben Derenov yanked the door open. Dressed in dungarees and a flannel shirt, in stocking feet, he scowled down at her. “What do you want?”

  She refused to flinch or back down. “Mr. Derenov, I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”

  “Nothing we need to talk about.”

  He started to close the door. Charlotte stuck her foot in the way, wincing when the heavy wood struck her instep. “Please, Mr. Derenov, I just want a few minutes of your time.”

  Ben’s frown deepened, his dark eyes piercing beneath thick brows. “Wipe your feet.”

  He turned and went inside. Charlotte quickly wiped her boots on the woven fiber mat, followed him in, and closed the door behind her. Boots were neatly lined up under the coats hanging from pegs near the door. The front room of the house was half the size of her own, open to a small kitchen with a table and two wooden chairs. Some sheets of wrinkled brown paper and a ball of twine were on the table alongside a pocket knife. To the left of the kitchen, a staircase, hardly more than a ladder, really, led to the upper floor. There was a closed door behind the ladder.

  The coal stove in the corner kept the tidy front room toasty warm. The divan and rocking chair, both with lace doilies on the backs, were nowhere near new, but appeared clean. It was a humble home, as Caroline had said.

  Floral patterns and soft pillows suggested the more feminine touch of Rebecca and Mrs. Derenov. Ben lived here, but there wasn’t much of him present.

  “What do you want?” he asked, standing in the middle of the room.

  Charlotte had no choice but to stay by the door. That was fine. She’d stand on her head if it meant getting him to listen to her. “I wanted to know how Rebecca was doing.”

  And Ben himself, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate the suggestion he wasn’t doing well.

  Confusion joined the irritation on his face. “She’s fine. Why do you care?”

  “I saw her at the café this afternoon.”

  “So? Who are you, the new truant officer?”

  She knew this wouldn’t be an easy conversation, and couldn’t blame him for his hostility. Not that it would stop Charlotte. “No, but I think she’d rather be in school.”

  “You know what I think?” Ben’s hands closed into large fists. “I think she’d like to eat every day.”

  Her heart broke for Ben and his sister. “Mr. Derenov, I know it’s difficult to find a good job in this town.” She reached into her satchel for Rebecca’s story. “Have you read any of her writing? She’s very good.”

  “You don’t know anything, lady. You have a job. Rebecca
and I have each other, that’s it. No one in this town gives a good damn whether we live or die.”

  “That’s not true,” Charlotte said vehemently. “I give a damn. I care whether you and your sister are eating and have a home. I care that she has to work rather than go to school.”

  “You think I don’t?” His voice rose in volume and pitch. “I’m her brother. I’m supposed to take care of her, but I can’t. Not on the pittance they give me for wages. I’d leave if I could, but I can’t until I have money. And I can’t get money until I have a damn job.”

  His frustration was palpable, and difficult to argue against.

  Ben had a chip on his shoulder the size of Mt. Eyak, but who could blame him? He was the man of the house, responsible for his little sister. But how could he get out from under the reputation of troublesome kid? That’s what people remembered about him. The fact he was trying to turn his life around didn’t seem to count for much with some, like Mr. Hanson at the jewelry store. Good jobs were scarce, and there were plenty of reliable young men clamoring for work.

  “I wish I had an answer for your troubles. I know you don’t want charity, but I’ll buy the earrings if you still have them.”

  He narrowed his eyes, clearly not understanding what she’d meant. “Earrings?”

  Charlotte frowned. How could he not recall trying to sell the earrings after such a to-do at Hanson’s? Or was Ben so used to being treated poorly that all the incidents ran together?

  “I was in the jewelry store when you were trying to sell them to Mr. Hanson, remember? Rebecca hadn’t recalled your mother having any jewelry but her wedding ring and the ruby ring. The earrings were your mother’s, weren’t they?”

  His face turned red. Anger at the accusation, or something else?

  “It can be difficult to part with loved ones’ possessions.” Charlotte didn’t have to fake the sympathy in her voice. “I’m glad you were able to find the ruby ring. Rebecca should be able to keep that.”

  He stiffened, eyes widening. “Damn right she should, after all that happened.”

  “After all of what that happened, Ben? Where did you get the gold-and-pearl earrings?”

  He opened his mouth, but then shut it quickly on whatever he was going to say. Charlotte’s stomach fluttered nervously. The more she said, the angrier he became, but she couldn’t stop now. What she said next would either lead to confirmation of her suspicions that the earrings weren’t Mrs. Derenov’s or bring her right back to square one in figuring out what had happened.

  “Did you try to sell them to Mr. Fiske? Did he refuse to give you what you were asking? He wasn’t one to give much, and he charged way more than he should have to get things back, didn’t he?”

  She knew that was a complete fabrication, and by the confused and anxious look on Ben’s face, he was trying to keep up with his own lies.

  Charlotte had a gut feeling about the jewelry. Ben hadn’t had the earrings to sell to Fiske. Between Della’s description of what one of the other girls had given of her transaction with Fiske, Rebecca denying her mother had other jewelry, and Ben’s hesitation at Hanson’s store, she was almost positive they were an item in the black book. Which meant only one terrible, terrible thing. But what had led up to it?

  “That son of a bitch,” Ben spat out. He was breathing hard, his face contorted with rage. “He gave her barely the value of the ring then wanted more than twice that back? Who has that sort of money?”

  The knot in Charlotte’s stomach tightened. She pushed a little harder against Ben’s story. “Ring? You mean earrings. The gold-and-pearl earrings.”

  “No. I mean—” He ran both hands through his hair, the expression on his face one of realization that he’d slipped.

  No, the earrings had come from Fiske’s box after he was murdered. Ben meant another piece. The ring Rebecca wore around her neck. The ring Ben had given Rebecca after she’d been told by Mrs. Derenov it was lost. Their mother hadn’t lost it at all. Ben had “found” it after Lyle Fiske had died.

  “Your mother pawned her ring to Fiske.”

  “She sent me the money. When I came home, I promised I’d get it back, for Rebecca. But Fiske wouldn’t sell it for what I had.” Ben spoke through clenched teeth, his face dangerously red. “Ma’s wages he gave us went to bills and the funeral and some food. Fiske had me work off the price of the ring at his place. No wages. Didn’t give a damn my mother was dead, that my sister was hungry. So I—”

  “You what, Ben? What happened that night? Did you hurt Lyle Fiske?”

  He shook his head. “Not on purpose.”

  “I believe you.” She did, but with his temper, it was also easy to believe Ben Derenov had become so angry at Lyle Fiske that he attacked the man. “You have to tell the marshal.”

  Fear drained the color from his face, made him seem at the same time both years younger and years older. “No. They’ll put me in jail again. What would happen to Rebecca? No.”

  “Ben—”

  “You can’t tell them!”

  He lunged for Charlotte.

  Chapter 15

  Charlotte screamed and dashed to the side. She stumbled over the rocker’s runner, her satchel tangling around her.

  “You can’t,” Ben roared.

  He was scared. Angry. Reacting. Dangerous.

  She had to get away.

  Ben grabbed for her. His fingers dragged down the sleeve of her coat, caught the material at her elbow. She twisted to the side, fell to her hands and knees. Seeking a path to escape, she kicked out blindly behind her. Her boot thunked into something. Ben grunted.

  He was behind her, between her and the door. There was no escape through the front. Was there a back door? She launched herself forward, toward the kitchen.

  Charlotte scrambled to her feet. Ben clamped his hand around her ankle and yanked. She landed hard on her chest, a half-grunt, half-whimper escaping her. She turned onto her back and kicked at his face. He blocked her foot with his forearm, then wrapped his arm around her lower leg. Charlotte kicked with her other foot. It glanced off his cheek, but didn’t stop him. Strong as he was, he easily grabbed that foot. His upper body pinned her legs.

  No no no no no!

  Charlotte braced her arms on the floor and tried to pull free. No use. He was so strong.

  Ben took hold of the front of her coat with one large hand. Keeping much of his weight on her, he threw himself up the length of her body, landing hard. The breath whooshed from Charlotte’s lungs. She fell back, smacking her head on the floor. The world tilted. Lights burst behind her eyelids. His viselike fist gripped her throat.

  “You can’t tell them,” Ben said, his voice rough. His rage-etched face hovered over hers. “They won’t believe me.”

  She tried to say they’d believe the truth, but only a strangled sound emerged from her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her head swam.

  “Ben, what are you doing?” Rebecca’s voice, filled with fear and confusion. “Get off her!”

  He loosened his grip slightly as he turned toward his sister, giving Charlotte a chance to draw breath. “She knows.”

  Rebecca came into Charlotte’s line of sight. She yanked on her brother’s arm. “Let her go, Ben! Let her go!”

  Ben reared back, attempting to get his sister to stop without harming her, further loosening his hold on Charlotte’s throat. She sucked in a breath and freed one arm. Making a fist, she swung, catching him in the nose.

  He yowled and blood gushed. Rebecca pulled harder.

  “No, Ben, stop. You have to stop!”

  Whether from realization of what he was doing or his sister’s words, Ben Derenov slid off Charlotte. He crumpled at his sister’s feet.

  Charlotte rolled away, coughing, her throat raw and bruised. Her heart pounded and her body ached. She lay on her side, her back to Rebecca and Ben. Was he going to hurt Rebecca or try to hurt her again?

  She started to roll back toward them and heard sobbing. Not Rebecca, Ben. He was on his k
nees beside his kneeling sister, bent over with his head on her shoulder. Rebecca stroked his back, tears streaming down her face.

  “Are you all right? What happened, Miss Brody? Why was he—” A sob broke her voice. “Why was he like that? Why was he hurting you?”

  Charlotte sat up, legs bent and to the side. She leaned forward with one hand braced on the floor. “Ben,” she said, the word rasping out of her injured throat. “Ben, it’ll be all right.”

  She wasn’t sure of that, but she had to tell him something.

  “What happened?” Rebecca asked again, more steel in her now.

  Ben lifted his head. “I didn’t mean it.”

  She frowned. “Didn’t mean what? Why were you hurting Miss Brody?”

  He glanced at Charlotte, his eyes wet and blood trickling from his nose. “I’m sorry.”

  Charlotte nodded. “What happened with Mr. Fiske, Ben?”

  “I just wanted Mama’s ring back.” He spoke to Rebecca. “I promised her I’d get it back. I tried to talk to Mr. Fiske, but he put me off and put me off. Like I wasn’t worth his time.”

  He was starting to sound angry again, and Charlotte braced herself for another outburst. Ben bowed his head, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly in an effort to keep himself calm. For his sister’s sake.

  “I went to the store that night,” he said, staring down at the floor. “Fiske was there. Alone. I threatened to hurt him, made him open the safe and take out the box. Mama told me that’s where it was, in the box. All I wanted was the ring, but there were some nice things in there.” He brought his gaze back up to Rebecca. “While I was looking inside the box, he took a swing at me with a hammer. I ducked and shoved him. He came at me again. That’s when I grabbed the knife out of the display behind the counter.”

  Rebecca gasped, her eyes wide as he told his story. “Ben . . .”

  “I had to do something. If they found out it was me, they’d take me away and put you in some sort of orphanage or something. I tried to make it look like a robbery, but the till was near empty when I opened it. Then I thought a fire would burn the body, cover the whole thing.” Ben shook his head. “So stupid.”