Borrowing Death

Books by Cathy Pegau

 

 

MURDER ON THE LAST FRONTIER

 

BORROWING DEATH

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

O
nce again, thanks to the folks at the Cordova Museum and the Cordova Library for all of their help with research. Any mistakes are completely my own.

 

Thank you, Natalie and John, for all you've done to make these books happen.

 

Special thanks to Paula and the copy editor. Your expertise and patience are greatly appreciated.

C
harlotte Brody typed the final lines of her editorial for the next day's edition of the
Cordova Daily Times
. She grinned as she swiped an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “That'll give the ladies of the local Women's Temperance League something to grouse about.”

She just hoped Andrew Toliver, the
Times
's owner and publisher, liked it. Since Charlotte started working for him, Toliver had relinquished the roles of chief reporter and typesetter to her and was able to concentrate on his neglected executive duties, as well as edit and run the printing press itself. He was neutral on most major topics, at least as far as what he put in the paper, and it delighted him to have the town talking about what they found within its pages. This would get some tongues wagging, for better or worse.

With the twist of one of the Linotype's several levers, Charlotte sent the sequence of steel mats to the molding mechanism. The machine clattered and whirred, the small motor by her left knee buzzing. In a minute or so, the new lead slug would be molded, dropped into place, and cool enough to handle.

How would Cordovans react to her take on National Prohibition? A fairly even split, she reckoned. No matter what side they supported, she hoped it sold papers. Then again, as the only news source in a town full of folks who enjoyed a good debate, she was more than certain it would.

But that's not why she wrote the article. Increasing sales, while financially beneficial, wasn't her goal as a journalist. Seeking justice, informing the public, and getting them to talk about issues was what she loved about her calling.

Despite President Wilson's attempts to veto it—though not for the reasons she espoused—the Eighteenth Amendment would take effect in less than two months. Perhaps if enough people considered how ridiculous it was, and called for its repeal, this waste of time and energy would be a mere footnote in future history books.

Charlotte slid the stool away from the massive Linotype's keyboard and bent down to flick off the electric motor that ran the gears and chains of the machine. The buzz in her ears subsided. After three months as Mr. Toliver's assistant, she hardly noticed the tang of hot lead from the crucible any more, but silencing the motor was always a relief. She felt her head clear, like cobwebs swept from rafters.

Now, the Nineteenth Amendment,
that
was a change that truly mattered and would have positive lasting effects. Nearly twenty states had ratified the voting amendment so far, and it looked like more were poised to join in. All the marching, protesting, and arrests of good women and men had made for a long, often painful journey, but it was worth it. Charlotte would never forget the stories of sacrifice and bravery that had paved the way, and couldn't wait to celebrate national suffrage someday soon.

Would she still be in Alaska when that happened? Hard to say. Charlotte's original plan had been to stay over the winter, then she pushed her unofficial scheduled departure back to later in spring. Perhaps she'd spend the summer in the Great Land before returning to New York. She was looking forward to seeing the territory in more pleasant weather. Why not experience all the seasons while she had the chance?

The late November wind rattled a loose panel of the metal roof of the
Times
office, reminding her pleasant weather was a long way away. It was probably snowing again.

Anxious to finish and get home before the streets were too messy, Charlotte picked up the cooled lead slugs and aligned them in the frame on the proofing table. Seeing no obvious defects in the dull gray reliefs, she rolled ink onto the raised letters, then laid a fresh piece of newspaper over the frame. She used a second, clean roller to create a proof and lifted it carefully. With the eye of an editor, she searched for errors that would require retyping a corrected slug.

Satisfied, Charlotte put the rollers and ink away. Mr. Toliver would be in soon to run the large printing press across the room. First, they'd go over the next day's issue, making changes as necessary, then she'd go home while he stayed overnight to mind the machinery. He preferred working at night, he'd said when he hired her, listening to the rhythm of the press as he perused articles or created special advertisement pages.

The shared tasks suited Charlotte. She was able to write local stories, gather the social notices, tidbits, and comings and goings endemic to a small town paper during the day, and still work on her serialized account of women in Alaska for
The Modern Woman Review
in the evenings. What made for news in a remote Alaska town wasn't usually as exciting as back in New York, but you learned who threw the most popular dinner parties.

She closed the door of the press room behind her and entered the main office. It was much cooler away from the Linotype, despite the coal stove in the corner. Quieter too, with only the ticktock of the cuckoo clock to challenge the periodic howl of the wind. She checked the time as she sat at Toliver's messy desk. After eight already? He should be here soon.

Charlotte slid a piece of scratch paper under the circle of light made by the desk lamp and jotted a note about the thunking she'd heard earlier within the Linotype. Toliver had instilled in her the need to keep the intricate machine in tip-top shape, as it was their bread and butter.

Setting the note where he'd see it, or at least eventually find it, Charlotte was drawn to an article that had come in over the Associated Press Teletype on coal miners threatening to strike down in the States. Though she'd seen the articles hours ago, she often only scanned pieces as she organized them for printing.

Goodness, what sort of things are happening to those poor people?
She started to read, frowning at their plight. A triple knock on the front door jerked Charlotte's eyes open. She'd meant only to rest them for a moment. Late nights and early mornings were starting to catch up with her.

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. Her brother or the deputy marshal occasionally checked in on her at the office. Chances were good it was one of them.

Back in New York, she would have ignored a nighttime visitor. Or taken one of Michael's old baseball bats 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?” Charlotte 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.

James's 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 for 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. That was as far as she'd allowed herself to take their relationship in a physical sense. Charlotte was pleased that they engaged in enjoyable conversations on all manner of topics most of the time they were together.

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 break the silence and have something to focus upon, Charlotte 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 teacup 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 looking 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 from 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. Her heart raced and her palms were clammy, 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.