"A journalist with an eye for detail makes her way on the Cordova Times"
Reviewed by Clare O'Beara
Posted October 19, 2016
Historical | Mystery
Cordova in Alaska is the location for a suffragette-based
mystery. Charlotte Brody works as a journalist for the
Cordova Daily Times and with a temperance league opposing
the production of alcohol locally, there's plenty to get
people hot and bothered. BORROWING DEATH adds an arsonist
to the mix. A hardware store is set ablaze one snowy night and the
firemen are called out; sadly the owner of the store was
inside and can't be saved. Charlotte and the town's law
enforcement officer James Eddington need to find the
arsonist before anyone else gets killed. After all,
anyone's home might be next. Then there's the question of
whether the hardware owner was murdered before the fire
started. Was he targeted deliberately? I enjoyed the historical detail, such as setting a
newspaper edition in linotype, and the look at women's
issues of the day. Charlotte has known traumas of her own
but survived them, and she finds great sympathy for ladies
of pleasure, whereas the upright matriarchs of town resent
any mentions of indecency. Some native women and men work
around town, considering an education for their children.
Other characters populating the town include a thirteen
year old boy who left Kansas after his family died and made
his own way to Alaska. Like Charlotte, he wanted a fresh
start. Much as I enjoyed reading this tale with its well-realized
and quirky location, I'm even keener to read the second in
this Charlotte Brody series, because a first
chapter is
included at the end of BORROWING DEATH. In Murder On
Location, scheduled for 2017, script-writing Charlotte
gets embroiled in making dramatic motion pictures in
Alaska's beautiful landscape. I think author Cathy Pegau
must be really enjoying her creation of this series, with
its contrasts, historical commentary, action and very
understated romance. Due to some of the content I recommend
BORROWING DEATH for adults or mature teens. Charlotte is an
admirable heroine with a great future ahead of her both in
journalism and crime investigation.
SUMMARY
Suffragette and journalist Charlotte Brody is bracing
herself for her first winter in the frontier town of
Cordova
in the Alaska Territory. But the chilling murder of a
local
store owner is what really makes her blood run cold. . . After three months in Cordova, Charlotte is getting
accustomed to frontier life. She is filing articles for
the
local paper--including a provocative editorial against
Prohibition--and enjoying a reunion with her brother
Michael, the town doctor and coroner. Michael's services
are
soon called upon when a fire claims the life of hardware
store owner Lyle Fiske. A frontier firebug is suspected
of
arson, but when Michael determines Fiske was stabbed
before
his store was set ablaze, the town of Cordova has another
murder to solve. Her journalist's curiosity whetted, Charlotte begins to
sort
through the smoldering ruins of Lyle Fiske's life, only
to
discover any number of people who might have wanted him
dead. As the days grow shorter, Charlotte's investigation
turns increasingly complex. She may be distant from the
trappings of civilization, but untangling the motives for
murder will require plumbing the very depths of
Charlotte's
investigative acumen. . .
ExcerptBORROWING DEATH - CHAPTER ONE
How can we, as Americans, claim to support individual
freedoms while advocating for such a restrictive
amendment? Not to say overindulging
isn’t an issue, but even with current prohibition
laws in some States and here in the Alaska Territory
we have seen a rise in the illegal production and sale
of alcohol and associated criminal behavior. There
has also been an increase in wood alcohol deaths as
the common man attempts to slake his thirst with
his own poisonous concoctions. Is this the price
we’re willing to pay in what can only be a futile attempt
at national sobriety? Charlotte 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 pub-
lisher, 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
lo-
cal 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
blocklong
inferno scared the hell out of her. “James!” He was nowhere in sight.
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