Free Borrowing Death by Cathy Pegau Page A

hand gently around her wrist. “Or the lover goes to Fiske to demand he divorce Caroline. Lyle refuses. Fight. Stab.”
    He thumped her fist against the same spot on his chest.
    â€œOr,” Charlotte said, easing her hand from his grip and lowering it, “there was another reason the killer wanted Lyle dead.”
    â€œOther than an interrupted robbery.”
    â€œYes. Keeping a business going is difficult, especially in a small, remote town. What if Fiske’s business dealings weren’t so legitimate?”
    â€œI’d be more surprised if they were completely legitimate.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What have you heard?”
    â€œNothing specific.” That was true enough. Brigit had been willing to hint, not divulge. Charlotte was jumping to an awfully big conclusion without any detail. “But it’s worth considering, yes?”
    â€œYes,” he said. “I’ll see what I can dig up. Probably need to talk to Caroline again.”
    Charlotte headed toward the outer door.
    â€œWe’re still having dinner tonight, aren’t we?” James asked.
    She stopped, her heart fluttering. She’d forgotten about his invitation.
    It’s just dinner .
    â€œOf course,” she said. “Meet you at The Wild Rose at six.”
    Charlotte left the federal building, fully intent on getting back to the Times office to work, but her eye was drawn toward the harbor road. Specifically to Fiske’s. She couldn’t quite see the building from Main Street, but she could swear she smelled the burnt wood and acrid chemical bite of the air. Bypassing the office, she made her way to the devastated store.
    The scorched siding around the open door and broken windows reminded her of a night three months ago. She shivered, recalling the fire meant to scare her, if not kill her. Charlotte had ignored the note she’d received about involving herself in Darcy Dugan’s murder, but the fire made it clear she’d been getting too close to the truth. Hopefully nothing like that would happen again. Touching a fingertip to the small scar under her left eye, Charlotte shook off the memory and went through the gaping door.
    Even days later, a residual stench hung in the air, though the worst of the offensive aroma from the fire seemed to have dissipated. Watery light penetrated the gaps in the building, leaving deep shadows between the head-high shelves that hadn’t completely succumbed to flames or the firefighters’ drenching. Tools, boxes, and small appliances littered the floor. Glass crunched under her boots. The deeper she went, the more dank and oppressive the air became.
    â€œI should have brought my flashlight,” she muttered aloud. She’d needed to change the batteries and forgot to put it back in her coat pocket. Though she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. A clue as to who killed Lyle, but what did she expect to find in these ruins?
    The charred service counter across the rear of the room separated the store from what she figured was Fiske’s office. The blackened door was open and a light flickered within the back room.
    â€œDamnation!” A woman’s voice, coming from the office.
    Charlotte hurried behind the scorched counter, past the equally blackened gilded till. She peeked around the doorjamb.
    In a room dimly illuminated by wintery light coming through the empty narrow windows, Caroline Fiske, in widow’s black, knelt in front of a squat safe, her profile to Charlotte. A balled-up coat cushioned her knees. The rear of the office had escaped the worst of the fire damage. The safe sat beside Fiske’s sodden but mostly intact wood desk.
    Caroline’s head was bowed, her eyes closed, and a pinched expression on her face. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Staring hard at the combination lock, she turned the dial with care while holding a flashlight in the other hand. Right. Left. Right. She