Murder on the Last Frontier

by Cathy Pegau

  With bins and pallets between them, Charlotte couldn’t see who was in the alley, and she didn’t dare risk trying to see them. They had to be talking about Darcy Dugan. Charlotte stood still, hardly daring to breathe so she wouldn’t miss a word.

  “I don’t care,” the woman said. “Just get those papers. They have to be in her room somewhere. I can’t—won’t—go to that horrible place, so it has to be you.”

  The other replied, then footsteps retreated toward the opposite end of the alley. A man? Light flashed onto the bathhouse wall, then went out when the hotel door thudded closed.

  Charlotte’s heart pounded. It wasn’t surprising to hear people discussing that morning’s shocking discovery, but the woman had sounded positively incensed. Not by the murder, but by Darcy herself.

  What had instigated such hatred? The mere existence of prostitution, or something more significant?

  Charlotte dashed back inside to see if she could catch the person returning to the mayor’s party. She nearly bowled over a man and his companion on their way out.

  “Pardon me,” she called, pushing past them.

  Others in the lobby looked after her, curious, as she hurried by. Charlotte stopped at the doorway into the ballroom. Of course, none of the other attendees appeared agitated or rushed. Where would the woman have accessed the alley? Through the kitchen? Off to the right was a hallway. She might have gone into the powder room to freshen up before returning to the ballroom.

  Charlotte made her way to the corridor where she found doors marked LADIES, GENTLEMEN, and KITCHEN. At the end of the hall was an unmarked door. She turned the knob of that one, peered into the dark alley, and pulled it closed again. That explained how the pair got in and out of the hotel, but where were they now? The man had gone off . . . somewhere. What about the woman?

  Charlotte took a deep breath and opened the door to the ladies’ room. A dark-haired woman in a red gown sat at one of the two vanity tables, kohl pencil in hand. The mayor’s wife, Charlotte realized. Mrs. Kavanagh glanced at her and smiled, but went back to fixing her makeup. A black compact and a small jar of blush sat on the table next to her purse.

  A blue velvet upholstered divan and two matching armchairs shared the room. Another door led to, Charlotte assumed, the lavatory.

  “Looking for someone?” Mrs. Kavanagh asked.

  “Did you see—” Charlotte couldn’t very well ask if the woman had heard anyone come in from the alley. She could be the woman from the alley, for all Charlotte knew. “Did you see a tortoise shell compact in here?” Charlotte made a show of searching the vanity, then crossed to one of the chairs.

  “Sorry, no. Care to borrow mine?” Mrs. Kavanagh held up the black lacquered case.

  Charlotte took the offered compact and sat at the other vanity. “Thank you.”

  “You’re the doctor’s sister, aren’t you?”

  Charlotte tilted her head. She shouldn’t be surprised that people knew her before she knew them. “I am, and you’re the mayor’s wife.”

  She offered her hand to Charlotte. “I am.”

  Charlotte had only seen her briefly when Deputy Eddington pointed her out earlier in the evening. She seemed younger up close.

  “Mrs. Kavanagh. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Welcome to Cordova.” She released Charlotte’s hand and continued primping.

  “Thank you. You have an interesting town here.”

  Mrs. Kavanagh gave a short laugh. “We certainly do.” She set her pencil down and swirled her finger in the pot of blush to brighten her cheeks. “How are things in the States?”

  Charlotte had seen the Cordova Daily Times for sale at the drugstore and the café, so the question was more polite than from a true need for news. “It’s getting back to a semblance of normal. The flu pandemic and the war certainly took their toll.”

  “It was rough here too,” Mrs. Kavanagh said. “Entire villages were wiped out. We had our own losses, of course. Your brother and Dr. Hastings were practically run into the ground, especially after Dr. Garrett succumbed. But overall, we managed to pull through.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Michael had written about the long hours of tending patients and of a few losses that seemed to hit him particularly hard; he and Miles Garrett had been friends.

  Mrs. Kavanagh packed her purse and snapped it shut. “But let’s not speak of such things tonight. This is a party, after all.” She smiled as she stood. “Shall we return to the festivities, Miss Brody? I’m sure there are a good number of gentlemen awaiting their chance to dance with you.”

  Mrs. Kavanagh introduced Charlotte to her husband, the Honorable Francis “Call me Frank” Kavanagh, who was standing with the Reverend Bartlett, another gentleman, and their wives. The mayor stuck his thick cigar into his mouth and took both Charlotte’s hands in his to shake them. The burnt-orange-scented cloud of smoke was more pleasant than most, but it still made Charlotte’s eyes water.

  Kavanagh was almost immediately drawn into an argument with Reverend Bartlett and the other man, a city council member, over land-sale laws. The mayor had left the council meeting early the night before, missing that point of contention. Kavanagh was attentive and good-natured, though the set of his jaw told her he was no pushover.

  Mrs. Kavanagh and Mrs. Bartlett made a grand effort to include Charlotte in their side conversation, but it was difficult to focus while surreptitiously searching for Deputy Eddington in the crowd. She needed to tell him what she’d heard in the alley.

  She saw Marshal Blaine dancing with a woman who might have been his wife. Despite the older man’s friendliness, she didn’t feel comfortable seeking him out. Granted, Eddington wasn’t particularly approachable, but he was leading the investigation into Darcy’s murder.

  The exchange in the alley played through Charlotte’s head again. Whatever she could add—if there was any significance to what she’d heard, and there was no assurance there was—would have to be relayed to him anyway. Better to speak directly to the deputy than to be brushed off by the marshal.

  “Don’t you agree, Miss Brody?” Mrs. Bartlett said.

  Charlotte jerked her head around to face the women she was supposed to be conversing with. Damn it all. What had they been talking about? She had no idea. “Um.”

  Mrs. Bartlett pressed her lips together, her brow wrinkled with agitation at Charlotte’s obvious slight.

  “Are you all right?” Tess Kavanagh asked with more concern than annoyance. “You seem a bit flushed.”

  Charlotte pulled her handkerchief from her purse and daubed at her throat. Maybe she could pass off the embarrassment as a dizzy spell or some other feminine malady. Her inner feminist cringed, but better that than insulting the women any more than she had. “I am feeling a little lightheaded. Will you excuse me, please?”

  Without waiting for a response, she walked away from the others. Instead of heading to the powder room, or to the main doors, Charlotte skirted the outer edge of the crowd. Surely she’d run into Deputy Eddington.

  There he was, speaking to a middle-aged couple. Now she just needed to get him alone.

  Just as she reached them, the music changed to a slower tune. Perfect. She loosely knotted her wrap around her shoulders so it wouldn’t slip off. “Pardon me, Deputy. I’d be honored to take you up on your offer of a dance.”

  Eddington’s dark eyebrows rose. At her boldness, perhaps? But then he grinned. “It would be my honor and pleasure, Miss Brody.”

  He excused himself from the couple, then held his left hand out, palm up. Charlotte took it. His fingers gently closed around hers, and he led her to the dance floor. When they found an open spot, Eddington lifted their hands and twirled her into position, facing him. The move surprised Charlotte. Who would have thought the gruff deputy could be so suave? His right hand rested on her waist, and he stared into her eyes. She moistened her lips. “I hope I didn’t take you away from any important business, Deputy.”

  “Nothing of the sort. And please
, call me James.”

  The musicians were at the opposite end of the floor, making conversation possible. Other couples spoke to one another without her hearing them, and Charlotte hoped she could discuss the pair in the alley in some semblance of privacy. She moved in closer, inhaling a combination of tobacco and wool. His hand at her waist slid to the small of her back.

  “I need to tell you what I heard,” she said, her mouth near his ear.

  “Gossip about the Bartletts’ cook?” he whispered. “I know she keeps a bottle of rye in the root cellar.”

  Charlotte squeezed his hand in rebuke, but she laughed. “No. Something serious.”

  Eddington drew his head back to look at her, but kept their bodies close. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Violation of the Alaska dry law is serious, Miss Brody.”

  “But probably not heeded as the government wishes. No, this is about Darcy Dugan.”

  His amusement fled. “What about her?”

  She gave him a brief description of what she’d heard and the circumstances. Though he continued to lead her through the dance steps without faltering, his gaze darted throughout the room. She knew he was listening, but he seemed to be searching for suspects as well.

  “And you have no idea who it could have been?” he asked as he spun her around an older couple.

  Charlotte surveyed the attendees. “No. They could have been anyone. I’m sorry.”

  Eddington immediately brought his attention to her. “Nothing to be sorry about. You’ve given us more to go on. At least two people know more about the murder than they’re willing to admit.”

  “Do you think they were working together?” The possibility startled Charlotte. “Planned it?”

  He shrugged and went through the motion of giving her a polite bow as the music ended. “Or one told the other. I’d wager a man delivered the fatal blows, though some women are certainly strong enough. I’ve questioned Brigit and the girls, but either they saw nothing or are lying for some reason. Hard to say.”

  “Why would they lie? I’d think they’d want to find out who killed one of their own.” It made no sense, but human nature was often a mystery. It also led to some of the best stories.

  “The houses here and the marshal’s office have an understanding,” he said. “They operate more or less freely as long as they aren’t blatantly advertising, but that doesn’t translate to trust.”

  Perhaps an unbiased third party like herself could get more out of Brigit and her girls. Charlotte already had a rapport with Marie. That would be a good place to start.

  Deputy Eddington tucked Charlotte’s arm under his and escorted her to the table where Michael and Ruth sat with another couple. Michael glanced between her and his fiancée, his expression a familiar one of exasperation. What had she done now?

  “Are you all right, Charlotte?” Ruth asked coolly. “Mother said you were feeling poorly.”

  “I’m—” Oh. Right. She’d been “unwell” while in conversation with Mrs. Kavanagh and Ruth’s mother. Charlotte’s malaise being miraculously alleviated by dancing with Deputy Eddington didn’t go over well with Ruth. “I am feeling better now, thank you.”

  “I couldn’t let Miss Brody leave without dancing with me,” Eddington said. He turned to Charlotte and inclined his head. “I hope I didn’t exacerbate any symptoms of nausea.”

  It took considerable effort for Charlotte to control the laughter that threatened to bubble out of her. He was a rogue, just as Ruth had said. She gave him a wan smile. “I’m sure I’ll recover, Deputy.”

  Their shared pretense shone in his eyes as he bowed to her, then the others at the table. “I’m afraid I have to return to my duties.”

  The deputy bid them good evening and, with his hands clasped behind his back, resumed his patrol of the perimeter of the room.

  “If you’re feeling ill, Charlotte, perhaps I should bring you back to your room.” Michael stood and straightened his coat.

  Charlotte started to protest, then thought better of it. “I’d appreciate that. I promise to send him back here right away,” she said to Ruth.

  Ruth’s pinched expression, so like her mother’s, softened slightly. She offered a tight smile. “Of course he should take you home. I think that’s for the best.”

  I’m sure you do, Charlotte thought.

  She bade good-bye to the others. Michael came around the table and gently grasped her upper arm. He guided her toward the coatroom to pick up his mackinaw. On the way, he shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “No,” she said, “you probably don’t.”

  Chapter 6

  A light rain fell throughout much of the morning, lending a cold dampness to the room. Charlotte snuggled under the down comforter, loathe to move lest she touch the cooler portions of the sheets. The patter against the window and the warmth of her bed lulled her into an in-between state of consciousness. She had no reason to be up with the sun, such as it was on a gray Sunday. She certainly had no plans to attend morning services. Let Cordovans see her as a godless heathen, for all she cared. She’d behave herself in other public forums. Mostly.

  Would Michael be joining Ruth and the Bartletts at the Lutheran church? Charlotte and Michael had gone to services now and again with their parents, but it was more for show than due to any sort of piety. What had possessed him to become engaged to a preacher’s daughter?

  Must be love, she thought with a surprising lack of envy.

  Eventually, her bladder determined it was time to get up. The rest of the house was quiet as Charlotte made her way to the lavatory. She returned to her room, dressed, and read through the first installment of her series she’d be sending to Kit. It couldn’t be posted until the next day, and it would take at least a couple of weeks to reach New York, but Kit and Mr. Malone should be pleased.

  At ten thirty, her stomach rumbling, Charlotte decided to see if the café was open. It should be late enough afterward that Miss Brigit’s house would be stirring. Hopefully Marie would be willing to talk to her. Charlotte donned her mackinaw and wide-brimmed hat and headed out into the rain.

  Henry was just setting up the coffeepot in anticipation of the after-church crowd. “Morning, Miss Brody.”

  “Good morning, Henry.” Charlotte shook off rain from her coat. “Goodness, what a day.”

  “At least it isn’t snowing yet. We usually don’t get this sort of weather until late in September. Might be a bad winter this year if it keeps up.”

  Charlotte hung her hat and mackinaw on the provided coatrack. “That’s something to look forward to.” Henry cocked his head, not getting her sarcasm. “Never mind. Can I have some coffee and toast, please?”

  They chatted about the weather—the possibility of thirty feet of snow by the end of February boggled her mind—then Charlotte steered the conversation to the mayor’s party the night before. Henry had been washing dishes in the kitchen the entire night, but had enjoyed the music.

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual?” she asked. No one else was in the café yet, assuring privacy with her inquiry.

  He continued stacking cups and saucers. “Nope. Just the chef yelling about limp lettuce and soggy toast points.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Why?”

  Chances were slim that Henry knew anything about Darcy Dugan, but he might have overheard something at some point.

  “Just wondering. A lot of folks were talking about Darcy last night.” From what she’d heard, the attendees had been horrified, but certain the young harlot had tried to cheat a customer, thus instigating a drunken rage.

  “I bet,” he said. “There hasn’t been an outright murder here for a good bit, and that one was more of an accident than anything.”

  She recalled Michael mentioning something of the sort. “What about other problems with Miss Brigit’s girls? Does the marshal get many calls about them?”

  Henry refilled her coffee cup, a pensive look on his smooth face. “Not that I’ve heard. Miss Brigit
is a bit of a stickler. Doesn’t let the girls get too wild. They’re kinda nice, really.” Charlotte caught his eye, and the boy’s cheeks flamed. “I mean, when they come in for lunch or something, they’re always nice to me and tip well. Like you do.” His dark eyes widened, and the color on his face deepened. “Not that you’re a—I didn’t mean—”

  “I understand what you mean, Henry.” Charlotte smiled, suppressing a laugh, and deposited a dime and a nickel on the counter. “Let me know if you hear anything, will you?”

  With his eyes downcast, he nodded, swept the money into his palm, and concentrated on sorting coins in the till.

  “Speaking of Miss Brigit,” she said. Henry met her gaze, his cheeks still flaming. “Can you direct me to her house?”

  Other than his eyes widening with shock and curiosity, he gave no other outward reaction. Henry described the house that was located just below Michael’s office, closer to the railroad tracks.

  Back outside, a gust flung cold rain into Charlotte’s face. She ducked her head, one hand holding her hat to keep it from blowing off, and made quick time to the two-story clapboard. This unassuming residence housed Brigit and her girls? She knocked on the green door and waited.

  No one responded, so she knocked again, louder. Was she too early? It was after eleven. Did the girls get Sundays off? The railroad tracks were less than fifty yards away, and she wondered how anyone living there got any sort of rest.

  “Get locked out, girlie?” called a deep voice from the road.

  Charlotte turned around. Three men sauntered past the house, heading toward the canneries closer to the water along the railroad tracks. All were bearded, wearing rough clothing and rubber knee boots. One passed a brown bottle to another. They didn’t seem interested in approaching her, thank goodness, but her heart pounded at the possibility of having to deal with the men. Would someone in the house hear if she called out?

  “Is she a new girl?” one asked.

  The man with the bottle shrugged. “Who the hell looks at their faces?”