by Cathy Pegau
All three guffawed and, thankfully, kept walking.
Heat rose on Charlotte’s face. She’d received her share of rude remarks, especially when she confronted a man who didn’t think women should be journalists. There were more of those than she cared to count, but this was the first time she’d felt so vulnerable.
The one man’s words echoed in her head. Who the hell looks at their faces?
Was that how they saw, or didn’t see, these women? As anonymous playthings? Did a man like that kill Darcy because she’d been nothing to him? Easy to get rid of?
They were no better—or worse—than Richard.
The thought turned her stomach. Something had to be done about antiquated attitudes of people who viewed a woman, any woman, as less than a man.
Charlotte stepped down from the low wood porch and walked around the side of the house. There wasn’t much of a yard, mostly scrubby grass and overgrown patches of fireweed. Wood stacked against the wall beside the back door. A couple of old folding chairs.
And a narrow, beaten path leading up the slope to the walkway that paralleled Main Street.
Charlotte mentally followed the trail that ran behind the buildings. A small cabin, Michael’s office, a clothing store, the tailor. There was a gap between buildings where the wooden walk was supported by pilings that had been sunk down into the water twenty feet below the main part of town. The trail continued all the way to Sullivan’s rooming house, then down the slope on the opposite end. This was the path Darcy took the other night while trying to escape her killer.
But why did she leave the house if she was ill? What could have been such powerful motivation? And why hadn’t she yelled for help?
“Can I help you?”
Charlotte spun toward the voice coming from the back of the house. A petite, dark-haired woman of thirty or so stood in the open doorway, hands on her hips. She wore a pale green, Oriental-inspired dressing gown, and her feet were bare, the toenails painted bright red.
“Good morning,” Charlotte said. She made her way toward the door. The aroma of bacon frying made her stomach gurgle. Perhaps she should have eaten more than toast at the café. “I was hoping to talk to Marie. Is she available?”
The woman gave Charlotte a slow perusal, taking in her drooping hat and wet mackinaw. “Who are you?”
“Charlotte Brody. Marie knows me.”
“Marie’s not up yet.” The woman smiled wickedly. “She had a busy night.”
Apparently the death of one of Brigit’s girls hadn’t stemmed the flow of customers. Did business take precedence over grief, or was it an attempt to keep things as normal as possible?
If the comment was meant to scandalize, this woman was wasting her efforts on Charlotte. She returned the mocking grin with one of sweet innocence. “I’m sure Marie made a lot of clients happy. Does she get some sort of bonus for a job well done?”
The woman’s smile dropped into a tight-lipped frown. “I’ll let her know you’re looking for her, Miss Brody.”
She started to retreat into the kitchen. Charlotte took a quick step forward, her hand out in a placating gesture. “Wait. Are you Brigit?”
The woman stopped. “What of it?” she said curtly.
Charlotte had to make amends or she’d never get anywhere with Brigit, and likely not get a chance to question Marie. “I apologize for the flippant remark. I’d like to talk to you about Darcy.”
Brigit drew in a sharp breath, obviously surprised by Charlotte’s request. “Why? What do you care about her?”
How could Charlotte explain to this woman that Darcy’s death—and the reason it might have occurred—had affected her in the short time Charlotte had been in Cordova? That the young woman’s condition had churned up Charlotte’s own painful past? Did Brigit know Darcy had been pregnant?
“I helped my brother during her autopsy yesterday,” Charlotte said. Brigit’s dark eyebrows rose, but she didn’t respond. “I want to help find out who killed her.”
Brigit reached back into the kitchen and picked up something from the windowsill. She stuck a cigarette between her lips and concentrated on flicking the wheel of her silver lighter as she spoke. “Some drunk, I’d reckon. It happens.”
The flame caught, and the pungent aroma of burning tobacco cut through the rain.
“You have no idea who it could have been? Who she was . . . with that evening?” Charlotte found that hard to believe.
Brigit blew a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “She was supposed to be taking the evening off. Doctor’s orders.” The emphasis on that last bit told Charlotte exactly what the madam thought of Michael’s directive. “No one went up to her room, and no one saw her come down. Eddington was already here asking.”
He’d mentioned that while they danced last night, but Charlotte hoped she could talk to Marie in a more relaxed and friendly manner than would likely have been used in an interrogation by the local law.
“She hadn’t been having trouble with anyone lately?”
“No.”
Charlotte tried to read the truth behind the woman’s simple denial. Brigit held her gaze, challenging Charlotte to come right out and refute her too-pat answer. But why wouldn’t Brigit let James know if there had been trouble?
Unless there hadn’t been, and Darcy’s death was a spontaneous reaction by an angry customer. That didn’t sit right with Charlotte. The beating Darcy took was too specific, too personal to be a random act.
What would it take to get Brigit to talk?
“Look, Miss O’Brien—”
“Brigit will do,” she said. She drew deeply on the cigarette, then flicked the butt into the damp bushes. The cloud of blue smoke she released obscured her scowl for a moment.
It took considerable effort for Charlotte not to huff in frustration. “Miss Brigit, I only want to help.”
“You’ve been here for, what, two days, Miss Brody? You have no reason to stick your nose in my business.” She stepped back into the kitchen, hand gripping the edge of the door. “I’ll tell Marie you want to talk to her, but unless you’re willing to pay the five-dollar minimum or looking for work, I’ll kindly ask you to otherwise leave me and my girls alone. If you’ll excuse me, I have a funeral to arrange.”
Slam.
Charlotte stood in the overgrown yard, staring at the scuffed door while rain soaked the lower half of her skirt and blew into her face with each gust of wind.
Damn it.
Chapter 7
Charlotte trudged back up to the main road, berating herself with every step as a raven in a nearby spruce seemed to chuckle at her. Even he thought she should have handled the encounter with Brigit better. With the madam on the defensive, there was no guarantee she’d relay Charlotte’s message. Charlotte might not get to talk to Marie without catching the girl outside of the house. Maybe she could wait a few days and try again. But the more time that passed, the more difficult it would be to find the killer.
“Charlotte, is that you?”
Charlotte lifted her head and squinted into the rain. Ruth stood in front of Michael’s office, a black umbrella dripping over her head. “Good morning. Is Michael in?”
“He’s had an emergency call.” Ruth glanced at the door to the office and shrugged. “Such is the life of a small-town doctor.”
“He is dedicated.”
“He is, but it does impede at times. We were supposed to have an early Sunday dinner with my parents.” Ruth brightened. “Why don’t you join us? I’m sure Mother and Father wouldn’t mind.”
Had Ruth forgiven her for leaving Mrs. Bartlett’s company? She’d seemed rather perturbed last night. Maybe it wasn’t as big an indiscretion as Charlotte imagined. Still, she wouldn’t want to risk insulting them again by arriving at their door in anything but her Sunday best.
She scrunched her toes in her boots. “I’m not exactly dressed for socializing.”
“Oh, pish-posh,” Ruth said. “We won’t worry about that. Come on.”
>
She hooked her arm through Charlotte’s and tugged her toward the next street up the hill. They passed Second Street and the Windsor, continuing on to a more residential section of town. The umbrella covered them both, so Charlotte removed her hat to avoid hitting Ruth with the brim.
“Were you out for a walk?” Ruth asked.
“Just getting a little fresh air, yes.” There was no polite way to tell her she’d been at Miss Brigit’s, or why. Charlotte wasn’t supposed to be interfering. If word got back to Eddington, Charlotte would have to suffer his ire.
Ruth’s nose wrinkled. “There are better places to stroll than by the railroad tracks or along that particular row.” Was she referring to the aroma of the clam cannery or Miss Brigit’s? “Did you enjoy the party last night?”
“Very much. I haven’t danced like that in a long time.”
“You seemed to be very popular.”
Charlotte looked up from watching her step. Ruth smiled prettily at her, then set her gaze ahead. Was she criticizing Charlotte for dancing so much? “There were fewer women than men. I think it was more of a matter of numbers than popularity, but I had fun.”
“I guess that’s all that matters.” Ruth patted Charlotte’s arm, then unhooked her own from Charlotte’s. “Here we are.”
They’d come up to a two-story home. Its white clapboard siding, green door, and green shutters made it look remarkably like Miss Brigit’s. There was even a small covered porch. Charlotte decided it was best not to point out the similarities.
“What a beautiful home,” she said.
Ruth closed the umbrella and shook off the rain before opening the front door. “Let’s get you out of those boots and into something a bit more comfortable.”
She slid the umbrella into a wooden stand to the left of the door. The tiled entry was as large as Charlotte’s room at Sullivan’s. Cabbage-rose paper adorned the walls. Straight ahead, stairs led up to the next floor, and doorways to the left and right stood open. A telephone table to the right of the front door held a candlestick phone and a vase of flowers. Two straight-backed chairs in the entry provided comfortable places for visitors to deal with their footwear.
Through the arched doorway on the left, the parlor was brightly lit by lamps to enhance watery sunlight coming in the front bay window. The overstuffed furnishings, Persian rugs, and delicate knickknacks gave visitors a dignified, yet homey welcome. Clattering dishes and the murmur of voices carried in from the right. The dining room, Charlotte guessed. The tantalizing aroma of roasted chicken and fresh-baked bread from that direction confirmed it.
Ruth opened a panel under the stairs and withdrew two wooden hangers. She waited for Charlotte to shed her coat, then hung both it and her hat in the closet. She then handed Charlotte a pair of soft, black slippers. Charlotte removed her boots, set them to the side along with others already there, and donned the slippers.
“Thank you,” she said, smoothing her hair and skirt.
Ruth hung up her own coat. She replaced her boots with a pair of dark green slippers and brushed at her skirt. “There,” she said, smiling at Charlotte.
“Is that you, Ruth?” Mrs. Bartlett called.
“I think everyone’s already seated.” Ruth took Charlotte’s arm again and escorted her into the dining room. The Bartletts weren’t alone, making Charlotte even more aware of her disheveled appearance.
Wonderful.
Reverend Bartlett presided at the head of the table, Mrs. Bartlett at the foot. The mayor sat at the reverend’s right, Tess Kavanagh to Mrs. Bartlett’s right. An older couple sat across from each other, and a young blond man in his late teens sat to Mrs. Bartlett’s left. The men rose, the younger one reluctantly, with his head down.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Bartlett said, smiling at Ruth. The skin around her mouth tightened when she looked at Charlotte. “How lovely to see you again, Miss Brody.”
It seemed her dashing off to find James Eddington hadn’t quite been forgiven. Charlotte inclined her head and vowed to be as polite as possible throughout the meal. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Mrs. Bartlett.”
“Michael had to see a patient,” Ruth said, guiding Charlotte to an empty seat near the older woman sitting to Reverend Bartlett’s left. “But I ran into Charlotte.” She introduced the other couple as Mr. and Mrs. Robert Landry. Charlotte sat between Mrs. Landry and Ruth. “That’s my brother, Sam.” Ruth gestured toward the young man beside their mother. “Sam, say hello to Charlotte. She’s Michael’s sister.”
Sam glanced up, barely making eye contact with Charlotte through the fall of hair that curtained his face. He mumbled what might have been “hello.”
“Hello, Sam. It’s nice to meet you.”
He dropped his gaze to his lap, shoulders hunched.
Ruth straightened her silverware and water glass. “He’s a bit shy.”
A woman wheeled a cart in from the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. A perfectly browned bird, surrounded by potatoes and onions, steamed upon a silver tray. The server went directly to Reverend Bartlett. He bowed his head and clasped his hands together at the edge of the table. Conversation stopped, and everyone followed his example.
“Thank you, Lord, for these bountiful gifts we are about to receive. Bless our friends and family and the people of Cordova. And please, Lord, look after the lost souls, particularly that of Miss Darcy Dugan. Amen.”
Charlotte’s head came up at the mention of the girl.
Mrs. Bartlett made a dismissive sound. “Honestly, Samuel, to mention that harlot’s name at this table.”
Reverend Bartlett began carving the meat as the server set bowls of side dishes on the table. “It’s my job to concern myself with all the souls in Cordova, Mother, not just the godly.”
“She certainly wasn’t that.” Ruth reached for the water pitcher and filled glasses for everyone.
“I’ve known a few ladies of the evening who attended church,” Charlotte said. Though she had no reason to believe Darcy had been particularly religious, she felt the need to defend the girl. “Some seemed more dedicated to God than regular parishioners.”
Everyone at the table froze and stared at her. Reverend Bartlett held a slice of breast between the carving knife and serving fork. The spoonful of potatoes Mrs. Bartlett had scooped plopped onto her plate. The Landrys stared at her, wide-eyed, as did Ruth. Only the Kavanaghs appeared more amused than stricken.
Well done, Charlotte. The sarcastic words in her head sounded like Michael. So much for polite conversation.
Ruth let out a short bark of nervous laughter. “Charlotte, you’re such a card. I said as much last night. Didn’t I, Mother?”
“So you did.” Mrs. Bartlett’s blue eyes burned into Charlotte. She flicked another spoon of potatoes onto the plate and set it before Sam with a thunk.
“What I meant—” Charlotte sipped her water. “What I meant was that the decision to become a pros—a sporting woman doesn’t necessarily exclude or eliminate her faith.”
“That may be true,” Reverend Bartlett said, “but the act itself is unacceptable in the Christian faith.”
Charlotte couldn’t argue that point, but she didn’t think the preacher would mind a little friendly ideological challenge. “Yet even Christ befriended prostitutes.”
Grinning, Mayor Kavanagh set an unlit cigar on a saucer beside his plate. “She has you there, Samuel.”
“Hate the sin, love the sinner,” the reverend replied.
“It seems that someone hated her quite a bit,” Charlotte said.
“Such a terrible thing.” Ruth shook her head.
Was she talking about Darcy’s being a prostitute or her murder? The others made sympathetic noises around the table, except for young Sam, who kept his head down and continued to eat.
“Does the marshal’s office have any idea who did it?” Mrs. Kavanagh asked.
“Blaine says they’re following every lead they have,” the mayor said, flicking the colorful paper band of
the resting cigar. “Unfortunately, it’s not much.” He turned to Charlotte. “Deputy Eddington questioned you and a few of the other residents at Sullivan’s, didn’t he, Miss Brody?”
“My room is at the back of the house,” she said. “I told him what I heard that night, but I doubt it was of any help.”
Ruth’s head whipped around. “You heard something? I didn’t know that. Did you see anything?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Deputy Eddington believes Darcy and her killer made their way from Brigit’s along the path behind the house and down to the tracks. They bumped into my wall, but I didn’t see who was outside.”
“We certainly can’t have a madman running about,” Mrs. Landry said. “What if he harms someone else? Someone from a good family?”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open in shock. She almost began to rail about what difference it made who was assaulted, but hesitated when she saw Reverend Bartlett’s expression. Surely he wasn’t warning her away from addressing this ignorant woman? Charlotte pressed her lips together and took a deep breath.
“I saw the condition of Darcy Dugan’s body,” she said quietly. “It was horrible. Bruised and bloody. The killer took special care to make her hurt as much as he could before dealing the fatal blows. That’s something no one, no matter her station or lifestyle or faith, should have endured.”
Mrs. Landry stared at her, rheumy eyes still wide.
“But there are no witnesses, no suspects,” Ruth said. “It could have been anyone. Cordova can be a dangerous place for someone out and about so late.”
“The attack was very personal.” Charlotte had to be careful about revealing too much. She’d promised Marshal Blaine she wouldn’t compromise the case. “Once we get a little more information about Darcy and what she’d been up to lately, I think Deputy Eddington and Michael will be able to figure it out.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Ruth asked. “Charlotte, you can’t possibly be involved in this terrible affair.”
She had already become involved, and more concerned than anyone realized. Not because she was working with Michael, or even because she’d gone over to Brigit’s to speak to Marie. She was involved because she had to be. Because someone with a better idea of what Darcy might have been experiencing with her pregnancy needed to seek justice for her. Not that Deputy Eddington wouldn’t do his best, but how could he understand a woman’s place in the world, particularly one of Darcy’s condition and station? And even he had said Brigit and the girls weren’t opening up to him. Charlotte could very well have the advantage there.