by Cathy Pegau
“Everyone should do what they can to find out who murdered Darcy, don’t you think?”
Ruth’s gaze darted around the table. Seeking support? What was there to dispute in bringing a murderer to justice?
“Of course,” she said, looking at Charlotte again. “But some things are better left to professionals.”
Charlotte gave her a tight grin. “I am a professional. I’ve been involved in several investigative stories that required work with the local police.”
“Including murder?” Mrs. Kavanagh interjected. “That’s a rather different kettle of fish, Miss Brody.”
“It is,” Charlotte admitted, “but I’m ready and willing to do whatever it takes.”
Mayor Kavanagh cleared his throat with a deep rumble that garnered everyone’s attention. “I’m sure your statement to Deputy Eddington is a great help. We want to get the case wrapped up as soon as possible. Cordova isn’t perfect, but it’s not a town that allows any of its citizens to be harmed without repercussion. The bigger we get, the more likely ruffians will attempt to set up shop and take advantage. I won’t have it in my town.”
That sounded like a reelection speech if Charlotte ever heard one. Raised glasses and exclamations of “hear, hear” went around the table.
The rest of the meal was filled with speculation on who would head the annual Quilt Show committee, ideas for marketing Cordova’s growing clam fisheries, and other less controversial subjects. When Mrs. Bartlett suggested they gather in the parlor for coffee, young Sam mumbled something, then dashed up the stairs. After another hour of keeping to safe, mundane topics, Charlotte thanked her hosts and took her leave.
“I’ll see you to the door,” Ruth said, accompanying Charlotte. “I’m glad you were able to visit.”
Charlotte peeled off the slippers and donned her boots. She wouldn’t call her future sister-in-law on the polite fib. Charlotte knew she probably should apologize for the discussion at the table, but in all honesty, she wasn’t sorry. “I appreciate the chance to get to know you all. Michael isn’t one for giving much detail.”
Like the fact that he was seeing a girl, let alone engaged.
“He’s a good man and a good doctor. Once Doctor Hastings retires, Michael’s hours will be more regular and his client list much more suitable.”
Charlotte hesitated shrugging into her coat. “Will there be another doctor brought in?”
“Of course. We’re too big a town to have just one, or even only two. The junior doctors will pick up the less profitable patients.”
Like the cannery workers and the prostitutes, Charlotte assumed. “I can’t imagine Michael forsaking his regular patients in the name of status. He wants to help people. All kinds of people.”
Ruth tilted her head as if bemused by Charlotte’s words. “Being a doctor is about status as well as helping people. He can do both, but most of his patients will actually be able to pay him in something other than canned goods or wood for his stove.”
This was the sort of woman Michael wanted to marry? One who saw his life’s work as a way to better his standing—and presumably hers? “That’s not why he became a doctor, Ruth.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest he doesn’t want to help those in need.” She laid her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Goodness, no. Charity will absolutely be part of his schedule. But you have to agree that after all his hard work in school, and dealing with the most difficult of circumstances, he deserves to have a practice that’s a bit more comfortable.”
Michael had indeed worked hard and had seen some of the worst of human conditions. He’d admitted that his recent letters home hadn’t included the reality of his practice here, but there’d been no indication that it was getting to him. On the contrary, he seemed much more content than when he’d been in the States.
“Good intentions and humble beginnings are fine,” Ruth continued, “but no one truly wishes to stay in that position for their entire life. Michael can serve Cordova and still achieve his proper due. Everyone should have grand aspirations, don’t you think?”
Even Charlotte had had dreams of working for bigger periodicals like the Washington Post, the New York Times, or the Herald. Ambition wasn’t a bad thing. “I guess you’re right.”
Ruth grinned, but her blue eyes were hard. “Of course I am. I know he’d be very worried if you were to get involved with this vile business, so please, Charlotte, for Michael’s sake . . .”
Ruth didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication was clear: Don’t jeopardize Michael’s comfort or his standing in local society.
“We wouldn’t want to upset him, no.” Charlotte couldn’t get to the door fast enough, not even caring to see if Ruth had picked up on her derisive tone. “Thank you again for inviting me. I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.”
She was on the small porch and headed to the street with her coat unbuttoned, Ruth calling farewell behind her. What made Ruth think she knew Michael—knew what he wanted—more than his own sister?
Because she’s been closer to him than you have in the past year. You don’t know all that he’s been through. Just like he doesn’t know what you’ve been through, does he?
Charlotte quelled the voice in her head. It wasn’t the same.
Was it?
She hurried down the street, the front of her coat clutched in one hand.
Chapter 8
Charlotte spent the rest of the day writing and reading. Mrs. Sullivan had invited her in for a light evening meal, but Charlotte left before the after-dinner sherry, claiming a headache. The dreariness of the day had continued into evening, prompting her to turn in earlier than usual.
The next morning she woke to still more rain—thankfully it wasn’t snow as Henry had mentioned—feeling no better than when she’d fallen asleep. The conversations from the previous afternoon at the Bartletts’ still rang in her ears. Between the dismissal of Darcy as a victim worthy of their sympathies and Ruth’s expectations that Michael would fob his patients off on a new colleague for the sake of status, Charlotte found the ache in her head renewed rather than relieved.
Deciding a walk in the rain was not only necessary for her errands, but might help get rid of her headache, Charlotte washed up and dressed. She wrapped the first installment of her serial in cardboard and waxed brown paper given to her by Mrs. Sullivan. She’d stop at the post office to send it to New York, then have a heart-to-heart talk with Michael. That definitely would require some mental preparation. Her stomach rumbled. And food.
She locked the door to her room and headed out, the packet tucked inside her coat to protect it from the rain. Charlotte waited for the lone vehicle on the road to pass by, avoiding the splash of a puddle, then crossed. The post office was housed in the federal building, upstairs from the U.S. marshal’s office. She entered the main doors, then hurried up without too much thought of James Eddington’s proximity.
A bell tinkled over the door as she entered. A woman behind the waist-high counter chatted with a female customer. To the right of the counter, rows of numbered brass boxes filled the wall. The postal clerk glanced at Charlotte and nodded a greeting to her.
Charlotte set her packet on a table near the door and waited for the clerk to finish. A list of postal regulations and another of unclaimed letters were tacked to the wall. Beside them were several “Wanted” posters from the U.S. marshal’s office, including one that was two years old for an Edward Krause, with the words Captured, Convicted, Executed scrawled across it. After reading the walls, Charlotte double-checked the address Kit had given her and the knots in the string.
“Can I help you, miss?”
The bell over the door tinkled as Charlotte turned. The female customer had departed, and the clerk looked at Charlotte expectantly.
“Yes, thank you. I need to send a package to New York.” She carried her parcel to the counter.
“Sure thing.” The clerk brought a ledger up from beneath the counter and took the address information. �
��The steamer leaves tomorrow night. It’ll go out on that.”
“Perfect,” Charlotte said. “Do you know if I can pick up paper and carbon at McGruder’s?”
“Probably have better luck at the drugstore, I’d imagine. They have stationery and such.” The woman hefted the package and gave the New York address of Modern Woman a closer look. “You a writer?”
“A journalist. I’m chronicling my travels to Alaska and my time in Cordova.”
The clerk laughed. “Ain’t gonna have much to write about from here except clams and copper. Hardly nothing happens now that the dry law’s in effect. It’s settled into downright tedium.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Charlotte said. “The mayor’s party the other night was fun. And of course, that poor girl.”
The woman’s expression clouded. “Yeah, a terrible thing. Darcy was a decent sort.”
“You knew her?”
She shrugged. “Seen her around. She’d come in with Marie or other gals who were sending letters, or if they were picking up mail for Brigit.”
“Didn’t Darcy send letters out?” Charlotte asked.
The clerk tilted her head, a thoughtful expression wrinkling her brow. “Not that I recall. Isn’t that funny? Most everyone here has some sort of correspondence with the outside world. But not Darcy, not to my recollection.”
Charlotte thanked the clerk for her help, held the door open for a woman holding two youngsters by their hands, then descended the stairs and walked toward the café. Half a block ahead, young Sam Bartlett stared into the café window. He wasn’t directly in front of the glass, but stood off to the side, as if he didn’t want to be seen by anyone inside.
“Good morning,” Charlotte said when she drew closer. “Would you care to have a cup of coffee with me?”
Sam’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. His pale face blossomed to deep pink, emphasizing a long scratch on the left cheek. He ducked his head and hurried past without a word. His boots clattered on the wooden walk until he came to the first alley. There, he dropped down onto the muddy path and disappeared behind the building.
Ruth had said he was shy, but that bit of behavior had Charlotte wondering if his was some sort of phobia.
She entered the bustling café and found a seat. Henry greeted her with a smile, a cup of coffee, and a menu. After enjoying the chef’s special omelet and a side of toast, Charlotte set off for Michael’s office. She’d promised to make meals for him in return for his purchasing food for them both, and wanted to inventory his shelves before a trip to the grocer.
“Miss Brody. I mean, Charlotte,” a female voice called from behind her.
Charlotte turned. “Oh, Marie. I’m glad to see you.”
The girl was wearing a conservative day outfit beneath her waterproof coat and sturdy boots. Her black umbrella rippled under the assault of wind and rain. “Brigit said you’d stopped by to see me.”
Charlotte hid her surprise that Brigit had passed along the message.
“Yes, I need to talk to you.” She glanced back into the café, but there were too many people in too small a space. She didn’t want to have a private, potentially sensitive conversation there. “Is there someplace we can go to chat?”
Marie scanned the street in both directions with red-rimmed eyes, then nodded up a side road. “The pool hall? It’s just opened for the day and shouldn’t be terribly crowded.” Her brow furrowed. “Unless you think that’s not an appropriate place.”
Charlotte laid her hand on the girl’s arm. “I’ve spoken to folks in prisons and opium dens. I think I can handle a pool hall.”
Marie led the way up the road. The Edgewater Pool and Billiards Hall was a long, low building with a large front window. Inside, a pair of men in shirtsleeves sat at one of six dining tables drinking coffee. Eight pool tables filled the rest of the room, most unoccupied so early in the day. A man leaned over to line up a shot at one while another chalked his cue. A large man with glossy black hair and a dark complexion, suspenders straining over his belly, stacked glasses behind the counter.
“Hey, Marie.” A gap-toothed grin appeared on his face. “Good to see you.”
Charlotte had never heard a Native Alaskan speak before, and this man’s soft voice didn’t match his formidable size.
Marie shook out her umbrella before closing it and smiled, but Charlotte noted it was an effort for her. “Just looking for a quiet place to talk to my friend. Charlotte, this is Albert.” They exchanged greetings. “Can we get a couple of coffees and use your card room?”
Albert set cups and saucers on the bar. “McKinney’s back there with his crew. They’ve been at it all night. How about a table in the corner?”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
They carried their coffees to a dim corner. The small round table and two wobbly chairs seemed to have been shoved into the shadows to be kept out of the way of the larger settings. But the distance from the men and the crack of ivory balls guaranteed a bit of privacy.
Charlotte draped her damp coat on the back of the chair and set her hat on the far side of the table. Once Marie settled into her seat, Charlotte covered the girl’s hand with her own. “I’m so sorry about Darcy.”
Marie only nodded, blinking rapidly, but Charlotte saw the tears. “I couldn’t believe it when the deputy told us. Who would do such a thing?”
“They’ll catch whoever did it,” Charlotte assured her, but she honestly wasn’t sure. Yet it wasn’t like the murderer could have gotten far, unless he’d hared off into the wilderness.
“I hope so.” Marie raised her cup, hands shaking with emotion.
Charlotte sipped at her coffee to give Marie a chance to collect herself. The brew was on the strong side, and Albert hadn’t offered cream or sugar. I guess men who play pool drink their coffee black. Though Charlotte wondered if there was a little something extra in the men’s cups, dry laws be damned.
Marie daubed at her eyes, then cleared her throat. “I wanted to thank you again for having your brother come see Darcy the day before . . . the day before. She seemed better after he’d left.”
All Michael had prescribed for Darcy was rest and fluids, but perhaps that was all the girl needed at the time. And maybe a bit of sympathy, if Brigit was after her to get back to work.
“I’m glad,” Charlotte said. She didn’t want to upset Marie, but questions needed to be asked. “About that night. Did Darcy seem worried about anything?”
Marie thought for a few moments. “Not that I can recall. She was in her room when business started to pick up. Kevin Hart-ney was celebrating his birthday with some friends. We were all busy, what with being down a girl and all.”
“And no one asked for Darcy? Made any sort of fuss?” The idea that a disgruntled regular might have been so irritated by rejection seemed far-fetched, but sometimes the oddest things set a person off.
Marie shook her head. “There were a few requests for her, but most of the guys are willing to see whoever’s available.”
“So no one went to her room. And no one saw her leave.”
“No. Even Brigit was working.”
Which meant Darcy could have come downstairs without any of the others knowing. But why? And how did the killer get her out of the house?
“I know Deputy Eddington already questioned you, but is there anything about Darcy’s behavior that seemed off lately? Was there anything bothering her?” Charlotte didn’t want to mention the pregnancy unless Marie did. As close as they seemed to have been, it was possible Darcy hadn’t shared her condition with her friend.
“Other than her feeling poorly? Not really. Brigit had her staying at the house more than usual.” Charlotte cocked her head in silent query. Marie leaned closer and lowered her voice, though there was little chance of the men overhearing her. “We visit the clubs or here at the pool hall to bring in business, though legally we’re not supposed to. Brigit schedules who goes. It can be fun, but sometimes it’s real work to drum up a customer or two on slo
w nights. Darcy didn’t particularly like it, and Brigit didn’t force her.”
“Does she force you?” Choosing to become a working girl meant a certain amount of exploitation, but requiring the girls to solicit customers off-site strained even Charlotte’s feminist limits.
Marie shrugged, a guarded look in her eyes. “She reminds us that we’re as responsible for the house succeeding as she is, more so maybe, and going out helps.”
“But Darcy didn’t have to.”
“She went for a little while, but stopped a few months ago. The other girls were jealous. It’s sort of a luxury to stay back and wait for customers to come to you.”
Could one of the other girls have been angry enough to attack Darcy? When would she have had the opportunity if everyone was working that night?
“How long had Darcy been working for Brigit?”
“Just about a year,” Marie said. “She came down from Fairbanks with some folks looking to work in the canneries. Found out that was real work, and stinky to boot. She and I met here at Albert’s. She asked about becoming a working girl, so I introduced her to Brigit.”
Charlotte studied Marie a little closer. She was no more than twenty, if that. “How long have you been with Brigit?”
Even in the shadowy corner, Charlotte saw Marie’s blush. “Two years.”
“How old are you now, Marie?” Charlotte was afraid of the answer, but felt compelled to ask.
Marie ducked her head and said softly, “Eighteen.” Her head jerked up again. “Please don’t tell. Brigit and everyone think I’m twenty-two or thereabouts.”
Charlotte patted Marie’s hand, all the while her heart breaking a little for this girl—this child—who had likely started in the life before she truly understood what it meant. “I won’t, but is this what you want to do?”