by Cathy Pegau
He scratched the back of his neck, mindless of the smudges of ink on his hands. “Ten years next spring. Moved here straight up from Seattle.”
Charlotte’s hope that Toliver had been in Fairbanks at the same time as Kincaid and the women were on trial died with a quiet sigh. “So you didn’t know the mayor or his wife before they came here.”
“No. The Kavanaghs didn’t arrive until after the railroad had been finished for a couple of years. Lots of folks came into town about then, looking to make some money, to find a place in the world.” Toliver shrugged and grinned. “Cordova’s not a bad place to settle down.”
“Michael seems to like it.” She suppressed the flare of residual anger in her gut. She and Michael would have to have a serious talk about boundaries if she decided to stay.
“He’s a good man, your brother.” The newspaper man gave her a significant look. “Heard you helped him with the Dugan autopsy.”
Charlotte recognized his technique. He was fishing for information, but she wouldn’t keep James’s confidence if she shared what she knew. “I did, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the case, according to Deputy Eddington. I don’t want to jeopardize the investigation.”
Toliver looked perturbed at first, then nodded curtly. “Understandable. Tell me, Miss Brody, do you need a job while you’re here?”
Charlotte blinked at him. “You mean at the Times?”
“Sure, why not? I have a couple of boys who gather local tidbits and write copy, but we’re growing by leaps and bounds. The Cordova Times could use a lady’s touch. And I’m not getting any younger. I need someone who knows what they’re doing when it gets busy.”
Her heart gave a small leap. With a regular job in town she could stay even longer if she chose. “I’d have to complete my commitment to Modern Woman.”
Toliver nodded. “Oh, sure, sure. We can talk later. I wouldn’t refuse an insider piece on the Dugan murder, if you had a mind to write up a little something. Are you finished here, then?”
“I am.” She gathered her coat and hat from where she’d been sitting. “Thank you again, Mr. Toliver. I’ll be in touch.”
She skirted the desk, glancing at the framed pages of the Times hanging on the walls that she’d read earlier, and hurried out the door. Her heart beat hard as she considered Toliver’s offer. To be part of a newspaper, even in a town like this? It wasn’t the New York Times, but it was something.
Charlotte bent her head against the wind and rain and made her way down the hill to Brigit’s house. She passed Michael’s office, but didn’t feel ready to talk to him yet. Why was he being so overprotective? Even as kids, he’d been the one to encourage her to stand her ground and do for herself. Sure, he’d be there to back her up if things got out of hand, but otherwise he was more likely to push her into a fray to defend herself, rather than pull her away. What had changed?
Years of sorrow and secrets, she supposed with a sigh. All their closeness as kids couldn’t overcome the distance of their personal lives as adults. Even when Michael had gone off to university, they’d kept in touch with weekly letters. She’d quit journalism school to start working at the Yonkers Weekly, and they’d still written regularly. The letters had become less frequent when he went to the army hospital and she became more involved in the suffrage movement. Their lives had become busy, as lives do. Then, of course, she’d met Richard and never seemed to have time for anything. She and Michael had lost their connection somewhere. She wanted to fix that, but not if Michael was going to be an ass about it.
Her rubber boots squished in the mud. She knocked as much muck off the soles as she could walking the stone path to Brigit’s front door. Curtains were drawn on all the windows. Not a surprise, considering the hours the ladies kept. But it was noon, and Charlotte figured someone would be stirring.
Charlotte huddled beneath the overhang of the porch and knocked. The brass peep box set in the door remained closed. She knocked again. After a few moments, she heard noises. The inside peep-box door opened, but Charlotte couldn’t see who was on the other side due to the grill and lighting. The small inner brass door slammed shut. More noise, like wood scraping on wood, she thought, and the door swung open.
Charlotte looked down at Charlie, Brigit’s son.
“Yeah?” He eyed her with hostile suspicion, but his small stature, dark, unruly hair, and dusting of freckles made him less intimidating than intended.
“Is your mo—Is Miss Brigit available, please?” Charlotte had an inkling that asking for Brigit by name and playing along with his role of gatekeeper for the house would get her further than asking for his mother.
His brown eyes glinted with a sense of importance, telling Charlotte she’d managed to get that one right, and he opened the door to admit her. A straight-backed wooden chair scraped across the floor, pushed aside by the door. That explained the noises she had heard and how Charlie used the peephole.
Charlotte stepped inside the tastefully decorated entry hall. Somewhere in her brain she’d expected gaudy, gilded hardware, or paintings and statues of nude women. Instead, she found a polished cherry-wood side table with a sleek black telephone and a small area rug covering the tiled floor. There was a damp wool and tobacco odor in the air. A door to the right was marked PRIVATE, but beyond an archway to the left was an equally demure parlor with several couches and a couple of gaming tables set for faro or poker.
“Wait here,” Charlie said. “I’ll get her.”
He shoved the chair against the wall, then knocked on the PRIVATE door. A muffled response prompted him to enter. He closed the door behind himself, leaving Charlotte alone in the hall.
Upon closer inspection, the rug was a bit worn, and the striped paper above the wainscoting curled near the ceiling molding. Charlotte stood in the archway leading into the parlor. The carpet and furnishings were clean, the crystal chandelier polished. The scent of floral perfume was heavier here. To the right of the arch, a black upright piano sat against the half wall where a stairway led to the upper floor.
“Miss Brody,” Brigit said from behind her.
The madam wore her dark hair in a neatly pinned pile on her head. Her crisp white blouse, straight black skirt, and polished black boots were more in line with what a school teacher might wear, not the proprietress of a brothel. “Miss Brigit. I’m sorry to arrive uninvited.”
Brigit gave her a slight grin. “Our door is always open. I was just on my way to the bank, however, so if you could tell me what you need . . .”
Charlotte glanced at Charlie, who stood beside his mother with a similar expectant look upon his face. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
The grin faltered into a sigh of resignation. She knew Charlotte was there to discuss Darcy. “Charlie, go wake up Lizzie and Della. Tell them it’s their turn to do the cooking. Mrs. Palmer won’t be in until this afternoon.” Brigit focused her bright brown eyes on Charlotte. “Come with me.”
She spun on her heel and strode to the room across the entryway. Charlotte followed, trying to not let the woman’s abrupt manner get the better of her. She knew Brigit would be difficult. The best way to counter that was to be equally calm and understanding.
A large walnut desk dominated Brigit’s office. Behind it was a black leather chair, the only seat in the room other than a low divan in a corner. Artwork covered three walls; the fourth had tall windows dressed with lacy blue and white curtains.
Brigit gestured for her to have a seat on the divan. Charlotte unbuttoned her coat and removed her hat before sitting. Brigit’s not offering to take them meant one thing: You aren’t going to be here long.
“What can I do for you, Miss Brody?” Brigit crossed her arms beneath her breasts and sat on the edge of the massive desk.
“I’m looking for answers, Miss Brigit, much as you are, I assume.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m waiting for someone to do his damn job and figure out who killed Darcy.”
“Yet you and your girls
aren’t fully cooperating with the marshal’s office,” Charlotte said. She wanted to question the madam about the arguments with Darcy that Marie had mentioned, but that would put Brigit on the defensive. Better to avoid it for now. Charlotte was here for a different purpose. “If you could tell me who Darcy had been seeing most of lately, it would help.”
Brigit glared at her. “She was a whore. She saw a lot of men.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “I mean someone who, perhaps, has some standing in the community and whose reputation might be damaged by coming in here.”
Brigit stared at her for a moment, then started laughing. Not a mere chuckle, but a hearty laugh that shook her body. Charlotte felt an uncomfortable warmth rise on her cheeks. What was so funny? She just wanted to know about the men coming—
Ah.
When she realized what she’d said, the heat on her cheeks intensified with embarrassment, but she also couldn’t help smiling a little. Making Brigit laugh probably wasn’t a bad thing. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“I know.” Brigit wiped the corners of her eyes with the sides of her hands, attempting to control herself. “Which is why it was so funny. In my line of work, you deal with a lot of references to such things.”
“I can imagine,” Charlotte said. She let the madam regain her composure. “What I meant was, could someone who didn’t want his visits here made public be responsible for Darcy’s death? Was anyone like that one of her regulars?”
Brigit’s demeanor changed in the blink of an eye from amused to wary. “There are a number of men who fall into that category, Miss Brody. Proper gentlemen who don’t want their friends or wives knowing they frequent my establishment.”
“Please, call me Charlotte.” Anything to create a rapport with the woman would help.
“This isn’t the only house in Cordova, but we have a reputation for good women, fair gaming, and discretion. A man walking through that door,” she said, nodding in the direction of the front of the house, “knows he’ll get all three, no matter who he is. I wouldn’t tell you the names of the poorest of cannery men or miners or the richest city councilmen who trust me and my girls.”
“Even if he killed one of your girls?”
Brigit pressed her lips into a thin line and frowned. Charlotte read the conflict in her eyes. Brigit wanted to know who killed Darcy, wanted to help, but she couldn’t betray the trust of her customers either.
“I know your business is important to you, Brigit, but more important than putting away the person responsible? What if he tries again?”
“I’m as determined to have justice for Darcy as you are,” she assured Charlotte. “I just can’t hand over a list of names. I’d be ruined, and there’s no guarantee it would help.”
“Just a few names that might come to mind.” Charlotte got up and stepped in front of her. She grasped Brigit’s forearm and gently squeezed. “Please. Deputy Eddington has little to go on. He needs your help. Darcy needs your help.”
Brigit’s expression became pained. “If there was someone about whom I could say, ‘Yes, him,’ I’d tell you, Charlotte. In a heartbeat. But there was no one from that night who’d fit the bill. Sure, Darcy had regulars, well-off and well-married regulars who’d have my head if I revealed their activities. But none were here that night. It’s a delicate balance, running a house these days. Half the town shows up on my doorstep, while the other half wants to run me off.”
The dichotomy of a growing frontier town, Charlotte thought. Ignore or even secretly participate in seamier behavior as long as it didn’t interfere with public efforts to become “civilized.”
She moved her hand away from Brigit’s arm. Charlotte believed the madam, but that didn’t help the case. Just as she was about to thank Brigit for her time, a thought struck her.
“None of those men came here,” she said, “but did any of them get word to Darcy? A call or a note, maybe, to meet them? Something or someone drew Darcy outside when she should have been resting.”
Brigit shook her head. “We were all very busy. No one had much time to answer the phone or run secret messages. Except—” Her eyes widened; her entire body stilled. She pushed herself away from the desk and went to the door. Opening it, she called out, “Charlie!”
Charlotte heard the boy’s feet pound down the stairs then across the hall. “Yes, ma’am?”
She knelt down in front of him and grasped his shoulders. “Did you take any sort of message to Darcy that night?” He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, his eyes darting to Charlotte. Brigit shook him gently to regain his attention. “Look at me. Tell me what happened.”
“I-I went outside to play night tag with Nick and Davey.” His sheepish expression told Charlotte he wasn’t supposed to be out at that hour.
“And?” Brigit didn’t chastise the boy for his misbehavior. There were more important things to worry about than breaking curfew.
“A man called me over as I was coming home,” he said. “Gave me a couple of tokens for the drugstore to take the note in.” Charlie glanced up at Charlotte again.
Wooden or metal tokens were a popular form of currency in areas where government-issued coins were scarce. Inscribed with a specific store’s name, they were as good as cash at that establishment. What kid wouldn’t do something as simple as deliver a note if it meant a piece of candy or a soda?
“Who was the man?” Charlotte asked, keeping her tone soft despite the growing anticipation that the boy had critical information he hadn’t shared.
“I dunno,” he said. “He was kinda tall, wore a dark coat and hat.”
Charlotte considered Charlie’s age and height. Anyone over sixteen or eighteen was probably a grown man to him. “How about his build, Charlie? Was he fat? Skinny?”
“Not fat, like Mr. Toliver. More like Doc Brody, sorta skinny.”
Charlie’s associating her brother with Brigit’s house threw Charlotte for a moment. Then she remembered he was here frequently to tend to the girls, and likely tended Charlie as well.
“Charlie, you know just about everyone in this town.” His mother dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Who was he?”
“I dunno, Mama, I swear.” Tears brimmed, but didn’t fall. “It was dark and rainy, and I was in a hurry. He gave me the note and the tokens and nudged me toward the house. Didn’t say anything but my name, and his hat was pulled way down.” Charlie dug into his trouser pocket and withdrew two wooden tokens. He held them out. “Here. I didn’t think it would hurt no one.” His voice cracked. “I didn’t think Darcy would get killed for it.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Brigit asked.
“I didn’t see him good and didn’t want to get into trouble for being out.” Charlie’s lower lip quivered. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. “It’s not your fault, Charlie.”
“No, of course it isn’t, honey.” Brigit loosened her grip and caressed his narrow shoulders. She smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead. “You keep the tokens. It’s all right. Go on now and help the girls.”
Charlie spun around and ran out of the office. Brigit rose slowly. She faced Charlotte, looking weary and sad. Her obvious emotion combined with the boy’s statement didn’t completely exonerate her, but it was less likely, in Charlotte’s mind, that Brigit had killed the girl.
“At least we know how he got Darcy out of the house,” Brigit said.
“It’s more than we had before.” Charlotte set her hat on her head. She approached Brigit and gathered the woman’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry your boy had to go through that, but please make sure he understands he’s helped the case.”
Brigit nodded and squeezed Charlotte’s fingers. “I will. I think he was more at ease telling it while you were here than when Eddington came around. I didn’t want Charlie in the room that morning. It was no place for a boy his age, talking about what happened. And we’re kind of skittish around lawmen.”
Charlotte gri
nned before releasing her hands. “James can be a bit intimidating.”
Brigit quirked an eyebrow. “James, is it?” Charlotte felt a flush rise. “He is a handsome one, for sure. Here, I have to make my appointment with the banker. I’ll walk with you, if you’re headed back up.”
Brigit retrieved her coat and umbrella from the hall closet. She and Charlotte walked the path behind the house and up toward town. At the top of the rise, not far from the back of Michael’s office, Charlotte had a good view of the walkway behind the buildings that paralleled Main Street. The wooden footbridge spanning the sixty-foot gap in the ridge upon which Cordova was built appeared solid, with safety rails to prevent anyone from falling onto the rocky beach below. The elevated railroad tracks, farther out over the water, serviced the canneries to the northwest.
Darcy and her killer had come this way. Did she cry out? Had the wind muffled her calls for help? A wave of guilt rippled through Charlotte. I should have looked out the window sooner.
“You all right?” Brigit asked.
Charlotte shook herself out of futile thoughts and offered an apologetic smile. “Just thinking. Sorry, I didn’t mean to delay you getting to your meeting.”
Rather than travel along the footbridge, the two of them walked to Main Street. The bank was near McGruder’s store, a couple of blocks past the federal building, where Charlotte was headed, and just far enough to require more than companionable silence. It wouldn’t hurt to gather some information on Brigit while they walked.
“Where were you before Cordova?” Charlotte asked as casually as she could.
A sidelong glance accompanied an enigmatic smile. “What makes you think I was anywhere but here?”
“I’ve learned that few people here are actually from Alaska,” Charlotte said.
Brigit laughed. “True. I’m from Ohio originally, a tiny town west of Cleveland. Not much going for it. Moved to Virginia, then Dawson at the tail end of the gold rush there, and ended up heading west with the miners.”