Murder on the Last Frontier

by Cathy Pegau

  Had Darcy deserved to die? No, but the ramifications of her actions would be felt for a long time to come.

  She faced James again. “Let me know when I need to be there.”

  “The court will send a summons.” He put his hat on and tilted his head toward the outer door. “I’d best get back to the office.”

  Charlotte got the hint of his gesture. “I’ll walk you out.”

  She closed the inner door firmly and followed James through the exam room. She shut that door behind them as well. Not that Michael would eavesdrop, but she wanted to maintain whatever privacy James sought. He waited for her at the front door.

  “Is he going to be all right?” James looked at the exam-room door as if trying to see Michael through it. She followed his gaze, hoping the barriers between her and her brother weren’t as solid as the doors and walls.

  “It’ll take some time,” she said, “but I think so. There’s a lot to sort through.”

  “Charlotte,” James said, drawing her attention. “This isn’t his fault, and it’s not yours either. Ruth and Sam chose to take Darcy’s life.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “I said the very same thing to Michael.”

  “You’ll both get through this. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” He glanced down at his boots, then back up at her again. Uncertainty filled his eyes, a rare thing indeed for the Deputy Eddington she knew. “I’ll be gone for a bit to take the Bartletts to Seattle. Would it be too forward—” He cut himself off, grimacing.

  “What?” she asked, her heart suddenly double-timing.

  “Would it be too forward of me to ask you to look after the cat?”

  Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. The cat? “Oh. Sure.”

  It was better to have James as a friend who would support her and ask her to watch his cat, and nothing more.

  Grinning in relief, he tapped the brim of his hat. “I’ll see you down at the office later.”

  Charlotte shut and locked the door behind him. Unless there was an emergency, she didn’t want Michael having unexpected visitors or people asking questions. Toliver would surely want to know the whole of the story for the newspaper. She’d convince him that she should be the one to write it, when all was said and done.

  But for now, her biggest concern was her brother.

  Charlotte brushed at the wrinkles in one of the skirts Brigit had donated to her. She hung it in the small closet in her room at the Lakeview beside the other items of clothing, including the trousers and heavy shirts she’d appropriated from Michael.

  The hotel offered a fine view of Nirvana Park, but Charlotte rarely took the opportunity to appreciate it. Four days later was still a little too soon to put the encounter with Ruth and Sam far enough out of her mind to enjoy the sight.

  The Lakeview wasn’t as luxurious as the Windsor, but the room was larger than Charlotte’s old room at Sullivan’s, and more expensive too. She couldn’t afford to stay at the hotel and replace her things, even with her income from Modern Woman and Michael’s loan. She’d have to take Toliver up on his offer of a full-time job sooner rather than later and find a new place to live.

  I guess that means I will be staying on past the spring.

  Charlotte wasn’t sure when, exactly, she’d decided that, but it felt right. Maybe it was after she realized James and Brigit and Michael would always be there for her. Or when she decided that finding peace for Darcy meant she could find peace for herself eventually. And this was the place to do it, to start over.

  A quick double knock prompted her to close the closet door and cross the faded rug. She opened the door and smiled at Brigit. The woman was laden with more clothes. A carpetbag dangled from one arm.

  “You’re being far more generous than necessary,” Charlotte said, taking the clothing to the bed.

  “Not at all.” Brigit closed the door behind her and set the bag on the floor. “Just a few more things, like nightclothes and undergarments. Shoes too. You can’t go traipsing around in those god-awful boots all the time.”

  Charlotte couldn’t argue there, though it was getting rainier and windier each day. The rubber boots seemed much more practical than the soft leather pair Brigit withdrew from the bag. “They’re lovely. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Brigit shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll get more wear out of them than I will. With just the three of us in the house, I’ll be on my back more than my feet.”

  She stuck her tongue out comically.

  Charlotte laughed. “I’m sorry you’re short a girl, but I’m still not interested in a job.”

  “Oh, I know,” Brigit said, laughing along with her. “I’m just lamenting. I’d hoped at this point I’d be done with that end of the business.”

  Charlotte sat on the other side of the pile of clothes. “You could shut down the house.”

  The madam only shook her head. “And do what? I’m running a lucrative business, making money more often than not. It’s just a momentary setback. Trust me, there will be some girls looking to get away from the canneries or domestic work sooner or later.”

  Probably sooner, thought Charlotte. At least at Brigit’s they’d find a clean place to live, good food, and regular health care.

  “Charlotte,” Brigit said, suddenly serious. “I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?” She couldn’t think of anything she’d done that the woman could be grateful for. In fact, after Charlotte’s accusing her and her sister of blackmail and murder, Brigit should be furious with her.

  “Mary Theresa—I mean, Tess and I have been living this stupid lie for too long,” she said. “It felt good to get it off our chests, even if it was only to you and Eddington.”

  Their meeting on the street the other day made sense now. The women weren’t holding any hostility toward each other due to social status. They hadn’t wanted Charlotte to learn they were sisters. With a little prompting from Charlotte, Brigit, Tess, and Frank Kavanagh had quietly approached James, the day after Ruth and Sam Bartlett had been arrested, to clear up the last few questions about Darcy and the contents of her coat.

  Mary Theresa, or “Tess,” and Elizabeth “Brigit” Jensen had changed their identities in an effort to start over after the trial in Fairbanks. John Francis Kincaid, aka Frank Kavanagh, had gone along with the sisters. They’d left Alaska, lived in Virginia for a time, then legitimately went into business with Kavanagh’s cannery partners. By that time, Brigit had given birth to Charlie, but, she’d privately confessed later to Charlotte, she couldn’t stand Kavanagh enough to even pretend marriage to him. Tess bit the bullet and actually married him before they all arrived in Cordova.

  All three vehemently denied any involvement with the murder of Cecil Patterson. With no reason to question them, let alone hold them, James agreed not to reveal their true identities, but Mayor Kavanagh would have to withdraw from the upcoming election. The money Darcy had solicited from them would go into the new school being built. The Kavanaghs and Brigit O’Brien would be allowed to remain in Cordova as long as they followed territorial law from here on out.

  “I’m glad you’re done with it,” Charlotte said, “but I still don’t understand how Darcy knew who you really were.”

  “Her mother worked the Line with us up north, though I barely remember either of them. The trial in Fairbanks was a big deal. Darcy said she’d kept the clippings in a scrapbook because she was excited to know local ‘celebrities.’ ” Brigit rolled her eyes at the younger woman’s antics. “When she arrived down here and saw us, she got different ideas.”

  Darcy had been the daughter of a sporting woman. Was that why she had sought out similar work in Cordova, or had she learned who Brigit really was before meeting Marie? They’d never know.

  Charlotte recalled her conversation with Marie at the Edgewater pool hall. “Ideas like blackmail being much easier on the back than cannery work or being a laundress or even working your house.”

  “Exactly,” Brigit said
. “Frank was looking forward to a political career. There’s a long tradition of reinventing yourself in this part of the world, and we wanted to take advantage of it.”

  “I can understand that,” Charlotte said. “But if you were acquitted and not involved with the death of Cecil Patterson, why worry about it at all?”

  Brigit’s expression hardened. She leaned closer, as if someone might overhear them. “To be honest, I’m not sure Frank is completely innocent in Patterson’s death. Tess and I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”

  “He’d rather have paid the blackmail than have someone look too closely at the accident.” Her view of Frank Kavanagh had already been skewed, but Charlotte’s wariness now increased toward the otherwise genial lame-duck mayor.

  What if he had been involved in the ten-year-old Patterson incident?

  “Leave it be, Charlotte.”

  Bringing her thoughts back to the present, she focused on Brigit. “But—”

  “Please.” She reached out toward Charlotte. “As a friend, I’m asking you to leave it alone. We’re happy here. I have my boy to think about. Tess and I don’t want any more trouble, and there’s no proof Frank had anything to do with that man’s death.”

  Charlotte took her hand and gave it a light squeeze. “As your friend, I will leave it alone.”

  Relief softened the tension in Brigit’s face. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing back. “If there was anything more than my suspicions, I’d be happy to help put Frank away. There isn’t, so it’s not worth the trouble.”

  “You don’t like him much, do you?” The trio had been partners in a suspected crime, but that didn’t mean they got along.

  The madam grimaced. “Let’s just say we’ve had our differences and leave it at that.”

  Charlotte wondered why Brigit had traveled to Cordova with Frank and Tess, but didn’t want to put more strain on their burgeoning friendship. Maybe Brigit would tell her someday. Maybe she wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

  Brigit stood to leave. “Come for tea tomorrow, won’t you? Around two?”

  Charlotte escorted her to the door. “I’d like that.”

  “You’re not worried about what the rest of the town might say?” There was a glint of amusement in Brigit’s eyes, but also a hint of worry.

  “I’m not one to let others decide who my friends will be or what I do with them.” Charlotte wrote of the need for change and acceptance; it was time to allow herself the same freedom, social “correctness” be damned. She opened the door, smiling. “See you tomorrow at two.”

  Brigit caught her up in a brief hug, then hurried down the hall.

  Charlotte closed the door, smiling. Her new friendship with Brigit made her feel as at home as she’d felt in her family’s or Kit’s presence. And James Eddington made her feel . . . Well, that one remained to be seen. With Mr. Toliver’s job offer, she could find a place to live, one she could make her own.

  She sat at the small desk under the window and threaded a fresh sheet of paper around the platen of the now familiar Corona typewriter she’d borrowed from Toliver. Her first-person account of the story behind Darcy’s murder in yesterday’s Cordova Daily Times had been popular, even though she’d been forced to leave out certain details. Compromising the case, Marshal Blaine had warned her, could put Charlotte in the cell next to Ruth Bartlett down at Morningside prison. She didn’t mention the Kavanaghs’ or Brigit’s past in the article either, or anything to do with their paying Darcy for the last year.

  But Charlotte had to get the whole story out of her head before she burst. She’d write everything down in detail for her personal satisfaction, then modify a draft for a later installment of her Modern Woman series.

  She ignored the rain spattering against the window, and her fingers flew over the enameled keys. Death and Deception on the Last Frontier.

  Other than murder, blackmail, and copious amounts of wind, rain, and mud, Cordova wasn’t such a bad town.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Cathy Pegau’s next Charlotte Brody mystery

  BORROWING DEATH

  coming in July 2016!

  Chapter 1

  “How can we, as Americans, claim to support individual freedoms while advocating for such a restrictive amendment? Not to say overindulging isn’t an issue, but even with current prohibition laws in some States and here in the Alaska Territory we have seen a rise in the illegal production and sale of alcohol and associated criminal behavior. There has also been an increase in wood alcohol deaths as the common man attempts to slake his thirst with his own poisonous concoctions. Is this the price we’re willing to pay in what can only be a futile attempt at national sobriety?”

  Charlotte Brody typed the final lines of her op-ed piece for the next day’s edition of the Cordova Daily Times. She grinned as she swiped an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “That’ll put the ladies of the local Women’s Temperance League in a tizzy.”

  She just hoped Andrew Toliver, the Times’ owner and publisher, liked it. He was neutral on most major topics, at least as far as what he put in the paper, and it delighted him to have the town talking about what they found within its pages. This would get some tongues wagging, for better or worse.

  With the twist of one of the linotype’s several levers, she sent the sequence of steel mats to the molding mechanism. The machine clattered and whirred, the small motor by her left knee buzzing. In a minute or so, the new lead slug would be molded, dropped into place, and cool enough to handle.

  How would Cordovans react to her take on national prohibition? A fairly even split, she reckoned. No matter what side they supported, she hoped it sold papers. Then again, as the only news source in a town full of folks who enjoyed a good debate, she was more than certain it would.

  But that’s not why she wrote the article. Increasing sales, while financially beneficial, wasn’t her goal as a journalist. Seeking justice, informing the public, and getting them to talk about issues was what she loved about her calling.

  Despite President Wilson’s attempts to veto it—though not for the reasons she espoused—the Eighteenth Amendment would take effect in less than two months. Perhaps if enough people considered how ridiculous it was, and called for its repeal, this waste of time and energy would be a mere bump in history.

  Charlotte slid the stool away from the massive linotype’s keyboard and bent down to flick off the electric motor that ran the gears and chains of the machine. The buzz in her ears subsided. After three months as Mr. Toliver’s assistant, she hardly noticed the tang of hot lead from the crucible anymore, but silencing the motor was always a relief. She felt her head clear, like cobwebs swept from rafters.

  Now, the Nineteenth Amendment, that was a change that truly mattered and would have positive lasting effects. Nearly twenty states had ratified the voting amendment so far, and it looked like more were poised to join in. All the marching, protesting, and arrests of good women and men had made for a long, often painful journey, but it was worth it. Charlotte would never forget the stories of sacrifice and bravery that had paved the way, and couldn’t wait to celebrate national suffrage someday soon.

  Would she still be in Alaska when that happened? Hard to say. It would likely be spring or summer by the time ratification was complete, and she was looking forward to seeing the territory in more pleasant weather.

  The late November wind rattled a loose panel of the metal roof of the Times office, reminding her pleasant weather was a long way away. It was probably snowing again.

  Anxious to finish and get home before the streets were too terrible, Charlotte picked up the cooled lead slugs and aligned them in the frame on the proofing table. Seeing no obvious defects, she rolled ink onto the raised letters, then laid a fresh piece of newspaper over the frame. She used a second, clean roller to create a proof and lifted it carefully. With the eye of an editor, she searched for errors that would require retyping a corrected slug.

  Satisfied, Ch
arlotte put the rollers and ink away. Mr. Toliver would be in soon to run the large printing press across the room. First, they’d go over the next day’s issue, making changes as necessary, then she’d go home while he stayed overnight to mind the machinery. He preferred working at night, he’d said when he hired her, listening to the rhythm of the press as he perused articles or created special advertisement pages.

  The shared tasks suited Charlotte. She was able to write local stories, gather the social notices, tidbits, and comings and goings endemic to a small town paper during the day, and still work on her serialized account of women in Alaska for The Modern Woman Review in the evenings. What made for news in a remote Alaska town wasn’t usually as exciting as back in New York, but you learned who threw the most popular dinner parties.

  She closed the door of the press room behind her and entered the main office. It was much cooler away from the linotype, despite the coal stove in the corner. Quieter too, with only the tick-tock of the cuckoo clock to challenge the periodic howl of the wind. She checked the time as she sat at Toliver’s messy desk. After eight already? He should be here soon.

  Charlotte slid a piece of scratch paper under the circle of light made by the desk lamp and jotted a note about the thunking she’d heard earlier within the massive machine. Toliver had instilled in her the need to keep the linotype in tip-top shape, as it was their bread and butter.

  Setting the note where he’d see it, or at least eventually find it, Charlotte was drawn to an article that had come in over the Associated Press teletype on coal miners threatening to strike down in the States. Goodness, what sort of things were happening to those poor people? She started to read, frowning at their plight.

  A triple knock on the front door jerked Charlotte’s eyes open. She’d only meant to rest them for a moment. Late nights and early mornings were starting to catch up to her.