by Cathy Pegau
Praise for Cathy Pegau and her Charlotte Brody mysteries!
BORROWING DEATH
“Entertaining.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A great mixture of history, mystery and a little bit of romance. The characters and setting are well-written and readers will be waiting impatiently for the next installment to come out.”
—Suspense Magazine
“It’s a real delight to return to the fully realized world of Pegau’s 20th-century Cordova, and the new central mystery is compelling.”
—Fairbanks Daily News-Miner
MURDER ON THE LAST FRONTIER
“An excellent start to her promising new Charlotte Brody series.”
—Mystery Scene
“The setting of Cordova in the 1920s is as interesting as the story itself.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Murder on the Last Frontier does everything right, sucking readers in and refusing to let go until the end.”
—Fairbanks Daily News-Miner
Books by Cathy Pegau
MURDER ON THE LAST FRONTIER
BORROWING DEATH
MURDER ON LOCATION
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
MURDER ON LOCATION
CATHY PEGAU
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Cathy Pegau
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0059-9
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0059-7
First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2017
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0058-2
To the People of Cordova
past, present, and future
Acknowledgments
Since Charlotte made her first appearance, I’ve received both praise (for which I humbly thank you!) and criticism over her ideas and actions. “Too modern a woman of the time,” they said. I bit my tongue and sat on my hands to keep myself from firing off an irritated “Read a little history!” response.
One of my favorite quotes is by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich: “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” Women have always made an impact on the world, we just don’t hear as much about them. And it certainly takes a particular sort of woman to grab the attention of most historians. Are they all ill-behaved? No, but those are the ones who stick in our minds. And by “ill-behaved” I mean women who do not conform to the social mores of their time, not necessarily bad people.
I admire those women because they had the guts to stand up for things they believed in, to take charge of their own lives despite the attempts of society to make them sit down and do what they “should” be doing. To heck with that.
Thank you, ladies, for inspiring me and other women. You’ve shaped us and our world, and we hope to do the same. So I’ll amend Ulrich’s quote: Well-behaved women seldom make history. . . or the future.
Chapter 1
The SS Fairbanks made its approach to the Cordova ocean harbor, belching black smoke that quickly dissipated on the icy breeze. Anticipation from the crowd waiting on the dock was as thick as the aroma of tar, tide, and the exhaust from the line of idling automobiles. Sunlight glinted off the gray-green water and the bright white of the hull of the ship still one hundred yards away.
Charlotte Brody smiled at the memory of coming to Alaska on a similar vessel just six months ago. Still a “cheechako” in the eyes of the locals, she was settling into her new home. Plans to return east come spring—only a week or so away, supposedly—had been indefinitely postponed.
The steamer’s air horn blew a greeting as it approached, and the largest gathering of Cordovans Charlotte had ever seen in one place cheered in response, waving hats and hands.
“Isn’t this exciting?” a woman standing beside Charlotte asked no one in particular. Smiling and starry-eyed, the woman brandished a rolled-up movie magazine like a member of the Signal Corps conveying messages to troops.
Charlotte didn’t quite share her or the crowd’s enthusiasm. Half the population must have turned out for the Fairbanks’s arrival. Who knew Cordova, home to some of the most practical people she’d ever met, would become positively giddy over a film crew coming to town?
Then again, given the cold, dark quiet of the winter they had just been through, the arrival of such unusual persons gave the town a boost to its torpid mood. Despite the calendar claiming it was mid-March, the more vitalizing days of the coming season were still a month or so away.
A frozen, salty gust blew in off the water, confirming suspicions of that date. Charlotte shivered within her heavy coat and the trousers she wore. It was also a few tens of degrees from what she knew as spring.
Maybe more like two months away.
If she hadn’t been assigned to cover the event, Charlotte would have happily stayed in her warm little house and avoided the whole thing. Or most of the fanfare and over-the-top events, at any rate. Andrew Toliver, owner of the Cordova Daily Times and her boss, would have done it himself, but a fall on a slippery step had broken his foot. Being the only other writer on the paper, it fell to Charlotte to cover the most exciting thing to happen to Cordova since the railroad.
Toliver insisted she chronicle the visit by the Californians, painting Cordova in as positive a light as she could. He was sure the articles would be picked up by other newspapers, particularly those in areas where filmmaking was growing, and put the booming town in the minds of the rest of the country, if not the world.
Charlotte flexed her fingers within her mittens in an attempt to get them warm enough to use her pad and pencil when it came time to take notes. She would do her job and do it well, for the sake of the paper and for the town she now called home. The cast and crew would be in Cordova for two weeks. Maybe she’d get caught up in the excitement.
God, I hope so, Charlotte thought as she watched the Fairbanks maneuver into position alongside the dock.
While she could admit interest in watching films—they were a great way to entertain or educate—she didn’t understand the growing popularity of the actors to the point that ordinary people seemed to put them above others. Many had excellent talents, and some poignant films had been made, but she saw no reason to elevate actors to an idealistic or romanticized status. There were
plenty of other people doing real work who deserved acknowledgment and recognition.
Bells rang aboard ship. Several uniformed members of the Fairbanks crew threw thick lines over the rails to the longshoremen on the dock. Once the steamer was fastened and the engines throttled down to a low rumble, the gangplank was lowered and secured. Conversations in the crowd became random cheers and whistles, yet no one on the dock moved closer to the vessel. Charlotte noted a number of men facing the crowd now, standing at regular intervals and giving warning glares to any who dared to pass.
Security for the Californians? What did they think was going to happen in Cordova?
After several minutes, a mustached man in a tweed cap and khaki trench coat, with a motion-picture camera balanced on his shoulder, carefully limped down the gangplank. He set the long legs of the tripod on the dock. He made a few adjustments to the box, aimed the lens toward the top of the gangplank, and checked the viewfinder.
The cameraman cupped his hand around his mouth. “Ready to roll!”
He turned his cap around, bent to look through the viewfinder, and began cranking.
A man in his forties strode across the deck and stopped at the top of the gangplank. He wore a bowler hat, a thick white scarf around his neck, and a long black coat. The people on the dock began clapping and cheering. Who was he?
Behind him, a group of men and women gathered in a semicircle. All were bundled against the cold and not recognizable. A few waved to the people on the dock, much to the delight of several onlookers by the sound of their exclamations.
Smiling, the man in front raised a megaphone and spoke to the attentive audience. “Thank you. Thank you, my friends.” His voice boomed from the cone. “It’s so wonderful to be back here in Cordova.” He swept his hand in a gesture to encompass everything before him. “The most beautiful city in the Alaska Territory.”
Cheers and whistles exploded from the dock dwellers, temporarily deafening Charlotte.
“Hey, Wally, you owe me a sawbuck!” someone shouted from the crowd.
Everyone laughed, including the man on the ship.
“And I’ll pay it back, I promise,” he said, still smiling. “Because with the help of all you fine folks and North to Fortune, we’re gonna put Cordova on every map and on every mind in the country.”
This man could run for mayor.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Wallace Meade.”
The name was familiar to Charlotte, thanks to Andrew Toliver, and now she had a face to go with it. Wallace Meade owned several properties in Cordova and was generous to local organizations. Meade also had business interests in other towns throughout the territory, including a gold mine in Fairbanks and a tract of land near Juneau where he ran a lumber mill.
Meade had been down in the States for months, Charlotte had learned, busy in California and New York drumming up interest for the up-and-coming film industry to look north. According to Toliver, Meade had finally managed to engage the crew he needed to produce what was supposedly going to be a “truer than life” depiction of Alaska.
Whatever that meant.
“I know the good people of Cordova,” Meade continued, “and I’ve assured the cast and crew that you’re the friendliest bunch north of Seattle.” The crowd cheered again, and Meade’s smile broadened. “So let me introduce a few of these folks to you.” He gestured for a tall, thin man to step forward. The man wore a long fur coat, with his scarf pulled up over his nose and mouth. “This here is Stanley Welsh, director of such notable films as A Place in Their Hearts and Granger’s Last Stand. Stanley?”
Charlotte had heard of the films but hadn’t seen either of them. One was a murder mystery and the other something about battles during the Civil War.
People cheered, and Welsh took the megaphone from Meade. He tugged his scarf down, revealing his clean-shaven face and narrow features. “Hello, Cordova!” Welsh waited for the noise to die down. “We are so very happy to be here and appreciate your fine welcome on a cold day.”
Charlotte thought she detected something of an accent in the man’s speech but couldn’t place it. Eastern European, perhaps?
“When Mr. Meade told us about your lovely town and showed us pictures, I knew right away it would be perfect for our film, North to Fortune. Some wanted us to wait a few more months until it warmed up, but I insisted my cast experience the real Alaska, cold and all. Authenticity, you know!”
“Only if you fixed the story!” a man shouted from behind the crowd.
Several people turned to see who had interrupted the director. No one stepped forward, and Welsh ignored the comment.
What was that all about?
“We will be here in Cordova for approximately two weeks,” Welsh continued, “filming exterior shots of the mountains, glaciers, and lake. Our cast and crew are the best and ready for anything. I think some of you are familiar with our lead players.”
Welsh smiled as a younger man stepped forward, doffed his hat, and waved it at the crowd. His dark hair fluttered with the sea breeze.
A woman shouted, “I love you, Peter!”
“Yes,” Welsh said, “Peter York will be playing Lawrence, our hero. And Roslyn Sanford is our leading lady, playing the part of Dorothy.” A petite woman came up beside York and waved. She could have been anyone; she was so bundled in furs it was difficult to see her face. “We’re all terribly pleased to be here, but we should let everyone get off the boat now. Thank you.”
Welsh and Meade shook hands, holding the position as a still photographer on the dock took a picture. The photographer gave the men a thumbs-up gesture and the two released hands. Meade took the megaphone from Welsh.
“Tonight, we’ll present a few brief scenes from the film and have some other thrilling performances at the Empress Theater,” Meade said into the megaphone. “Eight o’clock curtain. Be sure to get your tickets.”
“I have mine,” the rosy-cheeked woman beside Charlotte said, flapping the movie magazine. “Goodness, that Peter York is a handsome devil, isn’t he?”
“I suppose,” Charlotte said, mostly to herself, as she jotted notes.
“In his last movie, he played a sheik prince.” The woman sighed dramatically, and Charlotte wondered if she’d have to catch her should she faint. “So handsome.”
The crowd parted as the cast and crew descended the gangplank, creating a narrow lane for the visitors to reach their awaiting cars. Cordova didn’t have enough taxis to take them all, of course. The vehicles belonged to private citizens, hired for the sole purpose of transporting these particular VIPs. The audience would have to find their own way back to town.
Meade led the way, followed by Welsh and a statuesque woman holding his arm. Behind them, Peter York escorted Roslyn Sanford. At least a dozen more well-dressed people followed, obviously not Cordovans by the way they stared up at the surrounding mountains in wide-eyed wonder. A tall, bespectacled young woman gazed intently at her new environs as if absorbing every detail.
A few of the men broke away from the California group and moved directly to the longshoremen. One man gestured toward the ship, a crane, and then to two waiting flatbed trucks. The shore man nodded, his cigar bobbing up and down as he chewed on the stub.
Shuffling across the slick dock with shoulders hunched against the cold, the visitors piled into the cars. The Cordovans followed as close as the security men would allow, some shouting requests for autographs, others their declarations of love.
Good gravy.
“Miss Brody?” Mr. Jenkins, the Alaska Steamship Company agent, came up beside her, grinning broadly.
Charlotte took his extended hand and shook it. “Good afternoon. Quite the excitement today.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said, gazing out at the crowd. “We haven’t had this sort of brouhaha for some time.” Jenkins focused on her again. “Mr. Meade was wondering if you would accompany him and the others to the hotel for an interview.”
Charlotte stared at the agent.
“Me? How does Mr. Meade know about me?”
Jenkins shook his head, shrugging. “He asked if there were any newsmen about. I told him I thought I saw you in the crowd. He asked me to fetch you.”
The back of Charlotte’s neck tightened. “Fetch?”
Perhaps she was overreacting, but she was a grown woman, a professional journalist, not something to be retrieved. And Mr. Jenkins wasn’t a dog. She would not be at the beck and call of Wallace Meade, no matter what sort of do-gooder he was in the community.
“Um, I’m sure I misheard him,” Jenkins said, eyes large with distress as he noticed her frown. “Yes, my apologies, I’m sure I did. Would you follow me, Miss Brody? Please?”
She should say no. She should tell Mr. Jenkins to tell Mr. Meade to take a flying leap. But she didn’t want to put Mr. Jenkins in the middle of anything, and she shouldn’t judge Meade without facing the man himself. Perhaps he was just tired after a long voyage.
Allowing the benefit of the doubt, for now, Charlotte forced a smile. “Lead the way, Mr. Jenkins.”
Relief eased the tension lines from his narrow face. “Thank you. Over here.”
He gestured toward the line of automobiles and started to make a path through the crowd. The onlookers reluctantly moved aside as Jenkins tapped shoulders and requested passage. When they finally reached the edge of the group facing the vehicles, Charlotte noted the men keeping the Cordovans from mobbing the visitors had closed ranks. Jenkins told the nearest one that he was escorting Charlotte at Mr. Meade’s request.