Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

As they all headed back toward the tents and shacks, Charlotte caught up with Becca. “What did you think?”

  Becca shrugged. “A lot of standing around. But it was interesting.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be a lot more fun and interesting tomorrow,” Charlotte said. “Come on, let’s get warmed up.”

  * * *

  Charlotte and Becca stayed at the crew meeting after supper long enough to learn when Becca was due to report the following morning. A general wake-up call would ring through the camp, and breakfast would be hot porridge and coffee. After everyone ate, filming would begin to get the best light.

  Tall poles adorned with bare lightbulbs were spaced throughout the site, illuminating pathways between the several rows of sleep tents, the main mess tent, and the wooden shacks that housed props, costumes, supplies, and the privies. The distinct roar-hum of a generator came from one of the sheds.

  It was a luxury to have light and not rely upon lanterns or flashlights except within the tents, though Wallace Meade had reminded everyone that the generator was to be shut off by eleven p.m. Anyone traversing the camp afterward had best take a lantern or flashlight.

  Charlotte made sure she and Becca carried their flashlights as a precaution, but it was still early enough that the lights were on when they went to use the lavatory before bed. Becca finished her ablutions first and returned to their sleeping tent.

  Emerging from the roughly appointed but clean facility some ten minutes later, Charlotte was about to turn right, toward the front of the mess tent, when she heard low voices around the back.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Nonsense,” another interrupted. “You know as well as I do—” His voice dropped to a volume too low for Charlotte to make out more than intense whispering.

  By the clipped accent, it sounded like Stanley Welsh. Whom was he speaking to?

  Charlotte stepped closer to the wall of the mess tent and made her way toward the men, for she was sure it was another man. Taking care not to trip over the stakes or guide wires, she peeked around the canvas corner. Near the waste bins, barely discernable in the light coming from a bare bulb, Stanley Welsh stood close to Caleb Burrows. It was difficult to read their expressions. Welsh’s grasp on Burrows’s shoulder while he patted the man’s chest with his other hand was also difficult to interpret.

  “Just between us, eh?” Welsh said. He patted Burrows’s chest once more and strode away, toward the sleeping tents on the other side of the mess.

  Burrows stood there for a few moments, his back to Charlotte. His left arm was bent, as if he had his hand on his chest, where Welsh had touched him. With a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, Burrows followed Welsh’s path toward the sleep tents, disappearing into the darkness as he moved out of the soft glow from the bare bulb.

  What was that all about? Were the two men finally coming to some sort of agreement? Burrows didn’t seem as happy about it as she thought he might.

  Charlotte retraced her steps, staying in the provided light, and went back to the tent she shared with Becca. As they readied for bed, they heard others heading to their own tents, footsteps crunching on the frozen ground, conversations ranging from quiet exchanges to boisterous and animated. The canvas walls did little to muffle the sound or the cold, and Charlotte was grateful for the heater. Once Becca was settled in bed, Charlotte bid her good night and turned down the lantern.

  The sounds of the campsite, while not terribly loud, continued for some time, making it difficult to fall asleep straight away. Laughter and music came from the far side of the site. Music? Who had hauled a Victrola all the way out here? And while Prohibition was in effect, she was pretty sure at least a couple of bottles had been brought along. Perhaps the cast and crew had decided to celebrate with a pre-filming party.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and snuggled down among her blankets. Just as she was dropping off, two people passed, women by the sound of it, whispering furiously.

  “He’s being completely unreasonable,” one of them said.

  “Are you surprised?” the other responded. “There’s no way he’d accept. . . .”

  The voices and footsteps crunching on the old snow faded, allowing Charlotte to attempt to sleep. Periodic bursts of laughter or shouting became background noise.

  Almost like living in New York again, Charlotte mused as she drifted off. She’d become used to the quiet of Cordova nights.

  * * *

  A shout and a muffled crash jarred Charlotte out of sleep. She sat up in the chilly, dark tent, listening, blinking to clear her head. What time was it? How long had she been asleep? More raised voices, but she couldn’t tell what they were saying. An argument of some sort, that was easy enough to discern. But between whom?

  “Becca,” Charlotte whispered, testing to see if the girl had been awakened.

  When Becca didn’t respond, Charlotte peeled back the layers of blankets and set her stocking-covered feet on the floor. Cold radiated through the thin wood planks. She pulled one of the blankets off the bed and wrapped it around herself. Padding over to the tent door, she untied the flap and poked her head out. The cold breeze brought her fully awake and quickly numbed her nose and cheeks. The lights on the poles were dark.

  Flickering light overhead caught her eye. A swath of green ribbon-like light moved against the star-studded night sky. The aurora borealis, the northern lights. Charlotte took in the beauty above. She’d never seen the aurora before coming to Alaska. Stunning was the word that came to mind. Simply stunning.

  Another clatter from the same direction of the voices drew her attention from the light display, but there were no other unusual sounds. No one else seemed to be moving about, and the voices had stopped. The glacial wind coming off the ice field ruffled canvas. Wood thumped on wood. Probably an unsecured door of one of the makeshift shacks banging against its frame.

  On the outskirts of the campsite, not too far from Charlotte and Becca’s tent, several of the dogs whined or gave low howls. A sharp bark cut through the night air, then another.

  “Shaddup, Byron!” Dave yelled. His tent was right beside the dog pen, on the outer edge of the camp.

  Everything stilled once again.

  With a last glance up at the undulating green aurora, Charlotte ducked back inside, secured the tent flap, and rubbed her frozen cheeks until they warmed. Just someone stumbling about and the dogs being restless, she reckoned.

  Charlotte climbed back into bed. Getting comfortable once again, she listened for more disturbances. Nothing, and after long minutes of near silence, she fell asleep.

  * * *

  The clang of metal on metal rang through camp.

  “Let’s go, people,” Smitty, the chief cook and supply officer shouted. “Breakfast is ready, and if you ain’t in the mess in ten minutes you’ll get cold porridge.”

  Clang clang clang.

  How could it be morning already, Charlotte wondered as she swung her legs off the bed.

  “Becca, time to get up.” She fumbled for the matches on the small table, struck one, and lit the lantern. The lump that was Becca in the other bed didn’t move. “Let’s go, kiddo.”

  “Five minutes,” came the muffled reply.

  Charlotte couldn’t blame her for wanting to sleep longer or stay warm, but they were out here for a reason.

  “Okay, but if your breakfast is cold, don’t say I didn’t try. And you don’t want to be late when it comes time for filming.”

  She had expected a more enthusiastic response, but Becca rolled over and slowly untangled herself from the bedclothes.

  “It’s earlier than you get me up for school,” the girl grumbled.

  Angling her pendant watch toward the light, Charlotte checked the time. Just after seven o’clock. “Not really. Come on. Up and at ’em.”

  Becca reluctantly got out of bed. The chill in the tent, despite the kerosene heater running, spurred them to dress quickly. Bundled in coats, scarves, hats, and boots, they tied the tent door closed
behind them, attended to their lavatory needs, and then hurried to the mess tent.

  Inside the large canvas and wood structure, the coal stove was surrounded by sleepy crew members sipping coffee. Others were seated at the long tables, eating their oatmeal, or were standing in line for breakfast. Charlotte and Becca joined the end of the quick-moving line, and once they had their food and coffee, found seats with Roslyn Sanford and Cicely Welsh. Cicely had dark circles under her eyes that her spectacles seemed to exaggerate. A purple-black bruise marred her left cheek.

  “You look a bit tired, Miss Welsh,” Charlotte said. “And that bruise. Everything all right?”

  Cicely barely glanced up from her bowl as she gingerly touched her face. “It’s fine. Up late doing a few revisions. Stanley had better like these.”

  Charlotte realized Cicely called her father by his given name when she was at odds with him. Was she aware of it, actively separating their relationships?

  “I’m afraid the bruise is my fault,” Roslyn said sheepishly. “Ceelee and I were going over some scenes and we got a bit . . . boisterous.” She scanned the tent. “Where is Stanley? He’s not one to sleep late.”

  Cicely’s head came up and she looked around as well. “No, he isn’t. Mother isn’t here either, but she’s probably still sleeping. And where’s Mr. Meade?”

  As if he’d been given a cue, Wallace Meade strode into the mess tent, smiling and greeting everyone. “Good morning, all. Good morning. Great day for making a great film, eh?”

  He cut in front of the last few people standing in line and took a cup of coffee offered by the assistant cook. The cook said something to Meade, who shook his head and turned away. Glancing around the room, his gaze fell on the table where Charlotte, Becca, Roslyn, and Cicely were sitting. His face brightened and he strode over.

  “Good morning, ladies. Mind if I sit down?” He was already in the process of doing just that. Meade set his hat on the table beside his cup but kept his gloves on. It was rather chilly in the mess tent. “Where’s your father, Cicely? He’d said he wanted to get a few shots of the sun rising over the mountains.”

  “I know, but he isn’t here yet. I’ll go see if he’s in his tent.” She rose and started toward the door.

  Carmen Welsh, her hair hastily pinned up and a beige and blue blanket over her coat, nearly ran into her daughter as she came in. “Oh, Cicely dear, is your father here? He usually wakes me so we can breakfast together.”

  Cicely’s brow furrowed. “No, I thought he might still be in bed.”

  Carmen shook her head. “He isn’t in the lavatory tent either. I had one of the men check.”

  “He wouldn’t have gone out onto the site already,” Cicely said. “Not before breakfast. Not alone. Roger and the cameramen are all in here.”

  “Where could he have gone?” Carmen sounded worried. She looked around the tent as if Welsh had somehow been overlooked. “Paige isn’t here either.”

  “That stupid little . . .” Roslyn muttered just loud enough for Charlotte to have heard her. She caught the actress’s attention, eyebrows raised in query. Roslyn looked away, cheeks flushed.

  Was there something between Paige and Welsh?

  “He can’t have gone far, Mother,” Cicely said.

  Carmen wrung her hands. “He wasn’t feeling well last night, so he took an extra dose of medicine. You know how that makes him sometimes.”

  Cicely moved past her mother and out of the tent. Carmen followed, along with several others willing to join in the search. Charlotte rose and quickly caught up to the women.

  “Does his medicine make him disoriented?” Charlotte asked. Was that what he’d taken from his coat pocket during rehearsals?

  Carmen nodded, a fretful expression on her face. “If he’s taken too much. What if he became confused when he went to the lavatory or something before bed?”

  “Did you see him take any?” Charlotte asked. The cold rolling in off the glacier made her face numb.

  “No, I was asleep before he returned last night.”

  Roslyn caught up with them. “Paige hasn’t seen him. Nor has anyone else I ran into.”

  Periodic calls of his name yielded no response. Welsh wasn’t in any of the tents or sheds.

  “Over here!” Dave the dog handler called from the dog pen. Everyone hurried over, feet crunching on the snow and ice.

  Some of the dogs were whining and howling at all the excitement. The pen itself was nothing but a few posts and some wire, more of a suggestion for the animals that this was their place rather than any real means to contain them. Or perhaps it was meant to keep overly curious people at a distance. Dave had said some of his team could be touchy about strangers. As they all approached, the dogs became more vocal.

  “There are scrape marks and boot prints in the crusty snow up through here,” Dave said over the barks and mumbled growls. “You can see where someone was walking until they got onto the harder ice.”

  “Could those have been from yesterday?” Charlotte asked.

  Dave shook his head, squinting toward the glacier. “Don’t think so. Most everyone went through the middle of camp to get to the shoot site. Me and the dogs are over here to stay out of the way.”

  Charlotte glanced backed toward the main area of tents and buildings. The snow had been trampled flat up until about where the dog pen and Dave’s tent stood. Looking down, she noticed a tuft of fabric caught on the nail of one of the corner posts. The post leaned into the pen at a slight angle. Charlotte loosened the strands and studied them for a moment. Were they important? She put them in her pocket for the time being.

  While she was crouched down, she saw one of the dogs had its foot on something smooth and black. “Dave, what does he have there?” she asked, pointing to the animal.

  Dave climbed over the wire fence and approached the dog. “Whaddaya got there, Shelley girl?” Another dog, a big hairy brute, went over to check as well. “Outta the way, Byron.”

  Byron and Shelley? It seemed that Dave the dog handler was a fan of the Romantic poets.

  He reached under Shelley’s paw and removed what looked like a shoe. Shelley whined at the loss. Byron wagged his tail and danced about, as if Dave was about to play fetch.

  “A leather slipper,” Dave said, walking over to them.

  “Oh, goodness.” Carmen Welsh’s voice shook. “That looks like Stanley’s.”

  Concern gripped Charlotte, and she exchanged worried looks with the others gathered. What was Stanley’s slipper doing in the dog pen?

  A thick layer of straw had been strewn inside the pen for the dogs to lie on. Along the front and side of the pen, some straw had escaped to the outside, but it appeared that a wide path had been swept clean of the stalks. The swath of cleared snow with vague footprint indentations followed the pen for a few feet then angled off toward the ice field and disappeared.

  Concern changed to fear. Welsh wouldn’t have gone out there, would he? After admonishing the company yesterday about trekking alone?

  “This way,” Charlotte said, swallowing hard, hoping she was wrong. “Spread out and be careful of crevasses.”

  Wallace Meade stepped in front of her, his hand up to stop her. “Stanley wouldn’t have been out here after dark. He knew better.”

  “Medicine does funny things to people,” Caleb Burrows said from beside him.

  Meade shot the lawyer a glare as he lowered his hand.

  Charlotte shook her head at the men. This was no time for their antics. Scanning the rough ice underfoot, she kept to as straight a line as possible while searching the ice and packed snow for some indication of a sure route. No such luck.

  “You’d’ve thought one of them Native boys would have picked up the trail,” a man said. “Him go thatta way.” Someone else chuckled.

  Despite the urgency to continue forward, Charlotte stopped, turned, and addressed the men beside her. “That’s enough. Keep your ridiculous, racist comments to yourself. We don’t tolerate that sort of talk
here.”

  She’d heard even worse comments in town, but the Californians didn’t need to know that, and Charlotte certainly didn’t want to hear their awful words. Not that they had cause to listen to her, but she’d found that if one called out a bully, particularly one who made remarks anonymously, they were often too cowardly to challenge you.

  Satisfied there would be no more comments, at least in her presence, she continued in the direction the swept path suggested. Here and there, the ice was cleared of loose bits, indicating something had perhaps been dragged along the glacier like a broom.

  “We’re getting close to a few dangerous areas,” Roger Markham said from her other side. “Watch your step.”

  Dangerous areas. The crew had noted edges and crevasses the day before. Most weren’t too wide or deep, but there was that one Welsh wanted to lower Roslyn into.... The warnings to take care and stay away from the edge rang in her head.

  “Wait.” Charlotte stopped once again. She found Cicely and Carmen down the line. They both wore puzzled expressions. “Stay here,” Charlotte told them, then returned to Markham’s side. “Mr. Markham, will you come with me, please?”

  His expression was also one of uncertainty, but as he made his way toward Charlotte, he seemed to read her face and intention. “Damnation. All right. Stay here, people. Let’s go, Miss Brody.”

  Together, Charlotte and Markham carefully walked toward the crevasse. The ice had been scuffed and broken the day before as the company rehearsed and blocked their scenes. There were no obvious drag marks like those in front of the dog pen or coming from that less used direction along the ice. But as she and Markham approached the crevasse, something in Charlotte’s stomach clenched. They stopped and peered over the edge.

  “Son of a bitch,” Markham muttered.

  Ten feet down, inside the wide crack in the ice, Stanley Welsh stared up at them.

  Chapter 6

  The first thought that struck Charlotte was that Welsh’s body was not the worst she’d seen as far as condition. No, that honor went to Darcy Dugan, and Charlotte was grimly relieved not to have seen Lyle Fiske’s burned remains as a comparison. She shuddered at the six-month-old memory of Darcy’s murder. That had been a particularly brutal crime. This situation was different. At least it seemed to be. Welsh appeared to have slipped or fallen into the crevasse, possibly breaking his neck or freezing to death.