Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  “Not until tomorrow, when the train heads back this way,” she said, ignoring his attitude. Everyone was in shock and acting off, she reminded herself. “But Deputy Eddington has more questions.”

  “What did he and the doctor find?” Cicely sat beside Roslyn, who covered her friend’s hand in a comforting gesture.

  There was no absolute proof of foul play, and to insinuate as much would do two things she knew James would want to avoid: upsetting folks further and letting the possible murderer know he was on to him or her. She especially didn’t want to cause Cicely any more anguish. Having her father die was bad enough, but suggesting his death was intentional would be a whole new horror.

  “He and Michael just want to clear up a few things before making an official determination.” Hopefully that was truthful but vague enough to appease them. “They should be back soon.”

  Wallace Meade rose from his seat, shaking his head while a look of disgust showed on his face. He stalked out of the tent. The rest of the occupants went back to their games and conversation. On her way to pour herself a warming mug of coffee, Charlotte heard bits of conversation expressing relief that they would be able to head back to town soon, as well as a few once again claiming the film was cursed. What else had happened since North to Fortune had gone into production?

  Charlotte wrapped her hands around her mug and headed to Paige, Cicely, and Roslyn’s table. The scenarist and the lead actress looked up. Paige, who had her back to Charlotte, continued to play solitaire. The petite blonde’s indifference certainly didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention. Charlotte would have to word her questions carefully.

  “May I join you?” Charlotte asked, indicating the open seat beside Paige.

  Roslyn looked over at Cicely. The actress had read Charlotte’s intention that she wasn’t just being social. Roslyn would let her friend decide if she was ready for more questions.

  Cicely gave her a solemn nod. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she asked quietly as Charlotte sat down.

  “As I said, the deputy is trying to put together all the available facts. He asked if I’d help by talking to a few people.” Charlotte placed her hand palm down and slid it across the table in a sympathetic gesture, but didn’t touch the other woman. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Cicely, and I don’t want to make this any more difficult for you than it is.”

  Cicely’s jaw muscles tightened and she blinked rapidly. Charlotte inwardly cringed at causing the poor woman more pain. After a moment to collect herself, Cicely offered Charlotte a wan smile. “Thank you. If answering questions gets the situation settled faster, I’m for it.”

  Roslyn laid her hand on Cicely’s forearm in support.

  “I appreciate that,” Charlotte said. “Your father had been ill for some time, is that right?”

  “He started feeling poorly about a month ago, complaining of headaches and difficulty breathing. He told us the doctor said it was stress and a bout of bronchitis flaring up.”

  “Your mother mentioned medicine he was taking sometimes caused disorientation.”

  Cicely nodded. “Something his doctor made up for him. He only took it at night, unless he was having a bad time of it. Then Mother tried to get him to take some during the day. He’d been taking it more often of late.”

  “Do you know what’s in it?” Charlotte asked. She had a vague suspicion of the main ingredient.

  “Not offhand.” Cicely smiled sadly. “Knowing Papa, it had a healthy dose of brandy. He carried it with him, most of the time.”

  Medicinal alcohol was allowed under Prohibition as long as it was prescribed by a doctor. Alcohol for religious uses was also permitted. Charlotte was sure more people would be finding religion and be ordained as a result of the ridiculous amendment.

  “Not to say he was a big drinker,” Cicely added hastily. “A glass of brandy or sherry in the evening was his habit. He didn’t go to the party after the performance the other night either.” Her cheeks flushed. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  It didn’t surprise Charlotte in the least that the Californians had brought or acquired alcohol. Alaska had been a dry territory before Prohibition had been enacted, but people found plenty of ways to obtain their favorite beverages.

  “It won’t go further than us.” Charlotte considered the circumstances of Stanley being out on the glacier. “From what the deputy learned, Mr. Welsh had been headed to bed at nine-forty-five or so, after talking to you. Was he prone to wandering or taking walks in the evening? Or would he have met with someone else that late?”

  “Not that I know of. Papa was an early riser, and despite his tendency to push everyone, including himself, to the limit, he was a big believer in getting a good night’s sleep before filming.”

  After he’d spoken to Cicely, Welsh had probably headed to bed. But what happened between that time and the hour Charlotte believed she’d heard the commotion? The camp had been quiet by eleven, according to Smitty. What time was the disturbance? And more importantly, what had caused the dogs to whine and bark? Stanley Welsh walking past their pen alone, or with someone, or had it been something else entirely?

  “Do you think someone had spoken to him and hasn’t said so?” Cicely asked.

  Charlotte glanced around the mess. No one had come forward about seeing Welsh any later than Cicely. Which made sense if the last person to see him alive had been involved in his death.

  “It’s possible,” Charlotte said, “but without admission or a witness, we may never know. Do you think your mother is up to talking to me or the deputy?”

  “Mother took her sleeping draught earlier than usual last night. I doubt she recalls anything after that.”

  Charlotte didn’t want to push the issue, but if Carmen Welsh could tell her anything more, it might help. “Deputy Eddington will want to speak to her, or perhaps she’d talk to me.”

  Cicely and Roslyn rose, Roslyn’s hand still on her arm. “I’ll let you know what she says.”

  After the two women left, Charlotte sipped her coffee, wondering how James and Michael were doing. Extracting a body from such a confined space couldn’t be terribly easy.

  “You think someone killed him,” Paige said quietly, her attention on the cards laid out on the table.

  Charlotte didn’t bother hiding her surprise at the unexpected insight. She had to remember not to underestimate the blonde. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible when something like this happens.”

  “Even more possible when you consider how many people Stanley ticked off of late.”

  The fact the director had irritated people didn’t surprise Charlotte in the least. She’d witnessed his exchanges with Burrows and the AEC, with Roger Markham. Even with Cicely. “You think someone was angry enough to hurt him?”

  “Sure. Even me,” Paige said with a short laugh. She met Charlotte’s questioning gaze. “Not that I did, of course. Stanley was a decent enough guy, but he worked like everyone else in the business. Lots of promises and lots of excuses why they couldn’t or wouldn’t be met.” The actress shrugged, but her indifference didn’t ring completely true to Charlotte. “It’s the way things work.”

  “You were getting frustrated at his lack of follow-through,” Charlotte said.

  “You bet I was.” Color rose on Paige’s cheeks. “For the past three pictures he cast me in, he’d promised bigger parts, more screen time. But somehow a different broad would always get picked for the juicy roles. You’d think sleeping with the guy would have given me an advantage.”

  Charlotte startled at her audacity. Paige readily admitted she was having an affair with Welsh and was angry about broken promises. Plenty of motivation there.

  “But I didn’t do anything to Stanley,” Paige said, seeming to read Charlotte’s thoughts. “He may have been leading me on some, and I was hoping for a break sooner rather than later, but it’s just a matter of time before something comes my way.”


  There was self-satisfaction in her voice and expression.

  “Why’s that?”

  “It always does. I have a knack, you see,” the actress said. “Always land on my feet, like a cat.” She gave Charlotte a wink and consulted her card game.

  “Who knew about your . . . relationship with Stanley?” Paige shrugged. “I didn’t advertise it in Variety or anything like that. We kept it on the q.t., but there’s probably a few who knew.”

  Who would have been most affected by the affair? “Carmen? Cicely?”

  At least the young woman had the decency to look somewhat abashed. “Maybe. Probably. Not that they said anything. Not to me, at least.” She quirked a slender eyebrow at Charlotte. “And Cicely knows better than to start playing ‘Who Shouldn’t Be Sleeping with Whom.’”

  “Oh?”

  Who would the scenarist be associated with? Peter? One of the crew? Charlotte had only seen her with her parents or . . . Roslyn? The women were quite friendly, affectionate toward each other even. That relationship would certainly get tongues wagging, and such a scandal would cause both women to lose out on opportunities. If Cicely knew about Paige, and Paige even suspected anything between Cicely and Roslyn, Charlotte was sure both sides would keep their mouths shut.

  “I see. You said Stanley had been with others. Do you think Carmen would have gotten so fed up as to do anything about it?”

  “Nah,” Paige said. “Carmen liked the money and status that came with being Stanley’s wife. He’d have to do something pretty drastic for her to get rid of him.”

  Apparently numerous affairs weren’t drastic enough to these folks.

  “And you weren’t looking to be the next Mrs. Welsh?”

  “God no.” Paige laughed, drawing the attention of more than a few people. Lowering her voice, she said, “I wouldn’t be able to deal with Stanley on a day-to-day basis. He was too temperamental. Better her than me, I say.”

  The actress seemed cavalier about her relationship with Welsh, but her earlier irritation at losing out on parts or not getting screen time didn’t match her current offhandedness. Paige had been nearly furious in town, then irritated again on the train and during rehearsal just the day before. What had changed?

  “I appreciate the information,” Charlotte said as she rose. “If you can think of anything else that might help, let me or Deputy Eddington know.”

  Paige’s eyes brightened. “That tall drink of water with the gorgeous dimples? You bet. I’ll tell him everything I know, maybe even make up a bunch of stuff if that helps.”

  She laughed again before returning to her game.

  Jealousy flared in Charlotte’s chest. Her jaw clenched. Making a significant effort, she smiled stiffly. “Yes, he’ll be happy to take your statement. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Charlotte turned on her heel and strode toward the door flap. There was no cause to be jealous of Paige Carmichael. James was a good-looking man; more than a few women had said as much to Charlotte.

  Back outside, a cold, cutting wind came down off the glacier. Charlotte took a deep breath, letting the chill clear her head. She wasn’t usually the jealous type. What had gotten into her?

  Maybe she was concerned that if she didn’t allow their relationship to go further than heated kisses, James would seek out someone like Paige to satisfy him. While there was no promise of exclusivity on either of their parts, neither was seeing anyone else. But how long would he wait?

  You’re being ridiculous.

  Charlotte took another slow, deep breath. Of course she was. She and James would figure out where they would take their relationship and how long it would be before they got there. He wasn’t one to flit off to the next available girl.

  “Charlotte,” James called.

  Her head jerked up. He strode toward her, low sunlight causing him to squint. Charlotte met him on the path. “Did you get Mr. Welsh out of there?”

  “Yeah,” he said, scratching his bearded cheek. “Funny thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He wasn’t wearing gloves, though he’d had his other slipper on.” James rubbed his hands together. “A man doesn’t go off for a walk out here in slippers and without gloves.”

  “Not if he wants to feel his fingers and toes the rest of the night.” Charlotte recalled the state of Stanley’s body. “He may have used the blanket over his coat for added warmth, perhaps wrapping his hands in the wool kept them warm enough.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “I don’t know.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “If he was taking some sort of medicine that made him disoriented or not in his right mind, who’s to say what he thought he was doing?”

  James considered that. “I suppose. We’ll keep that in mind. Michael will have more answers after his full autopsy, I hope.”

  “I’m sure he will. Is he on his way?”

  “He and the others are securing Welsh in the storage shed for the night. We’ll need to use the dogs again to get the body to the train in the morning.” He nodded toward the mess tent. “Meade in there? Doc and I will need accommodations.”

  “He wasn’t just now. I’m not sure what’s left, as far as tents go. With Becca gone, there’s an empty cot in mine.” As the words left her mouth, Charlotte realized what she had said. Heat rushed to her face. “I mean . . .”

  James cupped her cheek. Smiling, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. “I know what you meant. I’ll find a place. Michael can stay with you.” He lowered his hand and looked up at the mess tent again. “Did you talk to any of the others?”

  Grateful for the change in subject, Charlotte told him what Cicely had said about Welsh’s illness and what Paige had said about their affair. Upon hearing that Paige didn’t seem to care about becoming the next Mrs. Welsh, James looked skeptical.

  “Not every woman is out to marry the man she’s sleeping with,” Charlotte said. She wasn’t trying to defend Paige so much as keep any motivations for murder open.

  “No,” James agreed, “but the woman had been getting passed over enough that she may have felt it was her due to have some sort of break come her way. Maybe not getting it again pushed her past her limit.”

  “And she pushed Stanley into the crevasse?” Charlotte could see the fiery-tempered blonde doing that in the heat of the moment.

  “We’ll keep her in mind as your brother performs his exam.”

  Charlotte started toward the Welshes’ tent. “I’m waiting for Cicely to see if her mother is up for an interview. Or would you rather speak with her alone?”

  “I don’t want to overwhelm the woman,” James said. “Let me go see her.”

  Hiding her disappointment, but understanding this was, most likely, a murder investigation, Charlotte pointed out the correct tent. “I’ll be in mine, over there,” she said.

  James tugged the brim of his hat. “I’ll come for you later.”

  He walked to the Welshes’ tent and called to the occupants. Cicely Welsh invited him in.

  Though tempted to linger and listen, Charlotte decided it was too cold as the wind picked up. Besides, she trusted James to share information when he was ready to do so. Just as he trusted she wouldn’t put anything into print that might jeopardize the case.

  Theirs was a comfortable working relationship. Now if she could sort out their personal one, things would be much easier.

  Back inside her tent, Charlotte turned up the kerosene heater. She straightened the blankets on Becca’s cot in anticipation of Michael sharing the tent with her for the night.

  Where was Michael? He should have seen to Welsh’s body by now.

  Bundling herself in her coat, scarf, and hat once again, Charlotte headed out to the storage shed where James said they’d keep Welsh until they left the next day. She passed several people along the way. Most nodded greeting. Others gave her sour looks, as if it had been her fault they were still there. Well, she supposed it was, but she wasn’t about to feel bad for them when a man had died, or wo
rse, been killed by one of them.

  The door to the shed was ajar and she heard shuffling sounds from within. “Michael?”

  “Come in,” he called out.

  She entered the hastily built, but sturdy shed and shut the door behind her. The wind whistled through the gaps between the planks. Cases of equipment had been stacked in the back corner. Under a single bare bulb over his head, Michael squatted beside the dog sled that had been pushed in as far as it would go. Stanley Welsh’s body lay atop the sled, covered by blankets and strapped in. Michael examined the area around Welsh’s throat.

  “Find anything else?” Charlotte asked.

  “I think there may be marks here,” he said, pointing. “Once everything warms up it might be easier to tell. There’s little to no blood. Internal injury due to the fall will show in the autopsy, but it wasn’t that great a distance.”

  “What about his hands?”

  Michael covered the head and shoulders with the blanket and stood, stretching his back. “Nothing significant. Why? Do you think he might have fought someone off?”

  “Maybe,” Charlotte said, “or if he slipped and fell, wouldn’t he have tried to catch himself and scraped his hands on the ice?”

  Her brother nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps. And there’s something else that doesn’t sit right. No flashlight. Who walks along a dangerous ice field in the pitch-dark without a light?”

  “No one thinking clearly, which may be the case. I think the medicine he was taking could have been partially responsible. But our suspicion that Mr. Welsh was murdered is gaining more traction.”

  Unfortunately, that meant there was a camp full of people who could have done it.

  An expression of distaste lined Michael’s features. “Eddington will have his work cut out for him.” He dug into his coat pocket and withdrew a padlock. “George the rigging man gave me the key so we can lock the shed and not worry about anyone disturbing the body.”

  A shiver ran through Charlotte. “Good gracious, who would want to?”

  Michael gestured for her to precede him to the door and he pulled the chain on the light dangling from the middle of the ceiling. “A famous person dies and you get all manner of odd ducks wanting to see. Or take photographs and sell them.”