Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  Beating him to the handle, Charlotte picked up her bag. “I can manage,” she said, smiling. “Besides, Becca will be in school for another few hours. I need to stop in at the paper and get something written up before I meet her at home.”

  “Can I at least walk you to the Times office?” He seemed disappointed that she’d taken her own bag, or that they wouldn’t spend fifteen minutes walking together back to her house.

  “I’d like that.”

  James preceded her down the slick stairs and prepared to take her hand should she slip. She didn’t, and the two of them traversed the icy road to the newspaper office several blocks away. The train blew its whistle, warning of its imminent departure. Another gust of wet, freezing wind blew in, tinged with coal smoke.

  “How bad a storm do you think it’ll be?” Charlotte asked.

  James squinted up at the sky. “We might not feel it too bad here, but out on the water, it’ll be nasty. I’ll get in touch with the navy station and see what they say. Storms like this have been known to cause ships to go down, so I’d reckon the steamers will be delayed. Make sure you have plenty of food and fuel, just in case they don’t come in with supplies.”

  “You too.” They had reached the office, and Charlotte turned to stand and face him. “Thank you for the escort. I’ll make sure there’s enough stew tonight if you’re interested in a hot meal. Say seven o’clock?”

  He leaned down and pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll be there, thank you.”

  They bade each other good-bye, and Charlotte went in, not feeling cold in the least.

  Andrew Toliver sat at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up and papers strewn before him. The muffled hum and clatter of the Linotype came through the closed door on the right.

  Anticipation lit Toliver’s eyes. “Heard you all were coming back early. What happened? Did Burrows create some sort of ruckus?”

  Charlotte quickly divested herself of her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. Barely conscious of the fact she was wearing trousers, she hurried over to the chair on the opposite side of the desk and sat facing him. “Worse. Stanley Welsh was killed.”

  Toliver’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “What?”

  Charlotte gave him the details of the events after leaving Cordova, from Welsh’s arguments with Paige Carmichael, Roger Markham, Caleb Burrows, and Wallace Meade to the discovery of his body in the crevasse. “He wasn’t an easy man to get along with,” she said. “Even he and his daughter didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Toliver said, sad understanding in his eyes. “But were any of those arguments worth killing over? Angering, yes. Frustrating, yes. But to take a man’s life? No, something deeper happened here, Charlotte.”

  “I agree that their arguments were somewhat superficial on the surface.” Charlotte rose and started to pace, her preferred method when trying to follow threads of a story. “There’s more. Perhaps not something deeper and darker, but more.”

  “Or,” Toliver said, “whoever killed him didn’t have much depth of reason but did have a terrible temper. Even a weak motive can be enough when anger and opportunity are present.”

  The nefarious twists and turns of a potential murder case flittered out of her head. Charlotte sat back down with a huff. “Well, that would be boring.”

  Toliver wagged a finger at her. “We aren’t in the entertainment business, Miss Brody, we’re in the information business. Though it’s not impossible to do both. Write up something for tomorrow’s paper and get it in to Henry quick as you can. There’s still time for him to rearrange the layout before we go to print. Then I want you back with those people in the morning.”

  Charlotte snatched a pad of paper and a pen from his desk and got to work.

  * * *

  The second installment of her Times articles with the cast and crew took a decidedly sinister turn compared to the first, more glib piece. She wrote of the train trip out to Childs Glacier, of the rehearsal and blocking of character movement on the dangerous ice, of the anxiousness that pervaded the company. Not just the nerves associated with the making of a film, but fears that the production was cursed. Charlotte touched upon the dissatisfaction of the subject matter by some, then described how things seemed to be going well for the moment. The next paragraph began with the morning of Welsh’s disappearance and subsequent discovery of his body.

  She was careful not to call it murder, despite the suspicious circumstances, but did state that as a matter of procedure for an unattended, unnatural death, all avenues were being explored by the marshal’s and coroner’s offices.

  When Charlotte had handed the sheets to Henry in the Linotype and printing room, the young man read through the pages quickly, his eyes growing wider with each line. Charlotte couldn’t help but smile.

  Who said information couldn’t be entertaining?

  “Wow,” Henry marveled, looking up at her. “Is this for real? You found him?”

  “I wouldn’t have written it if it wasn’t true,” she said. “But not just me. Mr. Markham was there too, and a number of others. Even poor Cicely and Carmen Welsh.” Charlotte felt a pang of sorrow for the Welsh women. A man was dead, and his family and friends would likely read this in the morning. Doubt crept into her conscience. “It’s not too much, is it, Henry?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “What did Mr. Toliver say?”

  “He thought it was fine.” But Toliver hadn’t been there to see Cicely Welsh turn so pale she was almost as white as the ice, or watch Carmen faint into the arms of the man standing behind her.

  You’re getting soft, said a voice in her head. A year ago, you wouldn’t have thought twice about printing something just as detailed or more so.

  No, but a year ago she wasn’t living and working in a small town where the subjects of the daily news were friends and neighbors. Since coming to Cordova, she’d learned to tread carefully when it came to certain events. Reporting on Lyle Fiske’s death in November had been difficult for his widow, but Charlotte relayed the facts of that sordid case with little problem and without publicly embarrassing Caroline Fiske.

  “Thanks.” She started toward the door to the outer office, then turned back, guilt eating at her gut. “Strike the line about his sightless eyes staring up, all right? This is a news article, not a dime-store novel.”

  Henry pulled the pencil from behind his ear and scratched it across the page. “Anything else?”

  “I think that’s it. Good night, Henry.”

  “Good night, Miss Brody.”

  Charlotte shut the door behind her as she entered the office. Toliver was still at the desk, reading through a sheaf of papers while he absentmindedly rubbed the top of his shin where the cast ended.

  “Henry’s almost done,” she told their boss.

  “Good. Good.” Toliver sat back and laced his fingers over his ample belly as he regarded her. “Go on home and get some rest. I have the feeling you’ll be hopping like a rabbit here the next few days.”

  Usually, Charlotte would have offered to help Henry or start the printing press, but truth be told, all she could think about was a hot bath and a hot meal. Becca would be home from school soon, wanting to know every detail Charlotte could share about Stanley Welsh and what James and Michael turned up. They could talk about it over dinner preparations, and perhaps with James when he came over.

  “I’ll be at the hotel bright and early,” Charlotte said as she donned her outerwear. “Good night.”

  Toliver bade her good evening and went back to his reading.

  Charlotte hurried down the walk to the grocer’s, the wind biting into her exposed cheeks. She pulled up her scarf and shot a glare at the darkening sky. Even she could tell the storm coming in would be a doozy. The bell over the door of McGruder’s rang cheerfully, and the man behind the counter called out a greeting. Charlotte responded in kind, found the potatoes, carrots, and onions she wanted for her stew, and paid for them. Down the street at the meat market, a
nicer cut of beef than she’d normally use for stew was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. She wouldn’t have all day for the stew to actually stew, but the more tender meat should help move the cooking process along.

  With all of her groceries in the bag she’d brought out to the glacier, Charlotte headed home. Ten minutes after she’d hung up her coat and winter things, Charlotte heard Becca bang into the parlor.

  “Charlotte! Are you home?”

  “In here,” she called. Footfalls hurried toward the kitchen where she was cutting up potatoes and consulting her copy of The Suffrage Cook Book. “Take off your boots and hang up your coat.”

  The footfalls retreated to the entry and Charlotte smiled.

  Becca padded back down the hall and practically flung herself into the room. “Well? What happened? How did Mr. Welsh die? Who did it? Where is he now?”

  Charlotte held up her hands to stop the onslaught. “Nothing really happened. Michael isn’t sure how he died yet. We don’t know who did it. Michael is performing the autopsy at the hospital. Now wash your hands and help me. James will be over for dinner at seven.”

  Becca heaved an exaggerated sigh but did as she was asked. While the two of them prepared dinner, Charlotte gave her as much detail as she felt Becca should know. She reiterated that nothing was to go beyond the walls of the house or to be repeated to anyone.

  “If you’re serious about becoming a journalist,” Charlotte told her, “you have to be able to withhold certain things until the entire story can be told.”

  “Even from friends and family?”

  “Even then.”

  Charlotte thought about all the things she’d never told her parents or Michael. Or the bits and pieces she’d kept from James about the two murders she’d reported on here in Cordova. Oh, eventually she’d come clean to him, but at the time there were some things it was best he didn’t know.

  Chapter 9

  After getting Becca off to school the following morning, Charlotte headed to Michael’s office over the drugstore. He had moved from the tiny cabin farther down the street, which was now his residence. Separating home life from his practice had given her brother the opportunity to involve himself in the community on a more personal level. Michael seemed more at ease these days, more engaged with those around him. It pleased Charlotte to see her brother getting back to being the fun-loving person she’d grown up with.

  The whitewashed door down from the drugstore entrance hadn’t seen fresh paint in a few years, except for the sign MICHAEL C. BRODY, M.D. in black. Charlotte went in and climbed the stairs to his office. The advantage of being on the second story and having half of that level for his waiting area, office, and exam rooms was countered by the need for regular house calls to those who couldn’t manage the steps. On the upper landing, the door to the office itself stood ajar. Before she went in, Charlotte could hear the tip-tap of a typewriter.

  Seated behind the desk of the outer office, Mary Weaver transcribed Michael’s handwritten patient notes. Her shiny black hair had been braided and coiled around the crown of her head. Charlotte couldn’t see the skirt Mary wore, but her white blouse was pristine and freshly starched, as always.

  Mary had taken over the receptionist and secretarial duties Charlotte had originally performed for her brother, who had been terrible at keeping up on the task. Charlotte hadn’t been much better at it. Hiring Mary had probably been the smartest thing Michael had done for his practice. She was knowledgeable of basic office procedures, smart, and friendly. And she was known to a number of the local Natives, making them feel more comfortable about visiting a white doctor when necessary.

  Mary glanced up from the report and smiled. “Good morning, Charlotte,” she said. “The doctor isn’t in yet.”

  Mary and Charlotte had quickly started calling each other by their first names, but Mary always called Michael by his title.

  “Is it all right if I wait?” Charlotte asked. “I have a few things to talk to him about.”

  “Of course. Please.” Mary indicated a couple of worn but comfortable secondhand upholstered chairs. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Charlotte took one of the seats. “How are your mother and the children?”

  She had met Mary’s mother, four-year-old daughter, and six-year-old son at a small holiday gathering. The children stayed at home with Mary’s mother during the day. Mary’s husband had died a couple of years before, leaving her as the sole provider for the family. The assistance of the Eyak community had helped while Mary found work in town.

  “They’re doing well, thank you.” Mary glanced down at the papers on her desk, then back up at Charlotte apologetically. “I should get these done before the doctor gets in.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Charlotte smiled at the woman and picked up a month-old copy of Harper’s Bazaar. There was also a National Geographic and a couple of days’ worth of the Cordova Daily Times. Having reading material out for waiting patients was Mary’s idea.

  Mary went back to her typing and Charlotte read about the latest fashion trends. Well, the trends for the rest of the country, perhaps. Though she appreciated the occasional excuse to get gussied up, Charlotte was finding herself more and more accepting of the practical and casual approach to dress here in the territory. The wearing of trousers, as she had intended for the duration of her stay at the film site, didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow.

  Footfalls on the stairs warned that Michael was on the way up. Charlotte set the magazine aside and grinned when her brother came through the door.

  “Good morning, Mary,” he said, sweeping his hat off as he shrugged out of his coat. “Good morning, Charlotte. I figured you’d be here.”

  Mary rose and took his hat and coat from him, then hung it on a coat stand in the corner. “You have an appointment with Mr. Turner in fifteen minutes, Doctor.”

  “Right. Thank you. Charlotte and I won’t be that long.” Michael gestured for Charlotte to precede him into his office beside the exam room. There were more bookshelves and cabinets than he had been able to fit in his previous office. She sat in the hard-backed chair on the near side of the desk. He shut the door, then walked around the desk to his more comfortable upholstered chair. “Did you speak to Eddington last night?”

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think I saw James last night?”

  Michael was well aware of her relationship with the deputy, but that didn’t mean she had to tell him everything they did together.

  “Your defensiveness, first of all,” Michael said with a grin. “But he’d stopped by the morgue and mentioned he was on his way to your house for dinner.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte released the tension in her shoulders and sat back. “Yes, he came over, but all he would tell me is that you hadn’t finished and that it did look like Stanley was a victim of foul play.”

  “I’ll conduct the internal exam later today.” Michael opened the satchel he’d carried in and withdrew several sheets of paper. “There were no bleeding wounds on his body, other than minor scrapes. His neck, however, was broken, and there were lacerations and a skull fracture on the back of his head that were likely from high-impact contact with the side or bottom of the crevasse.”

  “Someone pushed him in?”

  “After the fact, not to kill him,” he said, turning one of the pages toward her. “I believe he was strangled.”

  Charlotte took the page and read. “‘External Examination: Bruising to throat consistent with obstruction of the airway and blood flow to the brain.’” Mental images of Stanley Welsh being throttled ran through her head. “It would take considerable strength to do that, wouldn’t it?”

  “He’d been ill for some time. That, or overmedication, could have reduced his ability to fight off an attacker. Or the person surprised him.”

  Charlotte considered the scenario. “So the killer—”

  “Or killers,” Michael interjected. “There�
�s no evidence that it was one person or two. We should keep an open mind there. I’ll still need to run tests on his stomach contents as standard procedure, and I’ll check the medicine too, but that’s the unofficial cause of death.”

  They heard Mary greet someone in the other office.

  “There’s Mr. Turner, early as usual, and likely to give poor Mary grief if I don’t see him before his appointment time.” Michael rose and exchanged his suit jacket for his white medical tunic. “I’ll let you know if the tests come back with anything of note.”

  Charlotte rose as well. “Thank you. In the meantime, I’ll see how James and Andrew want to handle the story.”

  Michael escorted her out of the office. “I’d imagine they won’t have the same opinion.”

  “Probably not.” She pecked him on the cheek. “See you later. So long, Mary.”

  “Bye, Charlotte. Tell Becca I look forward to seeing her tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? What was Becca doing with Mary on a Saturday?

  Charlotte’s curiosity was piqued, but she didn’t want to interrupt Mary’s or Michael’s morning by asking what she meant. Besides, if Becca wanted Charlotte to know, the girl would have told her. Charlotte nodded a greeting to Mr. Turner, then headed downstairs.

  The wind was joined by wet, swirling snow, making the short walk to James’s office seem like a miles-long trek across the tundra. By the time she reached the outer door of the building, which housed the marshal’s office and jail on the ground floor and the post office upstairs, Charlotte was soaked and chilled.

  Shivering, she went into the marshal’s office. James crouched beside the stove, adding coal to the pan. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

  “Good morning, Miss Brody.”

  Charlotte smiled back. “Good morning, Deputy. It seems your weather prediction has come true.”

  He finished with the stove, dusted his hands on his pants, and stood. “Unfortunately. I’m about ready for spring. But the weather will also keep the Californians in town, hopefully long enough to sort out what happened.”