Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  Both girls giggled louder. Charlotte smiled as she climbed the stairs. They really did remind her of herself and Kit at that age.

  Once in her room, she sorted through her closet, looking for something dressy but not formal. With Becca spending the night at Esther’s, Charlotte thought perhaps a visit to one of the clubs might give her a more relaxed atmosphere in which to talk to the Fortune crew. Especially if any of them visited one of the “private” rooms in the back where Prohibition and Alaska’s dry laws didn’t seem to exist.

  Once the girls were safely off to Esther’s, Charlotte changed into a low-waisted, flowing-sleeved dress with a hem that fell to the middle of her shins. The deep plum color was a little darker than she would have picked for herself, but it looked fine against her pale skin. The neckline didn’t plunge as far as some she’d seen; Mother would have balked at exposing too much skin. She’d given it to Charlotte for Christmas, explaining in the note it was the latest thing in New York and Paris.

  “And now in Cordova,” Charlotte said to her reflection as she applied a bit of rouge and some lipstick.

  She donned her coat, hat, and boots and wished she had the protection of James’s car as the wind nearly knocked her off the last slick step. For a moment, she considered going back inside. No, there would be a number of the film company out tonight, despite the weather, to help alleviate boredom. If she didn’t go now, she might miss something.

  One hand holding her hat on her head, Charlotte made her way down the slippery road to the Tidewater.

  * * *

  Jangling music leaked through the door of the club along with the hum of conversation and pungent cigar smoke. Charlotte reminded herself that the Tidewater was a social club for all Cordovans. Granted, it was mostly men and “working” girls who availed themselves of the games, music, and refreshments, but no one had indicated the club was restricted.

  She took a breath and went in. The cacophony of sound hit her with full force. At least two dozen people—mostly men—were crowded into the main room. They sat at tables, stood at the bar, or dropped pennies into the assorted arcade games against the back wall. The player piano in the far corner plinked out a rendition of “Jazz Baby.”

  A large man with an elaborate mustache stood between the piano and a door marked PRIVATE, his arms crossed. Either the Tidewater took their music playing quite seriously or there was something going on beyond the door that the casual club visitor wasn’t privy to.

  Though her interest in what, exactly, occurred in such rooms was piqued, Charlotte wasn’t there to investigate how citizens were skirting Prohibition and gambling laws. At least not this time. Even if she was interested, since she believed Prohibition was a bad idea, Charlotte wouldn’t have exposed the perpetrators anyway.

  No, she was here for a different reason.

  Charlotte opened her coat and worked her way to the bar. She squeezed between people, smiling when they smiled and ignoring the “accidental” brush of hands across her bottom. She found a place at the bar and checked out the other patrons while she waited for the barkeep to notice her there. Several young women chatted with men, sipping colorful drinks and smiling indulgently. Charlotte didn’t recognize anyone from Brigit’s house, but she suspected two or three might be from the other houses in town.

  “What can I get ya, sweetheart?” the barman asked when he stepped up to her.

  She consulted the list of offered soft drinks adhered to the wall behind him.

  “Lemon-lime soda, please.”

  Charlotte found a few coins in her pocket while the man poured syrup into a tall glass, then filled it with carbonated water. He gave the drink a quick stir with a long spoon and set it before her. She slid a dime and a nickel across the bar.

  “Only ten cents,” he said, dropping one coin in the till and slipping the other into his pants pocket.

  She shrugged and smiled. It wasn’t much of a tip, in the grand scheme of things, but a little generosity now might help her later.

  Sipping her drink, Charlotte strolled behind the line of arcade games, stopping now and again to watch over shoulders as pennies or nickels were dropped into slots. Mechanized figures danced or played instruments or raced around a track. For a dime, patrons could peer into the brass viewer of a Mutoscope moving picture machine and be treated to the “Dancing Delights of Daring Darlings.” Several men waited in line for that one, grinning and joking as they tried to sneak a peek past the current customer.

  Standing at a baseball-themed game was one of the film crew Charlotte recognized by the shock of red hair beneath his cap. He’d performed at the theater as well. What was his name, Bobby? No, Billy. As one of the youngest members of Roger Markham’s crew, she hoped Billy wasn’t as guarded as the other men might be.

  Charlotte stood quietly behind Billy’s right shoulder, watching him play the game. He sipped his cola, then turned the lever that sent a metal ball from the pitcher’s mound to where he activated a bat with another lever. The young man laughed as the ball flew past the infield, then between the left and center outfielders. The mechanized men on the field advanced with a whirr and a tinkling of music.

  “Well done,” Charlotte said.

  Billy turned his head, pausing before releasing another ball. She smiled at him and his freckled cheeks reddened. “Thanks. You’re Miss Brody, ain’t ya?”

  Charlotte was hoping he wouldn’t remember her, but there was no helping it. “Yes, but please, it’s Charlotte. Do you have a favorite team, Billy?”

  He seemed pleased she recalled his name. “The Brooklyn Robins, of course, though they didn’t do so good last year. We’ll give ’em hell this season, for sure.” Impossibly, the color on his face deepened. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? Ow. Charlotte wasn’t that much older than him.

  She kept the smile on her face. “That’s all right. So what’s a Brooklyn man doing working on a Hollywoodland film?”

  His blue eyes brightened. “You know Brooklyn?”

  Her visit to Brooklyn had been limited to the clinic Margaret Sanger opened a few years ago. Initially, Charlotte had gone to write an article about the birth control advocate and her colleagues. The hundred or so women who had attended the opening that October day all had the same thing to say: They were grateful. The following day, Charlotte had returned for more personal reasons. Unfortunately, several days after that, Miss Sanger and a colleague were arrested for providing birth control for that purpose, not for disease prevention as the law allowed, and the clinic shut down. Charlotte hadn’t been back to the borough since.

  “Not really,” she admitted. “I grew up in the Yonkers area, but your accent kind of gives it away.”

  “Aw, I thought I’d’a lost that by now,” he said. “I got the acting bug, but need to eat, so I work on sets and things. What’s a Yonkers gal doing way the heck up here?”

  “Trying to stay warm.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Billy said with an exaggerated shiver, and they both laughed.

  “Looks like you can use another drink,” Charlotte said, gesturing to his near-empty glass.

  “Yeah, but I wish there was something a little stronger than a cola, know what I mean?” There was a significant gleam in his eye.

  Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at the burly man standing before the door marked PRIVATE. The Tidewater was open to the public, but like a few other places, gaining access to private areas required membership. Membership to the Tidewater required being a Cordova resident, though guests were permitted. Most visitors found it easy to make friends with locals.

  “I think I can help you there.” She slipped her arm through his. “Come on.”

  Billy rubbed his hands together and all but strutted beside her as they made their way across the crowded room. As they approached, the doorman quirked a thick eyebrow at them. When they stopped in front of him, he scowled.

  “Members only.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I’d like to join, if I
may. I live here in Cordova. The name’s Charlotte Brody.”

  “I know who you are. Still, need to have a man vouch for you.”

  Charlotte and Billy exchanged glances. The young man shrugged. He swallowed hard when he looked back to the larger man, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  It was a silly notion, and Charlotte didn’t feel like arguing the ideology of equality with the bouncer, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have some fun with him.

  “Well, Mister . . .” She faltered and glanced at Billy.

  “Ridgeway,” he said.

  “Mr. Ridgeway knows me. And by your own admission, you know me too.” She found her coin purse in her coat pocket and opened it. “I believe membership is a dollar . . . and a half?”

  The cost of membership was posted over the bar: one dollar. Greasing palms was not an unknown practice in her profession. It had procured a significant amount of information at times.

  “Two,” the man growled.

  Charlotte managed to hide her shock. There went the nicer cut of meat she was hoping to purchase for Sunday dinner next week. She handed the man the two dollars. He slipped them in his pocket and withdrew a key.

  “Don’t I get a membership card or anything?” she asked.

  “Take it up with Lou.” He nodded toward the bar and unlocked the door. Inside, the conversation was louder, more boisterous than in the main room, and the cigar smoke was twice as thick. “Don’t make a fuss, or you’ll be out on your ear. No refunds.”

  “We promise to be good. Come on, Billy.” Charlotte tugged on his arm.

  Billy touched the brim of his cap, still looking nervous. The man grunted, then shut the door behind them.

  Charlotte’s eyes watered from the smoke. It was impossible to sort out the conversation at the half-dozen tables where several poker and faro games were in progress. There were only four women in the room, three hanging on men who played and one woman at a table of men with a decent pile of chips at her elbow.

  “Bar’s over there,” Billy said.

  Over at the polished oak bar, a few men were chatting and drinking what appeared to be whiskey. The bartender came over when Charlotte and Billy found a spot. She recognized him immediately.

  “Good evening, Mr. McGruder. How are you today?”

  The grocery man grinned at her. “Evening, Miss Brody. Never seen you in here before.”

  “My first time. This is my friend Billy,” she said, “and he’s a bit parched.”

  McGruder took in Billy’s youthful face. For a moment, Charlotte thought he was going to ask if Billy was old enough to drink. Though he could refuse to serve Billy, it seemed rather silly to hold up the age law when selling alcohol was illegal in the territory to begin with. Though technically it wasn’t being sold, was it?

  “What’ll you have, son?” McGruder asked.

  Billy grinned. “Bourbon and soda.”

  He said it with a confidence that surprised Charlotte. She’d have to be careful not to underestimate the youthful-looking Californian.

  “And for the lady?”

  “Same,” said Charlotte.

  McGruder reached under the bar for a couple of tumblers. He loosened the stopper from a brown bottle, filled their glasses a third of the way, then spritzed a shot of soda from a blue siphon into each. He held the tumblers, giving Billy an expectant look.

  “I think he’s waiting for a ‘tip,’” Charlotte said, opening her purse.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. No, I got it.” Billy reached deep into his pocket and took out some coins. “Um.”

  “Four bits’ll about do ’er,” McGruder said, grinning. Billy put fifty cents on the bar. The grocery man-cum-bartender set the tumblers down. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  He scooped up the coins and dropped them into a box under the bar where they landed with a jangle against others.

  Charlotte and Billy touched glasses and drank. It had been a few months since Charlotte last imbibed, so she was careful to sip her bourbon. Billy, on the other hand, tossed back half the glassful in one swallow. He winced and smacked his lips.

  “Good stuff,” he said hoarsely.

  Was he serious or putting on a bit of a show for her?

  “So tell me about working on a picture like North to Fortune.” Charlotte leaned against the bar and gave him her best “I’m fascinated by your every word” gaze.

  “It’s the best,” Billy said. “I’m meeting all sorts a people, getting to travel some. Mr. York and Miss Sanford are giving me pointers about acting. Having a grand time.”

  He finished his drink and dove into a description of a particularly raucous party the cast and crew attended early in the filming. While he spoke, Charlotte signaled McGruder to pour Billy another. She laid a quarter on the bar.

  “Gee, thanks.” Billy toasted her, then downed a good portion. He blinked a few times, grinning.

  “It can’t all be parties and big laughs,” Charlotte said. “Everyone getting along all the time, everything going swimmingly.”

  His expression darkened some. “No, we had a few bad runs, even before poor Mr. Welsh died.” Billy crossed himself. “While we was filming some interiors in California, a camera platform collapsed, nearly killed a guy. Mr. Markham was mad as a wet hen, I tell you what. Blamed us for slacking on the job, but I know Vinny and me, we tightened every nut and bolt and checked it twice. We know better’n to do a shoddy job.” He drank most of what was left in his tumbler. “Mr. Markham, he don’t fool around when it comes to makin’ things right. ‘Safety first and foremost,’ he tells us all the time. All the time.”

  “Is that why he was so upset with Mr. Welsh over the stunts he wanted?”

  Billy nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. He and Welsh tangled over that nearly every day. Markham’s no fraidy cat—was in the war, yanno, that’s where he got the limp—but he’s got a thing about big shots putting their glory over the lives of the people beneath ’em. He told us some terrible stories.”

  There was a touch of horror in Billy’s eyes. Charlotte knew the awful things that happened during the war from talking to veterans, refugees, and Michael, who had treated injured soldiers, though he hadn’t been on the front line himself. If Markham had been injured because of someone’s disregard for others, would he have been angry enough at Welsh for putting the film’s cast and crew in danger?

  She signaled McGruder for two more drinks. When they arrived, she played with the glass more than drank from it. Billy didn’t gulp this one down, but the effects of the first two were making him sway a little.

  “Any other problems?” she asked, barely wetting her lips as she pretended to sip.

  He shrugged. “The usual gripes from Mr. Meade over spending too much money on this, that, or the other thing; but when the director wants a set built the size of a real house and snow scenes in the middle of a California heatwave, it costs, yanno?”

  Recalling the way Welsh ran the show at the Empress and the rehearsal out on the glacier, Charlotte said, “Mr. Welsh was a stickler for details, was he?”

  At least when it came to some things. If it was inconvenient to him or considered unimportant—like the depiction of the local people—then he seemed willing to fudge.

  “And how. We painted and refurnished one interior set three times before he was happy with it.” Billy grinned. “But no skin off my nose, right? It ain’t me footin’ the bill. I get paid for doin’ what I’m told, even if I have to do it three or four times.”

  “That sort of thing must have made Mr. Meade unhappy, though.” Charlotte could imagine the producer’s ever-reddening face as Welsh called for constant reworking of a set.

  “Even madder’n Mr. Markham. Mr. Meade is always goin’ on about how expensive things were, even us. We had to threaten to strike a month back when he didn’t okay weekend pay on something Mr. Welsh wanted.”

  “You absolutely deserve to get paid for work done,” Charlotte said. “It’s not your problem they can’t afford it.”


  Billy lifted his glass. “Exactly what we said.” He drained his third drink and set the tumbler down on the bar with a thud.

  “Anything else?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oh, family stuff that’s better left at home but isn’t, yanno?”

  “Between Stanley and Cecily or Stanley and Carmen?”

  “Cicely—I mean, Miss Welsh,” Billy said. “They argued over the story some, but I heard one to-do about her wanting him to stay outta her personal life.” He winked slowly, nodding. “If ya know what I mean.”

  Charlotte had a very good idea what he meant.

  Before she could ask more questions, a light dawned in Billy’s eyes. “Hey, are you tryin’ to get me drunk or somethin’?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Just talking.”

  “Yeah, but you’re writin’ about us and all. If I’m gonna be a what’s it called, a stool pigeon, then I want somethin’ out of it.” He stepped closer to Charlotte and placed his hand on her waist. “Whaddaya say?”

  Her smile froze on her face. She might have expected he’d want more than a few drinks as “payment,” even if he hadn’t realized beforehand that she was trying to pump him for information. But she’d only go so far for a story, and that limit had been reached.

  “I say, I think it’s time you went back to the hotel.”

  “Aw, come on, Charlotte.” He gave her a boyish grin as his hand slid to her backside. “Fair is fair.”

  Her heart raced, but her cool expression didn’t waver. It had been some time since she’d dealt with men who thought nothing of touching a woman uninvited. It still made her stomach clench. “It’ll be fair if I don’t break your hand. Please move it before I do.”

  A hurt look, like a puppy that had been kicked, came over him, but he did as he was told. “No need to get violent, yanno.”

  “Let me give you a piece of advice, Billy.” Charlotte downed her drink. The burn felt good this time, and actually helped calm her. “Being a gentleman is never going to get you into trouble.”

  Hurt turned into a wince on his fair face. “Now you sound like my ma.”