Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  Charlotte laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on, let’s get you back to your friends. And thank you for the chat. I promise not to reveal my source.”

  She took his arm and headed toward the exit. Before they reached the door it swung open. Deputy Marshal James Eddington stood there with two of Cordova’s finest at his back. His eyes locked on hers.

  Charlotte swallowed hard.

  James closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if a headache was coming on. “Damnation.”

  Her thought exactly.

  Chapter 11

  After clearing out the “private” area and sorting out that it was, supposedly, the gambling more so than the drinking that had gotten the attention of the local law, James took Charlotte’s arm. Escorting her to the doorway leading to the main room of the club, he pointed to a stool at the end of the emptying bar. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re not arresting me again, are you?” Charlotte was glad the question made him smile and not glare.

  He turned back to the group of customers arguing about whose fault it was the police had been called. Charlotte watched the men and women leave the Tidewater. Somehow, no one had been arrested, and they went without further upset. A few quietly mentioned that the Mirage, another club off Main Street, was probably still open. Charlotte had to hand it to them for perseverance.

  James gave a final warning to the last few customers, mostly the Californians, who had claimed they didn’t realize the Tidewater was that sort of place.

  Sure, Charlotte thought, and they hadn’t known Brigit’s was a brothel either.

  The film crew guys filed out. Billy gave Charlotte a confused, halfhearted wave as he went by. Did he think she was a snitch? She waggled her fingers back at him. When he slowed his step and started to turn toward her, one of the other men grabbed his shoulder and shoved him out the door.

  James and Ned, one of the police officers, spoke to Lou the bartender and the bouncer. Ned’s partner was still in the back room talking to Mr. McGruder. Would there be charges? There was no evidence that money had changed hands for the drinks, but either James or Ned could probably come up with some sort of charges against the club for the faro or poker games. Unless all the participants had claimed they were merely friendly games being played with pretend money.

  The Tidewater men nodded, then shook hands with James. James headed her way, but Charlotte watched the three he’d left. Another handshake between Ned and Lou. Did Lou just slip Ned some money? Had he done the same with James?

  No, she didn’t believe that. James would bend some rules, but bribery wasn’t like him.

  “Let’s go,” James said, slowing as he passed her to take her upper arm and help her off the stool.

  Charlotte buttoned her coat as they walked and was grateful James had come over in his car. He settled her in the passenger seat, then cranked the engine to start. It took a few extra cranks for it to turn over, and the popping and growling sounded particularly loud. He got into the driver’s side and put the car into gear.

  “Lou paid off Ned, you know,” Charlotte said.

  James spun the car around and headed up the hill toward her house. He peered out into the blowing snow and darkness. “I know.”

  “But not you.”

  “Nope.” He glanced at her. “Surprised? Disappointed?”

  “Neither,” she said. “You aren’t perfect, but you have your standards.”

  “Gee, thanks. I think.”

  She laughed. It was difficult to see his face in the dim interior of the car, but she was sure he was smiling.

  James pulled up in front of her house. The car stalled. “Damn it. I need to have that looked at.” He set the brake and faced her. “Did you get anything useful out of that boy you were with?”

  Charlotte lightly slapped his arm. “Billy is almost twenty. I’m not that much older than he is, you know. And yes, I did.”

  “You are a lot more world-wise than he is. He had no idea you were out to get information out of him, did he?”

  There was more pride filling Charlotte than there should have been. “No, not at first.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then James said, “Well, what did you learn?”

  Charlotte gave him the rundown of what Billy had shared. “Nothing surprising, really, but it certainly helped clarify some possible motives.”

  “Yeah, but motives alone don’t dump a guy in a crevasse.” James rubbed his hands over his face. “I need more and I need it soon. They’re hightailing it out of here as soon as they can.”

  “You can order them to stay, can’t you?”

  “Easier said than done.” He reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “It’s getting late.”

  It was, but Charlotte didn’t want him to go.

  “Walk me to my door,” she said.

  He didn’t move for a few moments, then hurried out his side and around to hers. He opened the door and held her hand as she lit from the car. Still holding her hand, James led Charlotte up the stairs to the front door. She squeezed between him and the door, opened it, and drew him into the entry. James shut the outer door behind them. Charlotte turned the knob on the inner door. One hand around the cool metal, the other still warm in James’s, she faced him and pulled him closer.

  He swept his hat off his head, leaned down, and kissed her. Gentle at first, they touched lips, tugged with the lightest pressure of teeth. Flashes of heat traveled from Charlotte’s lips to her chest and down to the pit of her stomach. She slid her tongue along the crease of his lips.

  James’s free arm rapped around her waist. He pulled her against his chest and deepened the kiss. Charlotte responded in kind. Their entwined hands tightened around each other. She turned the doorknob and pushed it in, then rested her hand on his shoulder.

  Bodies against each other, Charlotte inched them into the house, as if they were dancing and she’d taken the lead.

  James moaned and kissed her like never before, his tongue and hand caressing softly, then stroking with intensity. Every fiber of her being demanded one thing: him.

  Suddenly, he broke the kiss and placed his forehead on her shoulder. Charlotte pressed her hand against the nape of his neck. Both of them breathed fast, almost gulping air.

  “I should go,” he said into the side of her neck. His breath heated her skin.

  She grasped his hair and angled his head so she could kiss him. “You should take me upstairs.”

  “Charlotte—”

  She kissed him again, harder, while drawing him inside the parlor. He shut the door behind them. They came up for air and stared at each other for a moment. Lips tingling, Charlotte smiled. Then without a word, holding his hand, she led him to her room.

  * * *

  The aroma of frying bacon and coffee wafted into the bedroom, urging Charlotte awake. Enticing, but the chill of her nose and the warmth of the blankets kept her in bed. She pressed her palm to the empty side of the mattress. Closing her eyes, she smiled as she recalled the glorious night. It had been everything she’d imagined it could be with James, and then some.

  Her attempt to sink back into sleep was thwarted by more basic needs. Charlotte got out of bed and quickly found her nightgown and robe. Checking the vanity mirror, the reflection showed a mass of wild blond hair surrounding a smiling face. Yes, she certainly had reason to smile. A piece of ribbon to tie her hair back, a visit to the bathroom, and she was down the stairs.

  She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched James at the stove, his back to her. He checked the bacon for doneness while he whistled, a cup of coffee on the counter beside him. Dressed in his union suit and trousers, the straps of his suspenders dangled at his hips. His shirt, coat, and hat were on one of the chairs with his boots underneath.

  “Good morning,” Charlotte said.

  He half-turned around, smiling. “Have a seat. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  She pulled out a chair and
sat down. He poured her a cup of coffee, set it before her, and leaned down for a light kiss. She cupped his bearded cheek in her palm to keep him there a moment longer. He smelled of bacon and tasted of coffee.

  “Good morning,” James murmured against her lips. He straightened and went back to cooking. “I hope you like scrambled eggs. That’s the only kind I can make.”

  “Love them,” she said, laughing. “Though I said I’d make you breakfast this morning.”

  “You can do it next time.”

  Next time.

  Yes, now that they’d slept together, she supposed there would probably be a next time, and perhaps a time after that, and a time after that, if they wished. There was only the matter of not making it public knowledge, for Becca’s sake. And being careful not to risk pregnancy, but perhaps Brigit could continue helping in that area.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, her inner voice warned her. Last time—

  This wasn’t like last time. James wasn’t Richard. And she was smarter now. They’d taken things slowly over the last several months and had been careful last night; there was no reason to think that would change. If James didn’t agree, then he wasn’t the man she thought he was. But she was pretty damn sure he was.

  “Here you go.” He set a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her and a second at the spot across the table.

  “Silverware and napkins are there,” Charlotte said, pointing to the appropriate drawers.

  He found what he needed, passed her a fork and napkin, and then sat. Both began digging in. Apparently last night’s activities had stimulated their appetites this morning.

  “What are you up to today?” he asked.

  “More tailing the film crew. Andrew wants as much day-by-day bits on them as I can get.” She shook her head as she cut a piece of bacon with the side of her fork. “Trouble is, with the murder and the room break-ins, they’re not doing a whole lot more than arguing about continuing with the film or getting out of town.”

  “Maybe that’s the angle to follow.” James took a bite of egg and toast. He swallowed. “Who’s arguing about the film being made?”

  Charlotte wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this, but she’d play along. “Cicely wants to continue, in honor of her father. Meade wants to shelve it. Some of the crew agree with one, some with the other.”

  “What about the AEC?”

  She considered what Caleb Burrows had told her about his meeting with Stanley Welsh before he died, as well as his not mentioning their second meeting. “Burrows said Welsh was going to change the story, and if he did, then the AEC would be fine with the film.”

  “Do you believe him?” James watched her over the rim of his cup.

  “Who? Burrows or Welsh?”

  “Either.”

  Neither man had ever been accused of being completely honest. Welsh had been stringing along Paige Carmichael for some time, and kept story changes from Cicely and the actors of the film. Charlotte herself had witnessed his tendency to “yes” a person, then do things the way he wanted anyway. And Burrows, well, being a lawyer meant he was probably very good at twisting words in a way to make them seem how he wanted you to hear them.

  “Neither,” Charlotte said. “At least not completely.”

  “I’m not sure you can trust anyone completely.” James dropped his gaze to his plate and scooped the last bit of egg onto his toast.

  Unease flickered in Charlotte’s chest. “Meaning?”

  He raised his head to meet her eyes again. “Meaning, we all lie, at least a little bit now and again, to make things easier. I think most people do it for the sake of others, tell white lies to keep from hurting feelings. But there’s no one I’ve ever met who’s completely honest.”

  Was he including her in that assessment?

  “Well, you are a lawman. Most of the people you’ve met are probably not in a position to be honest.”

  He laughed and raised his coffee cup. “Touché. Not that I think brutal honesty all the time is a good thing either. As long as no one gets hurt, where’s the harm in a little fib now and again?”

  What did he consider a little fib?

  “Except in the Welsh case, someone did get hurt.” She hoped that’s what he was talking about, and not the two of them.

  “Was a lie at the root of his murder or just part of the aftermath?”

  Charlotte dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “I guess that’s what we have to find out.”

  “Yes, we do.” James rose, gathered their dirty dishes, and put them in the sink. “I’m headed into the office to write up the report from last night at the Tidewater. Do you want a ride?”

  “No, thank you.” She rose and started filling the sink to wash the dishes. “I need to clean up here and write a few things myself. I’ll come by later, if that’s okay?”

  He smiled and kissed her. Not just a peck, but deeper. His hand slid from her hip to the small of her back. “Anytime.”

  James stepped away, leaving her breathless at the sink, and donned his shirt and jacket. He set his hat on his head, then slipped on his boots. “See you later.”

  This time, it was just a quick peck, and out the door he went. Within a minute, she heard the car engine balk once, twice, then finally catch.

  The normal domesticity of the last few minutes with him struck her as pleasant but . . . odd. She shook off the feeling and got to work.

  Charlotte washed the dishes, washed herself, and dressed in a simple blouse and skirt with a pair of long johns underneath. Last night’s dress was fun and pretty, but her legs had near frozen on the way to the Tidewater. She twisted her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck and pinned the strands in place. Was it time to get it cut into the latest bob fashion? Several of the younger women in town had theirs done, as did Roslyn Sanford and Paige Carmichael. Charlotte was pretty sure the fashion and hairstyles of the visitors would ripple through Cordova.

  Downstairs, she sat at the desk in the parlor and wrote up the events from last evening, leaving out her conversation with Billy, of course. No one had been arrested, so she didn’t have to worry about embarrassing anyone. Mostly she hoped the few sentences of the paragraph would warn people to be careful when they went out for a good time.

  “The Women’s Temperance League will probably come after me for even that much.”

  Last November’s run-in with Mrs. Hillman and her friends over Charlotte’s criticism of the Volstead Act had come close to costing Andrew Toliver some advertising business. He had been behind her piece, of course, or he wouldn’t have let her run it, though Mrs. Hillman’s veiled threats had given him pause. Charlotte didn’t want the Times to lose revenue because of her, but that didn’t mean she’d lick the WTL ladies’ boots either.

  Charlotte tapped her pen against the edge of the desk. The conversation with Billy replayed in her head. Heated exchanges between Meade and Welsh. Arguments with Cicely over the story, and more personal topics. Financial straits and family problems.

  Nerves were frayed even before they’d left California. Secret affairs were threatened with exposure. Careers and livelihoods were at stake. And Stanley Welsh had been smack in the middle of it.

  Charlotte wrote Stanley’s name in the center of a clean sheet of paper and circled it. She drew a line from the circle, wrote “Wallace Meade,” and then circled that as well. She repeated the process with Cicely, Paige, and Roger Markham, who had been concerned about the stunts Stanley wanted to include and angry at being ignored.

  In addition to the Californians here that Stanley had quarreled with, Charlotte included Caleb Burrows and Miles Smith. Then, a final line and circle around a big question mark, just in case she’d missed someone.

  All had motive and opportunity. The men had the means to manually strangle Stanley without much difficulty, but Charlotte never put it past any woman to cause sufficient physical harm.

  “Especially if she has help.” She added Roslyn to Cicely’s circle.

  The tw
o women had much to lose if Welsh exposed their relationship. Would he have done such a thing to his own daughter? Considering the view many took of sapphic relationships, how women Charlotte had known had to carefully conduct themselves for fear of being disowned by family or worse, it wouldn’t have surprised her if Stanley Welsh felt the threats were justified.

  As with Pen and Rowena, the shop owners here in town, perhaps Cicely and Roslyn could continue their relationship as long as their “open secret” wasn’t so open. Should it become public, there was a real threat, personally as well as professionally.

  What if Cicely had finally had enough? Enough of her father changing her stories without telling her? Enough of his harassment about her relationship? Enough of the crushing thumb of being Stanley Welsh’s daughter?

  Charlotte tapped the circle with Cicely and Roslyn’s names. Together, the two women could have overtaken Stanley and killed him, then dragged him to the crevasse. The bruise on the scenarist’s cheek could have come from a struggle. Cicely insisting to finish the film could be a ruse, or could have stemmed from guilt.

  By the same token, Paige was probably not capable of dragging Stanley out across the ice alone, but perhaps she could have gone walking with him, strangled him, and then shoved him into the crevasse. It seemed an unlikely scenario, but not impossible.

  Markham had the temper. If he flew off the handle, no one within his reach might have been safe.

  Wallace Meade took on the air of a gentleman, but he’d had a rough-and-tumble childhood, working his way across the western states to Washington and eventually up to Alaska at a young age. He’d toiled and sweated with his back and hands before trading in his denims for a wool flannel suit.

  What about Burrows and Smith? Either working together or alone, they were capable of the physical aspect of Stanley’s death. Burrows had been in the army and was trained in combat. Miles was as vocal in his anger as Markham, and he’d certainly been angry enough at the treatment of his people that, if Stanley had refused to budge, Miles may have reacted. The same went for Burrows. Though the lawyer might have a longer fuse, Charlotte got the suspicion it was attached to a powder keg.