Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  “Then Welsh and Meade come here thinking their depiction of Natives as villains will be embraced,” Charlotte said. “I don’t blame the AEC for being upset.”

  James rubbed his eyes. “Upset enough to kill is what I’m concerned with. Which is why Burrows and Smith are still on the list. And why I’ve cleared it with Blaine to accompany the next trip out to the glacier while he stays here and works with the local cops.”

  It made sense to have the deputy marshal on-site to prevent further trouble and continue the investigation, but Charlotte had a sudden, unreasonable feeling he was going out to keep an eye on her.

  Nonsense. He has a job to do.

  “Maybe it’s time to get their perspective.” Charlotte drained the last of her coffee and brought the cup over to the sideboard. James would rinse it out later, as was his habit. “Do you happen to know where the AEC is meeting today?”

  “I think they usually meet at the Smiths’ house,” Michael said, “but I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Charlotte.”

  “Why not? All I’m going to do is ask.” She buttoned her coat and tugged on her mittens. “And if they don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.”

  Michael and James both stood. Michael shoved the blanket back in the bag and handed it to James. “That’s never ‘fine’ with you,” her brother said. “If I know you, you’ll find a way to get them talking.”

  James came around the desk and stood beside her, looking wary. “And possibly cause them to close ranks.”

  “Whatever they decide, it’ll be fine.” Charlotte rose on her toes to peck him on the cheek. “Now, where do the Smiths live?”

  Chapter 12

  Charlotte filed another tidbit at the Times office, then helped Andrew set the Sunday paper, as Henry had been unable to work that afternoon. At nearly four, she glanced up at the clock and made a hurried departure. Luckily, the paper was ready to go to print and Andrew assured her he could manage without her.

  She had just enough time to run to the bakery before it closed and pick up the last frosted yellow cake. Climbing the slick road as she made her way to the Smiths’ home, Charlotte hoped the cake box survived the bursts of wind and snow and wouldn’t become a sodden mess. Her mother had always told her that baked goods made visits more amenable, particularly if one dropped in unannounced. Would it work in this case? The Smiths and the AEC had no reason to invite her in, cake or no cake.

  She approached the tall, narrow house with trepidation fluttering in her gut. Charlotte had never had difficulties with anyone within, but she was unsure how the group actually felt about her. Being a reporter made her someone to be wary of, and her role as Becca’s guardian might be seen as interference.

  Straightening her hat and clothes as best she could while balancing the cake in one hand, Charlotte took a settling breath, then knocked. Mrs. Smith opened the door, her dark eyes full of curiosity. She wore a white blouse and long blue plaid skirt, her gray-streaked black hair tied back in a long ponytail.

  “Yes?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith. I know you’re having a gathering, and I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Why did people say that when they certainly did mean to intrude?

  “We’re almost finished, Miss Brody,” the older woman said, her words soft and accented. “Are you here to collect Becca?”

  “If she’s ready.” Charlotte heard voices coming from the parlor or dining room and she made a polite show of looking in that direction. “As I said, I don’t want to interrupt.”

  Mrs. Smith smiled slightly, but kindly, and Charlotte knew the woman was on to her. “No interruption at all. Please, come in.”

  She held the door open to allow Charlotte to enter.

  Inside, the voices coming from the parlor, behind a partially closed pocket door, conversed in the Eyak language punctuated with the occasional English word, like film, that perhaps didn’t translate. Was Becca fluent in her father’s tongue? She had never spoken it at home.

  When Mrs. Smith closed the door, Charlotte held the cake out to her. “A token of appreciation for helping Becca, as well as an apology for coming unannounced.”

  The other woman smiled again, inclining her head. “Thank you, Miss Brody. If you’d be so kind as to wait in the foyer, I’ll let Becca know you’re here.”

  Charlotte thanked her, angling her head to see into the room as Mrs. Smith entered it. She caught no more than a glimpse of men and women sitting in a group. The door muffled the voices, but the silence that soon followed Mrs. Smith’s entrance was telling. Charlotte could imagine the surprise on their faces at her presence in the house. Was Becca in there, just as shocked? Embarrassed?

  She’ll understand. I hope.

  Mrs. Smith returned after a couple of minutes. She smiled at Charlotte again. Surely that was a good sign. “Becca went up to gather her things. Please, come in, won’t you? My husband and the others would like to speak to you.”

  Charlotte slipped off her boots and opened her coat, but didn’t remove it. Not tracking muck into the house was one thing, but Mrs. Smith hadn’t offered to take her coat, meaning Charlotte wouldn’t be staying long. She’d have to make the best of the time she had.

  She followed Mrs. Smith into the parlor. All of the AEC members present watched her with a combination of wariness and curiosity. None appeared to be openly hostile toward her. Charlotte did her best to smile politely while making brief eye contact with each of them.

  Jonas Smith rose from his seat at the far end of the group and offered his hand. “Miss Brody. I would say that your visit is a surprise, but we had the feeling you’d be here sooner or later.”

  Caleb Burrows rose from the chair beside Smith’s, a tea cup and saucer in his right hand. As usual, the lawyer had an amused, knowing half grin on his face as he lifted the cup in his left hand and sipped.

  The three other gentlemen rose as well. The ladies—an older woman, Michael’s assistant Mary Weaver, and AEC Vice President Violet Langler—remained seated. Smith introduced everyone, and the men returned to their places, leaving Charlotte standing before them as if on trial.

  “I appreciate you asking me in, Mr. Smith.” Charlotte inclined her head, acknowledging the generosity of the group leader. He could have made her wait in the foyer. He could have demanded she leave his home. By inviting her in when she had shown up unannounced, Charlotte felt she’d been given a fortunate opportunity. Perhaps the AEC was willing to share their side of the story.

  “Becca told us you’ve been asking her more questions about her association with us,” Burrows said.

  “In an effort to learn more about her heritage and how she’s getting along, yes,” Charlotte replied. “You’re important to her, so you’re important to me.”

  Gertrude Trask, a thin, gray-haired woman in a long dress and thick leggings, shook her head. Her dark eyes bore into Charlotte. “She’s half white,” she said in reference to Becca, her accent more pronounced than the Smiths’. “How would she or you know what’s important?”

  “Isn’t Becca’s being here an indication of that?” Charlotte asked. “I have no intention of denying her knowledge of who she is and where she came from.”

  The implication that not allowing Becca to learn these things would be worse wasn’t lost in the eyes of most of the others, especially Caleb Burrows. Several nodded. Miles Smith, arms crossed, leaning against the wall in a corner, said nothing.

  Charlotte addressed the elder Mr. Smith. “I have questions, of course, and they don’t all pertain to Becca. This is your home, your meeting. Please, tell me what you wish to speak about.”

  Any information they could provide, whether about Becca’s involvement with the AEC or the Council’s feelings about the film and Welsh’s death, would be advantageous both personally and professionally.

  Smith glanced at the other members. He spoke softly to a young man in a straight-backed chair. The man rose and moved to the side, near Miles. Smith offered the chair to
Charlotte. She sat on the edge, knees together and ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap.

  “Mr. Toliver has been willing and able to keep our concerns about the film out of the newspaper,” Smith began, “but many in town know how we feel. The time has come to make our views public. Too much has happened, and with the death of Mr. Welsh, there will be rumors and speculation about the involvement of the AEC.”

  There was already speculation, at least on the part of herself and James.

  Mr. Smith continued. “It’s critical that the people of Cordova know that no member of the AEC was involved in any of the terrible things that have happened. Not in regard to Mr. Welsh nor with the incident at the hotel.”

  Charlotte avoided looking at Burrows or Miles Smith. “While I understand this, Mr. Smith, two of your members were at the site the night Mr. Welsh died. Until the culprit can be determined, I’m afraid everyone who was out there at the time is being considered.”

  “Even you?” Gertrude Trask asked.

  “The marshal’s office chiefly looks at motive and opportunity. I had no reason to harm Mr. Welsh,” Charlotte said, “so no, not me. Though no one is completely above suspicion.”

  “Our displeasure is considered sufficient motive for murder,” Burrows said, his words matter-of-fact yet filled with cynicism.

  “I’m afraid so.” There was no sense trying to hide the fact. They all knew who was out at the glacier, and that heated words had passed between the men on more than one occasion. “The deputy marshal and the coroner have been sorting through the evidence they’ve gathered.”

  No need to disclose that there was little enough of that at this point either.

  Karl Karlov, who ran one of the barbershops, glared at her through narrowed eyes. “You’re associated with both men, Miss Brody, feeding them information.”

  “I’m involved because I was there and it’s my job, yes, which means I’m seeking the truth as much as they are.” She shifted on her seat and glanced at each of them. “No one is trying to persecute anyone unjustly. We want to know what happened to Mr. Welsh. His family deserves to know. Justice is as important to us as it is to you.”

  Gertrude Trask snorted. “Justice. What do you people know of justice?”

  Charlotte’s instinct was to defend herself and the majority of people she knew, but that wasn’t what the woman wanted to hear. “I know there have been terrible things done to your people. I make no excuse for that. But I would hope you’d believe me when I say I want justice for anyone who has been harmed.”

  “She helped find the murderer of that girl last fall,” Mary said, offering Charlotte a nod of support. Charlotte nodded in return, grateful.

  “A white girl,” the older woman retorted with derision. “Would she have done the same for one of ours?”

  Mary and Charlotte held each other’s gazes. Mary knew more of Charlotte’s involvement with the later case that resulted in Becca’s situation. Was she taking that into account? Charlotte felt the weight of her judgment as well as that of the others as they looked at her. Finally, Mary gave her a small smile. “Yes, I believe she would have.”

  There were a few nods of agreement, and Charlotte felt the weight lift some. Not all would trust her, but not all whites did either.

  “You have the faith of the AEC,” Caleb Burrows said. “We’d like your newspaper to follow through on its commitment to fair treatment.”

  “I’m glad to do it,” Charlotte said, “and I’m sure Andrew Toliver will be happy to publish anything you wish.”

  “We have something prepared and ask that you and Toliver contribute support in your own words as well.” Burrows set his cup and saucer on the table, then rose. With his thumbs in his vest pockets, he paced the room as he spoke, as if addressing the court. “We will have our voices heard, and you can help. Together, we’ll explain why the depiction of Natives in the current incarnation of the film is detrimental.”

  “It would be an honor to do what I can for you,” Charlotte said. “Though this film is the tip of a very large iceberg.”

  “Large and ages old,” Jonas Smith said, shaking his head.

  Burrows stopped pacing and faced her, fire in his eyes. “What do you know of the history of whites in Alaska, Miss Brody?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.” She was embarrassed to admit that other than the basic lessons in the purchase of the land from Russia, “Seward’s Folly” as it was known, she couldn’t relay much in the way of significant fact about the interactions between peoples.

  “Whites came in here and did their damnedest to take over natural resources like fur, timber, gold,” the lawyer said. “Some would like you to believe it was all done with the Natives smiling as an equal partner, but that’s not the whole of the truth. There was no declared war or big battles, as with the Natives down south, but there were troubles and bloodshed. Yes, on both sides. Eventually, a settlement of sorts was reached. Not necessarily in our favor, but we were outgunned and just wanted to live in peace.”

  Smith added, “We’re encouraged to want the things white culture offers, but denied opportunities in employment and education to achieve those things. Our children are being reeducated away from our culture—literally taken from homes—an act as abhorrent to us as it would be to you. Yet we’re still treated as inferior when we do attempt to conform. Then someone like Mr. Meade or Mr. Welsh comes along and wishes to perpetuate falsehoods about us. You can see why we get upset.”

  Charlotte sat for a minute absorbing all they’d said. There was more to it than that, of course; they had merely given her a quick lesson in what had gone on before, what was still occurring, and why they’d had enough. She sympathized with them, and wanted to help the AEC, but there was something else to consider: Had anger and frustration manifested into murder?

  She lifted her head to say as much to Mr. Smith, then noticed Becca and Esther on the stairs. Becca’s face was drawn and pale. Was she embarrassed and angry to have Charlotte show up unannounced?

  Suddenly feeling as if she had invaded her young friend’s privacy, Charlotte rose. “I appreciate your time and willingness to talk to me. I want to assure you that Mr. Toliver and I will do all we can to present fair and balanced information regarding the treatment of the Eyak people. Not just for now, while North to Fortune is being filmed, but on any issue.”

  Burrows frowned and several of the others muttered among themselves. “They plan on finishing the film?”

  “It looks that way,” Charlotte said. She watched Becca and Esther slowly walk down the stairs. “I think Cicely Welsh will be more receptive to your request for parity.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Burrows said. “Allow me to walk you out, Miss Brody.”

  Charlotte bade farewell to the AEC members and preceded him to the foyer. Becca and Esther followed, Becca silently donning her coat while Esther whispered to her. Charlotte had the feeling it would be a cold, quiet walk home.

  “Will you be returning to the site with the film crew?” Burrows asked.

  “That’s my plan.” Charlotte pulled on her boots. “Will you?”

  The lawyer pressed his lips together. “I’m not sure. We’ll discuss it.”

  “Cicely wants to head back out in a day or so, so you may want to discuss it quickly.”

  Burrows smiled as he took her hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. Strong enough to strangle a man? “I appreciate the information. Have a good evening, Miss Brody.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Burrows.” Charlotte turned to Becca. “Do you have everything?”

  The girl nodded, unwilling to speak to her. Charlotte’s heart sank. What had she done to their relationship?

  * * *

  Charlotte endured Becca’s silence all the way home, then through supper. She didn’t bother asking any questions other than, “Could you pass the salt?” or “Do you want dessert?” These required only action or the nod of a head.

  Her own parents would never have allowed Charlot
te to get away with such behavior, but she wasn’t Becca’s mother. She was Becca’s friend. Perhaps that wasn’t the correct way to run their relationship, but now was not the time to become parental.

  But what did Becca need more, a parent or a friend? Charlotte wasn’t sure she was ready for the former, and she may have made a mess of the latter.

  At nine o’clock, while the two of them sat in the parlor reading, Becca finally broke her silence.

  “You could have warned me you’d be coming,” she said, not looking up from her book.

  Charlotte set aside her P. G. Wodehouse novel. “It was somewhat of a spur-of-the-moment decision. I wanted to talk to Mr. Burrows. It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

  Becca lifted her head, her dark eyes pained and intense. “Didn’t it? If I hadn’t been there, giving you an excuse to barge in, would you have gone then or some other time?”

  She had a point but wasn’t completely in the right.

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte said with honesty. “Yes, you were a good reason to show up unannounced, but in no way was I trying to embarrass you or spy on your meeting. I needed to know what the AEC wanted to do about the situation.”

  “And you weren’t going to ask me,” Becca said.

  “No, we talked about this. You want to keep your own counsel regarding your association with the AEC, only coming to me if you learned of anything dangerous or illegal. I didn’t go to the Smiths’ to check up on you, or imply you told me anything that prompted my visit.”

  Becca rose from the sofa, knuckles white as she clutched her book. “But they will think that. Don’t you see, Charlotte? They’re just getting to accept me, to trust me, and then you show up. Some of them will think I told you things I shouldn’t have.”