Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  Smitty shook his head. “Only the cots, linens, and Mrs. W’s blankets. She asked that we not disturb things, even though we didn’t know if or when we’d be back out. Said she’d get someone to pack their personal items later, if need be. I’m not one to argue with a widow.”

  “Understandable. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Smitty.” Charlotte smiled at the quartermaster and rose. “You’ve helped a great deal.”

  Smitty stood as well. “Happy to oblige. Mr. Welsh wasn’t always easy to get along with, but he was a decent sort. Hell, I even tried to make one of his favorite dishes. Was grateful and all, but said it was too garlicky. Thought he liked garlic.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The crewmen gathered their coffee mugs. “Smelled it on him all the time. Figured he enjoyed it. Anything else, Miss Brody? I gotta get those rolls made.”

  “Not that I can think of.” Charlotte buttoned her coat and set her hat on her head. “Thank you again. See you at dinner.”

  Smitty nodded, then turned to the cooking area, issuing orders to his assistants as he walked toward them.

  Warmed from the coffee and the heat from the cook tent, Charlotte went in search of James. The whistle of an incoming train sounded and Charlotte instinctively looked in that direction. A puff of black smoke rose from behind a low hill. Within seconds, she felt the rumble of the engine and saw it as it came into view, slowing at the nearby platform in order to make an unscheduled stop on its way to Cordova.

  There wouldn’t be tourists out this time of year. The film company had requested the railroad curtail unnecessary stops while they worked, to keep folks out of the way. Several of the film crew peered over at the tracks as a boy of thirteen or so jumped down off the train and ran toward the camp, one hand clamped down on his hat. He spoke to one of the men on the outskirts of the site. The man turned and pointed up the ice slope, toward Charlotte. The boy nodded, then ran to her.

  Charlotte’s heart seemed to still and cramp. What was wrong? Was Becca hurt? Michael?

  “You Miss Brody?” the boy called, out of breath as he approached. In his other hand he held a sheet of cream-colored paper. “I got a message for Deputy Eddington.”

  Relief washed through Charlotte, but if someone had telegraphed or telephoned up to Chitina and sent this boy down with a message for the deputy, it wasn’t good.

  “He’s in the middle of an investigation,” she said, turning toward the glacier. “Out there, I believe.”

  The boy stared out across the ice as he caught his breath. “Marshal Blaine needs him back in town right quick. Or rather, Mrs. Blaine does. She’s the one who called.”

  “Oh no,” Charlotte said with real concern. While she didn’t know Marshal Blaine very well, he almost always had a smile and a kind word for her when they met. “Is it serious?”

  “It’s his heart, I guess.” The boy shook his head. “Don’t know what shape he’s in, but he ain’t good.”

  “When does the train pass back through?” she asked.

  “Not till tomorrow.” Anything could happen between now and then. “I heard Mrs. Blaine talking to my pa over the telephone. He’s the telegraph man in Chitina. She sounded pretty dang upset.”

  Charlotte knew Mrs. Blaine to be a fairly even-tempered woman who had seen it all. If she was loud enough over the telephone that the boy heard her end of the conversation, things weren’t good for Marshal Blaine.

  The boy rubbed his arms, shivering. “What do you want me to tell the conductor?”

  Charlotte glanced at the train waiting at the platform, then up toward the glacier where she could just see James’s tall figure approaching. “Tell the conductor to wait. Deputy Eddington will be there as soon as he can to head back to Cordova.”

  Chapter 14

  Charlotte met James, who had been retracing the path the killer or killers likely took to dispose of Stanley Welsh. He was taking the route in reverse to help see things from a different angle when Charlotte stopped him. She relayed the verbal message about Marshal Blaine, as well as handing him the paper that had been delivered. He read it over, his brow creases deepening.

  “I told the boy to have the conductor wait for you,” Charlotte said.

  He stopped reading and met her eyes. “You should come back with me.”

  She shook her head. “I have a story to finish.”

  “And I have a murderer to catch. A murderer who is likely out here with you.” There was concern as well as anger in his voice.

  Charlotte drew a slow breath, tamping down her own worry and agitation. “James, the Blaines need you there. Mrs. Blaine asked for you specifically.”

  The hardness in his eyes softened some. He had worked for the marshal for several years and knew the Blaines weren’t the type of folks to get upset over nothing.

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  Charlotte wasn’t quite sure if he meant leaving her there or having to deal with Marshal Blaine’s illness. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek against the front of his mackinaw. His arms encircled her shoulders.

  “I know,” she said softly. “Come on.”

  Without so much as a word of agreement or discussion, they continued along James’s original path back to camp, exchanging thoughts on the case. It wasn’t a direct line to the tent where he would need to collect his gear, and the conductor was probably getting antsy waiting, but neither James nor Charlotte were too concerned about another few minutes.

  As they approached the dog pen, the six canines gave them a hopeful look of escape but soon went back to snoozing in their hay piles when neither James nor Charlotte made any effort to engage them. Even Byron, Dave’s brutish-looking but friendly wheel dog, did little more than thump his tail.

  “I spoke to Mrs. Welsh and Smitty.” She told James about Welsh’s allergy and the locked supply shed. “Unfortunately, the killer managed to cover up the fact their second wool blanket had been dropped in the crevasse.”

  “That pretty much confirms that Welsh didn’t go out on the ice alone,” James said, “but doesn’t give us anything in the way of a direction to follow toward who did it.”

  They walked between the supply sheds and the main tent, both alternately scanning the snow-packed path and the temporary buildings.

  “Whoever did it,” Charlotte said, “likely dragged him behind the meal tent, past the supply sheds, then past the dogs before heading onto the ice. That way the big tent would hide them if anyone was out and about.”

  “Chances of anyone being out are small in the middle of a frigid night.”

  “True, but would you want to risk being seen by some brave soul with a small bladder?”

  James laughed. “No, I suppose not.” His amusement didn’t last long. “I can’t see anyone being capable of dragging a body far before they’re winded, somewhat slick surface or no.”

  Charlotte considered the tents nearest the ice. “Mine and Becca’s. Cicely and Roslyn’s is beside us, closer to the mess. Behind us were Paige and Elaine, and the Welshes behind Cicely’s. Past those, Peter and Roger, and Meade’s.”

  “Burrows and Smith and the rest of the company were farther away,” James said, pointing to the right. “Over there?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “If Cicely or Roslyn had killed him in their tent, do you think they would have dragged him all the way to the backside of the mess, past two other tents?” James asked.

  Charlotte shook her head. “That does seem rather silly. If I had just killed a man and wanted to get rid of the body, I’d do it as quickly as possible.”

  “Exactly.” He set his hands on his hips. “Why were the tents assigned as they were?”

  “Mrs. Welsh wanted to be away from the front of the main tent so she wouldn’t have to hear the company coming and going,” Charlotte said. “But Stanley was experiencing a stomach ailment, so he wanted to be somewhat closer to the latrine.”

  “Not the most pleasant location, but with everyth
ing freezing the smell wouldn’t be bad.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You haven’t lived with an outhouse in the summer,” he said. “Winter isn’t so bad, though.”

  “Thank goodness for indoor plumbing.”

  James started forward and Charlotte kept in step with him. He walked the trodden path between the mess tent and the line of three others.

  “Are these still assigned to the same folks?” he asked.

  “The one Becca and I was in is currently empty, but I think so.”

  Cicely and Roslyn’s was first. James quietly circled the tent, looking at the canvas, the ground. He lifted his head and looked out toward the ice field.

  “Not ideal to drag a body directly from here,” Charlotte said. “But scared, desperate people do odd things.”

  “That is true,” James said, bringing his gaze back to her. “The straw scattered in front of the dogs’ pen, and the fact there’s some imbedded in the blanket that went into the crevasse with Welsh tells me the body was dragged closer to there, not directly from here.”

  “Around the back of the main tent?” Charlotte imagined Cicely and Roslyn taking Welsh all the way behind the mess tent, then along the path between the supply sheds and in front of the dog pen. Would they have considered the longer, more strenuous route less of a risk than directly going out on the ice? Between the two of them, they could have. “I think they’re still suspects.”

  James nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. “All circumstantial theorizing, though. Not a shred of physical evidence to connect them to the body.”

  “Except for Cicely’s bruise.” Charlotte didn’t quite believe that the scenarist had been injured while she and Roslyn were rehearsing, but no one could prove otherwise.

  “Still not evidence,” he reminded her, “unless someone can corroborate its origin, and no one can.” Seeing nothing more, he moved on to the next tent. “The Welshes?”

  “Yes, though Carmen was probably in a drugged sleep while Stanley was being killed, she thinks she woke up for a moment and saw him fumbling at his things.”

  “So she says.” James’s voice held more than a hint of disbelief, as his job required.

  “Paige didn’t believe it either, but I don’t trust her to tell the complete truth.”

  “You think Carmen could have killed Stanley and dragged him to the crevasse alone?” Now he sounded incredulous, and Charlotte couldn’t blame him.

  “Who said alone?” She gestured to the camp. “There are able-bodied men all over the place. A few kind words, promises, and a payoff could get a woman some muscle.”

  “Like the men who beat the hell out of York,” James said.

  Charlotte hadn’t considered Carmen as a suspect in the assault on the actor, but it wouldn’t be unheard of for a woman to hire someone to take care of physical jobs for her. Especially one who didn’t seem to like to get her hands dirty. “Possibly, but again, no evidence against her for either crime.”

  “She was very cooperative regarding her husband’s personal belongings, letting me look through their tent. What sort of killer allows that?” he asked.

  “A very shrewd one,” Charlotte said.

  “Maybe. That’s Meade’s tent at the end.” James led the way to the producer’s tent. “Convenient to the back of the mess and the path in front of the dog pen.”

  “He’s strong enough,” Charlotte said. “When we were unloading the freight that first day, Meade pitched in and handled some very heavy boxes on his own.”

  “Motive is good too, if what your fresh-faced boy Billy said about Meade and Welsh fighting over money is true.” James frowned at something on the tent wall. “What’s this?”

  Charlotte stepped closer. A dark brownish smear marred the canvas. “Is it blood?”

  He scraped at the edge of the mark with a fingernail. “Looks like it. But no way to know whose.”

  Stanley Welsh didn’t have much in the way of visible injuries, Charlotte recalled. The worst injury was on the side of his head. “Unless Stanley rubbed his head on Meade’s tent after he was dead, I wouldn’t think it was his.”

  James wiped his hands on his trousers. “It may—”

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Wallace Meade asked loudly from behind them.

  Both Charlotte and James turned. Meade strode down the path between the mess tent and the three sleeping quarters.

  “What’s this on your tent?” James asked, gesturing toward the mark.

  Meade came closer and squinted at the smudge. “Blood,” he said matter-of-factly.

  He held up his right hand and gingerly removed the glove. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his hand. He showed James and Charlotte the palm and its dime-sized red blotch. As he shoved his hands into his pockets, Charlotte glimpsed a similarly sized mark on the back of his hand.

  “I was going through some correspondence and my letter opener slipped. Nasty jab, it was.” Meade eyed them both. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  Plenty, thought Charlotte, but when she caught James’s eye she noted the slight shake of his head. She held her tongue. James straightened to his full six-foot-plus height, his blue eyes hard.

  “I’m doing what the territory and federal governments have charged me to do, sir,” he said to Meade. “The fact a man died on your site as the result of foul play should concern you.”

  The producer stiffened, his eyes narrowing, but then he seemed to realize who he was, in fact, speaking to. His shoulders dropped slightly. “My apologies, Deputy. If there’s anything more I can help you with, just let me know.”

  James tugged the brim of his hat. “I’ll do that. Good day.”

  He and Charlotte stepped aside to allow Meade to enter his tent. His gloved hand grasped the canvas right over the bloodstain. At least they knew it was Meade’s blood and how it got there. But something about the wound niggled at Charlotte.

  Charlotte took James’s arm and drew him back to the Welshes’ tent. She lifted the cover over the opening. A smear, similar to the one on Meade’s tent, but smaller.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think it’s odd that the two tents have the same sorts of stains. And that Meade must use one helluva letter opener,” Charlotte said. “How did he get blood on both sides of his hand? Fighting with Stanley?”

  James shook his head. “Probably not. When people fight, both parties tend to end up with some sort of wound. Scrapes or bruises. Welsh didn’t have anything on his hands, and the bruising your brother found was concentrated around his neck, not on his face or body.” He grinned at her raised eyebrow. “Yes, I have noted such things in my personal experience, both as attacker and defender.”

  “So however Meade sustained the injury, it wasn’t in a fight or with a letter opener. And why is there blood on the Welshes’ tent?” Charlotte heard voices coming from the front of the mess tent. It sounded like the company was taking a break from the morning’s film schedule. “Still, not much to go on.”

  “Other than that Meade is lying,” James said.

  “But why?”

  “That’s a very good question.”

  He turned her so they faced each other. Staring into her eyes, he caressed her from shoulders to elbow. “Come back to town with me. I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re safe.”

  It was tempting to say yes, but he wasn’t the only one with a job to do. “It’s only a few days. I’ll be fine.”

  “A lot can happen in a few days, in a few hours,” he said, his brow furrowed. “At least promise to just watch and listen.”

  “I’ll be careful.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him, not quite agreeing to what he’d asked for. “Come on, the conductor’s waiting.”

  * * *

  After saying good-bye to James, Charlotte joined the company when they returned to the glacier for filming. Cicely’s revision of the scenario dispensed with Roslyn’s
character Dorothy falling into the crevasse. Understandable, considering the circumstances. Now, there was a rogue working for the evil mining company who kidnaps Dorothy. He was currently holding her at gunpoint while the cameras cranked and she waited to be rescued by Peter’s character Lawrence and his Native friend Lewis.

  Peter moved normally, as far as Charlotte could tell, but he was definitely uncomfortable. His periodic winces added to Lawrence’s concern over Dorothy.

  “What do you think?” Charlotte asked Caleb Burrows, who stood with her.

  Arms crossed, Burrows watched the action play out on the ice. “Better. The partnership between the men is preferable to when they had Lewis being a ridiculous caricature.”

  Cicely called for a stop in the action via the megaphone, then spoke to the players and crew without the cone. A very different approach than her father.

  “Do you think that would have been so if Stanley hadn’t died?” Charlotte asked. She watched the lawyer’s face, but he didn’t react other than pressing his lips together in thought.

  “Doubtful,” he finally said, eyes still on the crew. “Welsh was a good one to make vague promises, then conveniently forget what he’d said. Unless we got it in writing, signed in blood, I doubt Stanley Welsh would have followed through.”

  Paige Carmichael had said essentially the same thing about Welsh’s promises to her. He always found excuses to go back on his word. That pattern had certainly made Paige angry.

  “Let’s do it again,” Cicely called out. “Ted, you have Roslyn at gunpoint after chasing her onto the ice. Good. Now, Peter and Lewis, come on scene. Ted, you turn and see them. Peter, go after the gun. You’re fighting over it and boom! It goes off.”

  All of the players froze, eyes wide.

  Only Roger Markham and his other cameraman moved at all, peering through their viewfinders and cranking. The second man, engrossed in the scene, suddenly tripped and slid. As he fell, he curled his body in an effort to cradle the expensive camera. Taking the brunt of the fall on his back, however, he hit his head. The camera bounced against his shoulder and landed on the ice with a crack of wood and glass. The door to the housing popped open and a reel of film rolled out.