Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  “What about it?” she asked.

  The lawyer laced his fingers together and rested his hands on his abdomen. “I would appreciate that exchange and any reference to the interactions I had with Mr. Welsh be forgotten.”

  For her own sense of having a complete story, Charlotte asked, “Was your tête-à-tête with Welsh near the rubbish bins before or after he made his offer?”

  Burrows’s dark eyes widened. “How—?” He clamped his lips together.

  “The way Stanley was acting, I’d guess after.”

  The lawyer wasn’t about to say anything more, so Charlotte let it go. In the grand scheme of things, the timing of that conversation probably didn’t matter.

  Burrows was asking for something that could set a dangerous precedent. The journalist in her fought against withholding information on a story. Under normal circumstances, she would have probably laughed at his request. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He had saved her life, and the bribe money had been returned after he thought better of the conditions. Granted, the act was not completely unselfish, and it gave Charlotte good reason to be suspicious of Burrows in the future, which she certainly would be.

  “Once I write up the events of the last few days and put it all together, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage to leave that bit out.”

  Relief softened the tension in his shoulders and face, and Burrows smiled humbly. “Thank you.”

  “Though I can’t guarantee such editorial restraint if there are any further shenanigans, Mr. Burrows.” There was only so much she was willing to do.

  “Understood, Miss Brody. Should I save your life again, however, I expect a bit of quid pro quo.”

  Charlotte laughed, as did Burrows, and both winced as their injuries were taxed by their movements.

  When they recovered, Charlotte asked him something that had been bugging her since that night. “How did you come to be in the prop shed at just the right time?”

  Burrows’s dusky cheeks darkened. “Honestly?”

  “That would be preferable, yes,” she said, grinning.

  “I was headed to the latrine and saw you go into the shed. Wondered who was sneaking about. Just my natural curiosity getting the better of me.”

  She leaned forward slightly. “I tend to do that too.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “What about the AEC and the film?” Without a real legal leg to stand on, Charlotte wondered what sort of action they might take should North of Fortune turn out to disappoint.

  Burrows shifted slightly on the bed, more physically uncomfortable, she thought, than in regard to the question. “We’ll give Miss Welsh a chance to keep her promise. There are enough well-placed Alaskans down there that we’ll hear about any . . . shenanigans.” They both grinned. “If she lets us down, we’ll make a stink. It’s not a legal maneuver, but we’ll be sure to let folks know how we feel.”

  “And if she keeps her promise?”

  “Then we’ll sing her praises as an example for all to follow.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

  They spoke about the film, then other issues regarding Native Alaskans, particularly land, employment, education, and voting rights. Charlotte hadn’t realized the vast and terrible history that had shaped the current underpinning of inequity and distrust. There were wrongdoings on both sides, but the fist of the federal government was squeezing hard where it could.

  “I think the Times needs to do more,” she said, taking a mental account of the varied topics pertinent to her new home that she knew little to nothing about.

  “I’m certain Jonas—” One of the men in the room began to moan and thrash about in his bed. Charlotte started to rise, but Burrows stopped her. “He gets restless for a minute or two, then settles. It’ll pass.”

  The man called out as if in pain, bringing her to her feet again.

  “I’ll get the nurse,” she said. “Time I headed back to my room anyway. Let’s talk again before you return to Juneau, Mr. Burrows.”

  She offered her hand to shake his. He took it, smiling, but Charlotte could see that he was tired and needed rest as much as she did.

  “Absolutely,” he said, “and please call me Caleb. If that’s all right with you?”

  “It is, if you’ll call me Charlotte. Thank you again. Heal quickly, Caleb.”

  “You too, Charlotte.”

  With a last glance at the distraught man in the far bed, she limped back into the hallway. The same nurse was sitting near the window, writing on a sheet of flowery stationery.

  “Excuse me,” Charlotte said as she approached. “There’s a patient who needs some help.”

  The nurse didn’t so much as look up from her page. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

  Charlotte continued past, the man’s moans loud enough to hear from down the hall. She stopped and turned around. “I think he’s in pain. This is a hospital, isn’t it?”

  The nurse glared at her, set her pen down hard, and then stalked off to the ward.

  Dismayed and incensed by the shameless attitude of the nurse, Charlotte moved as quickly as she was able, anxious to ask the other nurse for a pen and paper.

  * * *

  Two more days in the hospital was two too many, as far as Charlotte was concerned, but Michael had insisted. She’d been able to negotiate a reduction in her stay down from the week he had originally ordered. The rest of her convalescence was spent at home, being nursed in turn by Brigit and Becca. James stopped in between runs to the glacier to gather the final details of the case.

  When he came to visit, James relayed what he could to Charlotte. The film company had been given permission to continue, and did so, though they didn’t stay at the site for the week Cicely had planned. Despite some of the crew grumbling suggestions to rename the film Fortune’s Curse, she was determined to shoot as much footage as possible. Of course the weather finally decided to cooperate on their last day on-site, but all in all, Cicely Welsh and the Fortune crew were satisfied with what they’d accomplished.

  During James’s questioning, most of the company had been terribly shocked at the circumstances surrounding Stanley’s death and the attacks on Charlotte and Caleb. The fact that Meade had considered framing Burrows for Stanley’s murder, as well as her own, defied their assessments of the producer. “Meade seemed like a decent sort,” was a common refrain. Charlotte had heard that all too often regarding the personality of a killer.

  The morning of the company’s departure, James picked up Charlotte at her house and drove her down to the steamship dock. She expected him to bring up their earlier conversation about consequences and why they mattered more now, but when he didn’t she realized what he was doing. He had said his piece, had made his feelings known, more or less. It was up to her to decide what happened next. He’d waited her out before, allowing her to decide when their relationship would move on to the next stage. But how long would his patience last? It wasn’t fair to keep him dangling.

  Their arrival at the ocean dock put a hold on those thoughts for the moment. The crowd seeing the company off was considerably smaller than the one who had greeted them. Had the deaths and troubles that had plagued the production scared off the fans? For the sake of the people involved with the film, Charlotte hoped that wasn’t the case, and that it wasn’t a shade of things to come for audience attendance once North to Fortune was released. With any luck, when news about Welsh and Meade became public, people would be morbidly intrigued and ticket sales would soar.

  James parked the car, then came around to open her door. Charlotte was still achy and tired quickly. She thanked him as he helped her out of the vehicle.

  “My pleasure,” he said, smiling as he held her good arm.

  “I don’t want you to treat me like I’m going to break, though,” she reminded him.

  He shook his head. “Oh, no no no. Never. In fact, I’m gonna have you walk back to town.”

  Charlotte would have swatted him if
her left arm wasn’t being held in the sling. Instead, she bumped his hip with hers and they both laughed.

  The aroma of salt and tar filled the blustery air. The main storm had passed, but in Alaska Mother Nature was very good at reminding you winter wasn’t over until she said it was over.

  “Miss Brody,” Cicely Welsh called out. She, Mrs. Welsh, and Roslyn came toward them, leaving the others in the crew chatting with fans and the locals who had been part of the production. “I’m so glad to see you up and about.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said. “We just wanted to come down and say good-bye.”

  “It’s been quite the time up here.” Roslyn looped her arm through Cicely’s and Carmen’s. “Wouldn’t mind coming back someday.”

  Cicely gave her friend, then Charlotte and James, a warm, sad smile. “It’s been bittersweet. When Fortune is finished, I’d like to arrange for a screening here. We’ll come back up for that.”

  “A marvelous idea.” Charlotte was surprised at her own anticipation. Perhaps seeing the final production would be the best way to prove to everyone that the film wasn’t cursed. “I’m sure it’ll get rave reviews here.”

  “I hope so,” Cicely said. “I have enough footage to put together stunning exterior scenes. With some artful cutting, I think it will be as close to Papa’s vision as I can get it and still have a story everyone will enjoy.”

  “We’ll ask Nan if she can recommend someone,” Roslyn said.

  Charlotte had no idea who Nan was or what she did in the film business, but Cicely thought the idea a good one.

  Carmen caught Charlotte’s eye. She was a tragic figure, swathed in dark wool and fur, her face pale beneath powder and rouge. “I want to thank you for finding out what happened to my husband. It was a terrible thing, but knowing helps.”

  Charlotte eased her arm from James’s and gently grasped Carmen’s hand. “I’m sorry you and your daughter had to go through this at all.”

  The older woman nodded, blinking rapidly. “We’ll have a memorial back home and lay him to rest with his parents.”

  “Did Norse Brothers take care of Mr. Welsh to your satisfaction?” James asked. Once Michael had released the body, despite several routine test results still pending, the undertakers had been tasked with preparing Mr. Welsh’s body for transport.

  “They were very kind and understanding, even when Mama asked to have Papa cremated.” Cicely wiped away an escaped tear.

  Roslyn hugged her arm closer, shared pain on her face.

  “I couldn’t bear to have him traveling in the storage hold of the ship,” Carmen said, daubing her nose and eyes. “They gave us a lovely urn.”

  James’s brow furrowed, and Charlotte knew there was something else on his mind. “I’m glad they were able to accommodate your wishes.”

  The ship’s horn blew three times, calling passengers aboard. “We’d better get settled,” Roslyn said. She smiled at Charlotte and James. “Thank you both again.”

  The three women crossed the dock together. Cicely held on to her mother’s arm as they climbed the gangplank. Roslyn followed close behind.

  Others came over to say good-bye to Charlotte and James. Peter York was as cheerful as ever, his own continued recovery evident by the greenish yellow bruises on his face. Paige Carmichael held his arm, a new light in her eyes. Had she and the actor become more than friends? Charlotte hoped they were sincere, or at least mutually agreed upon in what the publicity of their new relationship might accomplish.

  Roger Markham limped over and shook Charlotte’s hand. “Take care of yourself, young lady.”

  “I appreciate the chance to do so, Mr. Markham,” she said, squeezing his hand warmly. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

  “An old soldier like me needs to throw himself into the action now and again,” he said with a crooked smile. “Keeps us from getting soft.”

  James and Markham shook hands, then the cameraman headed to the ship.

  Arm in arm, Charlotte and James watched the passengers board for several minutes, until the wind came in over the water, sending chills through her. Charlotte shifted on her feet and grimaced when her right leg throbbed.

  “Let’s get you home,” James said, turning her toward the car. He helped her settle in the passenger seat, then cranked the engine and climbed in.

  “It’ll be nice to see them come back for the film premiere.” Charlotte decided talking about something—anything—was better than thinking about her aches or what personal topics might fill the ride home.

  “Give you a chance to dress up again,” he said, maneuvering the car back onto the road to town. “You enjoy that.”

  “And you don’t,” she said with a laugh.

  “No, but I like looking at you when you’re dressed up. Or not.” He kept his eyes on the road, but she knew he was watching her in his peripheral vision.

  Charlotte stared at his profile, the crooked nose and bearded chin, and the smirk that revealed the sense of humor he didn’t share with many.

  “Very funny.”

  “What?” His voice went up with feigned innocence.

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes at his antics.

  In the lull, Charlotte’s mind grasped at more to talk about. Not that she minded companionable silence. She just didn’t want it to inadvertently become filled with things she wasn’t prepared to address. The case seemed to be a safe topic, and something that had been bothering her thankfully popped into her head.

  “Did you find anything interesting in Meade’s belongings?”

  James shook his head. “Nothing to speak of.” He frowned. “Why? What did you expect to be found?”

  The money Meade had taken back from Welsh, but Charlotte couldn’t say anything about that without explaining where it had come from and how she knew about it. That would break her promise to Caleb regarding the bribery attempt. If that amount of cash had been among Meade’s things, she was sure James would have mentioned it.

  Which meant someone else had gotten to it first. There had been an awful lot of excitement and confusion after she and Caleb had been shot. It wouldn’t have taken much effort for someone to get into Meade’s tent and go through his things. Perhaps the mob thug who’d been sent to keep an eye on Meade? There was no way to know.

  “Just curious,” she said. She’d tell him the whole story someday, but not yet.

  “Uh-huh.” James sighed. Maybe he was getting used to her not sharing everything.

  Within a few minutes, they were turning up the hill toward her little greenhouse. Fatigue dragged at her limbs as she climbed out of the car. James helped her up the stairs. Just as they reached the door, she heard Michael call out to them from the corner. They waited for him to come up.

  “You have to stop the ship,” Michael said, huffing and puffing. He must have run all the way from his office.

  “Why?” James asked.

  “I finally got the results of those tests on Stanley Welsh’s stomach contents.” Michael followed them into the entry, and she and James proceeded to remove their coats and boots. “There was arsenic in him.”

  “His medicine had arsenic in it,” Charlotte said.

  “A lot of medicines do,” Michael said, “but the results suggest elevated levels.”

  “Stanley Welsh was being poisoned.” James’s eyebrows met over his nose as he frowned.

  “Possibly. Probably. I’d need to run more tests on the body. That’s why you need to stop the ship and get him back here.” Michael looked at James, perhaps expecting him to head back out to relay the order from the telegraph station.

  Charlotte and James paused, looking at each other. He shook his head slowly as he hung up their hats and coats.

  “What?” Michael asked. “If you can’t bring the ship back, have them detained in Juneau, or at least contact the California authorities. Someone there can run the exact same tests. Probably more exact ones, as I’m sure their laboratories are better equipped.”

>   “You released the body. Carmen had him cremated,” Charlotte said, leading the way into the parlor. She sat on the divan, suddenly weary. “Norse’s even gave her a lovely urn.”

  “Cremated?” Michael followed them in, forgetting to remove his wet shoes and outerwear. “Ashes can’t be tested as effectively.” He appealed to James. “She was probably poisoning him.”

  Via the medicine Carmen Welsh had given Paige for Charlotte? But Carmen had said the bottle was safe. Had she meant that it hadn’t been tainted or that it was fairly innocuous as prescribed?

  “That’s not what killed him,” James said. He sat to Charlotte’s right, though not so close as to be inappropriate. Was he keeping space between them to keep their current relationship from Michael or to tell her she still had the reins as far as where they were going?

  “Well, no.” Her brother seemed rather disappointed in that. “But if she was trying to kill him, that’s still a crime.”

  “True.” James crossed his legs and leaned back. He seemed almost as weary as she was. “Though not necessarily one that can be proven, let alone prosecuted, at this point. If the medicine wasn’t the source, or the only source, what else could have been?”

  “Typically, poisoners use food or drink.”

  Charlotte remembered her conversations with Paige Carmichael and Smitty, the film company’s cook and supply man. “Carmen cooked almost every meal for Stanley. Insisted on it. And when Smitty the cook tried to make him something, Smitty couldn’t understand why Stanley said he didn’t like garlic when he smelled of it.”

  Michael nodded eagerly. “Garlic, yes. His body had that aroma.”

  “I’ll wire the California authorities,” James said, “but I don’t expect they’ll be able to do a hell of a lot.”

  Michael’s shoulders slumped. “Can’t you exert your authority as marshal?”

  “I’m not the marshal yet.”

  Marshal Blaine hadn’t officially retired, though his wife was strongly suggesting it after his heart attack. If he decided to leave Cordova, then James would be his likely successor. Though whether James would be promoted to marshal was up to others, not Blaine.

  “I’ll do what I can from here, Doc.”