by Cathy Pegau
Charlotte resumed walking to the rooming house, feeling the weight of . . . disappointment? Loss? Whatever it was, it slowed her steps and made the walk seem much farther than a few blocks.
She opened the door to Sullivan’s as a burly man lumbered down the stairs. He gave her a nod, then sat in one of the armchairs near the telephone table. He picked up the set and flicked the hook to get the operator. Charlotte continued down the hall to her room, giving the man what little privacy was to be had in the public space.
Unlocking the door, she pushed it open, and a piece of paper fluttered across the floor. Had something fallen off her table? After compiling the copies of her story that morning, Charlotte had filed notes and stashed them in her trunk. There was a page in the typewriter, but clean paper was boxed to stay neat.
She picked up the folded page and flicked it open.
DARCY IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.
A threat? She almost laughed. Someone was threatening her because of the questions she was asking? She’d learned nothing at all that would help the case.
But who would have sent it? Charlotte stared at the paper, rereading the line several times, though it gave no clue to the author. Only a handful of people were aware of her interest. Which one would want her to steer clear of the investigation? Miss Brigit had told her just yesterday to stay out of her business.
You need to talk to Eddington, her more cautious inner voice insisted.
She slipped the paper into her coat pocket and retreated from the room, locking her door behind her. The gentleman in the parlor was on the telephone, cooing to some loved one on the other end of the line. Charlotte hurried past him and out the door.
The rain and wind had picked up in the few minutes she had been inside. Twice she had to clamp her hand atop her head to keep her hat from blowing off. Did it ever stop? The few others on the street scurried by, as intent on their destinations as she was on hers.
She crossed to the federal building, knocking as much mud from her boots as she could before entering the marshal’s office. James Eddington looked up from the desk where he smoked a pipe while reading papers. The sweet, earthy tang of tobacco and leather hung in the air. The room held the deputy’s desk, a chair for visitors, a long bench along the far wall, and a filing cabinet. One door led to Marshal Blaine’s office; another was simply marked JAIL.
“Miss Brody,” James said, rising. He set his pipe down. “What can I do for you?”
Charlotte removed her hat and tried to smooth down her hair as best she could. She probably looked a fright, dripping wet and windblown, rushing in like her tail was on fire. She withdrew the somewhat crumpled and damp paper from her pocket. “I found this in my room.”
James glowered as he came around the desk and took the note from her. The aroma of pipe tobacco clung to him, not in an unpleasant way.
“I was out most of the morning and just got back from talking to Michael.”
The frown deepened when James read the six words. Then his body stiffened, and his hand clenched. “What have you been doing that’s related to the case?”
Charlotte swallowed hard. She’d expected the question, and knew he’d be displeased with her answer. “I spoke to Brigit and Marie. Mostly Marie. I asked her if there had been anything bothering Darcy in the last few days or weeks.” His expression darkened into a scowl, as she’d also expected. “You admitted you hadn’t gotten everything you thought you could from her. I just wanted to help.”
“You must have learned something that someone didn’t cotton to.” His frustration and anger were coming out in the increasing thickness of his Southern accent. “What did Marie say?”
Charlotte told him what Marie had said about Darcy’s not being as concerned with making money as the others. “That was about it.”
“So Brigit knew you were looking into Darcy’s death, and at least five men at the Edgewater saw you chatting with Marie.” James narrowed his gaze, gauging her for truthfulness. No, she wasn’t telling him everything Marie had said—she’d promised she wouldn’t—but Charlotte wasn’t lying either. “Anything else? Anyone else know?”
“I had lunch at the Bartletts’ yesterday, with the Kavanaghs and the Landrys.”
Three of Cordova’s upstanding families. Surely there was no harm in their knowing.
But James’s face darkened. “The mayor knows you’re asking questions while I’m investigating an open murder case?”
“No, of course not. But he knows I spoke to you about that night, and that I helped Michael. I told them I’m interested in seeing the case solved.”
He shook his head and stomped back to the desk. “Damn it, Charlotte.” He slapped the note down onto the open file. “Someone in this town beat a girl to death and knows you’re poking about. How the hell am I supposed to keep you safe?”
“I’m trying to help.” He was concerned for her safety? She hadn’t learned anything worth threatening bodily harm over.
He sighed, then rubbed his hands over his face. “I know, but obviously someone feels you shouldn’t, or you’re getting too close to something. Even if you aren’t in danger, they’re skittish now, and that makes my job all the more difficult.”
“Oh.” Guilt flushed her cheeks. She approached the desk, stopping on the opposite side. “I’m sorry, James. I had no intention of doing anything like that. I didn’t think word would get out so fast.”
“Small town,” he said, “with nothing as exciting as this happening in a long while. Ears are everywhere.”
While that could be advantageous for gaining information, it worked against the lawman as well.
“I guess you want me to stop nosing around.”
James crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the desk. “That would be ideal, yes.”
She crossed her arms as well. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Why not?” he growled.
“If information is out there that will help you catch the man responsible, I’m going to make sure it’s revealed.”
“Revealed, not sought. Revealed. To me, Charlotte, or to Marshal Blaine.”
Charlotte’s jaw tightened, and she pressed her lips together. “I have the right to investigate a story.”
“But not the right to jeopardize an open case.”
Her righteous indignation faltered. “No, of course not.” She gestured toward the desk. “I brought the note, didn’t I?”
He nodded. “You did, which only proves my point. You need to step back, for your own good. The person who wrote this likely killed a girl. I don’t want you anywhere near that animal.”
Charlotte glanced at the note. Images of Darcy, bloody and bruised, flicked through her mind like a picture show. The note with its single line of six simple words took on a more ominous tone. Would the killer come after her? James believed so. She’d never backed down from dangerous assignments, had even waded into riots. Rocks through the window were one thing. A threatening note left in her room made it all too personal.
“I’ll be careful,” she said.
“Somehow I doubt that.” He snatched his coat and hat off the rack behind his desk. “I’ll walk you home.”
“I don’t think a police escort is necessary, Deputy.”
Ignoring her, James held the front door open and stood aside, waiting for her. Charlotte rolled her eyes, making sure he knew exactly how she felt about his overprotective gesture, and led the way out.
They walked back to Sullivan’s with nary a word passing between them. She had to admit, she felt safer walking beside him, but who wouldn’t feel safe with a six-foot-tall man carrying a large pistol escorting them home?
He held the front door open for her, then closed it gently behind them. “Did you ask Mrs. Sullivan if she heard or saw anything?”
“No.”
James strode to the landlady’s door and knocked respectfully, not pounding on it as he had to rouse Charlotte two days in a row. Mrs. Sullivan answered, and he swept the hat off his head.
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Deputy.” She glanced between him and Charlotte, worry on her face. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all,” he said. Charlotte admired the way he was trying to keep Mrs. Sullivan at ease. No sense in frightening the woman. “I was just wondering if you’d seen or heard anyone down by Miss Brody’s room earlier today.”
Mrs. Sullivan peered down the hall, as if she’d find someone lurking there now. “No, I haven’t, but I was feeling a bit under the weather until late this morning and stayed in bed.” She gave Charlotte a beseeching look. “Was there trouble, dear? Did someone try to get into your room?”
“Nothing like that, Mrs. Sullivan.” She smiled to reassure the woman. “I think there was someone looking for me, that’s all.”
True enough.
“Make sure any visitors check in, Charlotte,” the landlady said. She gestured toward the parlor. “Rules are clear as day in the parlor.”
“I’ll let them know.”
Mrs. Sullivan nodded curtly. “Anything else, Deputy?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll just escort Miss Brody to her room, then be on my way.”
She gave them a look that said there’d better not be any hanky-panky, then shut her door. James followed Charlotte, standing behind her as she unlocked and opened the door to her room. She turned around to see him in the doorway, scanning the room as if he expected someone to be inside.
“You didn’t have to bring me to my door,” she said. Charlotte placed her hat on the table and unbuttoned her coat.
James clutched his hat in both hands. “I don’t mind. Besides, I needed to ask you something.”
“I can’t imagine what else there is to know.”
“I need to know if you’ll have dinner with me tonight.” She stared at him, blinking. Was he teasing her? There was no glint of amusement in his blue eyes. In fact, he appeared all too serious. Uncomfortable, even, as he gripped the brim of his hat. He cleared his throat. “I guess that wasn’t really a question. Miss Brody, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight?”
“I—” She should say no. They hardly knew each other.
But wasn’t this how people got to know each other? Over dinner? Was she even ready to get involved with a man again?
It’s just dinner.
“I’d be delighted, Deputy Eddington.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of his motive. “Unless this is your ham-handed way of making sure I stay out of trouble.”
His brow furrowed for a second, then smoothed out when he smiled. “It’s not. Not entirely.”
He winked, and she laughed, the awkwardness of the last few minutes fading.
“I’ll come collect you at seven thirty,” he said, putting his hat back on.
“What should I wear?” Charlotte hadn’t experienced much of the town’s culinary offerings and was unsure of the dress code.
A different kind of glint lit his eyes. “That burgundy gown you wore at the mayor’s party the other night. You were—” He blushed, yet didn’t seem embarrassed in the least. “Something like that would be a fine dress for tonight. See you at seven thirty, in the parlor.” He tugged the brim of his hat and strode back down the hall.
Charlotte borrowed an iron from Mrs. Sullivan and pressed the worst of the wrinkles out of a dark blue dress. The sheer long sleeves made the dress more modest than the arm-baring burgundy gown, but it was appropriate for a friendly dinner. Besides, the burgundy gown had to be laundered after all the dancing she’d done in it. She’d rather disappoint James by wearing a different dress than offend his senses with a soiled gown.
She slipped the silk over her head and smoothed it down. The slightly flared skirt fell to just above her ankles, showing the leather shoes she hoped wouldn’t be ruined in the mud. The rain had eased late in the afternoon, though Mrs. Sullivan predicted the lull wouldn’t last long.
A few essentials in her clutch purse, and Charlotte was ready. Well, as ready as she could be for a date, if that was what this was. But what about outerwear? Her mackinaw and hat were fine for daytime traipsing through town, but not for an evening out. Back home, she’d risk wearing a less protective garment and her cloche, knowing a taxi would be nearby. There was no such luxury here.
“Mackinaw it is,” she said, draping the practical coat over her arm. Giving in to vanity and fashion, she left her heavier hat on the hook and donned her cloche before locking the door behind her.
Mrs. Sullivan waited in the parlor. She smiled at Charlotte. “You look beautiful, dear.”
Charlotte smiled back and rested her hand over her thudding heart. Why was she so nervous? It was just dinner. “Thank you. I wish I knew what sort of restaurant we were going to.”
The landlady giggled like a schoolgirl. “You don’t have much choice here, I’m afraid. Either the Windsor Hotel or The Wild Rose. The cafés and other restaurants close by six.”
Charlotte hadn’t heard of The Wild Rose. Before she could ask about it, the door rattled open, and James stepped inside. He swept his hat off and smoothed his dark hair back as he shut the door. Gone was the seemingly permanent shadow of a beard. Clean-shaven cheeks emphasized his square jaw. His blue eyes assessed Charlotte, and a slow smile curved his lips.
She felt her heart flutter.
When their eyes met, he was flat-out grinning. “Hello.” He laid his hat on one of the chairs and took her coat to help her don it. “I hope you don’t mind walking a little.”
Mrs. Sullivan leaned close. “The Wild Rose,” she whispered, nodding with approval.
“I don’t mind,” Charlotte said, buttoning her coat.
James glanced down at her feet. “We’ll avoid as much mud as we can. I’d hate to see your shoes or that fine, fine dress ruined.”
“So would I.”
They didn’t say anything for several moments, just stared at each other. Heat blossomed in Charlotte’s chest and up her neck to her cheeks. Why was he looking at her like that? Why was she looking at him like that?
Mrs. Sullivan cleared her throat. “No visitors after nine. The door will be locked, and I’ll hear you come in.”
The gentle reminder broke their temporary paralysis.
“Of course,” Charlotte said. James picked up his hat and opened the door. “Good night, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Good night,” she called after them. “Have a lovely time.”
On the walkway, James offered Charlotte his arm. “It’s a couple of blocks up the hill from here.”
They strolled up the street, greeting others taking advantage of the break in the weather to get out and about or run last-minute errands. Light spilled out of the large front window of The Wild Rose. When James opened the door for her, delectable aromas wafted out into the cool night.
Five of the seven tables in the front room were occupied by smartly dressed men and women. A man of about forty in a black suit met them at the door.
“Good evening, Deputy. Glad to see you’ve finally made it.”
“How could I resist after all your boasting? Will, this is Miss Charlotte Brody.”
The maître d’ bowed slightly at the waist. “Nice to meet you, Miss Brody. Let me take your hats and coats.”
James helped her off with her coat, then handed both their garments to the man, giving Charlotte the opportunity to see his attire. He’d changed out of his heavy wool shirt in favor of a fitted white cotton one with a high collar and even wore a necktie. From his slicked-back hair to his black suit, waistcoat, and trousers, and down to his polished leather shoes, James Eddington appeared more the dandy than the deputy.
He faced Charlotte and caught her eying him. “I do clean up once in a while,” he said with a crooked smile. “For special occasions.”
She pinched the side of her skirt and dipped a curtsy. “I’m honored, sir.”
He folded one arm across his stomach, the other behind his back, and bowed, his blue eyes never leaving hers. “My pleasure, Miss Brody.”
There was less of a jesting air about their exchange. Or perhaps Charlotte was reading too much into his intense gaze. Deciding she was, she laughed it off and took his offered arm when Will returned to show them to their table.
Gilded pendant fixtures with crystal globes hung over each table, yet the illumination was soft enough to make the diners feel as if they were in their own little sea of light. Gold-edged china and goblets atop brilliant white table linens rivaled any settings Charlotte had seen back home. Even the dark wood of the chairs and the burgundy velvet upholstery on the seats belied The Wild Rose’s location.
“This is amazing,” Charlotte said as Will held out her chair.
“Thank you,” he replied. “My wife and I have owned it for a couple of years now. We’re trying to bring a little civilization to the wild frontier.” He winked at her and handed them each a menu after James sat down.
“With poached salmon and finger sandwiches?” James quipped.
Will laughed. “Whatever it takes. The special of the house tonight is braised pork with potatoes and garlic green beans. The razor clam soup is especially fine. I’ll have Joseph take your order in a few moments.”
Will strolled back toward the front of the restaurant, stopping along the way to chat with other customers.
“Will’s originally from your neck of the woods,” James said, perusing the menu as he spoke. “He was a chef in some fancy restaurant in Baltimore, but likes to talk too much to stay in the kitchen for long.”
“What brought him out here?”
“The same thing that brings most everyone to Alaska,” he said. “A chance to start over.”
That certainly applied to both Michael and herself. A clean slate. No one who knew anything about her past. There was no harm in trying again, was there?
“Is that what brought you up here?”
James raised his eyes from the printed sheet with its curling script. “I was born in Georgia. Came up here with my parents back in ninety-eight during the gold rush. At ten years old, I wasn’t exactly looking to start over, but I guess they were.”
