Murder on the Last Frontier

by Cathy Pegau

  Charlotte set the menu aside and clasped her hands together at the edge of the table. “That’s quite a change, especially for a young boy.”

  “Not that I had a choice or a chance to state my opinion. My brothers and I did as we were told, went where we were told to go.”

  Joseph arrived and took their orders, the special for both. After he departed, Charlotte and James exchanged bits and pieces about their younger years. Having grown up in a more urban setting, she was equal parts delighted and amazed at the antics James and his brothers had engaged in. She, in turn, explained that there were certain expectations for girls in her parents’ social circle, even if the Brodys were more liberal in their attitudes.

  “So you were a good girl, were you?” he asked.

  “Well . . .” A few of her more daring actions came to mind. Like the time she and Kit snuck out while Charlotte was spending the night at the Camerons’ and the two of them went for a late-night swim in the river half a mile away. James smiled and shook his head.

  Joseph returned with their meals, saving Charlotte from relaying the part in which they had ducked behind a hedgerow to avoid the constable patrolling the neighborhood. The waiter asked if there was anything else they needed, then departed to attend to other diners.

  Charlotte laid her napkin on her lap and waited for James to do the same so they could begin eating. The aroma of the pork and roasted potatoes was too tantalizing to resist for long. But James didn’t touch the white linen cloth.

  “Not going to tell me more about your midnight swim?”

  “I’m sure my silly, girlish endeavors won’t hold your interest, Deputy.”

  He narrowed his gaze, studying her, then snapped his napkin open before laying it on his lap. “I’m sure there was never anything silly about you, Miss Brody.”

  She felt a flush rise to her face. What was he doing? Flirting?

  They ate in silence for several minutes, then James looked up from his plate. There was an intensity in his gaze that set her stomach a-flutter. “What?”

  “Why are you here, Charlotte?” His curiosity seemed genuine, not just a way to make conversation.

  She couldn’t tell him the real reason, could she? So she made a joke of it instead. “Because you asked me to dinner.”

  His wry grin told her he recognized what she was doing, but it didn’t deter him in the least. “You’ve come to visit your brother, but that’s not everything, is it?”

  She took a sip of water, then carefully set the glass down. Delay tactics wouldn’t work for long. “I’m writing a series of articles about life up here on the new frontier, particularly from the point of view of women.”

  “You’ll be talking to some of the gals who’ve been here a while then.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I’ve had lovely conversations with Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “As well as more recent arrivals, like Brigit and Marie.” There was no hint of his earlier unhappiness with her involvement. That was something. “But perhaps their activities here are a bit too delicate a topic for your readership.”

  “On the contrary,” she said, indignation forming a knot of heat at the back of her neck. “I plan on writing about every aspect of living in Cordova: the good, the bad, and the delicate.”

  “Think they can handle that sort of thing?”

  “Women are made of sterner stuff than you think, Deputy.” Was he intentionally baiting her or just making conversation?

  “If I didn’t know you, even for as short a time as I have,” he said, “I would not have thought you were made of sterner stuff.” Charlotte prepared to admonish him for assuming that, as an Eastern-raised female, she was too fragile to live in any but the most controlled environments. But his next words rendered her speechless. “There’s steel in you, to be sure, but also a sadness that makes me wonder who or what hurt you enough to bring you way the hell out here.”

  She stared at him for several seconds. His observation cut too close. How had he known? Was her shame evident on her face? Charlotte dropped her gaze to her plate. “It’s nothing like that.”

  Liar. She was lying to a man whose job it was to discern the truth.

  James reached toward her arm where it rested on the white-clad table, but before he could make contact, he closed his hand into a fist and moved it away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t pry.”

  Her head came up. “You’re not prying. You’re making conversation. I asked you the same thing. It’s only fair.”

  Fair, but that didn’t mean she’d tell him.

  Leaving it at that, they continued their meals. Despite the unnerving accuracy of James’s question, Charlotte found herself relaxing as their conversation flowed into more neutral topics. James was an avid reader and had enjoyed many of the same books as Charlotte.

  After the dishes were cleared and coffee was loitered over, James paid the bill, leaving a generous tip, and rose. He held her chair out as she stood, allowing her to precede him to the front of the restaurant. There was only one other party left in the restaurant. Charlotte hadn’t noticed the others departing, or whether new diners had entered. Will asked if they had enjoyed their food—they assured him they had—then retrieved their coats and hats.

  James helped her don her coat and hat before putting on his own. Will held the door open and bade them both good night. The rain had picked up again, and Charlotte lifted her collar against it. Her cloche wouldn’t be much protection against the rain.

  As if reading her mind, James plucked the flimsy hat off her head and set his wide-brimmed hat on it, startling her as the crown dropped over her eyes. She lifted the front and blinked up at him. He smiled, his face mottled in light and shadow.

  “Don’t want you getting soaked through or ruining your nice hat on the way home,” he said, handing her the cloche. He threaded her arm up under his.

  “What about you?” Charlotte had to keep the hat tilted up a little so it wouldn’t cover her eyes again.

  James shrugged. “I won’t melt.”

  “Neither will I,” she said.

  But when she moved to take his hat from her head, James caught her hand. “Indulge my archaic notions, won’t you, Miss Brody? Just this once?”

  Charlotte lowered her hand. “I guess a sincere act of chivalry won’t offend my feminist senses much.”

  James grinned and made a sweeping gesture for them to be off.

  The short, muddy walk back to Sullivan’s required constant vigil against puddles and slick walks. Her poor shoes would be ruined if she didn’t remember to clean them off as soon as she got to her room. There was hardly a soul on the street when they stopped at the door.

  Charlotte dug her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door. She faced James. The awning overhead kept the rain off them, but he was soaked. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and water dripped off his nose.

  “Thank you for the wonderful dinner and fine conversation. And for the use of your hat. You didn’t have to.”

  “But I wanted to.”

  Charlotte grasped the brim of the hat to return it to him. James covered her hand with his, the calluses on his palm gently scratching the back of her hand. He leaned in, ducking under the brim, and kissed her.

  His sweet tobacco and leather scent, and the tangy bite of his aftershave surrounded her. She closed her eyes and pressed forward. Not parting her lips beneath his, but definitely telling him . . . something. Could it be called stealing a kiss if she allowed it? She felt James’s other hand at her shoulder steadying her, not pulling her to him.

  This was more than the “friendly” dinner she had expected. Part of her enjoyed the attention, the sturdiness of him, but another part warned her that this was similar to the way things had started with Richard. Charming, witty Richard, whom she’d met at a suffrage meeting, then later at fund-raisers, dancing like Vernon Castle. He’d made her think he was one of those rare men who supported the cause. The prospect had fooled her complet
ely, right into his bed.

  James wasn’t like that bastard, was he? Charming in his way, yes. Witty, yes. But would letting him get closer prove to be just as painful?

  All too soon—or not soon enough, she wasn’t quite sure—he straightened, breaking the kiss. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, more like gauging her reaction. Did he expect an invitation of some kind? Another kiss?

  Charlotte didn’t move.

  James took the hat from her head, placed it on his own, and stepped back. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before lowering his hand. “Good night, Charlotte. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be sure to lock the door behind you.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  Such normal conversation while her brain whirled.

  He touched the brim of his hat, waited for her to go in and secure the door, then walked down the dark street. Charlotte watched him through the parlor window, her forehead pressed against the glass and butterflies dancing in her belly. When he was lost to shadow and distance, she closed her eyes and tried to figure out what to do next. What it meant. Just act normal and see what tomorrow brings.

  Charlotte turned from the window and headed to bed, realizing as she walked down the hall that she was smiling.

  Chapter 9

  It was the perfect day for a funeral. Low, heavy clouds obscured the surrounding mountains, and a steady drizzle added to the current state of saturation. A flock of crows mobbed a bald eagle, chasing it across the gray sky, as Charlotte made her way to the Red Dragon social club.

  A murder, Charlotte remembered. A flock of crows is called a murder.

  The plain pine casket sat on a long table at one end of the room. Brigit read a short eulogy for Darcy. She hadn’t felt right about having the gathering at the house, Marie had told Charlotte as they entered. They couldn’t afford such gloom to impact business.

  Brigit, Charlie, and the three women of the house attended, and Mr. Manning of the Baptist church read scripture. Charlotte sat in the back of the overly perfumed room, along with a couple of men who hadn’t realized there’d be a service rather than a card game that afternoon. In the front row of folding chairs, one of the other girls kept her arm around Marie’s shaking shoulders.

  After the short service, the attendees followed the black horse and carriage carrying the casket over the quarter mile of road beside the stream connecting Eyak Lake to Odiak Slough. People stopped to watch, and some of the men even doffed their hats despite the rain, as did a couple of women wearing trousers and oiled mackinaws. Others looked on with pinched expressions, as if their day had been disturbed not by the death of a young woman, but by the inconvenience of her funeral procession on a public street.

  The cemetery at the southeast corner of town was atop a low hill overlooking the slough and the railroad yard. The procession gathered around the open grave under black umbrellas. Mr. Manning read more passages from the Bible.

  Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched, to ward off the chill in the air. If this was August in Cordova, she could only imagine what January would be like.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Michael said in a low voice beside her.

  His sudden appearance startled her. No one else seemed to notice him, their heads down while Manning droned.

  She gave him a sidelong glance, noting his dripping hat and damp coat. His face was pale and haggard. “What are you doing here?” she asked in equally low tones.

  “I was her doctor,” he said, eyes on the proceedings. “I feel responsible. If I had gone to see her sooner, maybe she would have been well enough to get away from her attacker.”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “Legally, no. Not even ethically, as far as that goes.” He shrugged his slumped shoulders and shook his head slowly. “Still.”

  Charlotte looped her arm under his in a gesture of understanding his feelings of guilt and sadness. “Some doctors see their patients as just patients.” She felt his arm and body stiffen. “I mean, you cared about her as a person, like a good doctor should.” How did Ruth think he’d be able to shove his patients off onto a new doctor? Michael cared too much about people to do that. Speaking of Ruth . . . “Does your fiancée know you’re here?”

  Lines deepened along his mouth, and his jaw tightened. “Of course she does.”

  “But she’s not happy about it.” Not a surprise.

  Michael nodded toward the preacher, indicating they should be more attentive. His diversion tactic worked, and Charlotte silently listened to the final words of Darcy’s interment. When Mr. Manning finished his sermon, the ladies and Miss Brigit each dropped a stalk of purple-pink flowers into Darcy’s grave. They slowly filed out of the cemetery.

  Brigit held Charlie’s hand and glanced at Charlotte. When the madam looked at Michael, her gaze hardened, and she stopped in front of him. “She’d asked for you, you know.”

  Was Brigit blaming Michael? How dare she? Darcy’s death had nothing to do with him. Charlotte was about to say as much, but Michael seemed to sense her anger and stilled her with a hand on her arm.

  “I know,” he said. “She deserved better.”

  “Even though she was a whore?” Brigit asked with such vehemence that Michael winced.

  “I should have been more attentive to her psychological needs, even if her physical illness was only minor.”

  The madam raised an eyebrow. “Are you admitting to malpractice, Doctor?”

  Michael shook his head. “Not at all. Just regret.”

  “I’m sure.” Brigit turned to Charlotte, who braced herself for her own dressing-down, but Brigit’s gaze softened. “Thank you for coming, Miss Brody. I’m sure it meant a lot to Marie to see you here.”

  She strode out of the small cemetery with Charlie in tow.

  “How could she blame you?” Charlotte asked Michael. “Darcy’s presumed illness had nothing to do with her murder.”

  “No, but if I’d tended her sooner, maybe she would have been working and would not have gone out of the house.” He guided Charlotte through the opening in the low, iron fence surrounding the cemetery. “Brigit’s upset, that’s all.”

  “Understandable, but—”

  “Leave it alone, Charlotte.” Michael’s harsh tone surprised her. He cast a sidelong glance her way, the softening of his gaze saying he realized his reaction had been stronger than necessary. “Sorry. It’ll blow over soon enough. Between Brigit and Ruth, I’m about at my wit’s end with women today.”

  She bumped his hip with her own. “Hey! I’m a woman.”

  “You’re not a woman; you’re my sister.”

  A burst of laughter was inappropriate after a funeral, and Charlotte managed to stifle the sound. But it felt good to have Michael talking to her like this again.

  The tap-tap-tapping of the black Royal typewriter filled her small room. It was just before nine at night, and the sun had gone down, prompting Charlotte to use her desk lamp. The next installment of her serial for Modern Woman would touch on Darcy’s murder and law enforcement in the territory. She would interview Michael and James to get their professional input for the article.

  Typing James’s name on the page, however, brought to mind the very unprofessional kiss from the night before. Charlotte shook her head, knocking the memory aside before she lapsed into a fantasy that had no right to exist. She wasn’t here for that. She was here to show readers back in the States what Alaska was like from a woman’s point of view.

  And reinvent yourself a little, like everyone else?

  She’d denied it to James during dinner the other night, but couldn’t lie to herself that easily. Of course her travels to Alaska were a way to put her past behind her. But she didn’t have to admit that to anyone else.

  The potential for dredging up more pain and memories was a good reason to leave the investigation of Darcy’s murder to James. Yet she couldn’t. Her journalistic and justice-seeking instincts overrode the desire to hide her feelings and her past. If she could help find the ki
ller, wasn’t it worth reliving some of her own anguish?

  A soft knock on the door barely broke through the sound of the keys hitting the paper-covered platen. Who could be calling on her at this hour? There were no visitors permitted after nine. Could Mrs. Sullivan be asking her to share a sherry or two now? As much as Charlotte liked the landlady, she wasn’t in the mood to be sociable.

  Charlotte smoothed a stray hair back behind her ear. She’d tell Mrs. Sullivan she was about to go to bed. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t the older woman.

  “Marie.” Charlotte couldn’t hide her surprise. She leaned into the hall. No one else was about. “What are you doing here?”

  Marie slipped past her, carrying a large floral carpet bag. “I’m sorry to bother you so late,” she said in a breathy whisper. “But I needed to see you.”

  “How did you get in?” Charlotte closed the door quietly and also spoke in low tones. She didn’t think Mrs. Sullivan would be as upset with Charlotte’s having a female visitor after hours, but she wasn’t sure.

  “I came in with someone I knew. Promised him a little something special next time he came over to the house, though I won’t be able to make good.” Her cheeks pinked with the admission. She put the bag on the chair and opened the buckles. “I don’t have much time. The ship leaves at ten.”

  “Ship? Where are you going?”

  Marie rifled through the bag, then faced her, an old, black fur coat in hand. “Got a cable. My sister’s real sick down in Seattle. I needed to give you this before I left.” She held the bedraggled garment out to Charlotte.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your sister, but you don’t have to—”

  Marie stepped closer, shoving the coat into Charlotte’s hands. “Please, it’s important. Darcy—” Her eyes filled. “Darcy told me to take it for myself if anything happened to her, but I can’t make heads or tails of it, and I can’t take—” She stopped herself, flustered, and shook her head. “You’ll know what to do with it. I have to go. Ralph’s waiting in his motorcar to take me to the dock.”