Murder on the Last Frontier

by Cathy Pegau

  His expression softened, and he laid his hands on her shoulders. “People go through things,” he said quietly. “Things that they can’t share. And it changes them.”

  “I know,” she said in the same low tones. “But this is us, Michael. We shared everything growing up.”

  Only two years apart in age, they’d been as close as siblings could be in their younger years. Whenever one of them got into trouble with Mother or Father, the other offered understanding and comfort. When Charlotte tried sneaking back into the house after breaking curfew, Michael had distracted Father long enough for her to scurry upstairs. She took the brunt of the punishment when playing baseball in the parlor resulted in a broken lamp.

  But the most precious times Charlotte recalled were when they had stayed up late, talking about what they wanted to do with their lives, where their travels might take them, their latest crushes. Graduation and career choices meant less time together, but it shouldn’t have driven them apart.

  What had happened?

  He gave her a sad smile. “We’re not kids anymore.”

  “Which is why we should be able to talk rather than keep things bottled up inside.” Charlotte realized what she’d asked for a split second too late to stop herself. What if he agreed? What if he asked her to tell him her concerns and struggles?

  He stared down at her, his eyes intense under the watery lamplight. “I can’t, Charlie,” he said, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard. “Not yet.”

  Disappointment warred with relief, making her lightheaded. She wasn’t ready either, but at least they each knew they’d be there for each other when the time came. “All right. We’ll leave it alone for now. But I still need to get this to James.”

  Michael rubbed his palms over his face then down his cheeks. He looked tired, and not just from the lateness of the hour. “Fine. I’ll take you to his place. Hopefully he won’t arrest us for disturbing the peace.”

  Charlotte took Michael’s arm, and he led the way down to a muddy lane between Second and Third Streets. “I doubt that will happen. James is gruff, but he’ll understand.”

  Michael grunted disagreement. He turned up a narrow path to a small cabin between two other buildings. A light glowed through the window. Good, James was up.

  Michael knocked on the door. “When did you start calling him James?”

  “At dinner last night.”

  Before her brother could comment, the door swung open. James filled the low doorway, bending to get a good look at his late-night visitors. His hair was mussed, and he wore a long-sleeved undershirt, the suspenders of his trousers dangling at his hips. One toe peeked out of a worn sock. “Doc. Char—Miss Brody. Is something wrong?”

  Charlotte’s gaze went back to his whisker-shadowed face. “Sorry to bother you so late, Deputy.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Not a bother. Please, come in.”

  He stood aside, allowing them to pass. Charlotte entered first and immediately noted the aroma of leather, tobacco, and smoke. While James hung their coats and hats on wooden pegs affixed to the log wall, she perused his tidy cabin. A book lay on the straight-back chair near the woodstove. On the floor beside the chair were an enameled mug and an open tin can. A black pipe rested on the can. Coats hung on wooden pegs; boots, snowshoes, and various trunks and boxes were stacked beneath a loft. An orange tabby sat above the ladder leading up to the loft. It scrutinized her and Michael, then sauntered into the shadows.

  “Have a seat, Miss Brody.” Charlotte handed the book—Dante’s Inferno—to James, which he set on a shelf among other tomes. She sat with the tapestry bag at her feet. James retrieved a small wooden crate and a second chair from against the wall for himself and Michael. “Can I, um, get you anything?”

  She smiled, getting the inkling social niceties were not his forte. “Thank you, no. We’re here on official business.”

  James glanced at each of them. “Is this about the note?”

  Michael startled. “What note?”

  Damnation, she’d forgotten to tell him about it. “It’s nothing to worry about, Michael.”

  James gave her a reproachful look. “Someone left a note in your sister’s room, warning her away from investigating Darcy’s murder.”

  Michael’s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I forgot.”

  He slumped on the wooden chair, shaking his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are unbelievable.”

  She and James exchanged glances. He grinned. A warm fluttering in her chest made Charlotte look away, but she smiled nonetheless.

  James told Michael the circumstances of the note. “I warned her to stay out of it for her own safety,” he said.

  “Apparently that isn’t working so well.” Michael gestured to the bag at her feet. “What is it you’ve found now, Charlotte?”

  She withdrew the fur coat and laid it on her lap. “Marie stopped by my room earlier this evening and gave me this. It had been Darcy’s.” The men appeared unimpressed by the garment. Charlotte suspected that was why Darcy had used it. No one would give the worn fur a second glance. “Deputy, do you have a pair of scissors or a penknife?”

  James gave her a questioning look, but leaned back and dug a small folding knife from his front pocket. “Will this do?”

  “That’ll be fine, thank you,” she said, taking it. It’s not like she needed to be delicate about the operation now.

  The men watched as she cut and tugged at her own poor stitching. When the gap was large enough, she reached in and withdrew one of the stacks of Federal Reserve notes. Their eyes widened. She handed the first stack to James, then retrieved the others.

  “What in the hell is this?” the deputy asked.

  “About five hundred dollars cash,” she said, “along with these.” Charlotte carefully removed the newspaper clippings from the lining. “Where did she get the money, and why was she hanging onto newspapers that feature a story that came out when she was a child?”

  She handed the pages to James and pointed out the smaller write-up on the unidentified body. Michael read through them as well.

  “Do either of you recognize anyone in the photograph or mentioned in the article?” she asked.

  James tilted the paper toward the light. “Maybe. What about you, Doc?”

  Michael reached into his inner jacket pocket for a pair of spectacles. He fit the wire earpieces over his ears and studied the page. “Is that Frank Kavanagh?”

  Charlotte’s heart raced. Michael saw the resemblance too. “Do you think so? I wasn’t sure.”

  “Let me look at that again,” James said. Michael handed the page over, and the deputy squinted at the figures.

  “I used a magnifying glass,” she said.

  James gave her a look she couldn’t quite interpret. Was he upset? Amused? It was difficult to read him sometimes. He went to a drawer near the sink. After rifling through it for a moment, he withdrew a small magnifier. Surprise widened his eyes as he studied the picture. “I’ll be damned.”

  Charlotte rose, too excited to keep still any longer. She stepped beside James and peered over his arm. “You both think it’s him. What about the women?”

  James pointed to one of the women. “That might be Brigit, but I can’t say for sure. Damned hat is in the way.”

  Charlotte grinned. “I thought the same thing. About the hats.”

  He smiled back, but it faded quickly. “The money is more than your typical lady of the evening can pull, even in this town.”

  “Combined with the pages from the paper,” Charlotte added, “it makes me think Darcy wasn’t just working for Miss Brigit.”

  “Darcy knew Mayor Kavanagh was really John Kincaid, the saloon owner. At the very least, she might have threatened to reveal that bit to his more conservative supporters.” James scanned the article again. “But I’m willing to bet she connected him to the disappearance and probable murder of Cecil Patterso
n.”

  “How long has Kavanagh been in Cordova?” she asked.

  “It was before I got here, maybe six years? He owns one of the clam canneries with a couple other gentlemen. Made a big deal of providing jobs and fair wages. He was elected to office in ’16.”

  “How about Miss Brigit?”

  James narrowed his eyes. “She came to town not long after him, I hear. You think they were in Fairbanks together. Involved in this theft case.”

  “And maybe the disappearance of Patterson, yes.” If James was coming to the same conclusion, her earlier supposition didn’t seem so far-fetched. Unless James was playing along with her silly ideas and was about to shoot them down. No, he wouldn’t do that. That was a little game Richard had enjoyed, feeding her viewpoint in the guise of agreement just to turn around and take the other side. She didn’t get the feeling James played such games. “So you think that’s what happened?”

  “Just a minute,” Michael said. Charlotte had almost forgotten he was in the room. “You’re jumping to some serious conclusions here. Even if the man in the picture is Mayor Kavanagh, or if the death of Patterson is connected to the Fairbanks trial, there’s nothing to prove Kavanagh had anything to do with Darcy’s murder. There’s no physical proof leading to anyone specific, is there, Eddington?”

  “No,” James replied, “but it would certainly be motive.”

  “Who else would be angry enough to kill her?” Charlotte asked.

  “The father of her baby, if he was a prominent man,” James said.

  She drew in a sharp breath, remembering Richard’s face when she’d told him she was pregnant. She’d been feeling poorly for several weeks, and after missing her cycle she had suspected the cause even before her doctor confirmed it. Her first thought had been that she wasn’t ready to be a mother, and that Richard deserved to know what she planned.

  His predictable shock had turned to unexpected anger. “Don’t be stupid, Charlotte,” he’d said. “Prostitutes and sluts have abortions. Or women too poor to take care of yet another brat. I can’t have you doing something like this. Think about how it would look if word got out.”

  How it would reflect on him. Would he have hurt her to preserve his own reputation?

  “I can’t think of a single man in this town who’d do such a thing.” Michael’s tone was pitched upward with his disbelief. “Not a one.”

  “No?” James raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I can.”

  “Who?” Charlotte didn’t expect him to name anyone, and he didn’t. He shook his head, indicating it wasn’t his place to accuse.

  “I’ll talk to Brigit again about Darcy’s regulars,” he said. “Maybe that’ll give us more of a lead as to who might’ve been concerned with her condition.”

  “Brigit won’t talk, will she?” Michael asked. “I mean, if men aren’t bragging about visiting her girls, they surely don’t want to be named. Some probably go to certain lengths to make sure Brigit and the girls keep mum.”

  James gathered the stacks of Federal notes, wrapped the newspaper pages around them, and set them on the shelf above his sink. “Likely, but if I press her hard enough, maybe suggest not talking will get her into trouble, that might help loosen her tongue.”

  “Or it might shut her up, and we’ll get nowhere,” Charlotte said. She met James’s glare with a calm expression that didn’t quite match how she felt. She didn’t want to risk being cut out of the investigation by irritating him, but she knew he would be wrong to push Brigit. “She’s as stubborn as they come and already on the defensive. Let me talk to her. I think she trusts me.”

  “Because of your chats with Marie.” He didn’t sound convinced, but it didn’t sound like he was dismissing the idea either.

  Charlotte laid a hand on his arm. “Let me try, James. I think I can get answers you can’t.”

  “You shouldn’t be involved in this,” Michael said. “Leave it to the marshal’s office. Right, Eddington?”

  “Your sister may have a point,” James said, holding her gaze. “Brigit doesn’t trust me or Blaine. With Marie’s leaving town, we have no one who really knew Darcy coming forward to help.” He covered Charlotte’s hand with his. “But when I say it’s time to quit, it’s time to quit. Got me?”

  Charlotte grinned and gave his arm a slight squeeze. “Thank you.”

  She stuffed the fur coat back into her bag while Michael continued to appeal to James.

  “I forbid her to do it,” Michael said with finality.

  Charlotte spun around, mouth agape. Did he actually say what she thought he did? “I beg your pardon?”

  James crossed his arms and watched the two of them. It was smart of him not to get in the middle.

  “I told you before, Charlotte, this is none of your concern,” her brother said. “You’re insinuating yourself into this case and have already been threatened once.” He crossed his arms as well, anger darkening his fair features. “I’m responsible for your well-being, and I forbid you to do anything more.”

  She stared at him, unable to believe he had said the words. James might have muttered something like, “Oh, Doc. Bad idea,” but with the blood pounding in her head she wasn’t sure.

  “You forbid me? Forbid me?” Charlotte stepped forward until she was within a hand’s breadth of Michael, controlling her breathing to keep from screaming. “I assure you, Michael, I’ve done plenty of things more dangerous than this. You’re my brother, not my keeper.”

  “Maybe you need one now and again. Someone to keep you in line.”

  Surely he didn’t mean that. Surely he was just concerned for her. He seldom tried to impose his will on her or demand she follow his direction. More often it was Charlotte trying to get him to yield to her, but that never worked either. His behavior now had become more akin to something neither of them had appreciated while growing up.

  When had Michael morphed into Father? Or Richard? Why did the men in her life insist she wasn’t capable of being who she wanted—no, needed—to be? She’d proven herself time and again. Had she made the effort to escape those men just to have her own brother take up the role of oppressor?

  Charlotte drew in a deep breath through her nose, then let it out slowly.

  “Maybe I do need someone, but it won’t be you.” She faced James and inclined her head. “Sorry for such a late night, Deputy. I’ll speak to Brigit when I can and let you know what she says.”

  “Not to worry, Miss Brody,” he said. “If you’re ever uncomfortable or feel in any sort of danger, you be sure to come to me. Hear?”

  Charlotte knew she should express her gratitude for his support and concern in a more friendly manner, but anger kept her words tight.

  “I will. Thank you.” Glaring at Michael as she passed him to get her coat, she said, “I’ll walk myself home. I need some time alone.”

  “It’s late. You shouldn’t be out by yourself,” Michael said, his overbearing attitude unwavering.

  Charlotte gave him another scowl, opened her mouth to offer a string of epithets, then snapped it shut. It would be impolite to rant like a sailor in front of James.

  The deputy laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I’d be more concerned for anyone crossing her, Doc. Let her go.”

  She donned her coat, set her hat on her head, and, nodding to James, left the cabin with only the slightest slam of the door.

  Chapter 11

  Charlotte spent the next morning at the Cordova Daily Times poring over page after page in search of information on Frank Kavanagh and Brigit O’Brien. A 1912 article about the clam cannery built by Kavanagh and his two partners, Jacob Feeney and Max Kruth, was the first mention she found, but the Kavanaghs hadn’t arrived in town yet. The paper had run the piece to let Cordovans know there would be more opportunities for employment now that the railroad was finished and men were looking for work again.

  Another article in early 1913 introduced the Kavanaghs to the populace, noting that the couple hailed from Virginia. A portrait of Fran
k and Tess Kavanagh accompanied the story, showing the couple as Charlotte knew them. Throughout the next several years, the Kavanaghs were mentioned in a number of social notations or in support of various local causes. Their standing in the community rose, culminating in Frank’s campaign and election into the mayor’s office. All the while, Tess Kavanagh quietly supported her husband and did everything right in the eyes of Cordovans, as far as Charlotte could tell.

  There was nothing on Brigit at all. Not a mention, not a line. Not even a hint of the activities that went on in the house. There were a few incidents of women being arrested for solicitation on the police roundup, but none mentioned Brigit. Not surprising for a more conservative local newspaper, the criminal element in Cordova was confined to the back pages unless a particularly heinous act occurred. Those weren’t common, but the town was less genteel than the postings on the social pages suggested. There was a seamier side of Cordova, that was for certain, though perhaps the citizens of the town didn’t wish to be reminded of the fact.

  “Finding everything you need, Miss Brody?”

  Charlotte folded the last newspaper in the stack and rose from the long table in the back of the Times office. She smiled at Andrew Toliver, the Times’s editor, chief reporter, and printer. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the forearm, held by garters, so they wouldn’t become inky when he set the press.

  “I did, thank you. Let me help you return these to the archive shelves.” She followed the rotund man to the storage room, the tang of ink and paper dust tickling her nose. “I appreciate your letting me look at these. I hope I didn’t interrupt your work.”

  “Not at all. Always happy to help a fellow journalist,” he said, hanging the more recent editions on the six-foot-tall, triangular newspaper rack set against the wall. The dozen wooden poles that crossed the lengths of the frame supported the structure and allowed the papers to be hung without creasing. Toliver grinned at her, then cocked his head to the side. “You looking for something specific?”

  When she’d entered the newspaper office three hours before, he’d been in a bit of a frazzle while setting the linotype. He’d accepted her explanation of needing information for her articles in Modern Woman with barely a word, then ushered her to the archive room. “Just getting a feel for the area,” she said. “Have you lived here long, Mr. Toliver?”