by Cathy Pegau
The man gave Charlotte a quick once-over, then pointed a thumb toward the vehicle at the front of the line, a new deep green 1920 Oakland touring car that Charlotte recognized as belonging to Clive Wilkes. His Studebaker had given up the ghost in December. The passenger side front door opened and Wallace Meade stepped out. The bespectacled young woman Charlotte had seen earlier sat beside the driver. She gave Charlotte a shy smile.
“Mr. Meade,” Jenkins said, “this is Miss Charlotte Brody of the Cordova Daily Times. Miss Brody, Mr. Meade.”
Meade stuck out his right hand. “Nice to meet you, little lady. Andrew Toliver speaks highly of you.”
Little lady? Gritting her teeth, Charlotte offered a firm grip to counter the barely there pressure many men provided when shaking hands with a woman. “He’s often spoken of you too, Mr. Meade.”
Meade’s dark eyes narrowed, then glinted with amusement when he realized she hadn’t necessarily paid him a compliment. “Indeed. Please, join us for the ride back to town.” He opened the rear door. Director Stanley Welsh and the woman he’d escorted down the gangplank sat on the leather bench seat. “Stanley, Carmen, this is Miss Brody from the local paper. Miss Brody, Stanley and Carmen Welsh, and that’s their daughter Cicely up front.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Charlotte said, shaking the hands of each of the elder Welshes and smiling at Cicely, who peered over the front seat.
Mr. Welsh slid closer to the opposite side of the car, pressing himself against the other door. Mrs. Welsh made room for her.
Charlotte climbed in beside the Welshes, notebook and pencil in hand. Once she was seated, Meade closed the door and returned to his place in front. It was close quarters in the car, considering all their bulky outerwear, but not uncomfortable. Still, Charlotte was glad it was a short ride into town.
“Let’s go,” Meade said to the driver. He then turned to address the back seat. Poor Cicely Welsh. She was squashed to the driver’s shoulder, angling her head to keep Meade from talking into her face. Meade seemed oblivious. “Toliver cabled me to say he was laid up with a broken foot, but that you’d be spot-on ideal for the job of writing up articles for the next few weeks.”
Spot-on ideal? Charlotte was amused with Toliver’s fib. He knew she wasn’t exactly thrilled with the assignment. But knowing Meade’s success was due in no small part to his ability to soft-soap folks to get what he wanted, maybe it wasn’t Toliver’s wording at all.
“I don’t know about ideal, Mr. Meade,” she said. “I certainly enjoy going to the theater, but I’m not well-versed in the film business.”
Stanley Welsh smiled. “Probably all the better for us.”
Wincing suddenly, Welsh turned his head toward the window and coughed into a fold of his scarf.
“Are you okay, Papa?” Cicely asked, her brow drawn with concern. Welsh waved her off, the coughing less intense. Cicely frowned, keeping an eye on her father.
“Film is a marvelous world,” Meade said as Welsh recovered from his bout. “Full of so much potential and growing every day. Why, I expect moving pictures will smother live theater in a few short years—”
“That would be a sad day,” Carmen Welsh interjected. “There should be both.”
Silently agreeing, Charlotte jotted down their exchange in shorthand, willing to let the conversation play out rather than interfere with questions for the moment.
“I should say so, my dear.” Stanley Welsh patted his wife’s arm. Charlotte couldn’t tell if it was in true support or as pacification in front of a stranger. And a reporter, to boot. “Carmen was a stage actress from the time she was a tot. What I think Wallace means is that as wonderful as live shows are, the ability to distribute film around the world will enable scores more to enjoy a story. Get the media to the masses.”
“Exactly,” Meade said. “Especially up here. It’s cheaper to send reels of film than casts and crews for live shows. And by the same token, why shouldn’t the natural beauty of Alaska be shared around the world?” He twisted farther in his seat to better focus on Charlotte. “That’s why I traveled from studio to studio, director to director, looking for someone who’d appreciate the natural wonder of the territory.”
“And that’s when you found Mr. Welsh?” Charlotte asked.
“Indeed.” Meade beamed at the director. “Stanley talked to Roslyn about coming in, since she’s such a crowd-pleaser, and Cicely here wrote a bang-up scenario.”
Charlotte had read the credits titles on some films, happily noting how many women were involved in productions. “North to Fortune is your story, Miss Welsh? How wonderful. Have you written many?”
Cicely’s cheeks pinked. “A few. Roslyn is under contract with the studio, but she’s popular enough now to choose her films. I’ve written three other scenarios at her insistence. We work well together.”
“Roslyn has the heart of the audiences and the ear of the studio head,” Welsh said, chuckling. “If she requests a certain director or writer, then it will be done if it means getting her to agree to do a picture. Not to mention Cicely is quite talented.”
“I’m pleased to see women with so much say in the industry,” Charlotte said. “Have any of you been to Alaska before, besides Mr. Meade, I mean?”
“No, none of us have.” Cicely gazed out the windscreen. “It’s as beautiful as Mr. Meade said. I read up as best I could while writing the story and figured we could change things as needed to remain accurate. Right, Papa?”
“Of course, of course.” Welsh waved a hand in dismissal, as if they’d had that discussion in the past. “But we also want an exciting story that grabs the audience.” He clenched a fist and raised it in enthusiasm. “Action! Adventure! Heroic deeds! That’s what sells.”
Carmen covered her husband’s fist and lowered it. “Don’t get overexcited, dear. Along with that, we want characters who people can rally behind and believable plots.”
Welsh pecked his wife on the cheek. “That as well.”
“You see, Miss Brody,” Meade said, “there’s a lot involved with making a film on location. The production company was initially reluctant to help fund the trip, but Stanley and I convinced them authenticity was key.”
“Absolutely,” Charlotte said.
“We want this film to be made with the full support of the town,” Meade continued. “Can we count on you to help with that?”
Charlotte made a gesture in the direction of the dock behind them. “You saw the crowd, Mr. Meade. I’m quite sure you have it already.”
Meade grinned. “Yes, and it was a glorious reception. But the entire town won’t be out with us when we do location shots. At least I hope not.” He chuckled at his own words. “Which means, anything reported back to them, and subsequently picked up by other papers in the States, can potentially influence the success of this film or future projects brought up here.”
Ah, so that was it. Meade wanted to make sure the Times painted things in a positive light. Charlotte couldn’t blame him, of course, but she wasn’t his publicist, she was a journalist.
“Do you anticipate any problems?” she asked.
“There’s always some sort of difficulty or another on a film,” Meade said.
“I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re getting at, Mr. Meade. Do you mean the man who shouted about fixing the story?”
Meade and Welsh exchanged looks that Charlotte could only interpret as a brief, silent argument. Carmen quirked a slender eyebrow at her husband, and Cicely seemed as confused as Charlotte. Finally, Welsh appeared to give up, shaking his head and glancing out the window.
Meade focused on Charlotte over the seat. “A month or so ago, just after we announced our intent to come up here and revealed the basic story of North to Fortune, I received a letter.”
Charlotte’s curiosity stirred. “What sort of letter?”
“Someone had disclosed the plot details of the film to the local Native group, and it found the ear of some lawyer. There seem to be concerns that th
e portrayal of Natives may be undignified,” Meade said.
Cicely’s mouth dropped open. “Mr. Meade, you never mentioned that to me. As the scenarist, I want to make sure—”
“We took care of it, Cicely,” Welsh said, his voice hard. “I told Wallace not to bother you with it.”
“Not to bother me?” Cicely turned around as best she could without impeding the driver. Her face was red with anger. “If my story isn’t accurate, or someone finds it insulting, I need to know.”
“It was just some blowhard.” Welsh gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Everyone gets these sorts of letters. If we abided by every fool who got their feelings hurt, we’d never get a film made. Don’t put that in your article, if you please, Miss Brody.”
Charlotte had stopped taking notes, but she certainly took note of Welsh’s attitude. “Who wrote the letter?”
Everyone but the driver looked to Wallace Meade. Did they not realize the man behind the wheel had ears and a mouth? Or was he being paid enough to keep mum?
“It was signed by the President of the Alaska Eyak Council, Jonas Smith, and the lawyer out of Juneau, Caleb Burrows,” Meade said. “I know the men by reputation only, and they’re no fools, Welsh, I told you that. Wrote back to assure them the film would be truthful.”
Charlotte recognized Smith’s name and the AEC, a small but growing group of Natives in Cordova who stood for fair treatment and rights on their own lands.
“Considering how Native Americans in the States are treated in film as well as in real life,” Charlotte said, “you can’t blame the AEC for their concern.”
Stanley Welsh frowned at her. “We know the Alaskan Indians are nothing like that. North to Fortune will depict them as the simple, peaceful people they are. Everyone will admire how they survive in such hostile conditions with such primitive tools and ways. Why, in the scene where the Native saves Peter’s character, the noble savage becomes the hero. For a short time, at least. And Peter teaches him to be civilized in return.”
Charlotte cringed. “Mr. Welsh, Native Alaskans are certainly not uncivilized, nor are they savages of any sort. It’s ludicrous to suggest otherwise.”
“And far from primitive, Papa,” Cicely cut in. The frown lines between her eyes deepened. “I read up on a noted anthropologist’s works and spoke to an Alaska actor about life up here. I put some of it in the scenario. What scene are you talking about? I never wrote anything like that.”
Again, Welsh offered a dismissive wave. “I thought the story needed a little more action. We’ll talk about it later. I believe we’re at the hotel. More fans—Oh.”
Charlotte peered out the window as the car rolled to a stop in front of the Windsor, Cordova’s most prestigious hotel. The four-story building dominated Second Street, promising luxury and comfort. A group of a dozen or so people bundled against the cold stood on the wooden walk near the double doors. Several in the crowd held signs that read, UNFAIR TO NATIVES and WE ARE A PEOPLE, NOT A PLOT.
Meade glared out the driver’s window. “Damnation.”
Chapter 2
The driver set the brake and hopped out, then opened the rear door for Stanley Welsh. Welsh levered himself out of the car and offered his hand first to Carmen and then to Charlotte. On the other side of the vehicle, Meade assisted Cicely.
A black Buick pulled up behind them along the walkway and the doors opened. Peter York and Roslyn Sanford emerged, along with another petite young woman. Peter smiled at the group on the walk, then, reading the signs, realized they weren’t the adoring fans who had been waiting at the dock. With a nervous nod in their direction, he made his way over to Carmen and Stanley Welsh. Roslyn also appeared to be thrown off by the presence of the silent group. She joined the lead car’s occupants, standing between Cicely and Meade.
All of them ignored the protesters on the walk, who made no effort to directly confront the Californians. Charlotte noted the AEC members murmuring to one another and glancing at two men in dark coats and hats, as if waiting for direction or for something to happen.
Though Meade and the Welshes seemed disturbed by their appearance, Charlotte was looking forward to questioning the Alaska Eyak Council. While she didn’t want to create a feud in the pages of the Times, printing opinions and points of view other than those of the masses was her favorite aspect of being a journalist. By the messages on the signs and the contents of the letter Meade and Welsh had received, she had a feeling any direct conflict would be a doozy.
“Bang-up beauty of a landscape, isn’t it?” Peter said, rubbing his bare hands together. “I hail from Minnesota. Haven’t felt this cold in ages.”
The other young woman made a face between her fur hat and collar. “It’s like hell, it is. I thought I saw a penguin back there.”
“Wrong side of the world, dear,” Roslyn said, sliding her hands inside her sable muff.
Meade frowned and cleared his throat. “Peter, Roslyn, Paige, this is Miss Brody of the Cordova Daily Times. She’ll be tagging along and writing about our stay here.” His words were obviously a warning to Paige to shut her mouth, at least in public. “Miss Brody, I’d like to introduce our leads Peter York and Roslyn Sanford, and this is Paige Carmichael.”
Handshakes and congenial smiles came from Peter and Roslyn, but Paige was too honest or not well-versed enough in public relations to hide her displeasure at their location.
“Is it always this cold?” she groused, giving an exaggerated shiver.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied. “This is my first winter here.”
From the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw one of the protesters step forward. She recognized him as the leader of the AEC.
“Mr. Welsh? Mr. Meade? I’m Jonas Smith, president of the Alaska Eyak Council.” The cadence of his speech and slight accent was familiar to Charlotte these days. Smith turned and gestured. A tall man in a long wool coat and fedora came forward as well. “This is Caleb Burrows. We’d like to know if you received our second letter and have considered our position on the matter of Native portrayal in your film?”
Meade’s smile was tense. “Mr. Smith, your concerns have been taken into consideration. If you’ll excuse us—”
“That sounds like lawyer talk,” Caleb Burrows said. He smiled as well, his dark eyes shining. Perhaps a few years older than Charlotte, he appeared to be Native Alaskan by his features. “We want to be assured the Eyak people aren’t insulted or depicted in a derogatory way, Mr. Meade. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stanley Welsh said, coming forward. Both Cicely and Carmen Welsh tried to stop him by physically grasping his coat sleeves, but to no avail. “Of course it isn’t going to be insulting. Why, once this film is released, everyone will know of the simplistic, noble, and peaceful peoples of Alaska. They’ll want to come up here and meet real Alaska Indians. You’ll be able to stand on any street corner and have your picture taken, charge as much as a dollar, I’d wager, and make lots of money.”
Cicely Welsh’s eyes widened behind her spectacles and her face paled. “Papa, please.”
Jonas Smith’s expression darkened with rage. “We are not some sort of sideshow for people to gawk at.”
“He didn’t mean it that way, Mr. Smith,” Cicely said, futilely attempting to pull her father away from the man. “The scenes will be fixed. I promise—”
“I’m the director,” Welsh said, speaking over his daughter. “I will say what scenes are to be changed.” Carmen took hold of his other arm, but he shook her off. “No one tells me how to make my film.”
He fell into a coughing fit that changed Cicely’s and Carmen’s looks of embarrassed horror to that of concern. Welsh reached into an inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a small brown bottle. Removing the cap, he took a healthy swallow, and then coughed into his sleeve.
Meade finally stepped forward, patting Welsh on the back. In assistance to his coughing or as some sort of indication of a job well done? Maybe Meade
wasn’t as upset about negative publicity as he claimed.
“Let’s take this off the street like civilized men, shall we, Mr. Burrows?” Meade reached out and grasped the other man’s right hand, smiling all the while. Burrows and Smith both glared at him. “Mr. Welsh and I will be in touch with you soon.” Releasing the lawyer, he turned away and gestured for the crew to head toward the Windsor. “Why don’t we go check in?”
The Welsh women and the actors glanced nervously between Meade and the AEC members as they made their way into the hotel. Stanley Welsh muttered between coughing fits, but allowed himself to be led inside.
“We won’t be put off, Mr. Meade,” Burrows said. “I can guarantee you that.”
“I’m sure we’ll come to a satisfactory agreement, sir.” Meade touched Charlotte’s arm. “Miss Brody, I think we’ll freshen up and relax a little for now. You’ll be at the theater tonight, won’t you?” His smile was tense and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d be very happy to give you a personal interview and access to the cast after the show. I’ll give security your name so you can come backstage.”
Charlotte hadn’t been keen on going, but of course now she was too curious about the interaction with the AEC to treat the assignment as a piece of fluff or page filler. “Oh, I shall be there, Mr. Meade. You can count on it.”
The members of the AEC spoke quietly among themselves as the film people disappeared inside the Windsor. Caleb Burrows and Jonas Smith conferred in low, urgent tones, but not so low that Charlotte couldn’t hear them.
“They have some nerve dismissing us like that,” Smith said, his face dark with anger. “Do they think this is some sort of joke?”
Burrows laid his gloved hand on Smith’s shoulder. “If they do, we’ll set them straight. Let them think we’re easily mollified, Jonas. We’ll be the patient ones, and when we meet with Meade and Welsh they’ll know in no uncertain terms that we mean business.”
“Mr. Burrows? Mr. Smith?” Charlotte stepped closer to the two men. “Can I get a quote for the Times?”
