Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  “On their way, I hope. Though I doubt the conductor would leave without them. I understand Mr. Meade paid extra to have the train leave at the company’s convenience.”

  Charlotte had spent the day before following the company around as they prepared for the excursion out to Childs Glacier. Most of the camp had been set up over the last week, Mr. Meade and Mr. Welsh having contacted local men and merchants beforehand with plans and wired funds. “Rustic but comfortable” was the term the gentlemen had used.

  They’d had several small buildings erected for storage and a generator for lights and equipment. Heavy canvas tents with raised floors and kerosene heaters would house the company for the week they were on location. Charlotte and Rebecca would share a tent, and she was assured the accommodations would be just as cozy as her own home.

  Shivering in her heavy mackinaw, wool trousers, and thick stockings, Charlotte would believe that when she saw it.

  “Here they come,” Becca said, nodding toward the string of cars approaching the platform.

  The Windsor was barely two blocks from the station and they had to be driven? How did they expect to survive a week near a glacier under “rustic” conditions? Charlotte was still relatively new to Alaska, but even before she arrived she’d had no delusions regarding the weather.

  The cars stopped under the lights near the platform and doors opened. Film people and drivers emerged from all four doors of each vehicle, hauling out bags or going to the trunks to retrieve luggage. Stanley Welsh hefted a small bag and began coughing. Beside him, his wife, Carmen, put a hand on his back and spoke into his ear. Still coughing, Welsh shook his head and waved her off.

  I’d wager she was trying to get him to call off the trip. It didn’t surprise Charlotte that Welsh refused. He didn’t seem like the sort to let a cough stop him from doing much. The Californians ascended the short set of stairs leading from the street to the train platform.

  “I’ll tell the conductor we’re about ready,” Wallace Meade said.

  The others stopped near Charlotte and Becca, offering quiet greetings.

  “I’m guessing they don’t have coffee service on this train,” Paige said glumly.

  “The regular train is usually outfitted with a dining car,” Charlotte said. She hadn’t ridden the train to Childs Glacier or beyond, only had heard about the tours and amenities offered. “But I don’t think Mr. Meade contracted for that.”

  Peter York draped an arm around his costar’s shoulder. “The hotel was kind enough to pack a thermos or two of coffee and some pastries. Chin up, Paige. Think of it as an adventure.”

  Paige gave him an unladylike snort. “I’d be more inclined to go along with these crazy ideas of Stanley’s if he’d make it worth my while.”

  Peter and Roslyn exchanged looks over the young actress’s head. He jostled Paige’s shoulder in a friendly, big brother sort of way. “Aw, it’s just for a week. It’ll be great fun. Like camping. You’ll see.”

  Paige flipped her coat collar up. “I grew up in the Bronx. Not a lotta camping on 138th Street.”

  Hunkering in her coat and frowning, it was obvious how Paige felt about their Alaska adventure. She offered little more than a mumbled greeting when Stanley, Carmen, and Cicely Welsh joined them. Beneath the platform light, the director appeared drawn and sallow.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Welsh?” Charlotte asked. “My brother, Michael, is one of the town doctors. I could ask him to see you before we depart, if you’d like.”

  Under the circumstances, she was sure Michael wouldn’t mind being called out so early.

  Cicely got a hopeful look in her eyes, but as he had with his wife during his coughing fit at the car, Welsh waved off Charlotte’s suggestion. “I’m fine, but thank you for the offer, young lady. Just a touch too cold for these warm-weather lungs.”

  “Papa—”

  Welsh shot his daughter a glare. “I’m fine, Cicely.”

  Cicely clearly didn’t believe her father. Neither did Charlotte. Shaking her head, Cicely turned away from her parents and joined Roslyn, Peter, and Paige as they discussed accommodations on the glacier.

  Yips and barks carried up the street. Dave Scott, who usually worked for Brite-White Laundry, drove his sled and dogs toward the station, the six animals trotting with heads and tails high. Dave directed them around the back of the building. They emerged on the far side of the platform, allowing for easier access to the freight car behind the passenger car, where they would ride.

  “Whoa,” Dave called when they were in a safe spot, just beyond the men at the end of the platform loading the film company’s cargo. The dogs drew to a halt, panting. Dave set an anchor in the snow, pounding it with the heel of his boot, then checked on the dogs and the content of the loaded sled before consulting the crew.

  Wallace Meade came through the door from inside the building and crossed the platform to talk to the men loading the freight. One of the dogs began barking. Dave hushed him, but to no avail. Meade had to practically yell over the noise for his men to hear him.

  When he had finished giving instructions, he joined the Welshes, Charlotte, and Becca. “Ready to go?”

  “We are.” Charlotte nodded toward the end of the platform. “I think Mr. Burrows and his companion have just arrived.”

  A car had parked near the station. Caleb Burrows and a young man got out, each toting a rucksack and bedroll. Meade and Welsh were allowing them to stay in one of the tents, but they were on their own for bedding. Burrows wasn’t wearing his typical dapper suit and expensive coat. Instead, he wore a military-style pea coat, wide-brimmed hat, and wool pants. The man with him, also a Native Alaskan, was similarly dressed. Burrows reached through the open window and shook the driver’s hand; then he and the younger man headed to the platform.

  Meade grimaced. “Wonderful.” His expression immediately changed to something less sullen. “Wonderful,” he repeated loudly, with much more enthusiasm, and clapped his hands together. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. The conductor said we can get on whenever we’re ready. All aboard!”

  The cast and crew shuffled toward the passenger car. Charlotte and Becca followed several steps behind, allowing everyone time to climb aboard. As they waited for the others to enter the passenger car, Caleb Burrows and his companion joined them.

  “Good morning, Miss Brody,” Burrows said, touching the brim of his hat. He turned his smile to Becca. “Miss Derenov.”

  Becca’s cheeks flushed, but she met his eye. “Good morning.”

  Charlotte mentally gave the girl a pat on the back. From the time they’d met, Becca rarely showed so much as a hint of timidity. She was polite and respectful, but in no way demure. Her forthrightness made her seem older than her twelve years. No, thirteen, as she’d had a birthday last month.

  Goodness, she was more of a young woman now, wasn’t she?

  “This is my assistant, Miles Smith.” Burrows nodded toward the young man beside him. “Miles, this is Miss Brody of the Cordova Daily Times and Miss Derenov.”

  Miles doffed his hat but didn’t offer a handshake. Charlotte recognized him as the young man from the theater the other night. He appeared to be in his early twenties, not much younger than Charlotte herself, with jet-black hair cut in a similar style to Burrows.

  “Are you studying to be a lawyer, Mr. Smith?” Charlotte asked.

  Miles glanced at Burrows as if seeking permission. Burrows gave him a barely perceptible nod. “Thinking about it,” he said. “But for now I’m just helping out.”

  “You’re Jonas and Emma’s son, aren’t you?” Becca said.

  Charlotte gave Miles Smith a closer look. He did have Jonas Smith’s facial features, now that she considered the two men.

  Miles narrowed his gaze, doing the same with Becca as Charlotte had with him. “You’re Ben’s kid sister.”

  It made sense that Miles Smith and Becca’s older brother, Ben, would know each other. They’d probably gone through school together.


  Color infused Becca’s cheeks, as it often did when the conversation turned to Ben. “That’s right. Come on, Charlotte. Let’s get seats before the good ones are taken.”

  She tugged on Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte gave the men a brief smile and accompanied Becca onto the train. They navigated the narrow aisle between two rows of padded bench seats as the others stashed bags and decided who would sit nearest whom. Cicely and Roslyn had claimed one bench. Across the aisle, the elder Welshes were getting comfortable. Paige sat behind them, arms crossed as she glared at the back of Stanley’s head.

  Paige is really quite unhappy here, Charlotte thought as Peter hurried out of the aisle to allow her and Becca to pass. He threw himself onto the seat behind Roslyn and Cicely, and began chatting about the trip out to the glacier. Apparently the desk man at the Windsor had given him an entire brochure’s worth of information that morning.

  Becca led Charlotte to an empty seat. The girl set her bag and herself down. She said nothing while Charlotte slid her own bag under the seat in front of them and sat.

  Poor kid. As bold as she could be, when it came to talking about her brother, Becca closed in on herself. Charlotte knew better than to say anything. She’d give Becca the chance to sort out her feelings. If she didn’t come around by the time they were at the glacier site, then Charlotte would try to get her to talk.

  Burrows and Miles had followed them into the car. Most of the crew ignored the men, save for Cicely, Roslyn, and Peter, who greeted them politely. They sat behind Charlotte and Becca.

  Cameraman Roger Markham came up from the rear of the car, limping but moving with purpose, a sheaf of papers in hand. His khaki coat was unbuttoned, his cap tilted back on his head.

  “Damn it, Stanley, what are you thinking?” He sat in the seat in front of the Welshes, startling Meade who had just sat down there alone moments before, and turned to face them. Markham thrust the papers at Welsh. “I told you, we can’t do the shot like this. Unless you have a boat and a crane, it ain’t happening.”

  “The boat will meet us there,” Welsh said placidly. “We’ll figure out something with the aerial shots, Markham. Wish I’d’ve thought of getting an airplane up here.”

  Markham’s eyes widened in disbelief; then he closed them, muttering something that may have been a prayer. Or a curse. Whichever it was, it seemed to calm him, somewhat. He rose without another word and returned to the back of the car where other men on the crew were smoking cigarettes and shaking their heads.

  The train whistle blew and the song of howling dogs came from the freight car where the canines and their handler were riding. Were they excited or voicing their discontent at not running the route?

  “All aboard!” the conductor called from the platform. “All aboard for Childs Glacier, Chitina, and McCarthy, and all points in between.”

  Charlotte smiled. As far as she knew, there weren’t many official “points” in between, and the cars would be empty as the train continued on from the glacier to Chitina.

  The train lurched, the engine roared, and with a screech of metal wheels on metal rails, the cast, crew, and observers for North to Fortune headed east.

  The CR&NW followed Eyak Lake, between two mountain ranges that bordered Cordova. They passed the Native village where a few children waved at the train and passengers while the adults continued on with the business of the day. The tracks crossed the Eyak River, about five miles from Cordova. The mountains to the south were replaced by copses of spruce, willow, and alder. The snow-covered mountains receded a relatively short distance to the north as the landscape gave way to river flats.

  “Beautiful,” Charlotte heard one of the women say.

  She had to agree, and mentally kicked herself for not taking a trip earlier. James had tried to describe the area to her, but it was more picturesque than she had imagined.

  Telegraph and telephone lines hung between poles that paralleled the rails. Curls of smoke rose from the chimney of a cabin near the tracks at Eight Mile. Farther away, several homesteads were marked by the sight of wood smoke on the south side of the tracks.

  What a lonely place to live, Charlotte mused. Though if one was looking for seclusion, she supposed Alaska was the best spot for it. Cordova was remote enough for her.

  “My auntie lived out here when she was a girl,” Becca said, staring out at the snow- and tree-filled landscape.

  The aunt she referred to was a distant relative of Becca’s father; Charlotte knew little more than that of Becca’s family. She wasn’t sure Becca had spent much time with her father’s family, but perhaps her parents had visited. “How did she and the others get to town?”

  Becca shrugged. “By boat, along the river and across the lake. They had to move when the railroad came.”

  Becca still had some relatives in and around Cordova. Some sort of family disagreement had caused a rift a number of years before, though Becca didn’t seem to know the details. Or perhaps she wasn’t willing to share. That was fine by Charlotte. A person deserved their privacy. If Becca wished to tell her what she knew, she would, in her own time.

  When Becca had needed somewhere to live, Charlotte had suggested contacting those relatives, though she had also offered a place to Becca. Becca had chosen to stay with Charlotte, and Charlotte was thrilled to have her. If and when Becca was ready, Charlotte would do all she could to help Becca reconnect with her relatives.

  Roger Markham’s voice rose from the front of the car where he was, once again, sitting with the Welshes. “The boys and I went over it for the millionth time. It’ll be near impossible to get that shot without someone getting hurt. There’s no way, Stanley. No way.”

  Cicely, Roslyn, and the others all had their attention on the men. Cicely’s shoulders were stiff, her lips pinched. Roslyn leaned toward her to whisper something. Whatever she said did little to appease the scenarist.

  “This is a pivotal scene,” Welsh argued. He was not as calm as when Markham had brought up the same issue at the station. “Dorothy needs to escape the villain in a fashion that requires heroic rescue from Lawrence. Floating down the river among icebergs is it.”

  “We can’t put Roslyn or Pete in such peril for real, Stanley.” Cicely shook her head. “I’ll rewrite—”

  “No,” Welsh said firmly. Neither he nor anyone else seemed surprised his daughter had used his given name. Perhaps that was a Hollywoodland or California thing. “It stays. Make it work, Markham, or I’ll find someone who can.”

  He rose, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, and ambled up the aisle to the front of the car. He yanked open the door between cars. A gust of frigid air blew in. Welsh jerked the door closed and stood on the narrow platform, his back to them.

  “He just needs a moment,” Carmen said to no one in particular.

  For a man who had complained that the northern air was too cold for his Southern lungs, Charlotte wondered how he could stand to be out there in the icy wind.

  Markham headed to the back of the car, his face thunderous. “That man’s gonna get someone killed. I won’t have it. I won’t.”

  He sat with the other crewmen and again reviewed the pages of the scenario.

  “Seems like Mr. Welsh is having some troubles.” Caleb Burrows spoke just loud enough to go no farther than Charlotte and Becca’s ears. The attorney was leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed. His companion, Miles, maintained a stoic expression as he looked out the window. “Might do him some good to listen to others now and again.”

  “I think most of us would benefit from that virtue,” Charlotte said.

  Eyes still closed, Burrows smiled. “Touché, Miss Brody.”

  Charlotte patted Becca’s knee. “I’m going to do a little more interviewing. Be right back.”

  Synchronizing her steps with the sway of the train, Charlotte made her way to the seat occupied by Peter York, behind Cicely and Roslyn.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?” she aske
d when the trio realized she was there. “Our readers will want to know every little bit about the filming and how you’re finding Cordova and Alaska.”

  They exchanged looks, then Peter grinned and scooted closer to the window. “That would be grand. Always happy to give the press and the people as much as they want. Have a seat.”

  Charlotte fished her notebook and pencil from her coat pocket and sat beside him. The two women half-turned to give her their attention. Across the aisle, Paige Carmichael shifted in her seat. “Please join in, Miss Carmichael. You have a number of fans here, particularly of the young male variety.”

  Paige grinned, the first real smile Charlotte had seen on the young actress’s face since they’d arrived. She moved closer.

  “You mentioned earlier you were from the Bronx,” Charlotte said to draw her in. “What made you want to go to California and get into films?”

  For the next half hour, Charlotte asked the actors innocuous questions about their backgrounds and how they came to Hollywoodland. They enjoyed sharing their stories and Charlotte was grateful for her ability to take shorthand. Cicely Welsh, however, was less forthcoming. Perhaps being someone who stayed behind the scenes suited her more reserved personality.

  Early on in the interview, Welch returned to his seat, his face bright red from the cold, and his eyes sunken in.

  He really doesn’t look well, Charlotte noted as she jotted down Peter’s response to where he’d grown up. Maybe she should have contacted Michael while they were still in town.

  Charlotte steered the conversation to the current film. That brought Cicely into the exchange. It was Roslyn who had insisted that Cicely write the scenario.

  “She’s the best in the business,” Roslyn said, smiling at the other woman. Cicely blushed and smiled back. It was obvious the two were good friends as well as colleagues.

  Charlotte’s next question was probably going to silence the lot of them, but she had been itching to ask it since they’d crossed the Eyak River. “And the scene Mr. Welsh wants that Mr. Markham is worried about. How is that going to work out?”

  As predicted, the actors and scenarist fell silent, expressions of guilt and consternation lining their faces.