Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  “I appreciate you letting me stay with you,” Charlotte said. “I promise not to be a burden.”

  Paige glanced up from where she was fitting sheets over the mattress of her cot and smiled. “Not a problem. Though I’m sure you’d rather be with that deputy. I would, if I were you.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks heated. She and James certainly hadn’t tried to hide their relationship, but she didn’t think they’d been overly demonstrative. “I imagine there would be all manner of trouble if we tried to share a tent.”

  The actress rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. Heck, there are some directors who won’t let married people share dressing rooms and the like. It’s ridiculous.”

  Charlotte had to agree that it did seem more prudish than necessary. “Maybe the directors feel that too much intimacy and closeness creates tension.”

  Paige shrugged, then flicked over the bed one of the two wool blankets they’d been issued. “All I know is that keeping people apart can be just as tense. Sex is good for relaxation, know what I mean?”

  Indeed, she did, but it could also add a source of upheaval to any relationship.

  “Can I ask you something about your relationship with Stanley?” Charlotte kept busy with making her own bed in an attempt to appear as casual as possible. There were two blankets to each bed, both of lesser quality than the one found with Welsh, from what Charlotte could tell.

  “Sure, but I think you have the gist of it.” From her tone, Paige was just as willing to be nonchalant.

  “I do, but there’s something I don’t quite understand.” Charlotte sat on her cot facing the other woman. “Why, Paige? I saw you in rehearsals and on the stage. You’re quite good. Why did you feel the need to sleep with Welsh?”

  Paige paused in her domestic chore, her head dropping for just a moment before she lifted her chin and turned to Charlotte. There was a hardness in her blue eyes, but a hint of sadness as well. “Because I’m no beauty like Roslyn Sanford. I’m not funny like Mabel Normand, or sweet and innocent like Mary Pickford. Am I keen on the idea that sleeping with the director might get me a break? No, but I’m not the first and I won’t be the last to do it, I tell you what.” A small smile curved her bow of a mouth. “And in all honesty? I like men.”

  Charlotte couldn’t fault her that at all. “But I’d imagine it was frustrating too.”

  She had seen and heard Paige’s reaction to Welsh pushing her aside.

  “It was, but I’m nothing if not persistent.” Paige sat on her bed. “You think I might have killed him.”

  “I think you had motive, yes, but so did several people.” Charlotte hoped she hadn’t tipped her hand. “You never said where you were that night.”

  Paige shook her head and gave a humorless laugh. “You know what’s funny? I did try to seduce Stanley that evening. Caught him on his way back from the latrine. But Stanley got distracted, then hurried off. Thought I saw someone by the corner of his tent, but I’m not sure.”

  Is that when he and Burrows met near the rubbish bins?

  Charlotte sat up straight. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

  “In front of his wife and Cicely?” The actress rolled her eyes. “I’m not that crass. Besides, I didn’t see who it was. If I were you,” Paige continued, “I’d be asking Carmen a few more questions.”

  “Carmen?” Charlotte let her surprise show. Not that she’d ever crossed the wife off the list of suspects, but Carmen certainly wasn’t at the top. “She was asleep.”

  “Was she?” Paige clearly thought the women had probably lied about that. Charlotte had to admit it was possible. They only had Carmen’s word, though Cecily had corroborated that her mother regularly took a sleeping draught.

  “How would she have gotten Stanley out there alone? She doesn’t seem particularly strong to me.” Carmen could have strangled him, if he was influenced by his medicine, but as with Paige herself, Charlotte didn’t think Mrs. Welsh could have dragged her husband that far.

  “True,” Paige said, “but Carmen was very tra-la-la for a woman who knew her husband slept around, if you know what I mean. We didn’t flaunt it, of course, but she knew about me and Stanley. And Stanley and other girls, truth be told.”

  “Maybe they had an agreement.”

  Paige stood and shrugged. “Maybe, though she was awful militant when it came to where he went and what he did. Stanley and I rarely saw each other outside of the studio. Everything not related to a film went through Carmen. She made all their social arrangements and even picked out his clothes. She fixed all their meals too, even though they could afford a cook on staff, because Stanley needed food prepared a certain way.”

  Charlotte tilted her head. “Had a doctor prescribed a particular diet?”

  “Not that I know of. Stanley’s family was from Prague, and I heard his mother made sure Carmen learned how to make six kinds of dumplings and cabbage strudel before they married. Since then, Carmen always made his food when they ate at home.” Paige donned her coat and hat. “Listen, I don’t want you to think I have anything against Carmen, because I don’t. She’s got her ways about her, sure, but never did anything to me. I’m gonna grab some coffee. I’ll see you later.”

  Paige sauntered out of the tent, leaving Charlotte to wonder about Carmen Welsh. The new widow may have looked the other way when it came to her husband’s affairs, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings about them.

  * * *

  Charlotte stood outside of Carmen’s tent. “Mrs. Welsh? Are you in there? It’s Charlotte Brody. I was wondering if we could chat for a few minutes.”

  Other members of the cast and crew hurried about camp as wind and snow blew down the mountains, across the glacier, and right into their midst. The idea of filming before the sun set was quickly fading from possibility. Not far away, Cicely Welsh spoke to Roger Markham, arm waving out toward the ice field. Markham nodded and pointed as well, obviously more agreeable with what Cicely had in mind than what Welsh had proposed.

  A blustery gust rippled the tent wall, revealing a smudge on the otherwise pristine canvas under the protective cover. What was that?

  “Come in, Miss Brody,” Carmen called.

  Grateful to get out of the cold, Charlotte quickly opened the tent flap and just as quickly secured it behind her. Unlike the other accommodations, the Welshes’ tent had been left untouched when the cast and crew had returned to Cordova, save for personal items. The cots, linens, and makeshift clothing racks and shelves all remained as James had described them the morning they’d discovered Welsh’s body.

  Carmen stood in the center of the tent, her coat open as the kerosene heater warmed up. She wore a dark blue wool suit, likely the most somber clothing she had with her, as one didn’t travel expecting to don widow’s weeds. Her suitcase was open on her neatly made cot. Some items had been hung up, others placed on the shelves.

  “Please excuse the mess, Miss Brody. What can I do for you?”

  Charlotte noticed the second cot—Welsh’s—was still made up. No one had bothered to strip it before they returned to Cordova, and it seemed that Carmen was in no rush to carry out that chore yet. Perhaps it was more comforting to have the cot made up as if Stanley would be returning, rather than a bare mattress.

  The two thick blankets were neatly tucked around the mattress, but something struck Charlotte. The blankets on the director’s bed were solid brown and fluffier than the beige with blue stripes wool blankets on Carmen’s. Though Carmen’s blankets appeared to be of softer, finer quality than the wool blankets on Charlotte’s own cot, more like the one Welsh had with him when he died.

  “I was curious about something,” Charlotte said, her gaze darting to the covers. “Mr. Welsh kept his medicine at hand, in case he needed it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would he have taken the bottle when he was just going to the lavatory tent or to retrieve another blanket?”

  Carmen shook her head slightly, her brow wrinkled. “At
home, he kept it on the table by his bed, like the one there. He must have simply forgotten it in his coat pocket that night. Maybe that’s what he was looking for in the dark, then decided while he was up he’d use the lavatory.”

  Charlotte’s heart hitched. “You were awake?”

  Paige had suggested Carmen might not have been as out of it as she’d claimed.

  Carmen blinked at her, confused for a moment before something dawned in her dark eyes. “Oh, I thought I’d slept through his leaving the tent, but yes, I think I remember him fumbling with his coat over there on the rack.” Her brow furrowed. “At least I believe he did. Could I have been imagining it?”

  Charlotte considered the widow. Was she truly confused or trying to put one over on Charlotte? “I suppose it’s possible you were awake for a brief time, especially if Mr. Welsh was fumbling about.”

  Between the darkness and his own state, Welsh could have been making enough noise to wake his wife. There had been the sound of something falling, Charlotte recalled.

  “I found his shaving kit on the floor that morning. He must have knocked it from the shelf there.” Carmen lowered herself down onto the edge of her cot. “You know, Stanley wouldn’t have been looking for another blanket from the supply shed. He was terribly allergic to wool, and that’s all they had there when we asked Smitty about extras.” She gestured toward his bed. “Those are heavy cotton and silk blends that we bought especially for this trip. We brought them up ourselves.”

  The blanket found under Welsh was similar to the ones currently on Mrs. Welsh’s cot, Charlotte assumed. And definitely wool from what Michael had said. Unless Welsh was severely affected by his medicine, or more concerned with staying warm than itching all night, Charlotte was pretty sure he wouldn’t have taken a spare blanket from the supply shed.

  If the director wouldn’t have been out looking for warmer covers, whose blanket had gone into the crevasse with him?

  “Mrs. Welsh, can I ask you about Mr. Welsh’s relationship with Paige Carmichael?”

  Carmen stiffened, her chin rising slightly. A small, tense smile curved her red lips. “You mean about their affair? She wasn’t the first, Miss Brody, and likely wouldn’t have been the last.”

  “You knew of them?” What sort of marriage had they had?

  Carmen lowered her gaze to where her hand smoothed the blanket beneath her. “At first, I was devastated. I’d done so much to attract him, to please him, but it wasn’t enough.” She looked up at Charlotte again, her eyes filling. “But Stanley explained it to me. He was a passionate man in all his endeavors. One woman couldn’t withstand all that. So he saw other women, but always came home to me.”

  Tears fell and she lowered her gaze.

  Oh, brother. Carmen didn’t seem like the type to fall for the “I’m too much for one woman” line, but who really knew what anyone thought behind their public face?

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Welsh. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Though how Charlotte thought a discussion about her dead husband’s infidelity wouldn’t upset Carmen crossed her mind a little too late. Nicely done, the sarcastic voice in her head whispered.

  “Do you think—” Carmen brought her fist to her mouth as if to stifle a sob. “Do you think Paige had something to do with Stanley’s death?”

  “She’s not a strong suspect,” was all Charlotte would say. She honestly didn’t believe the petite blonde was physically capable of strangling Welsh and then dragging his body two hundred yards. Unless she had an accomplice they didn’t know about.

  Carmen nodded, her head still lowered.

  “Again, my apologies.” Charlotte retreated from the tent, securing the flap behind her.

  While she felt bad about dredging up Welsh and Paige, Charlotte couldn’t help but be intrigued by the information she’d learned. The snagged wool and drag marks beside the dog pen, and Welsh’s allergy, gave credence to the theory that he hadn’t wandered off onto the glacier on his own after getting another blanket. Had he gone out to meet Paige after Carmen was asleep? Who had distracted him from her wiles?

  Shoulders hunched against the wind and blowing snow once again, Charlotte mulled over the new bits of information as she made her way to the main tent. A few of the cast and crew were seated inside, chatting or playing cards. The others may have still been settling in or helping with equipment for the next day. Smitty and his two assistants were busy at the cook stoves behind the tables that would soon be laden with food.

  Steam and delicious aromas wafted over as the three men toiled in shirtsleeves and aprons, mixing, peeling, or stirring. Smitty, thick arms bared to the elbow and tattooed lady dancing on his forearm as he worked, joked and chatted around an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.

  He glanced up as Charlotte approached. “Uh-oh, boys. Looks like fun time’s over.”

  The two other men made playful sounds of disappointment, grinning as they continued with their tasks.

  “Far be it from me to impede on your amusements, gentlemen,” Charlotte said, laughing. “Though I’d appreciate a word or two, Mr. Smitty.”

  His bushy eyebrows rose. One of the men gave a soft wolf whistle.

  “Quiet, you,” Smitty said as he set his bowl down on the table. “Let me grab us a couple cups of coffee.”

  Charlotte nodded thanks and made her way to the farthest table from any others. The few folks in the tent watched curiously as Smitty joined her and set down the mugs.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  Charlotte wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic. “You play a critical role here on location. So much to coordinate. I was wondering about your inventory and how you keep track of everything.”

  “It’s as accurate as it can be under the circumstances,” he said, shaking his head. “These folks ain’t regular army, yanno, so I have to watch things like a hawk. If I can’t account for supplies, Mr. Meade gets boilin’ mad.”

  That didn’t surprise Charlotte in the least. “He’s careful about money.”

  Smitty shrugged. “Yes and no. I mean, he has me practically counting the number of beans we serve, but then insists on steak for dinner.”

  “That does seem unusual.” Charlotte checked to make sure the others in the tent had deemed her conversation with Smitty too boring to follow. To be on the safe side, she lowered her voice. “What about the blankets? I noticed there are different, shall we say, qualities and materials.”

  “Yeah, most of us get a couple of decent wool blankets. The muckety-mucks were given a higher-quality wool. Gotta keep them toastier than the rest of us.” He was grinning when he spoke, giving Charlotte the impression that he was used to the “muckety-mucks” in any operation, be it army or film, getting better quality items or food than the enlisted men.

  “Has anyone been complaining of the cold?”

  “Of course,” Smitty said. “We’re not used to this sort of weather. I told Mr. Meade folks would be barking about the cold and we’d need more blankets or more kerosene, but he said we’d all make due for the short time.” The former soldier shook his head. “An army or a film crew depends on even its lowest-ranking member being as well-supplied as possible. Can’t have folks freezing or getting sick and expect them to get the job done.”

  “Good point.” Charlotte sipped her still piping-hot coffee. “So no one’s been trying to sneak more covers or fuel or anything?”

  “Nah, they’re a good group and know they only have to ask for anything they need. Besides,” he said, patting his hip, “I keep the supply shed locked. These guys are great, but I don’t need stuff disappearing.”

  “You have the only key?” Charlotte mentally crossed her fingers, hoping he’d say no.

  “Yep.”

  Damnation.

  “Except when someone borrows it, but I have them bring it right back.”

  Charlotte’s hopes rose. “Anyone borrow it lately? Say, on the day Mr. Welsh was found?”

  “Nah, too much going on elsewhere.” A t
houghtful expression furrowed his brow. “Though the following day, when we were packing up to leave, the door was unlocked for most of the morning while the boys and I put things away. We didn’t want too much left in the tents, not knowing when we’d get back out and all.”

  “And you took inventory as you stored things?”

  “Sure. Didn’t want stuff walking off. Mr. Meade says we’ll be selling a lot of the supplies back to the merchants or to whomever wants ’em.”

  “Isn’t it just as easy to take inventory when all of this is over?”

  “Easier, yes, but that ain’t how I run things, ma’am.” He was smiling again. “When I’m in charge of keeping track of supplies, they are kept track of. Everything’s accounted for, down to the last bag of beans.”

  “And the number of blankets?” Perhaps she was showing a bit too much of her hand, but Charlotte wanted to know how Welsh had gotten his extra, allergy-inducing wool blanket if the shed was locked. Or when his killer had been able to replace their own?

  “Yep, ’cept for the one the doctor took with Mr. Welsh, all were locked in the shed before the train left.” Smitty scratched at his chin. “Course, people were bringing stuff in and marking their names off a list. The boys and I double-checked the count before locking up and it was all jake.”

  So the killer could have slipped into the shed with their items, marked off the return of two blankets when only one was brought back, and no one would have known the difference in the end. Double damnation. If only she and James had considered the blanket situation before the following morning. They could have gone to each tent to see who was short a blanket.

  “What about the accoutrements in the Welshes’ tent? Were those part of your inventory?”

  No one else had much in the way of furnishings, as far as Charlotte knew.