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Authors: Cathy Pegau

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“I wonder what Caroline knew?” James asked as if reading her mind.
Also inside the box was the moleskin-covered notebook listing the pawned goods, the customers, and what Fiske paid. There were very few notations of items having been bought back by his customers and a number of notes on what was received as payment for items sold.
Pawning wasn't illegal, but Lyle wasn't licensed, and usury charges for the interest rates he forced on his customers would have seen him doing time in jail if he'd been caught.
James had plans to search Fiske's inventory statements and storerooms as well, at least what he could recover from the ruins of the building or from any records kept at home. Indications he was ordering beyond his store's needs, as Otto Kenner was doing, could help prove his role in the local black market. But it was likely any illegal goods were now well-hidden, and more likely any evidence of whom he'd dealt with in town through falsified inventory and order lists had gone up in flames. Brigit would be grateful for that.
“You know someone will take the loss of Lyle and Otto as an opportunity,” she said.
“I know.” He nodded thoughtfully. “But anyone else bringing in unusually large shipments is going to have to take extra care. The city just hired two more policemen. The marshal and I will have more time to poke about the docks now.”
“Should I write something up to let the smugglers know, or do you want it to be a surprise?”
“I think a surprise would be more fun, don't you?”
Charlotte laughed. Her throat stung.
Rebecca slipped in from the jail room. She cast a furtive glance at James as she walked to Charlotte. “Ben's gonna be all right, won't he?”
Charlotte held her arms open. Rebecca came to her. The two hugged, Rebecca's head on Charlotte's shoulder, facing away from James. Charlotte held his gaze as she spoke to the girl. “Deputy Eddington will make sure he's comfortable until they go to Valdez tomorrow. Then the courts will make sure he gets a fair trial.”
God, she hoped so.
James winced, but recovered quickly, lest Rebecca see his expression. Ben was being charged with robbery, murder, arson, and several lesser charges. His prospects for anything less than life in prison were grim.
She'd already agreed to be a witness at his trial, hoping her testimony might mitigate his sentence. There were no guarantees, of course, but she had to do what she could, for Rebecca's sake.
Rebecca straightened and eased out of Charlotte's arms. “He told me to remind you the money he got for the stuff he sold is all in the box.” She looked over at James. “He really tried hard to get things back to their rightful owners.”
James's furrowed brow smoothed. “I know. I made sure it was in the statement I took down.” He tapped the file labeled “Fiske, Lyle.” “His lawyer and the judge will know everything.”
Rebecca's smile was fleeting and uncertain, as if she wanted to believe it would all be well. Charlotte knew Rebecca understood that Ben would never see freedom again, but she still held on to a glimmer of hope.
Charlotte rose, and gathered Rebecca's hand in hers. “If you're ready, we can stop by your house and pack a few things for the next several days. We can see about having you stay with family. . . .” Rebecca made a face that said she wasn't keen on that particular idea. “Or you can stay with me.”
Rebecca's eyes widened in surprise. “With you?”
“If you want to,” Charlotte said, trying to sound welcoming but not so eager as to overwhelm her.
Worry crossed the girl's face. “Are you sure about this, Miss Brody? I mean, I like you, and we're friends and all, but I don't want to be trouble.”
She'd been trying not to be trouble all her life, Charlotte realized. Rebecca had worked hard in school, was the good girl her mother needed her to be, not a burden, like her brother. And she'd succeeded. But now, Rebecca needed to succeed for her own good, not to please anyone other than herself. Not even Charlotte.
Charlotte smiled at her and gently squeezed her hand. “We are friends, so it will never be troublesome to have you around. And I want you to call me Charlotte.” Rebecca stared at her as if Charlotte had suggested dancing down Main Street in her small clothes. Good lord, she hoped she hadn't traumatized the poor girl. “Unless you're more comfortable with Miss Brody. That's fine.”
After a moment, Rebecca gave her a tentative smile. “I've never called a grown-up by their first name. It might take some getting used to.”
The whole situation would take some getting used to for the both of them, but if it meant keeping Rebecca safe, healthy, and in school, then it was well worth it to Charlotte.
“I'm sure you'll catch on quick,” Charlotte said, winking at her. She met James's eyes, glad to see he was smiling too. Good. Now they could all get used to the idea. “If there's anything else you need, deputy, just let us know.”
“I'll do that.” He came around the desk and escorted them to the door. “Good evening, Miss Brody.” Then, turning to Rebecca, “Miss Derenov.”
Rebecca's cheeks pinkened. “Deputy.”
Out on the walkway, Charlotte fished the flashlight out of her pocket. A light snow was starting to fall. They walked in silence most of the way down Main Street, hearing only the sound of their boots on the frozen, icy walk.
“Ben wouldn't have killed Mr. Fiske if he didn't have to get the ring for me.” Rebecca's words were so soft Charlotte had almost missed them.
She stopped abruptly and turned Rebecca to face her. “No, don't think like that. Ben wanted to fulfill your mother's wishes, but how he went about it has nothing to do with you, honey. He told us that right off.”
Tears welled in the girl's eyes. “I know, but I can't help it.”
Charlotte wiped away the tear that ran down her cheek. “Guilt can be an insidious thing, Rebecca. You blame yourself because Ben did what he did out of love for you, but you can't be responsible for someone else's actions.”
Rebecca nodded, but Charlotte wasn't sure she was convinced. She might never completely believe it.
“Oh, Rebecca.” Charlotte drew her into a hug. “We humans are such fallible creatures, doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.”
Rebecca looked up at Charlotte. “That's kind of what I told Ben.”
Once again, she marveled at the girl's ability to see the deeper issue. “You were trying to make him feel better, but now it's time for you to believe it as well. This isn't your fault.”
Rebecca stared at her for another few moments, then nodded again. Maybe she would start believing it sooner than Charlotte feared, but Charlotte was well aware of how guilt could worm its way into your brain and stay there. So far, the best remedy for Charlotte had been time, and learning to trust others when you felt at your worst.
“You can talk to me whenever you need to, Rebecca.” Charlotte touched the girl's cheek. “It helps me to talk to friends when I'm feeling bad about things.”
Where would she be without Kit or Michael or Brigit? Talking to them hadn't alleviated all of her guilt, of course, but they'd certainly helped her come to terms with what she'd done.
“I will,” Rebecca said. “I promise.”
“Good.” Charlotte hooked her arm through Rebecca's and they continued down Main Street. “Now let's get back to the house. We'll have some tea, and I want to talk to you about that wonderful story you wrote.”
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Cathy Pegau's next Charlotte Brody mystery
 
MURDER ON LOCATION
 
coming in March 2017
wherever print and e-books are sold!
Chapter 1
The
S S. Fairbanks
made its approach to the Cordova ocean harbor, belching black smoke that quickly dissipated on the icy breeze. Anticipation from the crowd waiting on the dock was as thick as the aroma of tar, tide, and the exhaust from the line of idling automobiles. Sunlight glinted off the gray-green water and the bright white of the hull of the ship still one hundred yards away.
Charlotte Brody smiled at the memory of coming in on a similar vessel just six months ago. Still a “cheechako” in the eyes of Alaskans, she was settling into her new home. Plans to return East come spring—only a week or so away—had been indefinitely postponed.
The steamer's air horn blew three times, and the largest gathering of Cordovans Charlotte had ever seen in one place cheered in response, waving hats and hands.
“Isn't this exciting?” a woman standing beside Charlotte asked no one in particular. Smiling and starry-eyed, the woman brandished a rolled-up movie magazine like a member of the Signal Corps conveying messages to troops.
Charlotte didn't quite share the woman's or the crowd's enthusiasm. Half the population must have turned out for the
Fairbanks
's arrival. Who knew Cordova, home to some of the most practical people she'd ever met, would become positively giddy over a film crew coming to town?
Then again, given the cold, dark quiet of the winter they had just been through, the arrival of such unusual persons gave the town a boost to its torpid mood. Despite the calendar claiming it was mid-March, the more vitalizing days of the coming season were still a month or so away.
A frozen, salty gust blew in off the water. Charlotte shivered within her heavy coat and the trousers she wore. It was also a few tens of degrees from what she knew as spring.
Maybe more like two months away.
If she hadn't been assigned to cover the event, Charlotte would have happily stayed in her warm little house and avoided the whole thing. Or at least most of the fanfare and over-the-top events, at any rate. Andrew Toliver, her boss—and owner of the
Cordova Daily Times
—would have done it himself, but a fall on a slippery step had broken his foot. Being the only other writer on the paper, it fell to Charlotte to cover the most exciting thing to happen to Cordova since the railroad.
Toliver insisted she chronicle the visit by the Californians, painting Cordova in as positive a light as she could. He was sure the articles would be picked up by other newspapers, particularly those in areas where filmmaking was growing, and put the booming town in the minds of the rest of the country, if not the world.
Charlotte flexed her fingers within her mittens in an attempt to get them warm enough to use her pad and pencil when it came time to take notes. She would do her job and do it well, for the sake of the paper and for the town she now called home. The cast and crew would be here in Cordova for two weeks. Maybe she'd get caught up in the excitement.
God, I hope so,
Charlotte thought as she watched the
Fairbanks
maneuver into position alongside the dock.
While she could admit interest in watching films—they were a great way to entertain or educate—she just didn't understand the growing popularity of the actors to the point that ordinary people seemed to put them above others. Many had excellent talents, and some poignant films had been made, but she saw no reason to elevate actors to an idealistic or romanticized status. There were plenty of other people doing real work who deserved acknowledgment and recognition.
Bells rang aboard ship. Several uniformed members of the
Fairbanks
crew threw thick lines over the rails to the longshoremen on the dock. Once the steamer was fastened and the engines throttled down to a low rumble, the gangplank was lowered and secured. Conversations in the crowd became random cheers and whistles, yet no one on the dock moved closer to the vessel. Charlotte noted a number of men facing the crowd now, standing at regular intervals and giving warning glares to any who dared to pass.
Security for the Californians? What did they think was going to happen in Cordova?
After several moments, a mustached man in a tweed cap and khaki trench coat with a motion picture camera balanced on his shoulder carefully limped down the gangplank. He set the legs of the tripod on the dock. After making a few adjustments to the box, he aimed the lens toward the top of the gangplank and checked the viewfinder.
He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Ready to roll!”
The cameraman turned his cap around, bent to look through the viewfinder, and began cranking.
A man in his forties strode across the deck and stopped at the top of gangplank. He wore a bowler hat, a thick white scarf around his neck, and a long black coat. The people on the dock began clapping and cheering. Who was he?
Behind him, a group of men and women gathered in a semicircle. All were bundled against the cold and not recognizable. A few waved to the people on the dock, much to the delight of several onlookers by the sound of their exclamations.
Smiling, the man in front raised a megaphone and spoke to the attentive audience. “Thank you. Thank you, my friends,” his voice boomed from the cone. “It's so wonderful to be back here in Cordova.” He swept his hand in a gesture to encompass everything before him. “The most beautiful city in the Alaska Territory.”
Cheers and whistles exploded from the dock dwellers, temporarily deafening Charlotte.
“Hey, Wally, you owe me a sawbuck!” someone shouted from the crowd.
Everyone laughed, including the man on the ship.
“And I'll pay it back, I promise,” he said, still smiling. “Because with the help of all you fine folks and
North to Fortune,
we're gonna put Cordova on every map and on every mind in the country.”
This man could run for mayor.
“For those of you who don't know me, my name is Wallace Meade.”
The name was familiar to Charlotte, and now she had a face to go with it. Wallace Meade owned several properties in Cordova and was generous to local organizations. Meade also had business interests in other towns throughout the territory, including a gold mine in Fairbanks and a tract of land near Juneau where he ran a lumber mill.
Meade had been away for months, Charlotte had learned, busy in California and New York drumming up interest for the up-and-coming film industry to look north. According to Andrew Toliver, Meade had finally managed to engage the crew he needed to produce what was supposedly going to be a “truer than life” depiction of Alaska.
Whatever that meant.
“I know the good people of Cordova,” Meade continued, “and I've assured the cast and crew that you're the friendliest bunch north of Seattle.” The crowd cheered again, and Meade's smile broadened. “So let me introduce a few of these folks to you.” He gestured for a tall, thin man to step forward. The man wore similar outerwear as Meade, but his coat collar was fur and his scarf was pulled up over his nose and mouth. “This here is Stanley Welsh, director of such notable films as
A Place in Their Hearts
and
Granger's Last Stand
. Stanley?”
Charlotte had heard of the films, but hadn't seen either of them. One was a murder mystery and the other something about battles during the Civil War.
People cheered, and Welsh took the megaphone from Meade. He tugged his scarf down, revealing his smooth-shaved face and narrow features. “Hello, Cordova!” Welsh waited for the noise to die down. “We are so very happy to be here and appreciate your fine welcome on a cold day.”
Charlotte thought she detected something of an accent in the man's speech, but couldn't place it. Eastern European, perhaps?
“When Mr. Meade told us about your lovely town and showed us pictures, I knew right away it would be perfect for our film,
North to Fortune
. Some wanted us to wait a few more months until it warmed up, but I wanted to have my cast experience the real Alaska, cold and all. Authenticity, you know!”
“Only if you fixed the story!” a man shouted from behind the crowd.
Several people turned to see who had interrupted the director. No one stepped forward, and Welsh ignored the comment.
What was that all about?
“We will be here in Cordova for approximately two weeks,” Welsh continued, “filming exterior shots of the mountains, glaciers, and lake. Our cast and crew are the best and ready for anything. I think some of you are familiar with our lead players.”
Welsh smiled as a younger man stepped forward to wave to the crowd. His head was bare, his dark hair slicked back.
A woman shouted, “I love you, Peter!”
“Yes,” Welsh said, “Peter York will be playing Lawrence Trumbull, our hero. And Roslyn Sanford is our leading lady.” A petite woman came up beside York, waving. She could have been anyone; she was so bundled in furs, it was difficult to see her face. “We're all terribly pleased to be here, but we should let everyone get off the boat now. Thank you.”
Welsh and Meade shook hands, holding the position as a still photographer on the dock took a picture. The photographer gave the men a “thumbs-up” gesture, and the two released hands. Meade took the megaphone from Welsh. “Tonight, we'll present a few brief scenes from the film and have some other thrilling performances at the Empress Theater,” Meade said into the megaphone. “Eight o'clock curtain. Be sure to get your tickets.”
“I have mine,” the rosy-cheeked woman beside Charlotte said, flapping the movie magazine. “Goodness, that Peter York is a handsome devil, isn't he?”
“I suppose,” Charlotte said, mostly to herself, as she jotted notes.
“In his last movie, he played a sheik prince.” The woman sighed dramatically, and Charlotte wondered if she'd have to catch her should she faint. “So handsome.”
The crowd parted as the cast and crew descended the gangplank, creating a narrow lane for the visitors to reach their awaiting cars. Cordova didn't have enough taxis to take them all, of course. The vehicles belonged to private citizens, hired for the sole purpose of transporting these particular VIPs. The audience would have to find their own way back to town.
Meade led the way, followed by Welsh and a statuesque woman holding his arm. Behind them, Peter York escorted Roslyn Sanford. At least a dozen more well-dressed people, obviously not Cordovans by the way they stared up at the surrounding mountains in wide-eyed wonder. A tall, bespectacled young woman gazed intently at her new environs as if absorbing every detail.
A few of the men broke away from the California group and moved directly to the longshoremen. One man gestured toward the ship, a crane, then to two waiting flatbed trucks. The shore man nodded, his cigar bobbing up and down as he chewed on the stub.
Shuffling across the slick dock with shoulders hunched against the cold, the visitors piled into the cars. The Cordovans followed as close as the security men would allow, some shouting requests for autographs, others their declarations of love.
“Miss Brody?” Mr. Jenkins, the Alaska Steamship Company agent, came up beside her, grinning broadly.
Charlotte took his extended hand and shook it. “Good afternoon. Quite the excitement today.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said, gazing out at the crowd. “We haven't had this sort brouhaha for some time.” Jenkins focused on her again. “Mr. Meade was wondering if you would accompany him and the others to the hotel for an interview.”
Charlotte stared at the agent. “Me? How does Mr. Meade know about me?”
Jenkins shook his head, shrugging. “He asked if there were any newsmen about. I told him I thought I saw you in the crowd. He asked me to fetch you.”
The back of Charlotte's neck tightened. “Fetch?”
Perhaps she was overreacting, but she was a grown woman, a professional journalist, not something to be retrieved. And Mr. Jenkins wasn't a dog. She would not be at the beck and call of Wallace Meade, no matter what sort of do-gooder he was in the community.
“Um, I'm sure I misheard him,” Jenkins said, eyes large with distress as he watched her reaction. “Yes, my apologies, I'm sure I did. Would you follow me, Miss Brody? Please?”
She should say no. She should tell Mr. Jenkins to tell Mr. Meade to take a flying leap. But she shouldn't judge without facing the man himself. Perhaps he was just tired after a long voyage. There would be plenty of opportunity to see what he was like.
Giving the man the benefit of the doubt, for now, Charlotte forced a smile. “Lead the way, Mr. Jenkins.”
Relief eased the tension lines from his narrow face. “Thank you. Over here.”
He gestured toward the line of automobiles and started to make a path through the crowd. The onlookers reluctantly moved aside as Jenkins tapped shoulders and requested passage. When they finally reached the edge of the group facing the vehicles, Charlotte noted the men keeping the Cordovans from mobbing the visitors had closed ranks. Jenkins told the nearest one that he was escorting Charlotte at Mr. Meade's request.
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 Oakland touring car that Charlotte recognized as belonging to Clive Wilkes, his Studebaker having 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.”

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