Murder on the Last Frontier (13 page)

“Neither will I,” she said.

But when she moved to take his hat from her head, James caught her hand. “Indulge my archaic notions, won't you, Miss Brody? Just this once?”

Charlotte lowered her hand. “I guess a sincere act of chivalry won't offend my feminist senses much.”

James grinned and made a sweeping gesture for them to be off.

The short, muddy walk back to Sullivan's required constant vigil against puddles and slick walks. Her poor shoes would be ruined if she didn't remember to clean them off as soon as she got to her room. There was hardly a soul on the street when they stopped at the door.

Charlotte dug her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door. She faced James. The awning overhead kept the rain off them, but he was soaked. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and water dripped off his nose.

“Thank you for the wonderful dinner and fine conversation. And for the use of your hat. You didn't have to.”

“But I wanted to.”

Charlotte grasped the brim of the hat to return it to him. James covered her hand with his, the calluses on his palm gently scratching the back of her hand. He leaned in, ducking under the brim, and kissed her.

His sweet tobacco and leather scent, and the tangy bite of his aftershave surrounded her. She closed her eyes and pressed forward. Not parting her lips beneath his, but definitely telling him . . . something. Could it be called stealing a kiss if she allowed it? She felt James's other hand at her shoulder steadying her, not pulling her to him.

This was more than the “friendly” dinner she had expected. Part of her enjoyed the attention, the sturdiness of him, but another part warned her that this was similar to the way things had started with Richard. Charming, witty Richard, whom she'd met at a suffrage meeting, then later at fund-raisers, dancing like Vernon Castle. He'd made her think he was one of those rare men who supported the cause. The prospect had fooled her completely, right into his bed.

James wasn't like that bastard, was he? Charming in his way, yes. Witty, yes. But would letting him get closer prove to be just as painful?

All too soon—or not soon enough, she wasn't quite sure—he straightened, breaking the kiss. He wasn't smiling, exactly, more like gauging her reaction. Did he expect an invitation of some kind? Another kiss?

Charlotte didn't move.

James took the hat from her head, placed it on his own, and stepped back. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before lowering his hand. “Good night, Charlotte. I'll see you tomorrow. Be sure to lock the door behind you.”

“I will. Good night.”

Such normal conversation while her brain whirled.

He touched the brim of his hat, waited for her to go in and secure the door, then walked down the dark street. Charlotte watched him through the parlor window, her forehead pressed against the glass and butterflies dancing in her belly. When he was lost to shadow and distance, she closed her eyes and tried to figure out what to do next. What it meant.
Just act normal and see what tomorrow brings.

Charlotte turned from the window and headed to bed, realizing as she walked down the hall that she was smiling.

I
t was the perfect day for a funeral. Low, heavy clouds obscured the surrounding mountains, and a steady drizzle added to the current state of saturation. A flock of crows mobbed a bald eagle, chasing it across the gray sky, as Charlotte made her way to the Red Dragon social club.

A murder,
Charlotte remembered.
A flock of crows is called a murder
.

The plain pine casket sat on a long table at one end of the room. Brigit read a short eulogy for Darcy. She hadn't felt right about having the gathering at the house, Marie had told Charlotte as they entered. They couldn't afford such gloom to impact business.

Brigit, Charlie, and the three women of the house attended, and Mr. Manning of the Baptist church read scripture. Charlotte sat in the back of the overly perfumed room, along with a couple of men who hadn't realized there'd be a service rather than a card game that afternoon. In the front row of folding chairs, one of the other girls kept her arm around Marie's shaking shoulders.

After the short service, the attendees followed the black horse and carriage carrying the casket over the quarter mile of road beside the stream connecting Eyak Lake to Odiak Slough. People stopped to watch, and some of the men even doffed their hats despite the rain, as did a couple of women wearing trousers and oiled mackinaws. Others looked on with pinched expressions, as if their day had been disturbed not by the death of a young woman, but by the inconvenience of her funeral procession on a public street.

The cemetery at the southeast corner of town was atop a low hill overlooking the slough and the railroad yard. The procession gathered around the open grave under black umbrellas. Mr. Manning read more passages from the Bible.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched, to ward off the chill in the air. If this was August in Cordova, she could only imagine what January would be like.

“Sorry I'm late,” Michael said in a low voice beside her.

His sudden appearance startled her. No one else seemed to notice him, their heads down while Manning droned.

She gave him a sidelong glance, noting his dripping hat and damp coat. His face was pale and haggard. “What are you doing here?” she asked in equally low tones.

“I was her doctor,” he said, eyes on the proceedings. “I feel responsible. If I had gone to see her sooner, maybe she would have been well enough to get away from her attacker.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Legally, no. Not even ethically, as far as that goes.” He shrugged his slumped shoulders and shook his head slowly. “Still.”

Charlotte looped her arm under his in a gesture of understanding his feelings of guilt and sadness. “Some doctors see their patients as just patients.” She felt his arm and body stiffen. “I mean, you cared about her as a person, like a good doctor should.” How did Ruth think he'd be able to shove his patients off onto a new doctor? Michael cared too much about people to do that. Speaking of Ruth . . . “Does your fiancée know you're here?”

Lines deepened along his mouth, and his jaw tightened. “Of course she does.”

“But she's not happy about it.” Not a surprise.

Michael nodded toward the preacher, indicating they should be more attentive. His diversion tactic worked, and Charlotte silently listened to the final words of Darcy's interment. When Mr. Manning finished his sermon, the ladies and Miss Brigit each dropped a stalk of purple-pink flowers into Darcy's grave. They slowly filed out of the cemetery.

Brigit held Charlie's hand and glanced at Charlotte. When the madam looked at Michael, her gaze hardened, and she stopped in front of him. “She'd asked for you, you know.”

Was Brigit blaming Michael? How dare she? Darcy's death had nothing to do with him. Charlotte was about to say as much, but Michael seemed to sense her anger and stilled her with a hand on her arm.

“I know,” he said. “She deserved better.”

“Even though she was a whore?” Brigit asked with such vehemence that Michael winced.

“I should have been more attentive to her psychological needs, even if her physical illness was only minor.”

The madam raised an eyebrow. “Are you admitting to malpractice, Doctor?”

Michael shook his head. “Not at all. Just regret.”

“I'm sure.” Brigit turned to Charlotte, who braced herself for her own dressing-down, but Brigit's gaze softened. “Thank you for coming, Miss Brody. I'm sure it meant a lot to Marie to see you here.”

She strode out of the small cemetery with Charlie in tow.

“How could she blame you?” Charlotte asked Michael. “Darcy's presumed illness had nothing to do with her murder.”

“No, but if I'd tended her sooner, maybe she would have been working and would not have gone out of the house.” He guided Charlotte through the opening in the low, iron fence surrounding the cemetery. “Brigit's upset, that's all.”

“Understandable, but—”

“Leave it alone, Charlotte.” Michael's harsh tone surprised her. He cast a sidelong glance her way, the softening of his gaze saying he realized his reaction had been stronger than necessary. “Sorry. It'll blow over soon enough. Between Brigit and Ruth, I'm about at my wit's end with women today.”

She bumped his hip with her own. “Hey!
I'm
a woman.”

“You're not a woman; you're my sister.”

A burst of laughter was inappropriate after a funeral, and Charlotte managed to stifle the sound. But it felt good to have Michael talking to her like this again.

 

The tap-tap-tapping of the black Royal typewriter filled her small room. It was just before nine at night, and the sun had gone down, prompting Charlotte to use her desk lamp. The next installment of her serial for
Modern Woman
would touch on Darcy's murder and law enforcement in the territory. She would interview Michael and James to get their professional input for the article.

Typing James's name on the page, however, brought to mind the very unprofessional kiss from the night before. Charlotte shook her head, knocking the memory aside before she lapsed into a fantasy that had no right to exist. She wasn't here for that. She was here to show readers back in the States what Alaska was like from a woman's point of view.

She'd denied it to James during dinner the other night, but couldn't lie to herself that easily. Of course her travels to Alaska were a way to put her past behind her. But she didn't have to admit that to anyone else.

The potential for dredging up more pain and memories was a good reason to leave the investigation of Darcy's murder to James. Yet she couldn't. Her journalistic and justice-seeking instincts overrode the desire to hide her feelings and her past. If she could help find the killer, wasn't it worth reliving some of her own anguish?

A soft knock on the door barely broke through the sound of the keys hitting the paper-covered platen. Who could be calling on her at this hour? There were no visitors permitted after nine. Could Mrs. Sullivan be asking her to share a sherry or two now? As much as Charlotte liked the landlady, she wasn't in the mood to be sociable.

Charlotte smoothed a stray hair back behind her ear. She'd tell Mrs. Sullivan she was about to go to bed. But when she opened the door, it wasn't the older woman.

“Marie.” Charlotte couldn't hide her surprise. She leaned into the hall. No one else was about. “What are you doing here?”

Marie slipped past her, carrying a large floral carpet bag. “I'm sorry to bother you so late,” she said in a breathy whisper. “But I needed to see you.”

“How did you get in?” Charlotte closed the door quietly and also spoke in low tones. She didn't think Mrs. Sullivan would be as upset with Charlotte's having a female visitor after hours, but she wasn't sure.

“I came in with someone I knew. Promised him a little something special next time he came over to the house, though I won't be able to make good.” Her cheeks pinked with the admission. She put the bag on the chair and opened the buckles. “I don't have much time. The ship leaves at ten.”

“Ship? Where are you going?”

Marie rifled through the bag, then faced her, an old, black fur coat in hand. “Got a cable. My sister's real sick down in Seattle. I needed to give you this before I left.” She held the bedraggled garment out to Charlotte.

“I'm sorry to hear about your sister, but you don't have to—”

Marie stepped closer, shoving the coat into Charlotte's hands. “Please, it's important. Darcy—” Her eyes filled. “Darcy told me to take it for myself if anything happened to her, but I can't make heads or tails of it, and I can't take—” She stopped herself, flustered, and shook her head. “You'll know what to do with it. I have to go. Ralph's waiting in his motorcar to take me to the dock.”

“No, wait—”

Marie whirled around, snatched up her bag, and was out the door before Charlotte could ask her any more questions.

“Make heads or tails of what?” she asked the empty hall.

Charlotte held the old coat at the shoulders, her fingers sinking into the warm fur. It was heavy enough to be a decent coat for the environment, though not her style or her size. The girls at Miss Brigit's had probably divided up Darcy's belongings, since she didn't have family. But if Darcy and Marie were so close, why hadn't Marie kept the coat herself?

Charlotte draped the coat over the back of the chair and heard a faint rustling. She lifted it again, feeling along the arms and panels. At the back panel, something crackled between the fur and the satin lining. But closer to the bottom, the coat felt thicker. Charlotte inspected the seam. Though the stitches were neat and even, there was a section that had been sewn with different thread.

She sorted through her belongings and found a small pair of scissors in her travel sewing kit. Carefully, she snipped the odd threads. Before she was half done with the row, a stack of five-dollar Federal Reserve notes slid out of the gap. Charlotte stared at the ribbon-tied bundle. There were perhaps twenty notes in the stack. One hundred dollars wasn't a fortune, but it was a nice little nest egg. How had Darcy gotten the money? Had she saved it? Had Marie known it was sewn into the seam? She must have.

Charlotte gently pulled the money all the way through and set it aside. She felt along the inside panel of the coat. Her hand stilled. There were at least four more bundles and some other papers. Quick work of the rest of the thread proved her right. She retrieved another four hundred dollars or so and some yellowing newspaper pages folded in half.

Five hundred dollars cash. No wonder Darcy wasn't as anxious to work the clubs as the other girls. Where did she get so much money? It was doubtful Brigit paid the girls that well. Tips from her patrons? Possibly. Why hide it? Why not open a bank account if she was afraid the money would be stolen? Perhaps the local bank wasn't keen on doing business with ladies of the evening.

Charlotte laid the folded newspaper in front of her. The partial article facing her was something about the dwindling gold strikes in Nome. She glanced at the top of the page. The
Fairbanks Daily News-Miner,
dated October 16, 1909. The front page, with its bold masthead, was creased from several folds. Charlotte smoothed it out. The picture centered on the page showed several people coming down the steps of a large building. Three men and two women, all wearing heavy dark coats. The headline at the top read, in large letters,
CASE DISMISSED!

She read the caption at the bottom of the picture. “John Kincaid, Mary Jensen, Elizabeth Jensen, and their lawyers Herbert Grimes and Richard Barlow leaving the Fairbanks Courthouse.”

Why would Darcy keep the article? Did she know any of the people involved?

Charlotte read the article through. Kincaid, owner of a gambling den, and the two women, prostitutes on the Line in downtown Fairbanks, had been accused of theft and fraud by a patron, Cecil Patterson. Patterson claimed the Jensen sisters had lured him to their small cabin on the Line, convinced him to attend a gathering at Kincaid's club, then proceeded to cheat him out of his gold. Unfortunately for the territorial prosecutor, Patterson had disappeared shortly before he was scheduled to testify, and the case was dismissed.

A second page, dated May of 1910, showed nothing of interest as far as Charlotte could see. Advertisements for men's clothing, the announcement of a wedding, and the continuation of a story from the previous page regarding the hassles Judge Wickersham faced in civilizing interior Alaska. But at the corner of the page, a small piece, almost an afterthought, noted that a body found during the breakup of the Chena River had yet to be identified. No one had come forward to claim the poor soul, who was barely recognizable as male due to injury by weather, ice, and scavengers. The suspected cause of death was exposure as a result of excessive alcohol. How else could his lack of clothing be explained?

Charlotte reread the two paragraphs. She went back to the front-page article about the fraud case. Nothing else in the two pages seemed remotely connected. Was the body found in the icy waters of the Chena River Cecil Patterson?

She peered more closely at the picture of the people at the courthouse. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, Kincaid, but she couldn't be sure. Not that Charlotte expected to know anyone from Fairbanks. Perhaps Michael or James might, though how likely was that?

She found her magnifying glass in the top drawer of her wardrobe trunk and focused it on the picture. The two women wore fashionable hats of the day, lovely, but half their faces were hidden. The lawyers appeared to be appropriately smug after having gotten their clients off on the fact that there was no witness.