Murder on the Last Frontier (11 page)

“It's the way of the profession, Charlotte. Here, Yonkers, DC, wherever I choose to practice, that's the way it works. If there's more than one physician, the older, more experienced one will have the most affluent patients.” He stood, gathering his plate, bowl, and spoon. “I've worked damn hard under some deplorable conditions. Don't I deserve a break from that?”

“But what about the people you see now? What about families like the Ivanoffs?”

Michael brought his dishes into his living quarters. Charlotte followed. “I'll still be seeing patients of all sorts for some time, don't worry. Another doctor might arrive soon, and Doctor Hastings won't retire for years.” He set the dishes in the sink. “I'd never leave people in the lurch, but I have to think about my reputation and standing in the community as well. I'll have a family to consider.”

Something darkened his expression, but he turned to pump water into the sink before she could tell what it might mean. “You can maintain an honorable reputation while still seeing to poorer people, you know. When did a patient's income become more significant than his or her health?”

Michael slammed his coffee cup into the sink, splashing water onto the floor. He snatched a towel off the counter to mop it up. “It's not, but maybe I don't feel like being a doctor to anyone for the rest of my life. We're looking at statehood, and Alaska will need some significant bolstering in Washington. It would be a boon to everyone if we could get in.”

“Politics?” The idea of Michael chatting up politicians boggled her. “You can't be serious.”

“A lot of professionals use their standing in the community to get things done on a higher level for a greater good.” The outer door of the cabin opened, then shut with a significant bang. Michael checked his pocket watch. “That's my two o'clock with Mr. Perkins. You'll have to go.”

He ushered Charlotte through the exam room to the office. A gray-bearded man of about fifty in a worn wool shirt and patched canvas trousers looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

“Hey, Doc.” Mr. Perkins scrambled to his feet and swept his fedora off his balding head. “Ma'am.”

Charlotte smiled at him, but went directly to where her coat and hat hung. “I'll see you later, Michael.”

She shoved her hat on her head and was still slipping the mackinaw on as she left. Standing on the walkway out front, she sucked in a couple of deep breaths of cool, rain-washed air.

Politics. How could he give up his medical practice for politics?

Charlotte strode down the walk toward Sullivan's, her heels hard on the wooden slats.

This was all Ruth's idea, she'd bet. Michael had been perfectly content to be a doctor until he'd met Ruth, happy to tend to the unfortunate and needy.

Hadn't he?

Her step faltered in front of the tailor's shop. She stopped and looked back toward her brother's office. Maybe he'd become overwhelmed by it all, or tired of barely making a living. Michael was right; he deserved to have a decent life, especially now that he was getting married and, presumably, going to start a family.

A man's reputation was everything, wasn't it? Richard had taught her that.

Charlotte resumed walking to the rooming house, feeling the weight of . . . disappointment? Loss? Whatever it was, it slowed her steps and made the walk seem much farther than a few blocks.

She opened the door to Sullivan's as a burly man lumbered down the stairs. He gave her a nod, then sat in one of the armchairs near the telephone table. He picked up the set and flicked the hook to get the operator. Charlotte continued down the hall to her room, giving the man what little privacy was to be had in the public space.

Unlocking the door, she pushed it open, and a piece of paper fluttered across the floor. Had something fallen off her table? After compiling the copies of her story that morning, Charlotte had filed notes and stashed them in her trunk. There was a page in the typewriter, but clean paper was boxed to stay neat.

She picked up the folded page and flicked it open.

 

DARCY IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

 

A threat? She almost laughed. Someone was threatening her because of the questions she was asking? She'd learned nothing at all that would help the case.

But who would have sent it? Charlotte stared at the paper, rereading the line several times, though it gave no clue to the author. Only a handful of people were aware of her interest. Which one would want her to steer clear of the investigation? Miss Brigit had told her just yesterday to stay out of her business.

You need to talk to Eddington,
her more cautious inner voice insisted.

She slipped the paper into her coat pocket and retreated from the room, locking her door behind her. The gentleman in the parlor was on the telephone, cooing to some loved one on the other end of the line. Charlotte hurried past him and out the door.

The rain and wind had picked up in the few minutes she had been inside. Twice she had to clamp her hand atop her head to keep her hat from blowing off. Did it ever stop? The few others on the street scurried by, as intent on their destinations as she was on hers.

She crossed to the federal building, knocking as much mud from her boots as she could before entering the marshal's office. James Eddington looked up from the desk where he smoked a pipe while reading papers. The sweet, earthy tang of tobacco and leather hung in the air. The room held the deputy's desk, a chair for visitors, a long bench along the far wall, and a filing cabinet. One door led to Marshal Blaine's office; another was simply marked J
AIL
.

“Miss Brody,” James said, rising. He set his pipe down. “What can I do for you?”

Charlotte removed her hat and tried to smooth down her hair as best she could. She probably looked a fright, dripping wet and windblown, rushing in like her tail was on fire. She withdrew the somewhat crumpled and damp paper from her pocket. “I found this in my room.”

James glowered as he came around the desk and took the note from her. The aroma of pipe tobacco clung to him, not in an unpleasant way.

“I was out most of the morning and just got back from talking to Michael.”

The frown deepened when James read the six words. Then his body stiffened, and his hand clenched. “What have you been doing that's related to the case?”

Charlotte swallowed hard. She'd expected the question, and knew he'd be displeased with her answer. “I spoke to Brigit and Marie. Mostly Marie. I asked her if there had been anything bothering Darcy in the last few days or weeks.” His expression darkened into a scowl, as she'd also expected. “You admitted you hadn't gotten everything you thought you could from her. I just wanted to help.”

“You must have learned something that someone didn't cotton to.” His frustration and anger were coming out in the increasing thickness of his Southern accent. “What did Marie say?”

Charlotte told him what Marie had said about Darcy's not being as concerned with making money as the others. “That was about it.”

“So Brigit knew you were looking into Darcy's death, and at least five men at the Edgewater saw you chatting with Marie.” James narrowed his gaze, gauging her for truthfulness. No, she wasn't telling him everything Marie had said—she'd promised she wouldn't—but Charlotte wasn't lying either. “Anything else? Anyone else know?”

“I had lunch at the Bartletts' yesterday, with the Kavanaghs and the Landrys.”

Three of Cordova's upstanding families. Surely there was no harm in their knowing.

But James's face darkened. “The mayor knows you're asking questions while I'm investigating an open murder case?”

“No, of course not. But he knows I spoke to you about that night, and that I helped Michael. I told them I'm interested in seeing the case solved.”

He shook his head and stomped back to the desk. “Damn it, Charlotte.” He slapped the note down onto the open file. “Someone in this town beat a girl to death and knows you're poking about. How the hell am I supposed to keep you safe?”

“I'm trying to help.” He was concerned for her safety? She hadn't learned anything worth threatening bodily harm over.

He sighed, then rubbed his hands over his face. “I know, but obviously someone feels you shouldn't, or you're getting too close to something. Even if you aren't in danger, they're skittish now, and that makes my job all the more difficult.”

“Oh.” Guilt flushed her cheeks. She approached the desk, stopping on the opposite side. “I'm sorry, James. I had no intention of doing anything like that. I didn't think word would get out so fast.”

“Small town,” he said, “with nothing as exciting as this happening in a long while. Ears are everywhere.”

While that could be advantageous for gaining information, it worked against the lawman as well.

“I guess you want me to stop nosing around.”

James crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the desk. “That would be ideal, yes.”

She crossed her arms as well. “I don't think I can do that.”

“Why not?” he growled.

“If information is out there that will help you catch the man responsible, I'm going to make sure it's revealed.”

“Revealed, not sought. Revealed. To
me,
Charlotte, or to Marshal Blaine.”

Charlotte's jaw tightened, and she pressed her lips together. “I have the right to investigate a story.”

“But not the right to jeopardize an open case.”

Her righteous indignation faltered. “No, of course not.” She gestured toward the desk. “I brought the note, didn't I?”

He nodded. “You did, which only proves my point. You need to step back, for your own good. The person who wrote this likely killed a girl. I don't want you anywhere near that animal.”

Charlotte glanced at the note. Images of Darcy, bloody and bruised, flicked through her mind like a picture show. The note with its single line of six simple words took on a more ominous tone. Would the killer come after her? James believed so. She'd never backed down from dangerous assignments, had even waded into riots. Rocks through the window were one thing. A threatening note left in her room made it all too personal.

“I'll be careful,” she said.

“Somehow I doubt that.” He snatched his coat and hat off the rack behind his desk. “I'll walk you home.”

“I don't think a police escort is necessary, Deputy.”

Ignoring her, James held the front door open and stood aside, waiting for her. Charlotte rolled her eyes, making sure he knew exactly how she felt about his overprotective gesture, and led the way out.

They walked back to Sullivan's with nary a word passing between them. She had to admit, she felt safer walking beside him, but who wouldn't feel safe with a six-foot-tall man carrying a large pistol escorting them home?

He held the front door open for her, then closed it gently behind them. “Did you ask Mrs. Sullivan if she heard or saw anything?”

“No.”

James strode to the landlady's door and knocked respectfully, not pounding on it as he had to rouse Charlotte two days in a row. Mrs. Sullivan answered, and he swept the hat off his head.

“Afternoon, ma'am.”

“Deputy.” She glanced between him and Charlotte, worry on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” he said. Charlotte admired the way he was trying to keep Mrs. Sullivan at ease. No sense in frightening the woman. “I was just wondering if you'd seen or heard anyone down by Miss Brody's room earlier today.”

Mrs. Sullivan peered down the hall, as if she'd find someone lurking there now. “No, I haven't, but I was feeling a bit under the weather until late this morning and stayed in bed.” She gave Charlotte a beseeching look. “Was there trouble, dear? Did someone try to get into your room?”

“Nothing like that, Mrs. Sullivan.” She smiled to reassure the woman. “I think there was someone looking for me, that's all.”

True enough.

“Make sure any visitors check in, Charlotte,” the landlady said. She gestured toward the parlor. “Rules are clear as day in the parlor.”

“I'll let them know.”

Mrs. Sullivan nodded curtly. “Anything else, Deputy?”

“No, ma'am. I'll just escort Miss Brody to her room, then be on my way.”

She gave them a look that said there'd better not be any hanky-panky, then shut her door. James followed Charlotte, standing behind her as she unlocked and opened the door to her room. She turned around to see him in the doorway, scanning the room as if he expected someone to be inside.

“You didn't have to bring me to my door,” she said. Charlotte placed her hat on the table and unbuttoned her coat.

James clutched his hat in both hands. “I don't mind. Besides, I needed to ask you something.”

“I can't imagine what else there is to know.”

“I need to know if you'll have dinner with me tonight.” She stared at him, blinking. Was he teasing her? There was no glint of amusement in his blue eyes. In fact, he appeared all too serious. Uncomfortable, even, as he gripped the brim of his hat. He cleared his throat. “I guess that wasn't really a question. Miss Brody, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight?”

“I—” She should say no. They hardly knew each other.

But wasn't this how people got to know each other? Over dinner? Was she even ready to get involved with a man again?

“I'd be delighted, Deputy Eddington.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of his motive. “Unless this is your ham-handed way of making sure I stay out of trouble.”