Murder on the Last Frontier (2 page)

“I'm not asking you to. I'm an adult and quite capable of taking care of myself.” Her anger diminished a smidgen at the concern in his eyes. Charlotte grasped his hand, loosening it from her arm, and squeezed his fingers. “Please, let's not argue about this, not now.”

He leaned closer, his voice low so passersby couldn't hear. “This is no place for you, Charlotte. Unmarried women here are not treated as they are back home.”

She knew exactly how some women were treated at home by family and society. By lovers. “You mean like possessions or playthings? Your letters suggested women here enjoyed more freedoms, not less.”

“Married women, yes. Unmarried women are looked upon as a challenge to be wedded or bedded.” His voice had taken on a low, growling quality that was quite unlike him. “There are few men here worthy of the former, and I'll be damned if anyone tries the latter.”

Despite his brotherly protectiveness and the sentiment, she nearly laughed in his face. She was twenty-six years old. Did he truly believe she was so innocent? Now was probably not the time to horrify him with her indiscretions. “I'll be sure to consult you if anyone approaches with either proposition.”

Even in the poor illumination of his flashlight, she saw his face darken at her flippant remark. Charlotte took his arm again and urged him onward, forestalling a lecture. The taxicab rumbled up from behind them, making it impossible to hear any response he might have had.

Good. She wasn't in the mood to argue. Not when the desire to be truthful with him, as they had been with each other until recent years, had put her within a hair's breadth of telling him everything.

Alaska had tamed his demons. Maybe it could tame hers as well.

 

The indistinct jangle of a distant piano became a jaunty tune as Charlotte and Michael stepped up onto the wooden boardwalk marking the start of the town proper. Faint, muddy footprints faded along the worn slats; shopkeepers were probably kept busy sweeping. Tall power poles lined both sides of the street. For some reason, the idea that Cordova had electricity, telegraph, and telephone lines amused Charlotte. Michael's descriptions in his letters notwithstanding, she'd expected something more rustic. Backwards even.

Michael flicked off his flashlight and returned it to his pocket. Electric streetlamps illuminated the buildings, all closed at the late hour. Nothing on the other side of the street seemed to be open either.

“Where's the music coming from?” she asked.

Michael gestured ahead and farther into town with his chin. “Probably the Tidewater Club. It stayed open late for the ship's arrival. No alcohol is served, supposedly, but they offer food and entertainment.”

Several men veered off the boardwalk and up an alley between two dark buildings. A woman's laughter echoed back to the main street. There hadn't been a woman with them, which meant she'd been in the alley.

Charlotte caught Michael's eye. His cheeks flushed, and he looked away. Her own face heated. She knew about ladies of the evening, but that probably wasn't what he'd meant about entertainment, nor was it something a brother wished to discuss with his sister.

“Here's Sullivan's.” He released her arm and dug into his trouser pocket.

The rooming house looked like many of the buildings along the row. The front windows, curtained for the night, were smaller than those of the general store across the street. A faint light glowed behind them.

Two quick gunshots rang out, close to where Michael had indicated the Tidewater was located. Charlotte's heart jumped into her throat, and she instinctively ducked. Michael covered her hunched form with his body. Pulse pounding, she heard no other reports and straightened. Michael peered up the road, into the darkness. When nothing further happened, he lowered his arm.

“Probably just celebrating,” he said. “If not, I'll be patching someone up or performing an autopsy come morning.”

She scanned the street, but no one so much as poked his or her head out a door or window to investigate. “Does that happen often?”

“The celebratory shooting? Once in a while.”

“What about the autopsies?”

He shrugged. “Too often for my liking, but it's part of the job.”

His acceptance of the possibility surprised Charlotte. While she'd expected Alaska to be untamed, shootings in the street weren't something she'd anticipated. Gun-toting cowboys, like the ones in the Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show she'd seen as a child, were supposed to be reminiscent of days gone by. Maybe those days weren't quite gone here.

Michael removed a set of two keys on a brass fob from his pocket and fit the larger key to the lock. The door opened to a quaint parlor with two upholstered chairs and a round table with both a lamp and a black candlestick telephone on it. To the right, narrow stairs disappeared into darkness above. The air was damp, with a mustiness tinged with linseed oil. A poster on the wall listed the house rules. At the very top, written in bold script, were the visiting hours and a reminder that the front door was locked at nine p.m.

Michael gently closed the door behind them. “Ladies are on this floor,” he whispered. “Mrs. Sullivan is in the first rooms on the left. She doesn't like visitors so late, but said I could show you to your room since you're my sister and all.”

The stairs creaked, the sound followed by soft footfalls. Michael motioned for Charlotte to hurry down the hall. Before she could, a young woman came into sight, her sable hair in a loose pile atop her head. She stopped three steps from the bottom, her kohl-darkened eyes widened in surprise, and her hand pressed to her breast. Her low-cut green dress showed considerably more cleavage than Charlotte's square-collared blouse, and its narrow fit defined the woman's curves. After a moment, the woman relaxed and smiled, bringing her finger to her ruby lips. She minced down the last steps in glossy black buckled shoes.

“Mum's the word,” she whispered, and winked at Charlotte in a conspiratorial manner. At the bottom of the stairs, she startled when she caught sight of Michael, but her grin quickly returned. “Hey there, Doc.” She glanced between him and Charlotte, the grin broadening. “I won't tell if you won't.”

Michael's cheeks reddened. “This is my sister Charlotte. I met her at the ship this evening.”

The woman nodded. “That's right, I remember your mentioning she'd be visiting.” How would she know Michael's personal business? She smiled at Charlotte, her hand extended. “I'm Marie. Welcome to Alaska.”

Charlotte took her hand. From the corner of her eye, she saw her brother grimace. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure's mine.” Marie turned back to Michael. “Before I forget, Doc. Darcy needs to see you. She's been feeling poorly the last week or so.”

“I told her—” He had started to speak in a normal tone, then caught himself. The conversation had been carried on in whispers to prevent disturbing the landlady or other tenants. He lowered his voice. “I told her to come to my office last week for an exam.”

Marie's expression became earnest. “Can't you come over tomorrow? Brigit's been giving her grief about slacking. More than usual, anyways. I know it's not your regular time and all, but Darcy's been sleeping all she can.”

Charlotte cocked an eyebrow in query. Regular time?

Michael set down Charlotte's satchel and strode forward. Taking Marie's upper arm, he guided her to the front door. “Tell her I'll come by in the next couple of days. Meanwhile, she needs fluids—not alcohol—and as much rest as she can get.”

“I'll tell her, but I don't know if Brigit will let her get all that much rest.” Marie gave a chuckle, then glanced over her shoulder at Charlotte. “Nice meeting you.”

Charlotte waved as Michael ushered Marie out the door and locked it behind her.

“When
is
your regular time to visit Darcy?” Charlotte asked, unable to keep the grin off her face.

He shook his head, realizing she wasn't about to let this particular subject drop. “Every other Thursday. I tend the whores at Miss Brigit's house, all right? Hastings, the other doctor, won't lower himself to see them. The U.S. marshal and the residents mostly pretend they don't exist as long as no one gets robbed and the girls get regular health exams.”

Charlotte shrugged. “It seems like it's worked out for the best, under the circumstances.”

“You approve of prostitution? I'd have thought a feminist like you would rail against such a thing.” Michael crossed his arms and tilted his head, his standard posture for catching someone—particularly Charlotte—in a falsehood.

“I rail against the exploitation and abuse of anyone.” She mimicked his stance. “Are the women willing participants, or is this Miss Brigit forcing them to solicit men?”

His shoulders dropped. “Willing, as far as I know.”

Charlotte picked up her bag. “They're adults who have chosen what to do with their bodies. As long as they're being treated well, I have no issue with it if they don't.”

A good number of her suffragette and feminist friends argued that it was exploitation either way, but Charlotte knew painting the entire sex trade with one stroke was wrong. Every situation was different. She was often in the minority with that thinking and wondered how the people of Cordova felt. Were they the “live and let live” sort of folks one would associate with a frontier community?

Michael gestured for her to continue down the hall. The floor beneath the worn runner squeaked under their weight. Another small lamp burned at the far end. The first door on the right was the water closet. Two more doors on the right and three on the left had black numbers neatly painted on their white surfaces. If the same configuration held upstairs, Mrs. Sullivan's ten dollars a month rent for each room earned her quite the income, depending on occupancy.

Michael stopped at the last door on the right and fit the second key to the lock. The door opened silently. He reached in and turned the knob on the wall. A lamp in the corner glowed with a soft light as the electric bulb warmed. Stepping into the room, Charlotte set her satchel on the square table. A wooden chair beside the table, a single narrow bed made up with a flowered quilt, and a wardrobe were all the furnishings. A radiator in the corner ticked, emitting heat. The double-hung window's curtains were drawn against the night. It wasn't much larger than her room back home, but it would suffice.

This is home,
she reminded herself.
At least for now
.

“I'm guessing Mother and Father wouldn't exactly see the girls and Brigit the same way you do,” he said solemnly, continuing the conversation now that they wouldn't disturb her new neighbors.

Charlotte unbuttoned her coat and draped it over the back of the chair. “If they did, brother dear, you would have told them you treat whores in your letters. You seem rather comfortable with the idea.”

“They need medical attention, and it's my duty to keep them and the town healthy,” he said.

“And no one's bothered that they're doing a brisk business here?” More interesting tidbits for her articles took root.

Michael handed her the keys, his lips pressed tight beneath his trim moustache. “Depends on who you talk to. I have patients first thing in the morning. I expect you'll want to sleep later than normal, considering the hour.”

She gave herself a point for making him change the subject. “You know I'm not much of a morning person to begin with. I'll get acquainted with some of the town and come by your office for lunch.”

“Farther down the road here, on the right. Can't miss it.”

Charlotte rose on her toes to peck him on the cheek. “Thank you. I hope you're as glad to have me here as I am to be here.”

He sighed like Father again. “I am, but you must understand, it's a different world here. I just want you to be safe.” He chucked her under the chin. “I'm your big brother. It's my right to be overprotective.”

They both smiled. No matter their disagreements, Charlotte knew they'd be able to work things out eventually. She chalked up his protectiveness as natural concern, but she'd show him soon enough that there was no need for him to worry.

“Come lock the front door behind me, or Mrs. Sullivan will have my hide.”

She followed him out to the parlor and bid him good night. After locking the door, Charlotte returned to her room and opened the valve on the radiator. She sat on the bed. Springs creaked, but nothing poked out from beneath the covers. Someone coughed in the room beside hers. Scraping and squeaking sounds from overhead suggested the man above her had shifted in bed.

Or there was another late-night visitor like Marie.

Pulling her satchel to her, she withdrew her journal, pen, and inkpot. She was now too weary to stay up for long, but wanted to get the initial emotion and images of landing in Cordova down before losing them to sleep.

Adventures on the Last Frontier,
she wrote.

She couldn't wait.

B
am-bam-bam
.

Her head pounded. She covered it with the pillow, but that didn't help.

Bam-bam-bam
.

“Deputy Marshal. Open up in there!”

Charlotte bolted upright, headache forgotten, and flung the blankets off. Heart racing, she hurried to the door and opened it. “What's wrong? Is there a fire?”

A man in a wide-brimmed hat filled the doorway, his fist raised. Black eyebrows met over a nose that might have been broken once or twice. Glacier-blue eyes burned into hers as he lowered his hand. “You're not Martha Griggs.”

He sounded somewhat disappointed.

His gaze traveled from Charlotte's face to her body. She was suddenly aware of her state. She wore her thin nightclothes, her hair was loose about her shoulders, and the chill of the morning had caused his eyes to linger on her chest for a reason. She crossed her free arm over her breasts and held onto the edge of the door.

“No, I'm not.”

Before she could give her name, he stepped forward. When she refused to give way, he peered into the room over her head as if this Martha person was hiding within. This close, Charlotte noted his mackinaw had seen better days, as had the brown wool shirt beneath it, though he smelled clean enough.

“Where is she?” he asked with more than a little frustration in his voice. There was a hint of some accent, but she couldn't place it.

“I don't know. I've only been here since last night.”

He glared down at her, backing up a step. “Not a working girl, are you?”

Heat rose through Charlotte's chest, neck, and face. “No, I'm not.”

She must have blushed mightily, because his stern expression became a wry grin. “You seem flustered.”

“Of course I am. Pounding on the door at such an ungodly hour would fluster anyone.”

“It's nearly ten, ma'am. Hardly ungodly. At least for the God-fearin'.”

Charlotte's fingers pressed into the wood door. “It isn't God you need to fear, Deputy.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening a federal marshal?”

Oh, Lord. She had, hadn't she? But the glint in his eyes and the smile threatening to break his frown assured her he was teasing. Nonetheless, she'd tread carefully from now on.

“What's your name?” he asked.

She swallowed hard, then licked her dry lips. “Charlotte Brody.”

He gave her another quick perusal and backed up a step. “The doctor's sister.”

It made sense that the townspeople knew Michael, but did everyone know she'd be visiting? With only one thousand souls, it was likely.

“Yes.”

The deputy swept his hat off his head. Of course, now he'd be polite, knowing who her brother was. A lock of dark hair tumbled over his forehead. He smoothed it out of the way. “Sorry, ma'am. Sullivan's is a reputable place, but now and again a new woman tries to set up shop here. We had word Martha moved in from another location.”

“I haven't seen anyone of the sort.” The lie came easily. She had no proof Marie's visit last night was anything but innocent. No proof at all.

He set the hat on his head and tugged the brim. “Sorry to bother you, Miss Brody. If you see or hear of any of the ladies moving in, I'd be obliged if you let me know. Marshal's office is right across from your brother's place, in the federal building.”

“Are you the only one there, Deputy . . . ?”

His smile revealed a small dimple in his left cheek. “Eddington. James Eddington. And no, I'm not. My superior is Thomas Blaine. Either of us can take your statement.”

“Thank you, Deputy Eddington.”

He touched the hat brim again. “Ma'am.”

Eddington turned on his heel with almost military precision. He strode down the hall as if he owned the place, tall leather boots thudding on the carpet. Charlotte watched until he disappeared around the corner into the parlor and she heard the front door close.

Retreating into her room, she pushed her door closed and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. Not even twenty-four hours in town and she'd twice been mistaken for a sporting woman. A wry laugh escaped her throat. Surely that was some sort of record.

 

Charlotte dressed in her clothes from the day before and met briefly with Mrs. Sullivan to arrange retrieving her trunks from the shed. The older woman assured her they would remain safe until she was ready to have them delivered to her room. Charlotte insisted she could get them herself, but Mrs. Sullivan was equally adamant that hauling trunks was no work for a proper young lady. And according to Mrs. Sullivan, Cordova needed more proper young ladies. Her two sons, she said, could damn well earn their keep.

Charlotte thanked Mrs. Sullivan, barely managing to refrain from laughing, then went in search of a cup of coffee before meeting Michael for lunch. As she made her way to the café two muddy blocks away, she was able to take in the whole of Cordova in daylight.

The buildings and residents seemed typical of any small town, not much different from many she'd visited, but the setting rivaled any other. Charlotte stared up—way up—at the surrounding green and brown mountains disappearing into low clouds. This was the closest she'd ever been to such huge formations, other than when the Seattle-bound train had whisked by the Rockies. To the west, beyond the weathered warehouse structures of the clam canneries, Orca Inlet was flat gray, with islands that would block the brunt of storms coming in from Prince William Sound.

A gust of salty, fishy wind blew up from the bay, as if in response to her observations. If the current weather was muted by islands, Charlotte could hardly imagine what living here would be like without such protection.

Access to Cordova, Michael had said in his letters, was seasonal via the railroad through a mountain pass, though year-round by ship. You had to want to come here. But limited accessibility hadn't prevented a surprising number of establishments from setting up shop. In the short distance between Sullivan's and the café, there was a laundry, a pharmacy, a jewelry store, and even a bathhouse, among other businesses. She stopped in the bathhouse to make an appointment for later. The prospect of stretching out for a long soak appealed to her. A luxury, perhaps, considering Sullivan's had a tub and running water, but it wouldn't hurt to indulge now and again.

Besides, businesses needed local support to make a go of it, especially ones so far from civilization. Charlotte was definitely a local now. At least for the time being.

The sun peeked from behind thick white clouds, attempting to take the chill off the damp day. August back in New York could be unbearably hot and humid. Despite its nearness to the sea, Cordova wasn't humid at all, but it was wet. Michael had described how it could rain for days on end, and last winter's ten feet of snow had been considered mild for the season.

He'd also warned her that the wind could be the worst part of the weather, cutting through material like an icy knife. She'd felt some of that chill last night, and Charlotte mentally inventoried the winter clothes she had brought. Perhaps she'd need to purchase more substantial garments and boots.

The clatter of cars on rails and the bite of coal fires told her the train yard was nearby. In his letters, Michael had described the area as “Old Town,” where Cordova had originally been established on the south shore of Eyak Lake. The Copper River and Northwestern Railway now provided the port town a way to accommodate national and international interests in the copper and fishing industries, and business was booming.

New buildings were going up all the time along the main streets, and beyond. There wasn't much else down near the yard anymore, Michael had said, except an old cemetery and a patch of woods called Nirvana Park.

Here on Main Street, storefront windows glinted in weathered but well-kept buildings. Ladies, in more up-to-date fashions than Charlotte would have expected, passed her on the wooden boardwalk and smiled in greeting. Men, whether dressed in suits or the rough clothing of laborers, touched the brims of their hats as she passed.

On a closer look, however, some of the men strutting along the walkway were actually women. No one gave their trousered legs a second glance, let alone a comment. That certainly wouldn't have been the case in most places.

Homesteaders, Charlotte figured. Or women who'd found their way here and liked the live-and-let-live lifestyle. Those were the sorts of women she wanted to interview for her articles.

But otherwise, Cordova seemed like any of the small villages she'd visited back East. There had to be something more exciting about living on the frontier than the occasional shooting or women in pants, or her articles would be lining canary cages.

Charlotte opened the door of the café, the bell above tinkling with her arrival. The aroma of coffee and cooked bacon hung in the air. Two of the half dozen tables were occupied, one by an older couple perusing the menu and the other by a lone man with bloodshot eyes and a greenish tint to his skin who nursed a cup of coffee. And perhaps a hangover. To the left stood a long counter with six empty padded stools. A tall and lanky young man—boy, really, probably no older than fifteen—came out through a pair of swinging doors at the far end of the room. Beyond the doors was the clatter and clang of a kitchen at work.

The boy flipped a small white towel over his shoulder. “Sit anywhere you'd like, miss. Can I get you a menu?”

Charlotte sat on the end stool. “Just coffee, please.”

He grabbed a white cup and saucer off an artfully arranged stack, then carefully poured out a cup from the large aluminum pot on the stove behind him and slid it in front of her.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Please.”

A covered bowl of sugar with a silver spoon sticking out was followed by a small ceramic pitcher the boy retrieved from the icebox under the counter.

“Anything else?” His brown eyes were bright and eager.

Charlotte smiled at him. “No, thank you.”

“You just call if you need anything.” He snatched the pot up and came around the counter to refill cups and take the couple's order without writing it down, then hurried back to the kitchen calling out their request for soup.

Charlotte spooned a bit of sugar into the cup and added a dollop of cream. While she sipped the potent brew, she turned her attention to the scenery outside the window. The gap between the clothier and the tailor shop showed the blue-gray waters of Prince William Sound.

A pair of women passed the window. One glanced in, catching Charlotte's gaze. Marie, the woman from last night, stopped, said a word or two to her companion, and entered the café. The door chime sounded.

“Miss Brody,” she said breathlessly, “I'm sorry to disturb your refreshment.”

Charlotte set her cup down. “No, it's quite all right. Will you join me?”

Marie stepped closer, shaking her head. She was dressed in a modest skirt and blouse, her coat hem falling past her hips. Sturdy boots covered her feet, very unlike the shoes she'd worn last night. “No, thanks. I just wondered if you'd do me a small favor. I know we've just met and all, and you have no cause to, but it's not for me.”

The girl—for in the light of day and with her face unpainted, she seemed hardly more than that—wrung her hands together. Worry lined her smooth brow.

“It's your friend, Darcy, isn't it?” Charlotte surmised. “Has she gotten worse?”

The waiter pushed through the doors. “Hey, Marie. You having a bite?”

She waved him off. “Not today, Henry. I'm just talking to Miss Brody for a second.” Henry shrugged and returned to the kitchen. “Please,” Marie said to Charlotte, “could you ask your brother to come today? Darcy was barely able to get up this morning, she was so sick. Brigit's madder than a wet hen at being short a girl, especially on weekends.”

Charlotte was no doctor, but whatever was ailing the poor girl sounded serious. Why was Michael reluctant to check on her? “I'm going to see him shortly and will make sure he goes. I'll drag him there myself if I have to.”

Marie clutched Charlotte's sleeve, her relief clear. “Oh, thank you so much, Miss Brody. I'm obliged.”

“Happy to help, and please, call me Charlotte.”

The girl's face broke into a smile, making her look even younger. “Charlotte. I have to get back to my errands. Thank you.”

She darted back out to join the other woman who had stayed on the walk.

Henry came out of the kitchen again, carrying two bowls of soup. He served the couple, then came over to Charlotte. “Refill, miss? They're free.”

Charlotte finished her coffee, then slid the cup and saucer away. “No, thank you.”

She dug a dime and a nickel out of her purse and laid them beside the dishware.

Henry's eyes widened. “That's way too much, miss. Coffee's only a dime.”

She stood, smiling at him. “The coffee was quite good, and the service impeccable. Thank you, Henry.”

The boy's cheeks pinked. “Thank you, Miss Brody.”

Charlotte left the café, sure she'd be able to talk to Henry about real life on the frontier and the people who inhabited it. Finding sources of information was hard enough, but being new in town meant she'd need all the help she could get. People tended to talk around servers and those in similar humble positions, forgetting they had ears. And mouths.

A salt-and-coal-tinged breeze blew in from the south, accompanied by the rumble of a steam engine. The black trail of smoke puffed westward, toward the docks. She caught a glimpse of freight cars between the buildings and through the trees, carrying ore from the copper mines far north of Cordova. The train carried passengers as well, and Charlotte made a mental note to book passage to view the glaciers along the route.