Murder on the Last Frontier (4 page)

“I have winter gear in my trunk. I paid attention to your list of what to bring.”

Another path, beaten into the swath of land between the building on the street and several outbuildings, paralleled the main road. It seemed to lead into a copse of spruce closer to Michael's office and, in the opposite direction, down a slight embankment to the railroad tracks that led to the docks half a mile away.

Michael worked the key into the lock, popping the hasp open, and yanked on the door. Inside, Charlotte's two trunks sat near the entrance. Old luggage, a rusty bicycle, and a wheelbarrow cluttered the rough wood floor. Shelves held dusty canning jars and several large claw traps, among other things shoved into the shadows.

Charlotte and Michael each took an end of one trunk and hauled it into the rooming house. They assured Mrs. Sullivan that Charlotte was fine, if a little muddy, and was quite capable of getting the other one. After setting both trunks in her room, Michael pecked Charlotte on the cheek in farewell.

“Don't forget to go see Darcy,” she reminded him.

“On my way now.” While he wasn't enthusiastic, she was sure he'd do as promised. Michael was a considerate man, and a good doctor. He wouldn't let poor Darcy suffer if she was truly ill. “I'm going to be out for supper tonight. Boring dealings with the city council, or I'd invite you. Will you be all right on your own?”

She waved off his concern. “I'll be fine. I'll unpack and see what I have to wear for tomorrow night.”

“Right. I'll see you tomorrow, Sis.”

Charlotte shut the door behind him and got to work.

 

After she had organized what she could in her room, Charlotte took her bath at the Northern Delight bathhouse. She decided against a walk to Nirvana Park, as the rain and wind had picked up again, making the half-mile walk less attractive. Soaking in the steaming tub nearly put her to sleep. If the attendant hadn't called out, Charlotte was sure she would have sunk into the comfortable depths and drowned.

Back in her room, she transcribed the notes she'd taken during the steamer journey. She carefully pulled the latest sheet from her typewriter and set it on top of the other finished pages. A dwindling packet of paper and carbons sat beside the Royal. Was there a stationery store in town? She hadn't seen one in her brief wanderings today. It was possible McGruder's or one of the other merchants sold paper and carbon. She'd have to ask.

A quiet knock interrupted her feeding a sandwich of paper and carbon around the smooth, black platen of the typewriter. She gave the knob a turn to secure the sheets, then answered the door.

Mrs. Sullivan smiled up at her. “Good evening, dear. I don't mean to intrude, but I was wondering if you had plans for supper? I made a beef roast and potatoes.”

Charlotte glanced at her typewriter and notebook on the table. She needed to write, but she'd been at it for a couple of hours already. Her aching back and rumbling stomach made the decision for her. “I'd be delighted,” she said, returning a smile.

During a hearty meal followed by after-dinner sherry, Mrs. Sullivan entertained Charlotte with stories of her own girlhood in Canada and her travels west. She was exactly the kind of woman Charlotte wanted to feature in her articles.

“Plenty of opportunities for a woman to make her way here,” Mrs. Sullivan said, refilling their delicate sherry glasses. Charlotte had lost count of the number of drinks they'd consumed, but the contents of the crystal decanter were significantly decreased in volume. “Be that as it may, a lady should always remain a lady.”

“Of course,” Charlotte agreed, more out of politeness than anything else. The sweet liquor went down easily, and her head swam.

What time was it? She squinted at the cuckoo clock on the wall. After eleven! How had that happened?

“I really must be going.” She stood on wobbly legs and set her glass on the tray. “Thank you for a lovely time.”

“It was a pleasure, dear girl.” Mrs. Sullivan rose as well and tottered to the door. Her gaze became misty as she raised a trembling hand to Charlotte's cheek. “With your fair coloring and blue eyes, you remind me of my Margaret, God rest her soul. She was a beauty like you.”

Sympathy twinged in Charlotte's chest. Mrs. Sullivan's daughter had died during the Spanish flu pandemic the year before. Charlotte took the older woman's hand and gently squeezed her frail fingers. “Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, dear. And thank you for indulging an old woman.”

Charlotte bade her good night, made a quick stop at the bathroom, then headed to her room, grateful it was a short walk and that the light was on at the end of the hall. The room was dark, and she fumbled to find the light switch on the wall. Charlotte shut and locked her door, then closed the curtains. She changed into her nightgown, gave her teeth a quick brushing from water in the pitcher—promising herself to dump the basin in the morning—and turned out the light.

She settled into bed. The room wasn't spinning, exactly, but there was a slight swaying motion. Ignoring it, Charlotte eased into sleep.

A solid thud against the outside wall startled her from that twilight between wakefulness and sleep. She sat up. Had she imagined it, or was someone trying to get in? An urgent voice sounded through the wall, loud enough to be heard, but it was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman. Another thump, right near the head of her bed, shot her to her feet.

Charlotte went to the window. Should she look? She was half afraid to move the curtain aside. What if some ruffian stared back at her? But she couldn't just stand there waiting for him to break the glass.

She quickly dumped the remaining water in the pitcher into the basin and returned to the window. Taking a deep breath, she raised the ceramic ware and shoved the curtain aside.

Nothing. No beetle-browed thief attempting to gain entrance. Just darkness.

Charlotte pressed her forehead to the cool glass and scanned the alley to either side. She didn't dare open the window, so it was difficult to see much of anything. No one lurked within her sight.

Perhaps it was just a pair of drunks wandering home. An unsteady gait and slippery mud could account for the collision with the wall.

That must be it,
she assured herself.
Nothing to worry about.

Charlotte set the pitcher down and went back to bed. She listened for a long while, hearing the creak of the settling house or the occasional bark of a dog or the howl of a wind gust, but nothing else. Finally, her eyes too achy and tired to stay open, she fell asleep.

 

Loud pounding on her door roused her after what seemed like no more than a few minutes. But watery morning light through the curtains told her she'd slept at least a few hours. The white face of her alarm clock showed it was almost nine.

The knock sounded all too familiar.

Damn it all
.
Now what?

Charlotte stumbled from the bed and threw open the door. As expected, Deputy Marshal James Eddington filled the doorway, his dark brows drawn in a scowl.

“I told you, Deputy, I don't know any Martha Griggs. If you continue to harass me—”

“How about Darcy Dugan?” he growled.

Charlotte blinked at him. “Darcy? You mean the—one of Brigit's girls?”

“So you know her.” He stepped closer, blue eyes boring into hers. “When did you see her last?”

“I never have.” She swallowed hard when he narrowed his gaze, obviously not believing her. “I've heard her name, but that's all. Her friend Marie asked Michael to go see Darcy.”

Eddington didn't budge. “Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?”

The interruption as she'd tried to fall asleep came back to her immediately. “Yes, someone, maybe two people, in the alley behind the house.”

“When?”

“It was after eleven, close to midnight, I think.”

“But you didn't see anything?”

She shook her head. “No. By the time I looked out the window, they were gone.”

He heaved a sigh and ran a large hand over the stubble of his beard. “Damn it. Excuse my language, Miss Brody. Good morning.”

Charlotte touched his arm, stopping him before he turned away. “What happened, Deputy?”

Sadness tinged the anger in his eyes. “Darcy Dugan was found near the railroad tracks just below here. She was beaten to death.”

I
ce prickled along Charlotte's spine. “Beaten to death? Who did it? And why?”

Anger made Eddington's blue eyes glacial. “If I knew that, Miss Brody, I wouldn't be here. It looks like they went down the slope just west of here to the tracks. The path out back is churned up. Lots of footprints.”

Her entire body tensed. “Oh, my God, they were right outside my window.”

“Probably so.” He glanced down to where her hand gripped his coat, then met her gaze again.

Charlotte's palm—and cheeks—grew warm. She released the deputy's arm, as if it would burn her if she held on too long. “Sorry. Does Michael know?” she asked, her voice much steadier than she expected.

“I sent a message that I need him at the site. He'll be doing the autopsy.” Eddington cocked his head. “Why do you ask?”

Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, the chill returning to her body. “He was supposed to go see Darcy yesterday afternoon. She'd been feeling poorly for a while.”

“I'll ask the doctor if he noticed anything unusual.” Thoughtful determination lined Eddington's face. “Thank you, Miss Brody.”

She expected him to head back down the hallway, but he didn't move for a few moments. He stared at her, and Charlotte waited for his next question. It never came. Finally, he tugged the brim of his hat and strode away.

She shut the door and slumped down onto the wooden chair. “That poor girl.”

If she'd only looked out the window sooner, Charlotte might have seen something. She racked her brain, but couldn't recall the voice she'd heard. Not that it had been clear through the wall, and not that she had many to compare it to, having only met a handful of people so far. Still, anything she could remember might help.

Charlotte carried the full basin to the water closet and dumped it down the drain in the sink. She used the facilities, then washed up. There was only a cold-water tap, and the covered bucket of heated water hadn't been refilled yet this morning. Back in her room, the radiator was finally putting out reluctant heat, but the chill ensured she hurry to get dressed.

The foggy mirror attached to the inside of the wardrobe door showed the shadows under her eyes. Not enough sleep since she'd arrived in Cordova. Charlotte pinned up her hair, taking care to smooth the flyaway tendrils back from her face. The simple blouse and skirt she wore could use a pressing. She wondered if Mrs. Sullivan had an iron, or if the laundry down the street charged reasonable rates.

The dark burgundy gown hanging in the back of the wardrobe reminded her of tonight's party. She doubted such a gala would be canceled in light of the death of a prostitute.

Thoughts of the girl spurred Charlotte to want to speak to Michael as soon as possible. She moved the curtain aside to assess the weather. Rain splattered against the panes. Low, gray clouds and the churned-up mud path made for a sobering scene. Poor Darcy had likely spent her last minutes trying to escape her attacker right outside the window. Beaten to death.

“If only I'd woken and checked sooner.” A wave of sadness made Charlotte feel heavy.

Did Marie know yet? Deputy Eddington would probably question Miss Brigit and the others soon enough.

Charlotte donned her coat and the wide-brimmed felt hat she'd purchased for the Alaska weather. Michael had said winter here was sometimes like a bothersome houseguest who comes earlier than expected and stays later than appreciated.

She left the rooming house, turning up her collar against the chill wind, and walked to Michael's office. Few people she passed smiled, or even greeted her. Had the weather affected their moods, or was the pang in the air due to the murder? Charlotte glanced at the café across the street. She hadn't had breakfast yet, but her stomach churned at the thought of coffee, let alone food.

Michael's office door opened just as she reached out to twist the knob. Startled, Charlotte stepped back and slipped off the lower step. Her brother dashed forward, grabbing her arm before she landed poorly or fell on the muddy path.

“This isn't a good time, Sis.” He pulled the door closed. Deep lines creased his forehead. His coat was open, the suit beneath it rumpled and his tie askew.

“Are you going down to the tracks?” she asked.

The frown deepened. “You've heard?”

Charlotte nodded. “Deputy Eddington was at the rooming house. He believes Darcy and her killer came along the alley, right past my window.” She shivered as sorrow and guilt wound their way through her. Why hadn't she looked out sooner?

His fair cheeks paled. “Are you all right? Did you see anything?”

“I'm fine, but I think I heard them last night.” She clutched his arm. “In fact, I'm certain of it. Who would have done such a thing? And why?”

Michael slid her hand up under his arm and guided her toward the walk. “For all the good times and parties, these girls live in a dangerous world, Charlotte. The men they do business with aren't always just looking for a bit of fun. Some have problems. And not all of the girls are honest.”

“Did she steal from them?”

Michael shrugged. “I don't know. Nothing that required the police, I think. But men are often vulnerable under the wiles of a young woman lavishing them with attention, even if they are paying for it. They tend to forget to be cautious. It may be she tried something and the man became angry.”

“Angry enough to chase her through town and kill her?” It didn't ring right to Charlotte, but then again, she'd never dealt with that sort of man.

“A few drinks, a bad day. This isn't Yonkers. Men come to Alaska to leave behind the niceties of society.” He escorted her across the street to the café. “Stay here while I do my preliminary investigation for Eddington.”

He tried to remove her hand from his arm, but Charlotte gripped harder. “Let me come with you.”

She wasn't quite sure why she'd said it, but once she did, Charlotte felt the same rush and tingle of anxiousness as she had with every story she'd ever written.

“No.” Michael shook his head and peeled her fingers from his coat. She opened her mouth to protest, but he held his palm up, stopping her. “I'm sure Eddington has the area secured from gawkers—”

“I'm no gawker.” Indignation heated her, chest to cheeks.

“No, you're a journalist.”

Now
he decided her vocation was worth noting? Figured.

She crossed her arms, trying desperately to not look like a petulant girl. He was being professional, maintaining the integrity of the crime scene and the privacy—such as it could be in a small town like Cordova—of the deceased.

She was a professional too. She had felt obligated to tell the suffragettes' stories, to make people see the important work they were willing to sacrifice for. The pains and trials they went through for equality could become dangerous, and women had died for their beliefs. Darcy was likely nothing to the people here, but someone had killed her for a reason.

“All right,” she capitulated. “But will you pass along information for me to use in an article for the local paper? It's possible other girls could be in danger.”

Michael narrowed his gaze at her, lips pressed tight beneath the dark blond of his moustache. “You'll only pester me if I say no, won't you?”

Charlotte couldn't help her smile. “You know me well.”

He grunted in acknowledgment. “Fine. I'll give you what I can, if I think it'll help keep others safe.”

Which, in protective big brother parlance, probably meant a whitewashing of details. But Charlotte didn't push it. Not yet, anyway.

“Thank you.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I'll wait here for you, or back at your place, if that's okay. I can get started on lunch.”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. The earnestness in his eyes worried her. “Don't talk to anyone about it, Charlotte. Understand?”

“Of course not.”

Michael turned on his heel and strode down the boardwalk, his knee-high boots thudding with controlled urgency.

 

Charlotte lingered over her coffee, glancing out the window with the hope of catching Michael on his way back. After more than half an hour of ignoring the toast she'd ordered, despite not being hungry, and letting her coffee grow cold, she decided to go on to his office. It was a little early to have lunch, but she could see what he had on his shelves and in his larder. She needed to do something to occupy the time.

The rain had picked up, as had the wind. Not bothering to button her coat for such a short dash, Charlotte was nearly soaked through by the time she'd crossed the street and hurried into Michael's office. She pushed the door closed and let her eyes adjust to the dim light coming through the single window before crossing to the inner door.

The exam room was pitch dark. She felt along the wall for a switch.

The overhead light came on to reveal a high wooden table, the end leaves folded down. Gleaming counters and glass-front cabinets along the walls revealed the accoutrements of Michael's practice. It was a clean, neat space that showed her brother's attention to detail and dedication, and surely set patients at ease.

Another door on the left led to his living quarters. Charlotte went in and turned on the light. The bed near the door was neatly made. A woodstove in the far corner ticked and popped as it cooled from the dying fire. She kept her coat on against the damp chill settling into the room as she added more wood. The embers within the iron box quickly ignited the dry logs, and soon a merry fire was burning.

That would do for heat, but what about cooking? Across the room, a narrow coal stove and a small enamel sink were the entirety of Michael's kitchen. Along the walls, shelves held canned and jarred foods, tins of saltines, and something called Sailor Boy pilot bread. Cabinets above and below the sink held more food as well as cooking utensils, cups, and plates. A small square table and two straight-back chairs made up the dining area. It was a shabby room, but neat enough, and the braided rug on the wood floor looked clean.

Charlotte set a kettle of water on the woodstove and surveyed the shelves. Mostly home-canned salmon, by the looks of it, along with some jams and jellies, and commercial cans of vegetables and local clams. Not much variety, as he'd warned her. She took down a can of salmon and found a few spices in the cupboard. She pried open the tin of pilot bread.

“Huh. Hardtack.” That would make a decent vehicle for a salmon salad concoction.

Michael's voice carried in from the front office. “Bring her in here, Eddington.”

Charlotte froze.
Her
. They were bringing Darcy in for the autopsy. Lunch preparation forgotten, she quietly walked to the door leading into the examination room. It hadn't closed all the way when she'd entered, and through the gap, Charlotte saw Michael raising the leaves of the exam table.

Deputy Eddington carried in the tarp-wrapped body and laid her down with a gentleness that made Charlotte's throat close. He was a big man, and Darcy's body seemed so small by comparison, even under the heavy canvas.

“That's fine, Deputy,” Michael said. “I'll make my report and deliver it soon. We'll want to have her interred as soon as possible.”

Eddington straightened, about to respond, and caught Charlotte peeking at them. She held her breath. Was he going to say something to Michael? She wasn't doing anything wrong.

He stared at her for a moment longer before answering Michael. “I'm sure Brigit and the girls'll want to arrange something. Don't think Darcy had any family in these parts.”

“No,” Michael said softly. He reached out to touch the tips of his fingers to the canvas. “They were all she had.”

Eddington glanced down at Michael's hand, then his gaze flicked up to Charlotte again.

“We chatted some when I went to check on the girls.” Michael lifted his head. He saw the deputy looking past him and turned. Seeing Charlotte at the door, his face flushed red. “What are you doing here?”

Charlotte stepped into the exam room. “I told you I'd come back to make us lunch.” She nodded toward the table. “You're going to be busy this afternoon. I want to help.”

Michael opened his mouth, but Eddington spoke over him. “You don't want to be here for this, Miss Brody.”

“No, but I'm guessing neither do you, Deputy.” Eddington's lips pressed together. “I can help my brother by taking notes, and you can continue your investigation.”

He held her gaze, but addressed Michael. “Doc?”

Charlotte knew Michael would be harder to convince, but with Eddington on her side her brother might relent. “You'll need someone to help prepare her body for the undertaker. Better a woman for that, don't you think?”

It was a stretch of an argument. Would he bite?

Michael grimaced. He removed his mackinaw and suit jacket, draping them over the lone chair in the room, then unbuttoned his cuffs before answering. “This isn't going to be pretty, Charlotte. It was a brutal attack.”

Charlotte's mouth dried, and her stomach tightened. “I was there at the 1913 Washington parade, where women were beaten for merely stating their desire for equality. I spoke to some of those imprisoned with Alice Paul at the Occoquan workhouse in Virginia, days after their release. I heard the stories of their abuse, saw the broken bones, bruises, and scars, Michael.”

“This is different,” he said.

“I know.” She swallowed hard. “Someone hurt this girl, and I want to help find out who.”