Murder on the Last Frontier (6 page)

Whatever had drawn Michael to her?

The late afternoon sun had allowed the wood walkways and road to dry, somewhat, assuring there would be little mud caked on her shoes as she arrived at the Windsor. The hotel's vertical sign, brilliantly painted with red letters trimmed in gold, dominated Second Street. The double doors had been propped open.

Charlotte followed the well-dressed couples into the lobby. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, giving a warm glow to the hardwood floor. A curving staircase carpeted in a deep green led to the upper floors. Behind the long registration desk, a middle-aged man stood with a tight smile on his face.

Fifty or so men and women chatted in small groups, while waiters in starched uniforms served what had to be mock-alcoholic cocktails in tall glasses, Alaska's dry law having gone into effect earlier that year. Folks managed to skirt the law, like Mrs. Sullivan with her after-dinner sherry, as long as they kept consumption limited to private settings. Public venues were a different story.

The tableau could have been set in New York or Philadelphia, except for the men wearing knee-high leather boots, canvas trousers, and the occasional gun. Not the sort of accessory one found displayed in polite society. The dichotomy of civilization and the Last Frontier, all in one room.

Most people had clearly already veered off toward the coat-check room, just beyond the front desk, but Charlotte opted to keep her wrap. After the chilly walk, she still felt gooseflesh on her shoulders and arms. She should have worn her coat. “Fashion be damned” seemed to be the local motto. She could certainly see herself getting behind that sentiment sooner rather than later.

The hum of conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter. Charlotte smiled, feeling more of the day's earlier trauma retreat to a small knot in the pit of her stomach. That would have to do for now.

“May I escort you in, Miss Brody?”

She looked up into the freshly shaved face of James Eddington. His dark hair was slicked back. The tin star with D
EPUTY U.S. M
ARSHAL
in the middle and D
ISTRICT OF
A
LASKA
etched in the surrounding circle stood out against his dark blue wool shirt.

“Thank you, but I'm waiting for Michael and Ruth.”

Eddington nodded, then eyed the crowd. “I haven't seen either of them yet.” He gestured toward the right. “But there's Reverend and Mrs. Bartlett talking to Mayor Kavanagh and his wife.”

Charlotte followed Eddington's line of sight to where a thin man in clerical garb chatted with a tall, barrel-chested gentleman with a mole on his cheek, smoking a thick cigar. Their wives stood nearby, conversing, but occasionally glancing up to wave at someone. She assumed the woman with the thick, white hair in the neat bun and conservative dress was the reverend's wife. The younger, raven-haired woman in red had to be Mrs. Kavanagh.

“They seem quite friendly with one another,” Charlotte said.

Eddington clasped his hands behind his back. He wore the same sort of canvas trousers and leather knee boots as some of the other men, and of course his revolver was at his hip. “All in the name of making Cordova the biggest little town in the territory.”

The tone of his words implied the deputy might not be too keen on the idea.

“Oh? How do they plan on doing that?”

“Let's just say they each have their ways of approaching the public and making their case that civility leads to prosperity.” Charlotte laughed, and Eddington's smile grew, showing off his dimpled cheek. But the amusement faded from the deputy's eyes. “I haven't heard from your brother yet. How'd it go earlier?”

The knot in her stomach tightened. “It was as horrid as you can imagine. I'll transcribe the notes I took, but you can talk to Michael about the details.”

Eddington stared at her for a few seconds, frowning, his eyebrows nearly meeting over his crooked nose. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

She forced a smile back onto her face. “No, it's all right. You and Michael both warned me it would be difficult. It'll pass.”

Some aspects of the day would fade eventually. The rest of her memories would be with her forever.

He watched her for another few moments, then nodded. “I'll talk to him soon. As much as I hate to leave a lady unescorted, I'm afraid I have to go back to work.”

A small pang went through Charlotte. She hid it by giving him her best overdramatic pout. “You aren't staying? Who will I dance with?”

“I'm on security duty here.” He leaned forward and winked. “Though perhaps we can steal a dance later.”

The pang became an unexpected surge of warmth that flooded her cheeks. “I'd like that.”

Eddington touched his forehead in his standard salute, then moved off to police the growing crowd. She watched him disappear in the sea of bodies and wondered what was wrong with her. The deputy was flirting, just as she was. Why was it affecting her so? The only answer she could manage was that the day's events had left her shaky.

“Sorry we're late,” Michael said as he and Ruth approached from her left. “Waiting long?”

Relieved to have them to distract her, Charlotte smiled. “Not at all.”

He wore a simple black suit and tie, the starched collar digging into his neck, and his mackinaw slung over his arm. Ruth unbuttoned her heather-gray coat to reveal a green silk gown. The long sleeves billowed, buttoned at the wrists. The collar dipped to the top of her sternum, revealing little more than the hollow of her throat.

Charlotte adjusted her wrap around her almost bare shoulders. “I've just arrived.”

Ruth handed Michael her coat and leaned forward to press her cheek to Charlotte's in greeting. “I'm glad you decided to come. Michael told me you were positively traumatized this afternoon.”

Charlotte shot her brother a glare.

“I said you were disturbed by the condition of the body,” he said defensively. “Ruth embellished the rest on her own.” He headed to the coat-check room.

“Well, of course you were disturbed, darling.” Ruth slipped her arm under Charlotte's and held it to her, as if they were old friends. “A horrible thing to witness, I'm sure.”

“I'd rather not dwell on it.” Had Michael told his fiancée about Darcy's other condition?

Ruth patted her arm. “I understand. Let's put such dreadful things out of our minds for the evening. You look quite fetching, so urban and smart,” she said, considering Charlotte's dress. “Especially compared to the rest of us bumpkins.”

“Everyone looks wonderful,” Charlotte replied. Her gown had been popular last year, and the other women in the room wore frocks no older than her own. “That color is absolutely gorgeous on you.”

Ruth blushed a deep pink. “Thank you. Was that Deputy Eddington you were speaking to?”

Heat bloomed in Charlotte's chest. “It was. He's on duty this evening.”

The blond woman leaned closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He's a bit of a rogue who tries to have his way with every pretty girl who comes to town.” She pressed her lips together and nodded to make sure Charlotte understood the danger that was James Eddington.

“Is he?” Charlotte asked, feeling a tickle of mischief. “A rogue can be exciting at times, don't you think?” She winked and smiled wickedly.

The reverend's daughter stared at her, wide-eyed. After a moment, she forced a laugh. “Oh, Charlotte, you are such a card. Michael, you never told me your sister was so hysterical.”

Having returned from depositing their coats, Michael stood at Charlotte's other side. “Yes, she's a regular Fanny Brice.”

He met Charlotte's gaze, an eyebrow quirked in his “What did you say now?” expression. She shrugged and shook her head. Surely he didn't expect her to be on her best behavior all the time.

“I can't wait for Mother and Father to meet you,” Ruth said.

She guided Charlotte through the crowded lobby, greeting several people, but not stopping to chat. Michael briefly spoke to a few men and caught up to them by the time they made it to Ruth's father and another man, the mayor having disappeared in the crowd of guests.

“I absolutely agree, Reverend,” the other man said, “but it takes more than godliness to stop some from drinking, law or no.”

Charlotte's attention piqued. Along with several states, the territory of Alaska had enacted its dry law months ago, but the federal Volstead Act would be voted upon in October. The argument over its effectiveness raged in and out of Washington DC. “Perhaps the problem lies in forcing adults to curtail perfectly legal activities.”

Beside her, Michael groaned. She felt Ruth stiffen. Both older men turned. The reverend nodded a greeting to Michael and Ruth before fixing his pale blue eyes on Charlotte. “Legal they may be, young woman, but that doesn't make them correct.”

“Or virtuous?” she asked.

“Charlotte.” Michael's tone held an unmistakable warning. “This is Reverend Samuel Bartlett. Ruth's father. And U.S. Marshal Thomas Blaine. Gentlemen, this is my sister.”

She shook both men's hands. Bartlett's grasp was loose, cool, and moist. Blaine's was more firm, but he still held her fingers rather than her hand.

“So you're not keen on the Volstead Act, Miss Brody?” Blaine hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his black vest. The silver badge on his chest gleamed in the light of the chandelier.

“Not particularly, Marshal. Forcing extreme limits on personal behavior tends to make people react to the extreme, don't you think?”

Michael bowed his head. Her second day in town and she was creating havoc, the gesture said. Ruth and her father exchanged glances, perhaps wondering what sort of people her fiancé came from.

Ones who aren't afraid to speak their minds,
Charlotte thought. The Bartletts might as well learn that now. Surely she wasn't the first to challenge their ideology, especially here.

“I tend to believe that as well,” the marshal said. “Unfortunately, the burden of enforcement falls upon my office, no matter my personal views.”

She inclined her head slightly. “I don't envy you your position, sir.”

Blaine chuckled. Reverend Bartlett, however, pursed his lips.

“Alcohol abuse is a terrible thing,” he said. “It destroys families and ruins people. Something needs to be done. The only way to keep on the right path is to eliminate temptation.”

“I'm sure Charlotte agrees, Father.” Ruth released her to step up to him. She grasped his arm and smiled a brittle smile at Charlotte. “Don't you?”

Charlotte suppressed a flare of irritation at Ruth. She didn't need anyone speaking for her. “I agree abuse is something that needs to be addressed.” Michael was going to kill her for making waves with his future father-in-law. “But I don't see how—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed from the front of the room before she could continue and deepen the color on Michael's and Ruth's cheeks any further. Conversation petered to relative quiet, and everyone focused on Mayor Kavanagh. “Thank you for coming out on this fine evening. I'm sure you'll repay my generosity with food and beverages at the polls.” Laughter filled the lobby. Kavanagh smiled broadly, his expression a perfect balance of geniality and political awareness. He knew his audience. “But we won't worry about that for a few months. Let's have some fun.”

Two uniformed waiters pulled open the double doors. Mrs. Kavanagh joined her husband, and they led the procession into the room. Charlotte couldn't see much past all the folks ahead of her other than the sparkling chandeliers and some silver bunting draped along the far wall, but the oohs and aahs of the guests in the front told her it was a spectacle for Cordova.

A piano, fiddle, and accordion struck up the opening bars of “Alexander's Ragtime Band.”

“Oh, I love this song.” Ruth tugged her father forward along with the crowd.

Michael tucked Charlotte's arm under his and hesitated to let his fiancée get ahead of them. “I'd nearly forgotten about your perverse pleasure in putting folks on the spot, Charlie.” He tilted his head, his mouth near her ear. She braced herself for a lecture about propriety. “Just save a little for your third day in town, eh?”

He kissed her on the cheek and drew her into the ballroom. The thin smile on his face could have been amusement or resignation. Charlotte wasn't quite sure.

C
harlotte hadn't danced as much in the last year as she danced in the initial hour of the mayor's gala. The first dance with Michael reminded her of their younger years when their parents hosted parties, and the two of them would waltz in the upstairs hall, pretending they were among the adults in the parlor as Debussy played on the Victrola.

After the first song, she was swept from partner to partner for just about every tune. With the ratio of men to women in Cordova nearly three to one, most of the females at the Windsor were twirled, swirled, and swung about as long as the music played. Despite her nonstop activity with partners ranging in ability from accomplished to toe-crushers, and dances jumping from the fox-trot to the waltz and back again, Charlotte enjoyed herself. She'd forgotten how much she loved to dance.

She'd forgotten how it felt to be treated like the young woman she was, not judged by anything but her actions in the here and now. Back home, familiarity had bred a mix of kowtowing from her father's business associates and derision from those opposed to her articles. In Cordova, she could just be Charlotte, and it was heavenly.

The only dim spot of the evening, so far, had been the number of partners who wanted to share their grim conjecture about the murder. Violent deaths weren't unheard of here, she learned, but this one sparked conversations on topics from the evils of prostitution to the need for better police protection in the growing town.

Charlotte did her best to change the subject. Luckily, most of the men were polite enough to indulge her “feminine delicacies.”

The music of a two-step rag reached its finale, and Charlotte's current partner, a Mr. Abner Doig, spun her toward a table of cigar-smoking gentlemen. Mr. Doig, half a head shorter than she, was panting, his face beaded with sweat and his wire-rimmed glasses steamed.

“Thank you, Miss Brody.” He bowed slightly at the waist.

Charlotte nodded back. “My pleasure, Mr. Doig.” Two of the men seated at the table started to rise as Doig moved off, reaching for her when the music began again. Did the band never take a break? She held up her hand. “I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I need to catch my breath.”

Charlotte headed for the punch bowl. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the attention; she did, but a girl needed to quench her thirst now and again. Several small glasses of pink punch were set out. She picked one up and moved out of the way of a young couple seeking refreshment. Moving off to a corner, Charlotte engaged in one of her favorite activities: people watching.

The Windsor ballroom easily held two hundred people, while still allowing for a good-sized dance floor, and for the dais where the three-man band played. Couples danced past her to a Cohan tune, most laughing or smiling. A few, however, appeared to be merely enduring until the song was over.

Charlotte drew a freshly pressed handkerchief from her clutch purse and daubed at her forehead and throat. She caught a glimpse of Michael and Ruth on the dance floor. They moved well together, a handsome couple with their lives set. A twinge of jealousy threatened Charlotte, and she pushed it out of her head and heart. She was happy for Michael. Her time would come.

Determined to maintain her buoyant mood, Charlotte shifted her gaze to another part of the ballroom. Deputy Eddington strode the periphery, his eyes missing nothing.

So serious,
she mused. What sort of trouble did he expect to find at the party?

“Care for another, Miss Brody?” Marshal Blaine stood beside her, offering a glass of punch. “It doesn't quite pack the kick of a good shot of whiskey, but it'll do.”

His crooked grin made her smile.

She downed the last mouthful of the fruity sweetness punctuated with seltzer bubbles, and set the empty crystal on the buffet table. Taking the proffered drink from Blaine, she touched glasses with him. Charlotte sipped hers while the marshal swallowed his in two quick gulps.

“Ah.” He smacked his lips. “Frank sure knows how to throw a shindig. This is his first party without alcohol, and I hardly miss it. Much.”

Charlotte laughed at the marshal's candor.

“How long have you been in Cordova?” She took another small sip. In a way, she was grateful for the dry law, or surely the gin and champagne would be flowing. Dancing wasn't the only thing she hadn't done much of in the last year.

“It'll be five years come spring. Came in on one of the first boats of the summer.” He placed his cup beside her first one, then hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. The move displayed the circled star pinned to his chest and the revolver at his hip. Though he spoke to Charlotte, he scanned the room much as his deputy had. Searching for something specific, or was that the nature of a lawman? “The missus and I were looking for something a little different after our youngest married and moved out.”

Charlotte couldn't imagine her parents leaving their Yonkers home for the “wilds” of Seattle, let alone Alaska. “This sure is different,” she said.

Blaine chuckled. “That it is. Some folks can't handle the cold and dark of winter, but a number of them go just as off-kilter with too much light in the summer. Don't sleep like they should.”

Sleep deprivation might put someone on edge. Her own bouts of insomnia resulted in days of muddled thought and short temper. During those times, she'd entertained the idea of throttling people for minor irritations.

Could Darcy's murderer have been similarly affected?

“Marshal, what are your thoughts on the Dugan case?”

Blaine pressed his lips together under his moustache. He didn't meet her gaze as he spoke, but continued watching the crowd. “Could be a tough one. No witnesses so far, no threats to her that we know of, but her profession wasn't the safest.” He gave Charlotte a sidelong glance. “You helped your brother at the autopsy, I hear.”

Was that a hint of accusation in his voice? Worry about breaking some law or, worse, getting Michael into trouble, kept the images from that morning at bay. “I took notes, yes. Did we do something wrong?”

He shrugged. “Not so far as I'm concerned. I'm sure Dr. Brody kept things official. As long as you don't compromise the case, it's all good.”

Tension eased from her shoulders. “I wouldn't dream of it.” Sweat still trickled down her back and dampened her cleavage. “If you'll excuse me, Marshal, I think I'll get a bit of fresh air.”

Blaine bowed. “It's been nice chatting with you, Miss Brody. May I call upon you for a dance later?”

“I'd be delighted.”

Charlotte made her way along the perimeter of the room, sidestepping couples and groups. A dozen or so men smoked cigars and chatted in the lobby, squat glasses of colorful liquid in hand. She crossed the polished floor to the main doors and stepped out onto the walkway. A salt-tinged breeze from the bay ruffled the edges of her shawl. The sun was just sinking below the horizon, yet there was sufficient daylight where shadows didn't lurk.

Not one to lean and loiter, Charlotte strolled to the corner. Music filtered from the Windsor. She hummed along with the tune, turned around, and walked back past the alley between the hotel and the bathhouse next door.

Charlotte caught a flicker of light and movement from the alley. Someone had opened the hotel's side entrance thirty or so feet down.

Probably one of the staff dumping garbage in a bin or perhaps popping out for a smoke break.

“I told you not to come here.” The sharp-toned words, meant to be whispered, echoed off the walls. A second person responded, but their comment was too low to hear.

Charlotte was about to continue back inside when the first speaker's next words stopped her cold in her tracks.

“That bitch got what she deserved.” A woman by the pitch, but anger and the attempt to keep her volume down gave her voice a gruff quality. “The filthy whore should have kept her legs and her mouth closed.”

With bins and pallets between them, Charlotte couldn't see who was in the alley, and she didn't dare risk trying to see them. They had to be talking about Darcy Dugan. Charlotte stood still, hardly daring to breathe so she wouldn't miss a word.

“I don't care,” the woman said. “Just get those papers. They have to be in her room somewhere. I can't—won't—go to that horrible place, so it has to be you.”

The other replied, then footsteps retreated toward the opposite end of the alley. A man? Light flashed onto the bathhouse wall, then went out when the hotel door thudded closed.

Charlotte's heart pounded. It wasn't surprising to hear people discussing that morning's shocking discovery, but the woman had sounded positively incensed. Not by the murder, but by Darcy herself.

What had instigated such hatred? The mere existence of prostitution, or something more significant?

Charlotte dashed back inside to see if she could catch the person returning to the mayor's party. She nearly bowled over a man and his companion on their way out.

“Pardon me,” she called, pushing past them.

Others in the lobby looked after her, curious, as she hurried by. Charlotte stopped at the doorway into the ballroom. Of course, none of the other attendees appeared agitated or rushed. Where would the woman have accessed the alley? Through the kitchen? Off to the right was a hallway. She might have gone into the powder room to freshen up before returning to the ballroom.

Charlotte made her way to the corridor where she found doors marked L
ADIES
, G
ENTLEMEN,
and K
ITCHEN
. At the end of the hall was an unmarked door. She turned the knob of that one, peered into the dark alley, and pulled it closed again. That explained how the pair got in and out of the hotel, but where were they now? The man had gone off . . . somewhere. What about the woman?

Charlotte took a deep breath and opened the door to the ladies' room. A dark-haired woman in a red gown sat at one of the two vanity tables, kohl pencil in hand. The mayor's wife, Charlotte realized. Mrs. Kavanagh glanced at her and smiled, but went back to fixing her makeup. A black compact and a small jar of blush sat on the table next to her purse.

A blue velvet upholstered divan and two matching armchairs shared the room. Another door led to, Charlotte assumed, the lavatory.

“Looking for someone?” Mrs. Kavanagh asked.

“Did you see—” Charlotte couldn't very well ask if the woman had heard anyone come in from the alley. She could
be
the woman from the alley, for all Charlotte knew. “Did you see a tortoise shell compact in here?” Charlotte made a show of searching the vanity, then crossed to one of the chairs.

“Sorry, no. Care to borrow mine?” Mrs. Kavanagh held up the black lacquered case.

Charlotte took the offered compact and sat at the other vanity. “Thank you.”

“You're the doctor's sister, aren't you?”

Charlotte tilted her head. She shouldn't be surprised that people knew her before she knew them. “I am, and you're the mayor's wife.”

She offered her hand to Charlotte. “I am.”

Charlotte had only seen her briefly when Deputy Eddington pointed her out earlier in the evening. She seemed younger up close.

“Mrs. Kavanagh. It's a pleasure.”

“Welcome to Cordova.” She released Charlotte's hand and continued primping.

“Thank you. You have an interesting town here.”

Mrs. Kavanagh gave a short laugh. “We certainly do.” She set her pencil down and swirled her finger in the pot of blush to brighten her cheeks. “How are things in the States?”

Charlotte had seen the
Cordova Daily Times
for sale at the drugstore and the café, so the question was more polite than from a true need for news. “It's getting back to a semblance of normal. The flu pandemic and the war certainly took their toll.”

“It was rough here too,” Mrs. Kavanagh said. “Entire villages were wiped out. We had our own losses, of course. Your brother and Dr. Hastings were practically run into the ground, especially after Dr. Garrett succumbed. But overall, we managed to pull through.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” Michael had written about the long hours of tending patients and of a few losses that seemed to hit him particularly hard; he and Miles Garrett had been friends.

Mrs. Kavanagh packed her purse and snapped it shut. “But let's not speak of such things tonight. This is a party, after all.” She smiled as she stood. “Shall we return to the festivities, Miss Brody? I'm sure there are a good number of gentlemen awaiting their chance to dance with you.”

 

Mrs. Kavanagh introduced Charlotte to her husband, the Honorable Francis “Call me Frank” Kavanagh, who was standing with the Reverend Bartlett, another gentleman, and their wives. The mayor stuck his thick cigar into his mouth and took both Charlotte's hands in his to shake them. The burnt-orange-scented cloud of smoke was more pleasant than most, but it still made Charlotte's eyes water.

Kavanagh was almost immediately drawn into an argument with Reverend Bartlett and the other man, a city council member, over land-sale laws. The mayor had left the council meeting early the night before, missing that point of contention. Kavanagh was attentive and good-natured, though the set of his jaw told her he was no pushover.

Mrs. Kavanagh and Mrs. Bartlett made a grand effort to include Charlotte in their side conversation, but it was difficult to focus while surreptitiously searching for Deputy Eddington in the crowd. She needed to tell him what she'd heard in the alley.

She saw Marshal Blaine dancing with a woman who might have been his wife. Despite the older man's friendliness, she didn't feel comfortable seeking him out. Granted, Eddington wasn't particularly approachable, but he was leading the investigation into Darcy's murder.