Murder on Location Read online

  Charlotte exited the shed and waited for him to lock the door. “I suppose it’s not an unusual thing. Disturbing, but not unusual.”

  He shoved the key into his trouser pocket. “Unfortunately. But Welsh should be undisturbed for the night.”

  She looped her arm through his. “Come on back to my tent and put your things away. You can sleep in the cot Becca had used.”

  “Where’s Eddington staying?”

  Charlotte waited for her brother to ask if the deputy would rather have the cot in her tent, but the comment never came. She let out a relieved breath.

  “He’ll talk to Wallace Meade or Smitty about a place to sleep.”

  Michael nodded but said nothing more on the subject. He had no illusions—or delusions—about her relationship history. He understood it had little to do with her sense of propriety and more to do with fear of repeating past mistakes.

  They returned to the mess tent in time to hear James addressing the gathered crew. Wallace Meade stood with the deputy, facing the crowd. Charlotte and Michael slipped in and found places to stand along the side wall.

  “It’s only for another evening,” the producer was saying. “I told Deputy Eddington we’d give him our full cooperation here and once we returned to town.”

  Well, that was a change of heart on Meade’s part. Had he realized he was fighting a losing battle by opposing James and decided to cooperate? Meade was a successful businessman, one who probably knew when to cut his losses.

  There were the expected grumbles, but no one outright protested. Not that protests would have changed James’s mind on how the investigation would be run. He potentially had a murderer to catch.

  “This is a terrible tragedy, of course,” Meade continued, “and I’m sorry to say the production of North to Fortune will be shelved for the foreseeable future.”

  Everyone started talking at once, some questioning the decision, others agreeing wholeheartedly, citing “the curse.” The death of a colleague was unfortunate and sad, but what else had them spooked?

  “Why?” Cicely Welsh asked over the din. They turned to her, and she rose from her seat. “My father was passionate about this film. He had a vision of an epic experience that more than a few of us shared. It wasn’t perfect, but we were working on it.” She nodded to Caleb Burrows and Miles Smith where they sat at a table of several other Natives, mostly locals hired as background actors. “We already have half the necessary reels completed. With a few adjustments to the script, I think we can finish and create a film Papa would have been proud of.”

  No one spoke for a few moments.

  Beside Cicely, Roslyn Sanford rose. “Count me in.”

  With Paige’s revelation of the scope of their relationship in mind, Charlotte saw the adoration in the actress’s eyes for the bespectacled scenarist.

  “I’m in,” someone called out.

  “Me too. Let’s get it done.”

  Others joined in to support the idea, but there were a few protestations. The strongest coming from Wallace Meade.

  “Hold on there, everyone,” the producer said, hands raised to get their attention. “I can appreciate your dedication to Stanley and the film, but there’s a lot left to do. Who’s gonna work that out?”

  “Cicely can do it,” Roslyn said. “I’ll help. She and Stanley were working on the scenario together, and of course she knows the story better than anyone else.” Roslyn smiled at the taller woman. “What do you say?”

  A slow grin curved Cicely’s mouth, but before she could respond, Meade cut in.

  “Now wait a minute. Cicely is no director.” He shook his head and waved his hands. “Impossible. She’s a scenarist. This film is too big for a newcomer.”

  “I dare say, Meade.” Peter York stepped forward. “Cicely is perhaps the smartest gal I know. She’s been at her father’s knee on plenty of films, so hardly a newcomer. She’d be aces. Right, everyone?”

  For the most part the crew was behind the idea, agreeing with Peter and making Cicely blush.

  Meade’s face reddened. “I think we need to take a few days and consider the situation. Let’s get back to town and we’ll figure it out. Pack your personal items. We’ll secure the site for now and decide who’ll come out to break it down if it comes to that.”

  By the furrowing of her brow, the implication that the company might not return wasn’t lost on Cicely Welsh.

  “That seems fair,” Cicely said tightly. “We can bring our things back easily enough when filming resumes. Thank you, everyone, for your support.” She and Roslyn sat once more.

  It was Meade’s turn to give the scenarist a purse-lipped frown. James called for their attention now. “We’ve arranged to have the train stop here at nine tomorrow morning. I want everyone on it. Once the doctor makes his assessment, I may have a few more questions to ask folks.”

  “When can we leave town?” a man asked.

  “When I say so.” James put enough of a growl in his voice to let them know he meant business. Then he addressed Cicely. “I know you want to get your father back to the States as soon as possible, miss, but I’m afraid this is still an open investigation.”

  “I understand, Deputy. We’re all ready to cooperate fully.”

  Charlotte doubted that as she perused the faces of the men and women in the tent. Someone in here had been instrumental in Welsh’s death.

  Chapter 8

  Michael was up and out of the tent early the next morning to supervise Welsh’s body being transported to the train platform before anyone else headed over. He asked Charlotte if she’d be willing to keep Cicely and Carmen at the campsite while they loaded the sled onto the train. The women were going through enough trauma; seeing their loved one’s body, even covered, might be too much.

  Charlotte agreed to do what she could, and at breakfast suggested to Cicely they board last. Carmen was sitting with her daughter, looking pale and somewhat glassy-eyed. Had she taken a bit too much sleeping draught last night? Not that Charlotte blamed the poor woman.

  When Charlotte managed to talk to James about his interview with the recent widow, he said she couldn’t recall much of the night of Welsh’s death, mostly due to the concoction she took. Both of the elder Welshes seemed to rely upon their doctors’ prescriptions. Michael had found a half-empty bottle of Dr. Halpert’s elixir in Welsh’s coat pocket. According to the label, it contained several herbs, minerals, a touch of arsenic, and thirty percent alcohol.

  Charlotte mentioned she’d seen the director drink from the bottle at least once during the rehearsed scene. Who knows how much he’d had before that evening?

  “That might explain his disorientation,” James had said.

  Now, in the almost light of morning, Charlotte helped the crew pack up what they couldn’t afford to leave unattended at the glacier. Under Smitty’s watchful eye, everything else from bedding to lanterns to food would be accounted for and locked in the supply sheds.

  “If we do decide to return,” Cicely said as she checked the straps on a case, “we’ll just bring it back out.”

  “Do you think Mr. Meade will agree to it?” Charlotte asked.

  “He’s put in a lot of money,” Roslyn said. “If the picture doesn’t get made, he and the investors will be in the red. Films aren’t always profitable as it is, but Mr. Meade talked Fortune up to a lot of folks and has a number of big backers.”

  “If he canceled the film, would the investors demand to get paid back?”

  Roslyn answered immediately. “Depends on the conditions of their agreement. Losing Stanley might be considered an unavoidable catastrophe that negates some, if not all, repayment. The studio could simply write it off as a loss, but I think there are plenty who would want their money back. At least with it finished and distributed it has a shot at making something for those investors.”

  Then why had Meade wanted to stop filming? Did he truly believe only Stanley Welsh had been capable of creating a moneymaking film? Was his admiration and respec
t for Welsh so high that he wouldn’t consider anyone else? It was difficult to say. Perhaps it was time to ask the man himself.

  The train rumbled up to the platform at nine, as expected. While freight and passengers were loaded, the conductor and engineer talked to Meade about the modified schedule. In the snatches of conversation Charlotte gleaned, the CR&NW had made two extra trips at the request of the marshal’s office for the sake of the film crew. Who would be responsible for payment? Meade argued that the marshal requested the last trip, so that office should pay. James waved all the men off, telling the conductor to bring it up with Marshal Blaine.

  “I’m just the deputy,” James said as he hauled a crate marked UNDEVELOPED FILM to the freight car.

  Charlotte stifled a laugh at the shared expressions on the other men’s faces. James was as much the marshal in Cordova as Blaine, but if he was able to use his lower title to avoid tedious situations like who needed to pay a bill, he was happy to do so.

  “You are terrible,” she said to him as they passed on the platform.

  He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned when she indicated the three men still arguing. “I am at that.”

  Once everyone was settled, the whistle blew and the conductor called “All aboard!” to the empty platform and campsite. James and Michael rode in the freight car with Dave, the dog team, and the sled with Stanley Welsh.

  Charlotte watched as a gust of wind rippled the canvas roofs of the tents. A cloud of blowing snow tumbled through camp. If they decided to continue filming, the company could be back in a matter of days. If not, some of the crew and probably a few locals would return to break down the site. Meade had made previous arrangements for the materials to be sold to the Cordova Hardware and General Store, which would, in turn, sell the wood, fittings, tents, and anything else the Californians didn’t want to haul south.

  The train lurched once, then slowly began moving westward along the rails. The atmosphere in the passenger car was subdued, nothing like the more buoyant attitude on the way out.

  Cicely and Carmen sat together, with Roslyn in the seat across the aisle. Carmen had said little over the last day or so. Cicely had asked for the location of the telegraph office in town, so she could inform the studio head of Welsh’s passing. She had also discussed the procedure for getting her father back to California with Michael, once he released the body. Would Carmen ever come out of her haze? Some didn’t when a spouse died.

  Peter and Paige sat behind Cicely and Carmen. The two spoke quietly. With their backs to Charlotte, she had a difficult time reading their body language. While they didn’t seem overly chummy, they remained engaged more often than not as the train rumbled on.

  Unlike Wallace Meade. He sat in silence several rows behind the two actors, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Was he trying to determine which would be worse, making or not making North to Fortune?

  Behind Charlotte once again, Caleb Burrows and Miles Smith chatted quietly. Charlotte turned around. “Pardon the interruption, but can I ask you something, Mr. Burrows?”

  The lawyer smiled at her. “Of course, Miss Brody. I won’t guarantee an answer, but you can ask.”

  Charlotte shifted and turned, resting her leg on the seat and laying her arm across the back. “Given your druthers, would you rather see North to Fortune suspended or filmed and released?”

  “Considering the direction Mr. Welsh had been going? It’s better if it’s never released. But you knew I’d answer that way.”

  “A lawyer once told me I should never ask a question that I didn’t have an inkling of what the answer might be,” she said.

  Burrows nodded. “Makes courtroom proceedings much less strenuous.”

  “What if they decide to carry on with the film?” Charlotte suspected she knew the answer to that one as well.

  “If they adjust the scenario so it isn’t detrimental to the Native people, then I think the AEC would be happy to support it.” Something changed in his dark eyes. “If they decide to carry on at all now.”

  “Miss Welsh seemed willing to work something out,” Charlotte said. “She was rather upset that her father hadn’t considered the Native point of view.”

  Burrows’s gaze fell on the young woman at the front of the car.

  Miles’s did as well, but the younger man frowned and quickly brought his attention back to Charlotte. “I bet she talks a good game. I won’t believe it until I see it.”

  “Hold on there, Miles. Miss Brody’s right,” Burrows said. “Miss Welsh was very supportive at the show the other night. She may be the path to correcting the film.”

  “And pardon my bluntness,” Charlotte said, lowering her voice, “but with Stanley gone now, that path is much more open.”

  Burrows’s features fell into an unreadable, neutral expression. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  Hadn’t he? Charlotte wasn’t so sure.

  * * *

  Only a handful of passengers stood on the platform at the Cordova train station, waiting for the CR&NW to eventually head back toward Chitina and Kennecott. Several miners and a woman with two small children stared openly as the crew disembarked. Then the yipping dogs were brought out, already hooked up to the sled holding Stanley Welsh’s body.

  Hand tight on the lead dogs’ line, Dave walked the six excited animals down a ramp and onto the street; then he called up to Michael, who had just emerged from the freight car. “See you over there, Doc.”

  Michael waved to him, then hefted two of his bags. James followed him out, yawning and scratching his bearded chin. They climbed the stairs up to the platform and made their way over to Charlotte.

  “I’ll drop my things off at my office, then head to the hospital,” Michael said to James. “It’ll take me a while since he needs to thaw some. I’ll have a preliminary report in the morning. See you later.”

  He hurried off, bags thudding against his back and hip.

  A gust of icy, wet wind blew in from the sea. Hands clamped to hats. Shoulders hunched.

  “Looks like we’re in for some weather.” James checked the horizon and made a sour face. “Yeah, it ain’t gonna be pretty the next day or so.”

  “What does that mean about our departure?” Wallace Meade asked, tugging at his leather gloves and gingerly flexing his hands. “We need to catch the southbound steamer.”

  “I thought you’d be discussing continuing with the film?” Charlotte asked. Meade obviously had his mind made up, but what about Cicely and the rest of the company?

  “I don’t see how that’ll work out. It’s best if we just get Stanley back home and buried.”

  James narrowed his gaze at the man. “None of you are going anywhere until the doctor determines cause of death. I may still have questions.”

  “You can’t keep us here, Deputy.” Meade straightened to his full height, chin up, putting him eye to eye with James. “You have no right.”

  What had happened to that spirit of cooperation Meade had advocated earlier?

  James’s blue eyes turned glacial, and his brows met over his crooked nose.

  Uh-oh. Charlotte hadn’t been witness to James’s anger too often, but when it flared it was best to stay out of his way. Grateful he wasn’t addressing her, she took a half step back.

  “First of all, Mr. Meade,” the deputy said, “as an agent of the law of the Territory of Alaska, I have every right to investigate a suspicious death, which this is now, as I see fit. Second, chances are your steamer isn’t going to arrive, and if it does, it likely won’t depart anytime soon because of the storm that’s brewing. Third, I don’t know about Miss and Mrs. Welsh, but I’d rather hear from them regarding the treatment of their loved one. Now get your ass back to your hotel and wait for me to tell you what’ll happen next.”

  Meade gaped at him, perhaps unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.

  James turned his attention to the others on the platform who had stopped to listen to the deputy set the producer straight. “That goes for
everyone. Gather your things and go back to the Windsor or wherever you’re staying. You may be here awhile, so get comfortable and settle in. Cordova has some fine amenities to keep you entertained until decisions can be made.”

  And suspects fully questioned, Charlotte added silently.

  The men responsible for the freight began hauling it to the side, waiting for a hired truck to help transport it to the hotel or wherever it was to be held. The unencumbered cast and crew hefted their personal items and filed down the steps from the platform to the street. Not a one grumbled about having to walk rather than take a car the few blocks to the hotel.

  Wallace Meade waited for the platform to clear, then turned to James. Charlotte prepared herself for another run-in.

  “My apologies, Deputy.”

  Charlotte and James exchanged surprised looks.

  “I know you’re doing your job,” the producer continued. “It’s just been so upsetting, this last day or so. We’re all stunned by Stanley’s death, and the possibility it was intentional? Unbelievable. So please, forgive my rudeness.”

  He stuck his right hand out in a peace offering.

  James stared at the man’s hand for a moment, then grasped it. Meade winced slightly.

  The irritation hadn’t completely left James’s eyes as he nodded once in acceptance. “These things tend to get the best of us. I’ll appreciate future cooperation, Mr. Meade, so we can get this matter settled and you and your people can be on your way.”

  Meade eased his hand from James’s. “Absolutely, Deputy. You can count on it.”

  He tipped his hat to Charlotte, then retrieved his bag from the platform. Hefting the case in his left hand and cautiously using the right on the rail as he navigated the steps, he then strode down the street presumably toward the hotel with the rest of the company.

  “That man certainly runs hot and cold,” she said.

  “Never a dull moment.” James hoisted his bag to his shoulder, then reached for Charlotte’s. “I’ll walk you home.”