Murder on Location Page 18

  Charlotte studied the array of suspects and their motives for a few moments. Sitting here wasn’t going to get answers or proof. She capped her pen, folded the page with her article, and headed to the door. Her first stop would be the Times office to file her piece, such as it was. Then she’d head to the Windsor to see who was about. People were probably sick of talking to her by now, but that was too bad. Another chat with Burrows and maybe Miles Smith was in order as well.

  * * *

  Half a block from the house, she spotted Michael hurrying toward her. His breath puffed silver-gray in the morning air, and he held a canvas bag under one arm. Beneath his fur hat, his brow was lined, frowning in the depths of his blond beard.

  “Is Eddington around?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “First, good morning to you too,” she said. “Second, what makes you think I know where he is?”

  Though she did know, up until an hour or so ago. Charlotte continued toward the Times office with Michael falling into step beside her.

  “Sorry. Good morning. And I assumed he was with you because he wasn’t in the marshal’s office.”

  “It’s Saturday, Michael. The man’s allowed a day off.” Despite their being closer of late and sharing more of their lives, Charlotte wasn’t about to tell her brother outright that she’d slept with James. He’d either assumed they already had or that it was inevitable.

  “I’m aware of the day, thanks, but he wasn’t home either. Someone at the café said they saw you leave the Tidewater together last night.” He gave her a sidelong look. “What were you doing there?”

  “Following leads.” She tapped the bag he held. “What do you have here?”

  “Another piece of the Welsh puzzle.”

  Charlotte couldn’t keep the anticipation from her face. “Oh? What is it? Can I see?”

  With his shoulder, Michael blocked her attempt to grab the bag. “You know as well as I do that if I show you before I show Eddington he’ll flay both of us. You’ll have to wait.”

  “He was headed to the office earlier, but probably stopped at home to feed the cat. He might be at work by now,” she said.

  “Aha!” Michael stopped dead in the middle of the street. “So he was with you. I knew it.” His triumphant smile turned into a look of concern. “You were, um, careful, weren’t you?”

  The heat in Charlotte’s cheeks countered the cold wind coming down the mountain behind them. She wasn’t ashamed of having slept with James, but her sex life was not a topic of conversation she wished to have with Michael. “We were. Anything else you want to know?”

  “God, no,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “Just making sure. Let me know if you need me for anything. I can prescribe prophylactics for medical purposes.”

  The advantage of being related to a doctor.

  “Condoms from my brother would add a certain something to the romance, don’t you think?” They both grimaced with discomfort. “We have it taken care of, but thank you.” Lord, she hoped that would end the discussion.

  Luckily, it did, and their conversation turned to members of the Fortune crew as suspects. Michael agreed that it would require a certain amount of strength to have strangled Welsh.

  “He wasn’t a small man,” Michael said, “and even in a reduced state of awareness by medication or alcohol, it would take some muscle to do as much damage as he sustained.”

  “So you don’t think it was a woman.” There went half her suspects.

  “I didn’t say that. Women can be quite strong, or perhaps two could have killed him.” He clutched the bag under his arm closer to his body. “There would be considerable strength necessary to drag him to the crevasse too.”

  “More strong man action or a pair of women?”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  Obviously Michael wasn’t going to tell her what he’d discovered until they met with James.

  “Let’s go by the Windsor on our way,” Charlotte said. “I want to see if anyone’s about.”

  “Haven’t you gotten all you can from questioning them?”

  “The main suspects, yes, but you’d be surprised what the others on the crew know that they don’t realize they know.”

  Charlotte told Michael what Billy had said last night at the Tidewater. She left out the part where James and the Cordova police raided the club, but he probably knew that bit already. News traveled faster at the cafés and barber shops than in the Cordova Daily Times.

  By the time she finished, they reached the front of the Windsor Hotel just as Dave drove up with his team of dogs, the Brite-White Laundry company logo stenciled on several sacks in the sled. The six canines dutifully slowed and halted at his shout of “Whoa!” They panted happily while Dave set the ice hook and headed inside.

  “I’ve been thinking about learning to drive a team,” Michael said. “It would give me a way to reach my patients who live outside of town.”

  “And where would you keep the dogs between appointments?” Charlotte wondered. “In your cabin or upstairs in your office?”

  “Hmm, good point. Maybe I could borrow Dave’s.”

  Charlotte knew her brother had become happily settled in Cordova and enjoyed life in Alaska, so it didn’t surprise her if one day he did learn to drive a sled and team.

  “Come on, let’s see who’s at breakfast.” She started to urge him into the hotel when Wallace Meade and Roger Markham came through the door. “Good morning, Mr. Meade. Mr. Markham. You’re up early.”

  The two men greeted her and Michael cordially.

  Dave’s dog Byron, at his “wheel” position closest to the sled along with Shelley, started barking.

  Markham shot a glare at the dog. Byron barked louder.

  Meade tugged on his gloves, taking extra care with the right. “A brisk walk in the bracing chill of an Alaska winter does wonders for a man’s physical and mental well-being. Being down south for so long, I’d nearly forgotten how invigorating it is up here.”

  “It is that.” Charlotte raised her voice over the noisy canine. “Tell me, have you made a decision about continuing the film?”

  Meade answered her in an equally raised volume. “I made my decision first thing, but Cicely has managed to convince a significant number of the crew to go back out.” Meade and Markham exchanged looks that said the two of them had likely gone toe to toe on the matter. “Far be it from me to deny the young woman the opportunity to honor her father.”

  His change in attitude puzzled Charlotte. Cicely must have presented a strong argument, or managed to tap into the man’s sympathies, to keep the producer on the project.

  “What about Mrs. Welsh? Will she be staying in town?”

  “Carmen has decided to return to the site with Cicely,” Markham said. “Understandably, she doesn’t want to be away from her daughter just now.”

  Meade asked Michael, “I assume you’ll be releasing the body soon?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “What’s the holdup, Doctor? Cicely and Carmen would like to have him tended to as soon as possible. We—they don’t need to draw this out. The longer it takes for you to release his body, the more likely some sort of media vulture will land on the story and blow things out of proportion.”

  Michael put on his “sympathetic but determined” face. Charlotte knew it well. “I understand completely, Mr. Meade, but until I’m satisfied that the cause of death is accurate, I’ll need to keep Mr. Welsh at the morgue. I promise to let Mrs. and Miss Welsh know when they can have their loved one released to the undertaker.”

  Meade’s mouth pressed into a grim line of annoyance, his gaze darting between her and Michael. Charlotte suppressed a grin. Obviously Wallace Meade wasn’t too keen on the Brodys, but she hoped her next question wouldn’t be met with rejection.

  “When is the crew headed back to the glacier?” Charlotte asked. “I’d like to continue my coverage for the Times. I could get some positive news out there about the production before any of the vultures
even start circling.”

  Though Charlotte didn’t consider herself one of those, nothing piqued interest and sold copies like sensational events involving famous people. But this wasn’t about generating revenue. She was more interested in solving the crime.

  For a moment, Meade seemed uncertain about her resuming; then he nodded thoughtfully. “That would be helpful, I suppose. Cicely wishes to return in a couple of days at the latest.”

  Dave the laundry man exited the Windsor carrying two stuffed canvas sacks of what was likely bed and kitchen linens. When the team of dogs saw him, they all started whining and yipping in excitement; their master’s return meant they’d soon be off. Charlotte had never seen animals so enthused with their tasks as sled dogs seemed to be.

  Dave yanked the anchor and urged them on with no more than a “Hike” that was mostly drowned out by the yips. The dogs dug in. Lines strained. The sled moved forward, swooshing down the road to another customer.

  Quiet returned to the street once again.

  Wallace Meade gave Charlotte and Michael a slight smile as he tipped his hat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to run.” He addressed Markham. “Meet me at the train station in half an hour.”

  Markham puffed on his cigarette, eyes narrowed. “I told you I’d be there.” He tugged the brim of his cap, turned on his heel, and walked away, his limp barely noticeable.

  The producer grunted as he watched the cameraman depart, then turned to Charlotte again. “We’ll send around a note as to when we’ll be departing, Miss Brody.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Meade. Good day.”

  “Good day.” He ambled across the road, toward the heart of town.

  “I know he’s trying to make the situation easier on the Welshes,” Michael said, “but I hope he realizes I’m taking care so I can be accurate. I’m not trying to drum up any sort of unnecessary excitement.”

  “I know you aren’t.” Charlotte looped her arm through his. “I’m sure he and the Welshes understand that too. It’s a terrible time for them all.”

  “Do you still want to go inside to see if there are some more movie people to talk to?” he asked.

  Charlotte watched Meade as he stopped to chat with another gentleman, then lost sight of him when he continued on past the tobacco shop and down to Main Street. “No, I think I’ll stop by later, though. Come on. Let’s go see if James is at the office.”

  * * *

  Michael held open the door to the federal building to allow Charlotte to precede him. She, in turn, opened the interior door that led to the marshal’s office for him. The stairs up to the post office were lit by a couple of small hanging lamps. Charlotte made a mental note to check the Times’s post box before leaving.

  Inside the marshal’s office, James sat at his desk, smoking a pipe and typing on a shiny black Royal typewriter. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the type bars on the paper-covered platen were quite familiar to Charlotte. He glanced between his hands and the page, his fingers sure and quick over the black enamel keys.

  “Impressive,” Charlotte said as she and Michael entered. “Your typing skills are improving. I should hire you as my secretary.”

  James lifted his head, fingers stilled, and grinned at them. “I’ll send you my rates. Good morning, Doc. What do you have there?”

  Michael opened the bag as he walked toward James’s desk. “The blanket used to drag Welsh onto the ice. It has bits of straw and other debris embedded in it. There’s also a tear on the side toward the middle of the long edge where it caught on the dog pen.”

  If Welsh had the blanket around his shoulders, and wandered out on the ice on his own accord, the tear wouldn’t be in the middle like that. “Not the bottom or corner?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, and it was a long, irregular snag,” Michael held the beige tuft up to the torn edge. “Using a microscope, I noted the fibers are consistent. It’s very high quality wool, smooth, and with good color. Much nicer than the blankets on the cots in your tent, Charlotte.” He turned the blanket over. “There’s also a stain here and on his jacket, consistent with the medicine Welsh took. There was little left in the bottle to compare, but the aromas are similar. I’ll run tests when I get the chemicals I need. They should be on the next steamer, whenever it gets here.”

  “Perhaps, if his hand was unsteady, he spilled it on himself,” she suggested.

  “Or spilled it elsewhere and tried to clean it up. Difficult to say.”

  “The snag on the side.” James gestured to have Michael return to that portion of the blanket. “That suggests either one very strong person, or a pair, dragged him over and dumped him into the crevasse after killing him somewhere in camp.”

  Michael nodded. “That would be my theory, yes.”

  “Not Paige Carmichael then,” Charlotte said. “At least not acting alone.”

  Her brother gave her quizzical a look. “Was she ever a serious suspect?”

  “Perhaps not a leading contender, but until she can be completely ruled out, she had motive. Stanley continuously gave her the impression that his next film would be hers. He never delivered.”

  “A woman scorned,” James said, shaking his head.

  His tone hit Charlotte in the middle of her chest. “A woman promised and misled, is more like it. From what I’ve heard, much of the industry is knowing the right people. Paige was doing what she thought would work best to get the jobs she wanted.”

  “She was sleeping with the man so she could get ahead in her career.” James crossed his arms over his chest. “She assumed he’d favor her and was wrong. It’s not fair, but she’s not exactly leading the parade on ethics either.”

  “Nor was he by cheating on his wife,” Charlotte countered. “I’m not saying Paige is faultless. She was using Welsh—or trying to—and he was using her, but he got what he wanted while keeping her dangling on the line like a fish. A person can only take so much of that.”

  “Exactly my point,” he said. “He wasn’t living up to his end of the bargain. She could have become angry enough to kill him.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

  Charlotte and James held each other’s gazes for a long moment. She was sure her own expression mirrored his tightly pressed lips and furrowed brow.

  Michael glanced back and forth between them. “So . . . is she a suspect or not?”

  She took a breath and mindfully relaxed the tension in her jaw. “Deputy?”

  James pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. After a moment, he looked at Charlotte again and said, “She isn’t the primary suspect, but I’m not going to rule her out either.”

  Michael sat on the edge of the desk. “I’m glad that’s cleared up.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but smile at his rare sarcasm. “As it stands, I think focusing on someone more physically capable of the act of strangling and dragging a man would be best.”

  James nodded slowly. “Agreed. So that leaves, what, a dozen or so suspects? The majority of the company is men who do a lot of physical labor.”

  “But only a few had motive,” Charlotte reminded James. “What about the method of death?” she asked Michael. “You concluded strangulation. That would require considerable brute strength.”

  “The killer may have used something to render him unconscious,” Michael said, “or taken advantage of his diminished condition. I took a closer look this morning, and the bruising on Welsh’s neck was more defined. After opening him up, I saw the hyoid was fractured inward. Whoever killed Welsh used their bare hands.”

  He stood in front of Charlotte and placed his hands on her throat one at a time. He didn’t squeeze, of course, but the sensation of hands at her throat was disconcerting. She had felt it before, not so long ago, and the memory sent a chill down her spine. She refused to let it get the better of her.

  Michael continued describing his findings. “Left hand first. Right over top of it and slightly higher. There was a thumbprint-like bruise on the le
ft side of his neck, as well as finger impressions on the right, and another thumbprint higher up on the right side.”

  “The killer led with his left. A southpaw?” James asked.

  Michael lowered his hands. “Possibly. Charlotte, who in the crew is left-handed? Surely there are one or two.”

  Shaking off her experience, Charlotte quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like Sherlock Holmes? That’s not something I’ve paid attention to. When I go back to the glacier with them, I’ll make note. Though being left-handed isn’t going to prove anything.”

  James rose and crossed the office to the coal stove, where the coffeepot was kept warm. “No, but it may be something to help whittle down suspects. Coffee?”

  Charlotte and Michael accepted the offer.

  “What about Caleb Burrows and Miles Smith? Burrows was one of the last to see Stanley alive,” Charlotte said as they took their seats once again. “Other than the killer.”

  “Unless, of course, Burrows is the killer,” James added.

  “He certainly had motive, opportunity, and ability.” Charlotte considered the lawyer and his assistant. “Young Miles could very well have helped. He has a temper.”

  Michael stiffened. “Are you accusing those men because they’re Natives?”

  Charlotte blinked in surprise. “What? No, of course not. I’m suspecting them because they were there and had a very passionate stand against what Welsh was trying to do with the film. Please, Michael, you know me better than that.”

  He laid a hand on her arm. “Sorry. You’re right, I do know you better. It’s just that tensions between the Eyaks and the whites can get out of hand from time to time.” He gestured toward James. “You’ve seen it, Eddington.”

  James nodded. “I have. It’s been fairly quiet for a while, but the brouhaha over the film has stirred things up. Ned at the police station was telling me about recent fights he’s broken up. New difficulties bringing up old troubles. Hell, continuing troubles.”

  Charlotte had written up more than a few of those in the last six months.

  “Those are just a symptom of a larger problem,” Michael said. “Mary tells me terrible stories of how her people have been treated. Cheating in trade or business dealings, outright violence. But also subtle things like being ignored at the grocer’s or remarks made when someone thought she couldn’t hear or understand.” He shook his head. “I know she doesn’t tell me half of what has happened to her or people she knows.”