Murder on Location Page 4

  Charlotte stepped in front of Becca and grasped her hands. “Keeping promises is important.”

  “But I should have told you,” the girl said, a pained expression wrinkling her brow.

  “You have the right to keep your own counsel.” She gave Becca’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “I trust you to use your judgment, but I want you to know that you can trust me too. If you tell me something in confidence, it goes no further than us. All right?”

  “Unless someone might get hurt.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Exactly. We don’t want that. We’ll talk about what we can do, should that ever be the situation. I won’t go running to put it in the paper.”

  “Or to tell Deputy Eddington?” Becca asked.

  “Only if it’s something he needs to know.”

  Charlotte felt a twinge at the vague reply. She’d had her share of skirting the edge of the law, even crossing the line. James Eddington had given her hell over it, going so far as to lock her up for a day. But he was known to bend the rules a little himself, now and again.

  Becca smiled, hopefully in acknowledgment that Charlotte was there for her first and foremost. “I’ll tell you things if I need to.”

  “Good.” Charlotte pecked her on the cheek. “Oops, I almost forgot my bag.” She hurried back into her room and found the clutch purse on the vanity. Tossing in her compact and lipstick, she glanced at the tabletop to see if she’d need anything else.

  “Your notebook.” Becca walked over to the bed where Charlotte had dumped her satchel. She fished out the small bound book and a pencil. “Since you’ll be working and all.”

  A rapid, three-beat knock followed by a double knock came from the front door.

  Charlotte’s heart jumped at the familiar sound. “That’s James. Can you go let him in? I’ll be right there.”

  Becca headed downstairs while Charlotte checked her makeup and hair. Alaskans seemed to enjoy having a reason to dress up, and no one gave you a sideways look if you didn’t, for most occasions, but tonight was different. Chances were good most everyone would want to impress the visitors from the States. Impressing the man escorting you wasn’t a bad idea either.

  Charlotte grabbed her shoes from the closet but didn’t put them on. She’d wear her boots to the theater and carry her fancier footwear. Another practice she’d gotten used to in the last six months. Carefully holding up the skirt of her gown to keep from tripping, she descended the stairs.

  James and Becca were chatting at the foot of the stairs. Or rather, Becca chatted and James smiled and nodded at her excited banter. He glanced up at Charlotte. Their eyes locked and his smile broadened, showing the dimple in his left cheek. Charlotte’s stomach fluttered. In his black suit and waistcoat, his dark hair slicked back except for a stubborn lock that draped over one of his blue eyes, James Eddington was the picture of Alaskan masculinity, even with his somewhat crooked, thrice-broken nose. Maybe because of it.

  Over the last few months, they’d spent more and more time together. Lunches, dinners, chats at one of their offices, a show or a dance. Charlotte enjoyed every moment, and while some men would have expected more than their hand-holding or brief kisses, James, true to his Southern gentleman roots, allowed her to dictate the limits of their relationship. Charlotte was no prude—far from it—but the specter of a past relationship and the aftermath kept her wary. She wasn’t afraid James would do anything untoward; she was worried she might.

  He extended his hand to her. She grasped it as she continued down and stopped on the last step, putting them at eye level. Gazes still locked, James lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of her fingers. A distinct zing traveled across her skin, up her arm, and into her chest. Her breath hitched. James always had an effect on her, but the touch of his lips, the look in his eyes, seemed that much more intense tonight.

  “You look incredible, Miss Brody,” he said.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself, Deputy.” Charlotte descended the last step, her hand still in his. “New tie?”

  “Just bought it today. Fletcher’s was doing a brisk business.”

  Charlotte laughed. The men’s clothing store might see a nice increase in sales while the Californians were around. Alaskans might not concern themselves with up-to-the-moment fashions, but it never hurt to be in step now and again.

  “Shall we go?” James gestured toward the door.

  “Let us get our coats and boots.” She reluctantly released his hand and started toward the closet to gather her outerwear.

  “Just the coats, ladies,” he said, coming up behind her. “I have a car.”

  Charlotte faced him, coat and shoes in hand. “A car? Since when?”

  James took her coat and held it out for her; then he did the same for Becca. “Since I figured trudging through the snowy street in fancy clothes wouldn’t be appreciated.”

  She strapped on her shoes. The heels were higher than her everyday shoes, but she still had to look up to meet his gaze.

  “Perfect,” he said, taking her hand again. He started to lean forward, as if to kiss her, then his eyes darted to Becca. Hastily straightening, he gestured toward the door again.

  Outside, the evening had turned quite chilly. Stars twinkled and a half-moon offered a soft glow of light, but a bank of clouds obscured the sky over the bay. They might be in for some wet weather.

  James held her hand on the icy steps, guiding her down to an older Model T parked on the street.

  “Where’d you get this?” Charlotte asked as he opened the passenger door.

  “Bought it off Clive. He’s been fixing up, then selling vehicles when he isn’t running the taxi service.”

  Becca got in, eyes wide as she took in the interior and slid toward the middle of the bench seat. “I’ve never been in a car before.”

  “It’s been a while for me too. Hope I remember how to drive,” James said, and Becca laughed.

  Charlotte sat beside Becca and made sure her coat and skirt were away from the door. “Well, don’t expect me to do it. I’ve never driven before.”

  “Really?” He seemed truly surprised. “I’d have thought a forward-thinking, worldly woman like yourself would have jumped at the chance.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Nope, I’m partial to public transportation. Give me a street car any day.”

  “I don’t think Cordova’s quite there yet,” he said.

  James secured the door, then hurried around the front of the car. He turned the crank once—twice—three times. The engine popped and grumbled a few seconds before starting. Rubbing his hands together, he got in and adjusted the throttle on the steering column. The uneven popping and growling sounds smoothed out. “She runs a little rough but seems to be reliable.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but grin at the excited, boyish look on his face as he checked the mechanisms. “She’s lovely.”

  James laughed and patted the dashboard. “In the dark, yes. I might have to pretty up a few things if we’re going to use her on a regular basis.”

  “What do you have planned?” Charlotte asked. They had been seeing quite a bit of each other, which was wonderful, but there weren’t so many roads in Cordova that motorized transportation was required.

  “You’ll see come spring,” he said, giving Becca a conspiratorial wink. Becca winked back. What were those two up to? James sat back, pushed in pedals with his feet, and set the gear. “Here we go. You may want to hold on to something.”

  The Model T jumped forward, down the hill toward town. Charlotte took a small measure of pride in the fact she only gasped as she grabbed the dashboard and didn’t yelp.

  * * *

  James found a spot to park the car across from the Empress Theater. The marquee was lit with the names of the major players in North to Fortune, as well as the producer and director, Meade and Welsh. Charlotte saw a good number of people in line, but didn’t immediately recognize anyone, bundled as they were. Were any of the AEC people there?

  James
came around and opened the door. He held her hand as she got out and stepped onto the slick walkway, then did the same for Becca. Charlotte and Becca each took one of James’s arms and they crossed the street. The line into the theater was moving along, albeit slowly. Excited conversation and bursts of laughter provided an almost holiday-like atmosphere. Having live entertainment wasn’t unheard of, even out here, but the significance of the headliners was unusual.

  “I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Meade after the show to interview him,” Charlotte said.

  “Maybe you can use your press pass and get special seats,” Becca suggested, her eyes bright with hope.

  “I doubt that would do much good, other than annoy people.” Charlotte shook her head. “I’m not about to push ahead of anyone here. We’ll get in soon enough.”

  They walked to the end of the line, greeting others and taking their place. Charlotte made small talk with Mrs. McGruder, the grocery store owner, and Mrs. Sullivan, her former landlady, who were ahead of them. She often saw both older women, either while shopping or running errands around town. Charlotte still felt a pang of guilt for the fire that had damaged Mrs. Sullivan’s rooming house, but the woman didn’t hold any ill feelings about the terrible incident.

  The happy chatter around them became murmurs of discontent bordering on anger. Charlotte glanced up as she listened to Mrs. Sullivan talking about her sons’ latest exploits. Under the lights of the marquee and the streetlamp, she noticed a small group of people had gathered to the side of the theater entrance.

  Some wore traditional furs while a couple had red cloaks with elaborate designs of ravens or eagles on the back. Many carried signs like the ones Charlotte had seen earlier in the day at the Windsor. However, unlike earlier, this group wasn’t silent. One softly beat on a skin drum while the others began to sing. Though she didn’t understand the words, Charlotte found the song quite beautiful and mesmerizing.

  The people standing in line seemed interested, smiling at the performance even as they pretended not to see the signs. Others ignored them. Mostly.

  “What the hell are they doing?” a man somewhere ahead of Charlotte, James, and Becca asked. “No one wants to hear that.”

  Becca frowned in the man’s direction. Charlotte took up the girl’s hand and gave it a small squeeze. She looked at James. The deputy scanned the line, eyes narrowed as he peered over the heads of the people in front of them.

  Someone near the man hissed a warning to pipe down, but he wasn’t done.

  “What’s unfair? They don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.” His voice grew louder. “Hey! Go home. We don’t want you here, ya damn—”

  He was abruptly cut off by an order to shut his mouth.

  Most of the Eyaks kept singing, though surely they had a sense of what the man intended to say. One of the young men turned toward the heckler, his dark eyes blazing, his fists balled at his sides. The woman closest to him touched his arm and said something to him. He responded through clenched teeth, staring at the man in line.

  “What the hell are you lookin’ at, boy?”

  “Stay here,” James said to Charlotte and Becca.

  His long legs took him to the offender in a few strides. Leaning out from her place in line, Charlotte could see James talking to a tall man dressed in what appeared to be a beaver coat that went to his knees and a matching hat. The deputy put himself between the man and the Eyaks, close so the troublemaker had to focus on him. James kept his voice low, but his intention was perfectly clear: Shut your mouth.

  The beaver-clad man started to argue with James, pointing at the Eyaks. His voice rose, and James poked him in the chest, his gaze intent. The man’s face changed from flushed and angry when he was harassing the protestors to narrow-eyed and lips pressed in a thin line. At least his attitude was directed at James now.

  After another few words of, Charlotte assumed, warning, James glanced at the Eyaks, who were still singing. The young man in the group looked at James, but when James nodded to him, he turned away.

  James gave the beaver-wearing man a final word of warning and returned to Charlotte and Becca. If he hadn’t been there, Charlotte was sure a fight would have erupted. Had the AEC considered that when they’d planned their demonstration? The young Eyak kept glancing at the line as he sang, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He had been ready to confront the white man in line, which would have possibly set off a brawl.

  Charlotte nudged Becca and raised an eyebrow when the girl looked at her. Becca shrugged and shook her head. No, she hadn’t known what the AEC was planning for the evening. If she suspected someone might purposely instigate a big fight, Charlotte was sure Becca would have said something.

  Charlotte still felt the underlying tension as the Eyak continued singing and the line of people moved forward into the theater. After showing their tickets, they followed the throng into the ornately decorated lobby. If the attendees’ renewed laughter and chatter was any indication, the incident outside seemed all but forgotten by the time Charlotte, James, and Becca passed between the interior double doors and into the theater proper. How easy it was for some to dismiss the impacts upon and feelings of others.

  The walls of the Empress were painted a deep maroon above dark wainscoting. In the pit before the stage, members of the Cordova Orchestra played a jaunty tune while folks found their seats or greeted one another.

  “Let’s step over here for a moment,” Charlotte said, tugging lightly on James’s arm. “I want to take a few notes.”

  She fished inside her purse for her notebook and pencil, wanting to jot down her impressions of the close call outside before she forgot details. “I won’t be long; then we can find our places.”

  The three hundred seats were filling quickly with people dressed in their finest, the majority of men in black tie and the women in gowns or cocktail dresses. The grandeur of the clothing far outweighed the humble setting of wooden seats and benches set up on the tiered floor. Many attendees carefully folded their coats and laid them down as cushioning.

  On the floor to the right and left of the stage, cameras had been set up to capture the event. Stanley Welsh spoke with the same gentleman who had filmed their arrival at the dock. The director gestured toward the stage, and the cameraman nodded, adding his own motions to the conversation. Welsh clapped him on the back, then crossed in front of the stage to speak to the other cameraman.

  Charlotte noticed Wallace Meade standing with a group of three older men near the stage. One of them was the beaver-coat-wearing man from outside. It didn’t surprise Charlotte that Meade was chummy with Cordova’s more well-to-do businessmen. He had worked a number of jobs as a young man, shrewdly investing his wages and starting his own businesses that turned significant profits. As one of Alaska’s most successful entrepreneurs, he enjoyed a certain prestige among others of his ilk as well as the more “common man.”

  Meade smiled and laughed with the men, but his gaze darted around the room as he spoke. His focus locked on the wide doorway beside Charlotte, Becca, and James. Following Meade’s line of sight, she saw Caleb Burrows and Jonas Smith had just walked into the theater.

  “This should be interesting,” Charlotte said.

  James’s brows met over his crooked nose. “Let’s hope not.”

  Charlotte had to agree that one incident an evening was enough.

  Burrows had his hair slicked back, and his suit was impeccable. A Native woman accompanied him, her long black hair in a perfectly sleek chignon, her dark blue gown clinging to her bosom and hips. Smith held the arm of his wife, Emma, a short, plump woman in deep pink.

  Cicely Welsh arrived from the lobby and smiled at the Smiths, Burrows, and his companion. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. I reserved seats for you down near the front.”

  Frowning, Meade hurried up the aisle to the newly arrived group. He started to say something, then caught Charlotte’s eye and abruptly cut himself off. “You should have let me know you wer
e coming. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss greeting everyone properly.”

  Burrows held out his right hand, grinning. “And so you haven’t.” He gestured toward the woman he accompanied. “Miss Violet Langler, vice president of the Council. You know Mr. Smith. This is his wife, Emma.”

  Meade made all the appropriate, pleasant noises and handshakes of greeting, though Charlotte could see anxiety in the lines around his eyes and mouth. He was not happy at having AEC representatives here tonight. However, the event was open to the public, so he had no cause to protest. He should have expected them, Charlotte thought, especially after their encounter at the Windsor.

  “I apologize for not getting back to you gentlemen earlier today,” Meade said. “Mr. Welsh has been working out details for the glacier site filming.”

  Cicely shook her head. “Stanley is asking for some dangerous stunts. He wants poor Roslyn to climb into a crevasse.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t put Roslyn in any real danger,” Meade said. “It would do us no good to have our star injured, would it?”

  Burrows gave Meade a significant look. “I admire a man who looks out for his people.”

  “Of course.” Meade arched an eyebrow at him. “Wouldn’t want lawyers all over us.”

  Burrows laughed, as did the others. A certain amount of tension seemed to leave the group, but Charlotte had the feeling it was merely social niceties being met. Given the right circumstances—and less of an audience—she imagined Burrows and Meade might have had a more spirited conversation.

  Stanley Welsh strolled up the aisle from the stage. He nodded and smiled along the way until he reached Meade’s side; then a frown furrowed his brow. “Wallace, that damn stage manager you hired doesn’t know what he’s doing. I swear, if that stupid N—” He cut himself off as he realized who was standing with them. His frown deepened for an instant, then a more neutral expression smoothed out the lines on his face. “Burrows.”

  “Welsh.” The lawyer’s previous good cheer had evaporated. “You remember Mr. Smith. This is his wife, Emma, and Miss Langler.”

  Welsh nodded to the others. “A pleasure to meet you.” He turned his attention back to Meade. “About that stage manager, Wallace.”