Murder on Location Page 7

  “I’ll tell you how it’ll turn out, young lady,” Stanley Welsh said louder than necessary from his seat in front of and to the right of Charlotte. He was half turned around, gaze fixed on the back of the car, on Markham and his crew. “It’s a never-before-seen action sequence that will be talked about for years to come. I have every confidence that our cast and crew will succeed.”

  “And the safety issue Mr. Markham is concerned about?” Charlotte asked.

  Irritation flashed across his narrow face before Welsh brought his direct gaze to her. “No one will get so much as a scratch.”

  A snort of frustration or disbelief came from the rear of the car, pulling everyone’s attention there, but it was difficult to say who’d made the noise. Welsh and Markham seemed to be in some sort of staring contest, neither willing to back down. Charlotte was glad she didn’t have to work with either of the two stubborn filmmakers.

  After a few moments, both men broke eye contact. Markham started speaking quietly to one of his men, the red-haired comedian Billy. Welsh turned around to face the front again. Carmen Welsh leaned closer to her husband, whispering fiercely into his ear.

  “I’m sure we’ll all be fine,” Roslyn said, but the tight smile on her face belied her projected cheerfulness. Was she concerned about the stunt or trying to smooth over the tension? “We’ll be safe as babes in our mothers’ arms.”

  The other actors nodded and murmured halfhearted agreement. Cicely Welsh glared across the aisle at her father, then stared out the window at the late-winter wonderland.

  With that, the interviews were essentially over for the time being, and Charlotte returned to her seat beside Becca.

  “Do you think it’ll be dangerous, Charlotte?” the girl asked softly. She was supposed to be in a few scenes with Roslyn and Peter. Was the intended iceberg scene one of them?

  Charlotte noticed the internal struggle on Becca’s face. “I know you want to be in the film, but if it’s too dangerous I’m going to have to put the kibosh on it. You understand.”

  Becca nodded. “I don’t mind taking some chances, but people die in minutes in the cold water.”

  Charlotte encircled Becca’s shoulders with one arm and pulled her close. “No one’s going to die.”

  * * *

  The train slowed as it approached the steel and concrete truss bridge crossing the Copper River at Miles Lake, giving the passengers a good long view of the face of Childs Glacier to the northwest. Everyone gazed out the windows in awe as icebergs that looked to be the size of motorcars bobbed along in the current.

  The blue-white face of the massive glacier and the swirling, ice-filled gray-green river made Charlotte shiver. Welsh wanted to put Roslyn Sanford on one of those floating hunks of ice? Charlotte watched one crash into another, the two spinning and dipping in the freezing water. Madness. No wonder Markham and Cicely were so concerned.

  Once it crossed the bridge, the train came to a gradual stop before a small platform and a two-story station house. Everyone gathered their personal belongings and disembarked. The chatter grew more excited outside, where the bracing cold and frozen landscape had their full impact.

  “All right, folks,” Roger Markham said when the company had assembled on the platform. “We have a ton of gear to move over to the site. So grab a bag or a box and come back for more. All hands on deck.”

  Most began moving toward the freight car that was being unloaded.

  As Charlotte passed her, Paige asked, “Does he mean everyone?”

  “That’s usually what ‘all’ means, dear,” Roslyn Sanford replied in a nicer tone than the others were likely thinking.

  Charlotte and Rebecca joined the others in hauling boxes of food and other necessities for their stay at the base of the glacier. Even Wallace Meade and Stanley Welsh lent their hands and backs. Meade’s younger years as a stevedore weren’t as far behind him as Charlotte assumed.

  Roughly one hundred yards from the platform, a tent city had been erected as well as a few small wooden shacks in a clearing surrounded by frost-covered willows and alder.

  “Impressive setup,” Charlotte said.

  Peter York, hefting a wooden box, fell into step beside her. “Stanley doesn’t fool around when he wants what he wants. Cost a pretty penny, according to Mr. Meade, but worth it to keep us all snug as a bug, Stanley said. We’re only out here for a week, though I’d stay longer than that if I could.”

  The actor’s easygoing attitude was quite different from what Charlotte had expected from the idea of pampered movie folk. Then again, Peter’s background suggested a more rural upbringing than some of the others.

  The entire company did their part in moving freight to the site, including the dog team. Their excited yips and barks added to the cacophony of shouts from Markham, as he directed this crate here or that one to go there, and a man named Smitty, who was in charge of meals and cooking, as well as the general supplies for the company. Heavier or bulkier items were carefully placed on the dog sled and taken to the appropriate tent or shack.

  Charlotte and Becca were assigned to a heavy canvas tent with several wool blankets strung along the walls to help keep it warm. The tent was also furnished with a raised, rough wood floor and a kerosene heater. Two sturdy cots had two wool blankets each folded atop thick mattresses. A small table between the cots held a lantern and a box of matches.

  “This won’t be so bad,” Becca said, tossing her bag on the floor near one of the cots. “I went camping with Esther and her family where all we had over our heads was a lean-to made from a tarp.”

  “In the winter?” Charlotte asked as she fiddled with the kerosene heater to get it started.

  “Well, no,” the girl admitted, “but even summers can be chilly and damp.”

  Charlotte held her hands out toward the heater. The space would warm up soon enough. “Let’s make up the beds, then head to the mess tent. Lunch should be ready soon.”

  There was no place to unpack their belongings, so it looked like they’d be living out of their bags for the week. As they made their beds, Charlotte was happy to discover hot-water bottles among the linens. Whoever was in charge of arranging amenities for the location filming had done a fine job in considering their comfort. She made a mental note to chat with Smitty to get an idea of what it took to outfit a film company on location like this.

  The cast and crew gathered in the large canvas mess tent for a hearty lunch of beef barley soup, ham or chicken sandwiches, coffee, and hot chocolate. Charlotte and Becca stood in line among the chatting crew. Charlotte asked Smitty if she could talk to him at some point.

  “When I can catch a breath, you bet, missy,” the burly man said as he plated food and called out to his assistants to brew more coffee.

  Charlotte and Becca collected their silverware and faced the seating area of the tent. Caleb Burrows and Miles Smith sat at the end of a table, separate from the others.

  “Should we go sit with them?” Becca asked quietly.

  “If you’d like.” Charlotte hadn’t had the chance to talk to Burrows in depth, but she didn’t want to suggest to the visitors that she was taking sides either.

  They approached the gentlemen. “May we join you?” Charlotte asked.

  The two men rose, Burrows smiling in welcome and Miles’s expression typically unreadable. “Please do,” the lawyer said.

  Charlotte sat beside Burrows and Becca beside Miles. Both young people stared down at their food while they tucked in. It surprised her that Becca, usually confident and self-assured, was behaving so in front of the young man. Though Charlotte recalled similar reactions to boys at that age, she had a feeling Becca was thinking about her brother.

  “How are you finding your accommodations, Mr. Burrows?” Charlotte asked.

  Burrows nodded as he chewed a bite of sandwich. He swallowed, then said, “Not bad at all. It’s been a while since I’ve slept without solid walls around me, but it’ll do.”

  “When was that, during the
war?”

  Burrows quirked an eyebrow at her. “Yes. How’d you know?”

  Charlotte gestured toward his coat. “You’re wearing army-issue coat and boots. I doubt a man like yourself would have purchased or procured such items as an affectation or merely for their sense of fashion. And that move you put on Mr. Welsh the other night indicates some level of training.”

  Burrows laughed. “Very observant of you, Miss Brody. Yes, I was in the army. I put my law career on hold and joined up.”

  “Where you ended up sleeping in tents rather than in the Judge Advocate’s office?”

  “Would it surprise you to know I wanted to be with the enlisted men?” He sounded defensive as well as half-amused.

  Charlotte considered the lawyer. “Not at all, Mr. Burrows. You seem like a man who prefers to have a hand in matters, not watch from the safety of a desk.”

  Burrows’s expression shifted for a moment. She couldn’t tell, exactly, what it meant, but he nodded once. “I do what I can for causes I believe in. I think we’re cut from a similar cloth in that respect, Miss Brody.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve read some of your articles for the Times. You aren’t shy about sharing your opinion on certain subjects. And your pieces in the Eastern newspapers are even more obviously in support of social equity.” Burrows’s dark eyes stayed on her as he sipped his coffee.

  Did he think she’d be embarrassed by such praise, or the fact that he knew her work? Hardly.

  “Which is why,” she said, “I want you and the AEC to realize the Times wishes to publish a full and comprehensive story on what’s happening here, with North to Fortune, as well as any other issues affecting the Native population.”

  Miles Smith snorted derisively. “Not that any of the white readers care.”

  “That’s not true,” Becca said, her head coming up. “Dr. Brody, Deputy Eddington, Miss Atkins, there are plenty others who care too.”

  “Not enough,” the young man said. “You don’t see any Eyak on the city council, do you?”

  Burrows held up a hand. “There’s a lot to be done, for sure, Miles, and we’ll get there.”

  “What’s the point of getting these people”—Miles gestured to the mess tent occupants, his voice rising—“to tell the truth if our own neighbors don’t see us as equals?”

  The conversation in the tent had gone quiet, all eyes on Miles.

  “It’s a start,” Becca said.

  Miles’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He let his glare travel the tent. Several people looked away. His gaze fell on the table where Stanley Welsh and Wallace Meade ate their meals. “It better be.”

  Miles rose, his food only half finished, and stalked to the table where dirty dishes were to be stacked. He set down his tray and left the tent. For a moment, no one spoke, then quiet conversation began again.

  “He’s a passionate young man,” Burrows said. “It’s hard to see your people treated poorly on their own land.”

  “I hope the movie people have agreed to the changes to your satisfaction,” Charlotte said.

  Burrows grinned. “My satisfaction would have an all-Native cast as the heroes and the white people the villains. A little closer to reality, don’t you think?”

  Charlotte’s research—ridiculously and overwhelmingly as told by white Americans or Russians—on the settlement of Alaska by the Russians and the subsequent purchase by the United States yielded accounts that stated interactions with the Natives were mutually beneficial, or that the Natives put up a fight and needed to be controlled. She suspected the Natives’ side of the story wasn’t nearly so pat, nor as favorable to the whites.

  “Unfortunately. Though I think everyone has the opportunity and impetus to be hero or villain, depending on circumstances.”

  “That’s very diplomatic of you, Miss Brody.” Burrows wiped his hands and mouth with a cloth napkin. “As a woman fighting for equal voting rights, I’m sure you can understand the feeling of oppression by the current powers that be. Where’s the difference between you wanting that recognition and a Black or Native woman wanting the same? Where’s the wrong in my people wanting fair treatment, let alone rights to ancient lands that have been ‘discovered’ and now claimed by whites?”

  There was, of course, no counterargument to what he said, because it was the truth.

  After excusing himself, the lawyer rose from his seat and disposed of his tray. He approached Meade and Welsh, stopping to speak to them. “I’ll see you gentlemen in Mr. Meade’s tent after lunch.”

  With that, he departed, head high and back straight.

  “Sounds like they haven’t worked out all the problems,” Charlotte said quietly.

  Becca returned her attention to her soup bowl but didn’t seem to be eating much. “I don’t expect they will.”

  Charlotte felt a pang of misery for the girl. Being half Native, she felt the push and pull from both sides. Whites more often than not considered her Native and some Natives considered her white. Becca was proud of both sides of her heritage, had loved both her parents. That she’d been compelled to defend and represent both was no surprise, and Charlotte would do her best to support her.

  Chapter 5

  After lunch, Stanley Welsh decided to take advantage of the light that was left to film a few test scenes. The cast streamed in and out of the costume tent in preparation. Then they walked out onto the ice, their fur garments covering them from head to foot.

  Lucky them, Charlotte thought as she stood behind Welsh, shivering. Caleb Burrows and Miles Smith watched as well, arms crossed, and Miles wearing his familiar scowl. She couldn’t blame the young man for being angry. He’d probably seen more than his share of racial bias, probably heard all too often that he wasn’t on the same level as a white man.

  Having Caleb Burrows there to show Miles—to show all of them—that prejudices were not going to prevent him from doing what was right would go a long way in the relationship between Natives and whites. At least Charlotte hoped so.

  Welsh called out instructions to the actors through his megaphone. Minor players, such as Becca and a few others, stood where they were told and moved as directed. Cicely furiously noted Welch’s adjustments without reaction most of the time. Now and again, Charlotte caught her frowning or shaking her head at her father’s changes to the story.

  Charlotte kept her hands deep in her pockets. She would have to take her own notes later, because it was damn sure too cold to take her mittens off and write.

  “I want Roslyn and Peter in this shot. He’ll save her when she falls into the crevasse,” Welsh shouted into the cone. “Yes, just like that, Peter. Watch yourselves. When we do it tomorrow, we’ll get Roslyn down there nice and safely. Paige, step back. You’re in the frame. We’ll get to your scenes later.”

  Paige huffed and moved away from Peter and Roslyn. “Later. That’s all I hear from you, Stanley. Later this and later that.”

  Welsh lowered the megaphone from his mouth, his voice deceptively soft. “Later or not at all. Your choice, my dear.” Ignoring Paige’s glare, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew the brown bottle Charlotte had seen him with at the Winsor Hotel. He uncorked it and took a deep swig.

  After returning the bottle to its place, he raised the white cone again. “All right, let’s bring the helpful Natives in. Good. Good. When we film tomorrow, Lewis, you’ll be the first on the scene, discover Roslyn down there, then run off to get Peter and the others.”

  Though Charlotte had learned it was unusual for such extensive rehearsals and test shots, she understood Welsh was a stickler for perfection. Snow and ice made lighting tricky, he had explained. Having the cast run through the scenes to incorporate different camera angles and movement would give them several options for the final cut.

  Markham hoisted his camera onto his shoulder and awkwardly cranked while another man held the tripod’s legs to help with balance. Together, they followed the action of the players to the edge of a cre
vasse. Once that scene was filmed, the company moved on to another area where the dog team would whisk Peter and Roslyn away over the field of ice.

  Dave the dog handler, Peter, and Roslyn consulted on the technique required to get her into the sled and how to command the dogs. When Dave was in charge, all went smoothly, and with a single word the dogs dashed across the ice and into the sunset. Dave brought the team around and had Peter stand on the footboards. Peter loosened the snow hook used as an anchor, grunting something with the effort, and the dogs bolted. He tumbled backward. Dogs, sled, and leading lady shot off without him. The lightly loaded sled bounced across the ice, Roslyn lifting up from her reclined position. She whooped, though whether it was out of excitement, surprise, or fear was difficult to say.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Dave’s command to the excited canines seemed to go unheeded, much to the alarm of the onlookers. Finally, the team came to a halt a couple hundred feet up the glacier. The black-and-white husky in front turned and looked about, as if puzzled.

  Everyone rushed over, calling out dangerous areas, as Roslyn gingerly eased herself out of the sled.

  Cicely got to her first, placing her hands on her friend’s shoulders and checking her over. “Are you all right?”

  Roslyn, her cheeks pale but her eyes wide, smiled. “Of course. My goodness, what a ride!” She turned to Dave, who had taken hold of the dogs’ line. “Can we do that again?”

  Dave seemed as puzzled as his dog, but then smiled. “Anytime you like, ma’am.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry, Roslyn,” Peter said, and he hurried to her side. “I let the anchor thing off too soon. You could have been hurt.”

  Dave snorted. “Not bloody likely. The dogs have more good sense than most people I know. They can avoid crevasses and weak spots better than any human.”

  Once everyone was assured no harm had come to Roslyn, Welsh called it a day. He reminded them of the cast and crew meeting after supper, and that wandering off-site was not a good idea.