Murder on Location Page 9

  A wave of sadness for Cicely and Carmen filled her chest. Charlotte turned to the two women. They, along with the others, started forward.

  Charlotte held up her hands. “Stop. Don’t anyone come any closer.” She focused on Cicely and Carmen. “I’m sorry. Mr. Welsh is down there.”

  “Papa!”

  “Stanley?”

  Both women once again moved forward. Charlotte stepped toward them. “No, don’t. Please. You . . . you don’t want to see him like this.”

  Cicely stopped, her dark eyes wide and her fair face drained of color except for the livid bruise on her cheek. Beside her, Roslyn Sanford embraced the scenarist, her expression just as stricken. Carmen Welsh clutched the wool blanket tightly around herself. Her eyes rolled back in her head and, with a gasp, she fainted. The man behind her was quick to catch the poor woman before she struck the ice.

  “Please, everyone,” Charlotte said. “Go back to the mess tent. We need to get the coroner and marshal up here as soon as possible.”

  “What for?” Markham asked.

  Charlotte turned back to the cameraman and, keeping her voice down, said, “Because they’ll want to determine what happened. In order to do that, they’ll need to see Mr. Welsh where he was found. And ask questions. We can’t let anyone leave.”

  Chances were, Stanley Welsh had become disoriented by his medication and wandered off. Mother Nature was particularly unforgiving up here.

  But what if he hadn’t? Charlotte was sure she was overreacting, but better they let the professionals figure it out.

  Markham frowned at her for a moment, then addressed the cluster of confused and worried people. “All right, you heard the lady. Let’s get back to the mess. According to the schedule we were given, the train’ll be by in a little while. We’ll have someone go back to town to tell the authorities.”

  “We can’t just leave him down there.” Cicely Welsh wasn’t quite hysterical, but there was definite sorrow and shock in her voice. Roslyn’s arm tightened around her.

  Carmen was being carried back down the ice to the camp, leaving Cicely to speak for the family. Charlotte sympathized with the young woman.

  “Please, Cicely,” Charlotte said, coming up to the scenarist. “I know this is terribly difficult for you, but there are certain procedures that have to be followed in order to give the marshal’s office the best chance possible to determine the circumstances.”

  Cicely winced. “It was an accident. Wasn’t it?”

  There was no good way to answer her. “We need to let them investigate to be sure.”

  “I think she has a point, Ceelee,” Roslyn said. She urged Cicely toward the camp. “Come on. Let’s get some coffee.”

  Cicely’s shoulders slumped as she and Roslyn made their way toward the site. Poor woman. Charlotte didn’t want to keep her from seeing her father, but it was for the best.

  “Mr. Markham, can you stay here and make sure no one disturbs the scene?”

  Markham glanced over his shoulder, into the crevasse. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and met her eyes with a steady gaze. “I’ll stay as long as I can.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get someone to relieve you so you don’t freeze.” Charlotte started back to the camp, then turned. “I’m sure I don’t have to ask you to not touch anything, Mr. Markham.”

  The cameraman gave her a wry look. “Not a problem.”

  Careful not to slip on freshly exposed ice or loose pieces, Charlotte returned to the mess tent. She could hear the buzz of conversation well before she reached the enclosure. It sounded like everyone was there. She pushed the door flap aside. Conversation stopped and all turned to her.

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte said, “I’ve asked Mr. Markham to keep an eye on the . . . the scene for now. Someone will need to spell him so he can warm up. When the train arrives, I suggest someone go back to town and tell the marshal’s office as well as the coroner what’s occurred.”

  “Why just one person? We all might as well pack and go.”

  Charlotte didn’t know who had asked, not that it mattered. “Until the marshal or deputy can question everyone and investigate, we all need to stay here. Keeping everyone in one place will make it easier and faster for the inquiry.”

  Wallace Meade pushed to the front of the group. “Listen here, little lady—”

  “I’m not your little lady, Mr. Meade.” Indignation heating her cheeks, Charlotte held his gaze. He wasn’t the first man to attempt to talk over her. “I realize I’m not in charge of your production or this site, but I have been involved in several investigations. The best thing we can do is stay put and wait for the deputy.”

  “What’s there to investigate?” Meade asked. “Poor Stanley wandered onto the glacier and fell into the crevasse. Clearly this was a terrible accident.”

  From one of the tables, Charlotte heard a woman sob. Carmen or Cicely?

  “It probably was an accident,” Charlotte said, and noted Meade’s self-satisfied grin. “But we don’t know. If the coroner decides the death was questionable, it’s best to start off with all the factual information possible.”

  She glanced around the tent to see if anyone else had objections. What was it James had said about having an attitude of implied authority? She had no authority whatsoever, of course, but this situation called for someone to take the lead. Standing toward the back, Caleb Burrows met her eye. He didn’t seem to agree or disagree with her. Wouldn’t a lawyer prefer to follow some sort of procedure?

  “Fine,” Meade said, acting as spokesman for the company. “Who’ll go to town?”

  Volunteers made offers, but Charlotte held up her hands, quelling the voices. “Under the circumstances, I think we need to send the most impartial person in camp. Someone we’d all trust.”

  “You?” Meade’s single word wasn’t quite filled with derision, but it was there. Perhaps he wasn’t fond of being challenged.

  “No,” Charlotte responded. “My place is here. Rebecca Derenov should go.”

  “Me?” From her seat at a nearby table, Becca looked around at the roomful of adults. “But—”

  “She’s a child,” Meade argued. “She can’t carry this sort of responsibility.”

  “I assure you, she can,” Charlotte said. She stood in front of Becca, ignoring Meade’s sputtering protests. “Go straight to Deputy Eddington or Marshal Blaine. I’ll write out something if you’d like, but I think it’s best if you go. Don’t say a word to anyone but them. We don’t need a stampede of ghoulish looky-loos out here. Then I want you to stay in town with Esther or Mary. If either asks, you weren’t feeling well.”

  Having had their conversation just the other day about keeping confidences, Charlotte was sure Becca understood the magnitude of the situation despite her tender age.

  Becca nodded solemnly. “I can do that.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I know you can.” She checked with the group again. “Is everyone agreed, we’ll have Becca go?”

  No one else opposed the girl being their messenger, giving Wallace Meade no support in his opposition.

  Peter York cleared his throat. “What do the rest of us do in the meantime, Miss Brody?”

  “The train should arrive shortly on its way down from Chitina,” she said. “Becca will get back to town by early afternoon. The marshal or deputy and the coroner will come right out. We’ll have to stay until tomorrow, at the latest, while they make their initial investigation. I’m sure we can keep ourselves occupied for twenty-four hours if it means learning the truth about Mr. Welsh.”

  There were murmurs of reluctant agreement, with one notable exception.

  “I ain’t stayin’ here with a dead body,” Paige Carmichael protested. “No offense to Cicely and Mrs. Welsh, but that’s too creepy.”

  “I do take offense,” Cicely said, coming forward. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy behind her spectacles. Through the crowd, Charlotte saw Carmen seated at a table, her hands around a mug of coffee and a blanket o
ver her shoulders, as if she couldn’t get warm even in the close heated quarters of the tent. “My father may not have been the easiest man to get along with, but he deserves the respect of our finding out what happened.” Paige shrank back a little at Cicely’s words. The scenarist then faced Charlotte. “We’ll do as you suggest, Miss Brody. It won’t be easy for me or my mother, but if we can endure it so can the others.”

  No one dared to disregard Welsh’s grieving daughter, not even Paige or Meade.

  “All right. Thank you,” Charlotte said to Cicely. “Becca, get packed. We’ll need two or three volunteers to spell Mr. Markham watching over the scene to make sure nothing’s disturbed. I’m sure once the deputy gets here, everything will be taken care of swiftly.”

  Except, she wasn’t sure of that at all.

  * * *

  While they waited for the train to return from Cordova, Charlotte tried to gather as much information as she could from the company. A few had heard the same noises she had late last night, as well as the dog barking, but no one could swear what time it was.

  “After eleven,” Smitty said as he set up another two pots of coffee to brew. “We’d finished up here ’bout then and all was quiet. Even the party was down to nothing.”

  The music and laugher hadn’t lasted as long as Charlotte thought it might. Perhaps Welsh was hard on anyone being late or complaining of a hangover.

  Dave the dog handler barely recalled telling Byron to shush. “He’s usually quiet, but when something riles him, he’s at it worse than a hound on a scent.”

  Tail wagging, Byron yipped then grumbled happily at the sound of his name.

  Dave and Charlotte stood near the pen of dogs while he fixed the post. The dogs sat on their straw bedding, occasionally joining the conversation with a variety of canine sounds.

  “Did you notice that this morning?” Charlotte asked, indicating the leaning support.

  “Yeah.” He used another couple of short bits of wood to brace the larger one. “But the dogs roughhouse all the time. Figured they knocked into it or something.”

  Later that afternoon, Charlotte was seated with Roslyn and Peter in the mess tent, getting an idea of how Stanley Welsh was regarded in the industry and as a personal friend. Both actors appreciated his enthusiasm, even if he came up with some mind-boggling ideas at times.

  “He had a vision, that’s for sure,” Peter said with fondness. “I think he could have worked out the problems with the Natives eventually. Especially with Cicely writing the scenario. She had a way of making him see reason.”

  Father and daughter seemed to be at odds when Charlotte witnessed their interactions in the car and at the theater, but perhaps, given the chance, Cicely was able to prevail when they were alone.

  “Poor Ceelee.” Roslyn dabbed a handkerchief along the corners of her eyes. “She and Stanley were a formidable pair in this business.”

  “Do you think she’ll give up writing?” Charlotte asked.

  The actress considered it for no more than a few moments. “No. She’ll grieve, of course, but she’ll find the strength to continue. Cicely is a lot tougher than she appears.” Roslyn smiled sadly. “She’ll bounce back sooner or later, and I’d bet on sooner.”

  “You seem to know each other quite well,” Charlotte said.

  The other woman blushed and looked down at her mug of coffee. “We’ve worked together on several films and clicked. She and I have a lot in common.” Roslyn raised her eyes. “We’re . . . comfortable with each other. Cicely is my best friend.”

  “Practically inseparable, they are,” Peter said, smiling. “Two peas in a pod.”

  Roslyn grinned at her costar. “We are, I guess. I should go check on her and Carmen. If you’ll excuse me.”

  The actress rose and headed out into the frigid day.

  Charlotte hoped the men standing over the crevasse were keeping warm. She made sure the cook sent out a full thermos of coffee and sandwiches for them, as they needed it.

  In the distance, the CR&NW train whistle sounded. Several people in the tent gave low cheers or exclamations of relief.

  Thank goodness. Charlotte rose along with Peter.

  “Excellent.” The actor donned his coat and gloves, as did Charlotte, and gestured for her to precede him. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Others were already on their way to the platform. Charlotte asked Peter to stay on the camp side of the train to assure no one attempted to board. If there was a guilty party or someone simply wishing to avoid the inquiry, she wanted to know.

  The train came into view as it crossed the bridge. It slowed and rumbled up to the platform with a bite of burning coal and a burst of steam in the air. The wooden planks beneath Charlotte’s feet vibrated even as the engine throttled down. The conductor opened a single door, at the front of the passenger car, and Deputy James Eddington stepped out, squinting into the setting sun.

  Charlotte’s smile grew when their eyes met. James gave her a fleeting grin, but sobered quickly when Wallace Meade stepped up to him.

  “Deputy, I hope we can clear this up soon. We want to give Stanley and the family all due respect, of course, but I see no reason why this can’t be wrapped up this afternoon.”

  James quirked an eyebrow at the other man. “Oh, you don’t, do you? And why is that?”

  Meade grasped his fur lapels, his chin up. “Obviously this was an unfortunate accident. Stanley went for a late-night walk and fell into the crevasse.”

  “Mr. Welsh didn’t seem like a stupid man to me,” James said, “and walking along a glacier in the dark is damn stupid.”

  “He may have been under the influence, if you know what I mean.” Meade made a gesture of tipping a cup.

  James clamped a hand on Meade’s shoulder. “Tell you what. You do your job by organizing your people in one place so I can interview them. The doctor and I will do our jobs of figuring out how Mr. Welsh died. Sound fair?” He patted the producer’s shoulder, then addressed the crowd. “Everyone head back to the mess tent and wait for me.”

  There was less grumbling than when Charlotte told them the same thing, but she supposed by now the crew was resigned to the fact that they’d be there a little longer. The doors to the cars remained closed, save for the one James had emerged from. The crew filed down the stairs off the platform, talking among themselves.

  Wallace Meade didn’t move. Once the others were out of earshot, he narrowed his eyes at the deputy. “I don’t want these poor people to be delayed any longer than necessary. Stanley’s body has been stuck in that crevasse all night and all day. He needs to be taken out of there as soon as possible. It’s not right.”

  “Neither is a man dying, no matter the cause.” James gestured toward the platform stairs. “If you’d join the others, please.”

  Meade cast a questioning look at Charlotte, who stayed put but said nothing as he crossed the platform and descended the stairs.

  Charlotte and James stepped toward each other at the same time. He took her hands, then leaned down to touch his lips to her cheek. “You’re shivering with cold,” he said. “Let’s get inside and get you warmed up.”

  She eased her hands from his and pressed her palms to his chest. Rising onto her toes, Charlotte kissed him full on the mouth. His hands fell to her hips and he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. Electric pulses radiated through her from chest to belly to limbs, warming her nicely. His solidity, his steadiness, made her feel all would be well. Together, they would figure out what had happened.

  Charlotte broke the kiss, smiling up at him as they both caught their breaths. “I missed you.”

  James pecked her on the lips, then released her. “It’s only been a day.”

  “Imagine what would happen if I’d been gone a week.” She laughed when he gave her an exaggerated waggled eyebrows lascivious look. “Did Becca get to Esther’s? Where’s Michael? Didn’t he come with you?”

  “Yeah, Becca’s there for the night. She promised to keep her lips
sealed about what’s going on. As long as you give her the full story when we get back.” James glanced over his shoulder at the open door. “Michael has a few things with him to conduct his initial investigation. I guess I should help.”

  They entered the passenger car where Michael was going through a bag that held several bottles and other paraphernalia of his duties as coroner. The conductor stood at the front of the car, checking his watch.

  “We’ll be back tomorrow morning, Deputy,” the uniformed man said.

  James tugged the brim of his hat. “Thank you, Mr. Briggs. I’ll let the others know.”

  He and Charlotte moved down the aisle to Michael.

  “People are going to start to wonder about you, Sis,” he said.

  “Me? What did I do?” Charlotte had been known to offer her opinion on topics such as women’s voting rights and Prohibition, but nothing stronger than words had been bandied about. So far, anyway.

  “I’m assuming nothing,” he said, “but you do seem to be in the thick of things. Again.”

  Charlotte gave him a playful swat. “Right place, right time. Though poor Mr. Welsh . . .”

  He certainly had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, however he ended up there.

  Michael handed her a bag and another to James. “Yes, well, let’s go see what happened. Though the sooner I can get him back to town and perform a thorough examination, the better.”

  James hoisted a small rucksack over his shoulder, adjusted his hold on the bag Michael gave him, then led the way back out of the car, down the platform stairs, and toward camp.

  “The biggest one’s the mess tent, yes?” he asked Charlotte.

  She nodded, taking care of her footing on the frozen ground. “Everyone but the men I’ve asked to watch over the crevasse should be there. At least I hope so.”

  “Well done maintaining the scene, Miss Brody.”