Murder on the Last Frontier (14 page)

Charlotte studied Kincaid. His tall, robust figure dwarfed the women. She focused on his face, and her breath caught. There was a mark on his cheek, just above the line of his mutton chops. The smile beneath his whiskers said this whole situation had been a mistake from the get-go. She'd seen both the birthmark and the smile before, on Mayor Kavanagh.

She set the magnifying glass on the table. Had John Kincaid fled Fairbanks for Cordova, clean-shaven and with a name change to help hide his identity?

Improbable, especially if someone who knew him well in Fairbanks happened to be in Cordova, but not impossible. Alaska was a land of starting over, a place to reinvent yourself. Maybe Kincaid/Kavanagh didn't feel the need to travel too far for that, despite having been accused of terrible acts, and perhaps linked to the disappearance of a witness.

How did Darcy figure into this?

Charlotte considered the paper then the stacks of notes. A lot of money for a young sporting woman to be hiding. Unless she was involved in something as illicit as theft or fraud. Something like blackmail.

Suppose Darcy had known Kavanagh was really Kincaid. Suppose she had pressed him for money to keep quiet and maintain his upstanding reputation. Suppose the Honorable Mayor had gotten tired of paying.

“Was that what got you killed you, Darcy?”

Was that
who
killed her, was the bigger question.

Charlotte would need more information before going any further than speculation. There was no proof of anything, and no one to ask with Darcy dead and Marie having left town. Had Kavanagh been at Miss Brigit's that night? He would have been a hard man to miss. Would he have hired someone to do his dirty work?

A shiver ran down Charlotte's spine, closely followed by a cold dose of reality. This was getting ridiculous. It was an outrageous scenario, one for dime novels and pulp-fiction magazines. She couldn't even be sure the man in the picture was Kavanagh. It could be someone who looked similar to the mayor, and maybe her own brain had jumped to a very wrong conclusion.

That had to be it.

Though it didn't explain why Darcy had stashed money and the articles in the coat. She might have been afraid of being robbed, but why hold onto the newspaper clippings?

Damn it! Marie had brought Charlotte the coat for a reason. Had Marie been in on Darcy's secret or had she found the money and the pages the same way Charlotte had, by accident? Why hadn't Marie taken the money?

Nothing made sense.

Except that Charlotte was now in possession of a large amount of cash and items that could be connected to a woman's death. And someone in Cordova had warned her away from looking into that death. What if that person found out what was in the coat and that she had it?

Charlotte shoved the money and the papers back into the gap between the fur and the lining. She threaded a needle and hastily sewed the seam. It was nowhere near as neat as the one she'd torn out, but it would do. She'd bring the evidence, such as it was, to James. But it was so late, after ten. He wouldn't be at the office now, and Charlotte had no idea where he lived. She'd have to ask Michael. There was no way she'd be able to wait until morning to do so.

She dumped her notebook out of her tapestry bag, shoved the coat inside, then donned her outerwear. The rubber boots squeaked softly as she forced herself to walk down the hall rather than run. No one was in the parlor at that hour. Charlotte quietly unlocked the front door and slipped outside. She was careful to lock it behind her.

The night was cold and damp. There was no one else on the street, and her heels thudded with unusual loudness along the walk. The glow of the streetlamps provided pools of safety, though she couldn't put a name to what she was afraid of. There was no indication that anyone was nearby. Not a sound, not another soul.

Be that as it may, Charlotte hurried along the walk to Michael's.

The curtains were drawn over dark windows. Taking care on the slick stone in front of his door, she knocked and waited. Rain pinged on the metal roof. The scents of the sea and of coal smoke were stronger than that of the rain. She pounded the side of her fist on the door.

Where the hell could he be?

Charlotte scanned the dark street. The businesses were all closed, of course. Lights shined in homes farther up the road, standing out against the otherwise dark slope of the residential area above Main Street. Was Michael visiting his fiancée and her family? There was only one way to find out.

Clutching the tapestry bag to her chest, she headed toward the reverend's home. Once past Main Street, there were few streetlights. Charlotte's pace slowed. The dim glow of the watery pools of light was barely enough for her to navigate the muddy street. She should have brought a flashlight.

You should have stayed home,
her more practical inner voice admonished.

Probably, but there was no changing that now.

Halfway between the third and fourth streets paralleling Main, the back of her neck prickled, and Charlotte stopped. The sound of squelching feet abruptly halted somewhere behind her. She whirled around, peering into the darkness and listening. Michael's warning of bears roaming town set her heart racing.

But would a bear stop when she did?

Of course not. And no one else was fool enough to be out in the rain at this hour. It was her own footsteps echoing back at her. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. Chiding herself for foolishness, Charlotte resumed her trek to the Bartletts', plodding through muck.

There it was again. The sucking sound of feet pulling from mud, as if someone were treading not on the relatively packed road, but along the side. Following her. Trying to not be seen.

Charlotte's heart hammered. She broke into an awkward run, her boots slipping and sliding. The windows of the Bartlett home spilled light into the front yard, promising safety if she could just reach them.

Her feet went out from under her, and Charlotte fell. She landed on her right side. A sharp pain shot from her hip up along her spine. “Damnation!”

The wet footfalls came closer, the fall of boot soles on earth, not paws.

Without waiting to see if her follower was friend or foe, Charlotte scrambled to her feet, the bag tight to her chest, and bolted the last fifty feet to the front door. Under the harsh porch light, she slapped her palm on the pristine surface, leaving muddy handprints.

“Hello! Please, is anyone there?”

Heavy footsteps behind her sent Charlotte's heart into her throat. She spun, back against the door. A dark figure lurched up the walkway.

“Who are—” The door jerked open, and Charlotte tumbled into the house.

C
harlotte hit the foyer floor with a jolt that rattled her from tailbone to teeth. She caught herself with one hand behind to keep her head from cracking. The fur coat spilled out of the bag, into her lap.

“Good God, Charlotte, what are you doing?”

She tilted her head up to peer into Michael's astonished face. Movement from outside flickered at the edge of her vision. She faced the shadowed figure and scooted back against Michael's legs. “There's someone—”

The words died on her lips as Ruth's brother Sam stepped into the circle of light. He swiped his wet hair away from his forehead, staring at her, hands clenched at his sides. His coat gaped open to the wind and the rain, the second oblong toggle button missing.

Muttering, “Sorry,” he dashed over her splayed legs and ran up the stairs.

“Sam!” Ruth called after him from behind Michael, but the boy didn't slow down. His feet pounded overhead. A door slammed.

Charlotte stuffed the fur coat back into her bag, hands shaking. Her wrist twinged from the fall, but she didn't think it was sprained or broken.

“Goodness.” Ruth helped Charlotte to her feet. “Come up off the floor. What on earth is going on?” She brushed her palms together, knocking off bits of mud collected from grasping Charlotte's arm.

Michael shut the door, his features now set in agitation. He was wearing his mackinaw, likely having been on his way out when Charlotte burst in. “I'd like to know the same thing.”

She held the bag containing the coat against her chest, the damp fur emitting a slight odor of wet dog, and opened her mouth to explain. But something stopped her. Ruth's pursed lips of disappointment? Michael's exasperation?

“Why don't you come in and sit down, Miss Brody? Tell us what the fuss is all about.”

She hadn't noticed Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett standing near the doorway leading into the parlor. Reverend Bartlett looked concerned, but Mrs. Bartlett wore the same sort of disapproving expression as her daughter.

“I'm sorry to bother you so late,” Charlotte said. “I was hoping to find Michael here, and on my way up I thought—”

Telling them all she thought someone had been following her seemed ludicrous now. Of course someone had been following her. Young Sam had been on his way home, traveling in the same direction she was going.

Charlotte's cheeks warmed; she felt like a silly girl.

“Is there some sort of emergency?” Michael asked. Ruth passed him his hat. Her hand lingered on his arm.

“No, not really.” Charlotte stammered the words and realized she was shivering. Cold mud had seeped through her dress, and caked on her hip and leg when she fell. “I just needed to see you.”

Michael narrowed his gaze at her, his lips pressed tight. Before he could say anything, Ruth gestured to the bag. “What is it you have there?”

Charlotte stifled the impulse to hide the bag behind her back, like a child caught stealing cookies. “Nothing.” A terrible lie that, by Ruth's frown, was easily detected. “Nothing important. It's just—I need to speak to you, Michael.” To hell with dodging the other woman's curiosity, though to be fair Charlotte had fallen into her house. The Bartletts deserved some sort of explanation. “It's about the case.”

Michael cast guilty glances toward Ruth and his future in-laws. “Not here. I'll walk you home.” He gave Ruth a peck on the cheek. “Good night, darling.” Then he shook hands with the elder Bartletts. “Sorry about the disturbance.”

“Nothing to worry about, son,” the reverend said, waving them off as if young women stumbled into his home on a regular basis. “I hope everything works out all right. Good evening to you, Miss Brody.”

“Good evening, Reverend. Mrs. Bartlett.” Charlotte nodded to him and his wife. “Again, please accept my apologies. Good night, Ruth.”

“Good night, Charlotte,” she said tightly. She opened the front door, glaring.

Another wedge between them, Charlotte realized. At this rate Christmas dinner was going to be hell.

Michael took her arm and escorted her out, his pace down the walk a bit too fast for the wet conditions. The door shut firmly behind them.

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind, coming here like this?” His fierce whisper carried down the dark street. “You've already managed to upset Ruth's mother and her closest friends. Are you trying to add Reverend Bartlett and Ruth to that list?”

Charlotte was pretty sure Ruth was already on that list, but now wasn't the time to be flippant. “I needed to talk to you or James about some things I have in my possession.”

“You mean that ratty coat? Where'd you get it?”

“Marie. It was Darcy's.”

His step faltered, but he pressed on. “Darcy's? Why did Marie give it to you?”

Charlotte glanced around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary and hearing nothing but their own footsteps.
It was only Sam,
she reminded herself. “I'd rather not go into details here. Can we go see James?”

“At this hour?” Michael's voice rose with incredulity. “Tell me what you have, and we'll see if it merits waking the man.”

Which meant he'd decide if it was worth all the fuss. Charlotte shook her head. When had he become such a pompous ass? “If you don't want to help me figure out who killed Darcy, then fine. Just tell me where James lives, and I'll go alone. You won't be embarrassed or damage your precious reputation by waking an officer of the law with possible information on a murder.”

At the edge of one of the pools of streetlamp light, Michael stopped, bringing her to a halt as well. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I care about solving Darcy's murder. What's gotten into you?”

Charlotte jerked her arm out of his hold. “What's gotten into me? What's gotten into you? You're a totally different person from a year ago, Michael. I hardly recognize you anymore. You're more concerned with your standing in the community, not serving it.” A ball of sorrow and anger swirled deep in her belly, then pressed into her chest, nearly choking her. “You're different, and I want my brother back.”

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked hard, hoping any that fell would just mix with the rain.

“I'm different? What about you?” He stared at her hard enough to almost make her break. “While I was in med school and at the hospital, I'd get volumes of letters about what you were up to, who you were seeing. Then as of a year ago, barely a couple of pages' worth every few weeks with vague references to gatherings and facts that changed from one letter to the next.”

Charlotte trembled. He knew something had been going on with her.

His expression softened, and he laid his hands on her shoulders. “People go through things,” he said quietly. “Things that they can't share. And it changes them.”

“I know,” she said in the same low tones. “But this is us, Michael. We shared everything growing up.”

Only two years apart in age, they'd been as close as siblings could be in their younger years. Whenever one of them got into trouble with Mother or Father, the other offered understanding and comfort. When Charlotte tried sneaking back into the house after breaking curfew, Michael had distracted Father long enough for her to scurry upstairs. She took the brunt of the punishment when playing baseball in the parlor resulted in a broken lamp.

But the most precious times Charlotte recalled were when they had stayed up late, talking about what they wanted to do with their lives, where their travels might take them, their latest crushes. Graduation and career choices meant less time together, but it shouldn't have driven them apart.

What had happened?

He gave her a sad smile. “We're not kids anymore.”

“Which is why we should be able to talk rather than keep things bottled up inside.” Charlotte realized what she'd asked for a split second too late to stop herself. What if he agreed? What if he asked her to tell him
her
concerns and struggles?

He stared down at her, his eyes intense under the watery lamplight. “I can't, Charlie,” he said, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard. “Not yet.”

Disappointment warred with relief, making her lightheaded. She wasn't ready either, but at least they each knew they'd be there for each other when the time came. “All right. We'll leave it alone for now. But I still need to get this to James.”

Michael rubbed his palms over his face then down his cheeks. He looked tired, and not just from the lateness of the hour. “Fine. I'll take you to his place. Hopefully he won't arrest us for disturbing the peace.”

Charlotte took Michael's arm, and he led the way down to a muddy lane between Second and Third Streets. “I doubt that will happen. James is gruff, but he'll understand.”

Michael grunted disagreement. He turned up a narrow path to a small cabin between two other buildings. A light glowed through the window. Good, James was up.

Michael knocked on the door. “When did you start calling him James?”

“At dinner last night.”

Before her brother could comment, the door swung open. James filled the low doorway, bending to get a good look at his late-night visitors. His hair was mussed, and he wore a long-sleeved undershirt, the suspenders of his trousers dangling at his hips. One toe peeked out of a worn sock. “Doc. Char—Miss Brody. Is something wrong?”

Charlotte's gaze went back to his whisker-shadowed face. “Sorry to bother you so late, Deputy.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Not a bother. Please, come in.”

He stood aside, allowing them to pass. Charlotte entered first and immediately noted the aroma of leather, tobacco, and smoke. While James hung their coats and hats on wooden pegs affixed to the log wall, she perused his tidy cabin. A book lay on the straight-back chair near the woodstove. On the floor beside the chair were an enameled mug and an open tin can. A black pipe rested on the can. Coats hung on wooden pegs; boots, snowshoes, and various trunks and boxes were stacked beneath a loft. An orange tabby sat above the ladder leading up to the loft. It scrutinized her and Michael, then sauntered into the shadows.

“Have a seat, Miss Brody.” Charlotte handed the book—Dante's
Inferno
—to James, which he set on a shelf among other tomes. She sat with the tapestry bag at her feet. James retrieved a small wooden crate and a second chair from against the wall for himself and Michael. “Can I, um, get you anything?”

She smiled, getting the inkling social niceties were not his forte. “Thank you, no. We're here on official business.”

James glanced at each of them. “Is this about the note?”

Michael startled. “What note?”

Damnation, she'd forgotten to tell him about it. “It's nothing to worry about, Michael.”

James gave her a reproachful look. “Someone left a note in your sister's room, warning her away from investigating Darcy's murder.”

Michael's eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. “What? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I forgot.”

He slumped on the wooden chair, shaking his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are unbelievable.”

She and James exchanged glances. He grinned. A warm fluttering in her chest made Charlotte look away, but she smiled nonetheless.

James told Michael the circumstances of the note. “I warned her to stay out of it for her own safety,” he said.

“Apparently that isn't working so well.” Michael gestured to the bag at her feet. “What is it you've found now, Charlotte?”

She withdrew the fur coat and laid it on her lap. “Marie stopped by my room earlier this evening and gave me this. It had been Darcy's.” The men appeared unimpressed by the garment. Charlotte suspected that was why Darcy had used it. No one would give the worn fur a second glance. “Deputy, do you have a pair of scissors or a penknife?”

James gave her a questioning look, but leaned back and dug a small folding knife from his front pocket. “Will this do?”

“That'll be fine, thank you,” she said, taking it. It's not like she needed to be delicate about the operation now.

The men watched as she cut and tugged at her own poor stitching. When the gap was large enough, she reached in and withdrew one of the stacks of Federal Reserve notes. Their eyes widened. She handed the first stack to James, then retrieved the others.

“What in the hell is this?” the deputy asked.

“About five hundred dollars cash,” she said, “along with these.” Charlotte carefully removed the newspaper clippings from the lining. “Where did she get the money, and why was she hanging onto newspapers that feature a story that came out when she was a child?”

She handed the pages to James and pointed out the smaller write-up on the unidentified body. Michael read through them as well.

“Do either of you recognize anyone in the photograph or mentioned in the article?” she asked.

James tilted the paper toward the light. “Maybe. What about you, Doc?”

Michael reached into his inner jacket pocket for a pair of spectacles. He fit the wire earpieces over his ears and studied the page. “Is that Frank Kavanagh?”

Charlotte's heart raced. Michael saw the resemblance too. “Do you think so? I wasn't sure.”

“Let me look at that again,” James said. Michael handed the page over, and the deputy squinted at the figures.

“I used a magnifying glass,” she said.

James gave her a look she couldn't quite interpret. Was he upset? Amused? It was difficult to read him sometimes. He went to a drawer near the sink. After rifling through it for a moment, he withdrew a small magnifier. Surprise widened his eyes as he studied the picture. “I'll be damned.”