Charlotte rose, too excited to keep still any longer. She stepped beside James and peered over his arm. “You both think it's him. What about the women?”
James pointed to one of the women. “That might be Brigit, but I can't say for sure. Damned hat is in the way.”
Charlotte grinned. “I thought the same thing. About the hats.”
He smiled back, but it faded quickly. “The money is more than your typical lady of the evening can pull, even in this town.”
“Combined with the pages from the paper,” Charlotte added, “it makes me think Darcy wasn't just working for Miss Brigit.”
“Darcy knew Mayor Kavanagh was really John Kincaid, the saloon owner. At the very least, she might have threatened to reveal that bit to his more conservative supporters.” James scanned the article again. “But I'm willing to bet she connected him to the disappearance and probable murder of Cecil Patterson.”
“How long has Kavanagh been in Cordova?” she asked.
“It was before I got here, maybe six years? He owns one of the clam canneries with a couple other gentlemen. Made a big deal of providing jobs and fair wages. He was elected to office in '16.”
“How about Miss Brigit?”
James narrowed his eyes. “She came to town not long after him, I hear. You think they were in Fairbanks together. Involved in this theft case.”
“And maybe the disappearance of Patterson, yes.” If James was coming to the same conclusion, her earlier supposition didn't seem so far-fetched. Unless James was playing along with her silly ideas and was about to shoot them down. No, he wouldn't do that. That was a little game Richard had enjoyed, feeding her viewpoint in the guise of agreement just to turn around and take the other side. She didn't get the feeling James played such games. “So you think that's what happened?”
“Just a minute,” Michael said. Charlotte had almost forgotten he was in the room. “You're jumping to some serious conclusions here. Even if the man in the picture is Mayor Kavanagh, or if the death of Patterson is connected to the Fairbanks trial, there's nothing to prove Kavanagh had anything to do with Darcy's murder. There's no physical proof leading to anyone specific, is there, Eddington?”
“No,” James replied, “but it would certainly be motive.”
“Who else would be angry enough to kill her?” Charlotte asked.
“The father of her baby, if he was a prominent man,” James said.
She drew in a sharp breath, remembering Richard's face when she'd told him she was pregnant. She'd been feeling poorly for several weeks, and after missing her cycle she had suspected the cause even before her doctor confirmed it. Her first thought had been that she wasn't ready to be a mother, and that Richard deserved to know what she planned.
His predictable shock had turned to unexpected anger. “Don't be stupid, Charlotte,” he'd said. “Prostitutes and sluts have abortions. Or women too poor to take care of yet another brat. I can't have you doing something like this. Think about how it would look if word got out.”
How it would reflect on
him
. Would he have hurt her to preserve his own reputation?
“I can't think of a single man in this town who'd do such a thing.” Michael's tone was pitched upward with his disbelief. “Not a one.”
“No?” James raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I can.”
“Who?” Charlotte didn't expect him to name anyone, and he didn't. He shook his head, indicating it wasn't his place to accuse.
“I'll talk to Brigit again about Darcy's regulars,” he said. “Maybe that'll give us more of a lead as to who might've been concerned with her condition.”
“Brigit won't talk, will she?” Michael asked. “I mean, if men aren't bragging about visiting her girls, they surely don't want to be named. Some probably go to certain lengths to make sure Brigit and the girls keep mum.”
James gathered the stacks of Federal notes, wrapped the newspaper pages around them, and set them on the shelf above his sink. “Likely, but if I press her hard enough, maybe suggest not talking will get her into trouble, that might help loosen her tongue.”
“Or it might shut her up, and we'll get nowhere,” Charlotte said. She met James's glare with a calm expression that didn't quite match how she felt. She didn't want to risk being cut out of the investigation by irritating him, but she knew he would be wrong to push Brigit. “She's as stubborn as they come and already on the defensive. Let me talk to her. I think she trusts me.”
“Because of your chats with Marie.” He didn't sound convinced, but it didn't sound like he was dismissing the idea either.
Charlotte laid a hand on his arm. “Let me try, James. I think I can get answers you can't.”
“You shouldn't be involved in this,” Michael said. “Leave it to the marshal's office. Right, Eddington?”
“Your sister may have a point,” James said, holding her gaze. “Brigit doesn't trust me or Blaine. With Marie's leaving town, we have no one who really knew Darcy coming forward to help.” He covered Charlotte's hand with his. “But when I say it's time to quit, it's time to quit. Got me?”
Charlotte grinned and gave his arm a slight squeeze. “Thank you.”
She stuffed the fur coat back into her bag while Michael continued to appeal to James.
“I forbid her to do it,” Michael said with finality.
Charlotte spun around, mouth agape. Did he actually say what she thought he did? “I beg your pardon?”
James crossed his arms and watched the two of them. It was smart of him not to get in the middle.
“I told you before, Charlotte, this is none of your concern,” her brother said. “You're insinuating yourself into this case and have already been threatened once.” He crossed his arms as well, anger darkening his fair features. “I'm responsible for your well-being, and I forbid you to do anything more.”
She stared at him, unable to believe he had said the words. James might have muttered something like, “Oh, Doc. Bad idea,” but with the blood pounding in her head she wasn't sure.
“You forbid me?
Forbid
me?” Charlotte stepped forward until she was within a hand's breadth of Michael, controlling her breathing to keep from screaming. “I assure you, Michael, I've done plenty of things more dangerous than this. You're my brother, not my keeper.”
“Maybe you need one now and again. Someone to keep you in line.”
Surely he didn't mean that. Surely he was just concerned for her. He seldom tried to impose his will on her or demand she follow his direction. More often it was Charlotte trying to get him to yield to her, but that never worked either. His behavior now had become more akin to something neither of them had appreciated while growing up.
When had Michael morphed into Father? Or Richard? Why did the men in her life insist she wasn't capable of being who she wantedâno, neededâto be? She'd proven herself time and again. Had she made the effort to escape those men just to have her own brother take up the role of oppressor?
Charlotte drew in a deep breath through her nose, then let it out slowly.
“Maybe I do need someone, but it won't be you.” She faced James and inclined her head. “Sorry for such a late night, Deputy. I'll speak to Brigit when I can and let you know what she says.”
“Not to worry, Miss Brody,” he said. “If you're ever uncomfortable or feel in any sort of danger, you be sure to come to me. Hear?”
Charlotte knew she should express her gratitude for his support and concern in a more friendly manner, but anger kept her words tight.
“I will. Thank you.” Glaring at Michael as she passed him to get her coat, she said, “I'll walk myself home. I need some time alone.”
“It's late. You shouldn't be out by yourself,” Michael said, his overbearing attitude unwavering.
Charlotte gave him another scowl, opened her mouth to offer a string of epithets, then snapped it shut. It would be impolite to rant like a sailor in front of James.
The deputy laid a hand on Michael's shoulder. “I'd be more concerned for anyone crossing her, Doc. Let her go.”
She donned her coat, set her hat on her head, and, nodding to James, left the cabin with only the slightest slam of the door.
Chapter 11
C
harlotte spent the next morning at the
Cordova Daily Times
poring over page after page in search of information on Frank Kavanagh and Brigit O'Brien. A 1912 article about the clam cannery built by Kavanagh and his two partners, Jacob Feeney and Max Kruth, was the first mention she found, but the Kavanaghs hadn't arrived in town yet. The paper had run the piece to let Cordovans know there would be more opportunities for employment now that the railroad was finished and men were looking for work again.
Another article in early 1913 introduced the Kavanaghs to the populace, noting that the couple hailed from Virginia. A portrait of Frank and Tess Kavanagh accompanied the story, showing the couple as Charlotte knew them. Throughout the next several years, the Kavanaghs were mentioned in a number of social notations or in support of various local causes. Their standing in the community rose, culminating in Frank's campaign and election into the mayor's office. All the while, Tess Kavanagh quietly supported her husband and did everything right in the eyes of Cordovans, as far as Charlotte could tell.
There was nothing on Brigit at all. Not a mention, not a line. Not even a hint of the activities that went on in the house. There were a few incidents of women being arrested for solicitation on the police roundup, but none mentioned Brigit. Not surprising for a more conservative local newspaper, the criminal element in Cordova was confined to the back pages unless a particularly heinous act occurred. Those weren't common, but the town was less genteel than the postings on the social pages suggested. There was a seamier side of Cordova, that was for certain, though perhaps the citizens of the town didn't wish to be reminded of the fact.
“Finding everything you need, Miss Brody?”
Charlotte folded the last newspaper in the stack and rose from the long table in the back of the
Times
office. She smiled at Andrew Toliver, the
Times'
s editor, chief reporter, and printer. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the forearm, held by garters, so they wouldn't become inky when he set the press.
“I did, thank you. Let me help you return these to the archive shelves.” She followed the rotund man to the storage room, the tang of ink and paper dust tickling her nose. “I appreciate your letting me look at these. I hope I didn't interrupt your work.”
“Not at all. Always happy to help a fellow journalist,” he said, hanging the more recent editions on the six-foot-tall, triangular newspaper rack set against the wall. The dozen wooden poles that crossed the lengths of the frame supported the structure and allowed the papers to be hung without creasing. Toliver grinned at her, then cocked his head to the side. “You looking for something specific?”
When she'd entered the newspaper office three hours before, he'd been in a bit of a frazzle while setting the linotype. He'd accepted her explanation of needing information for her articles in
Modern Woman
with barely a word, then ushered her to the archive room. “Just getting a feel for the area,” she said. “Have you lived here long, Mr. Toliver?”
He scratched the back of his neck, mindless of the smudges of ink on his hands. “Ten years next spring. Moved here straight up from Seattle.”
Charlotte's hope that Toliver had been in Fairbanks at the same time as Kincaid and the women were on trial died with a quiet sigh. “So you didn't know the mayor or his wife before they came here.”
“No. The Kavanaghs didn't arrive until after the railroad had been finished for a couple of years. Lots of folks came into town about then, looking to make some money, to find a place in the world.” Toliver shrugged and grinned. “Cordova's not a bad place to settle down.”
“Michael seems to like it.” She suppressed the flare of residual anger in her gut. She and Michael would have to have a serious talk about boundaries if she decided to stay.
“He's a good man, your brother.” The newspaper man gave her a significant look. “Heard you helped him with the Dugan autopsy.”
Charlotte recognized his technique. He was fishing for information, but she wouldn't keep James's confidence if she shared what she knew. “I did, but I'm not at liberty to discuss the case, according to Deputy Eddington. I don't want to jeopardize the investigation.”
Toliver looked perturbed at first, then nodded curtly. “Understandable. Tell me, Miss Brody, do you need a job while you're here?”
Charlotte blinked at him. “You mean at the
Times
?”
“Sure, why not? I have a couple of boys who gather local tidbits and write copy, but we're growing by leaps and bounds. The
Cordova Times
could use a lady's touch. And I'm not getting any younger. I need someone who knows what they're doing when it gets busy.”
Her heart gave a small leap. With a regular job in town she could stay even longer if she chose. “I'd have to complete my commitment to
Modern Woman
.”
Toliver nodded. “Oh, sure, sure. We can talk later. I wouldn't refuse an insider piece on the Dugan murder, if you had a mind to write up a little something. Are you finished here, then?”
“I am.” She gathered her coat and hat from where she'd been sitting. “Thank you again, Mr. Toliver. I'll be in touch.”
She skirted the desk, glancing at the framed pages of the
Times
hanging on the walls that she'd read earlier, and hurried out the door. Her heart beat hard as she considered Toliver's offer. To be part of a newspaper, even in a town like this? It wasn't the
New York Times,
but it was something.
Charlotte bent her head against the wind and rain and made her way down the hill to Brigit's house. She passed Michael's office, but didn't feel ready to talk to him yet. Why was he being so overprotective? Even as kids, he'd been the one to encourage her to stand her ground and do for herself. Sure, he'd be there to back her up if things got out of hand, but otherwise he was more likely to push her into a fray to defend herself, rather than pull her away. What had changed?
Years of sorrow and secrets, she supposed with a sigh. All their closeness as kids couldn't overcome the distance of their personal lives as adults. Even when Michael had gone off to university, they'd kept in touch with weekly letters. She'd quit journalism school to start working at the
Yonkers Weekly,
and they'd still written regularly. The letters had become less frequent when he went to the army hospital and she became more involved in the suffrage movement. Their lives had become busy, as lives do. Then, of course, she'd met Richard and never seemed to have time for anything. She and Michael had lost their connection somewhere. She wanted to fix that, but not if Michael was going to be an ass about it.
Her rubber boots squished in the mud. She knocked as much muck off the soles as she could walking the stone path to Brigit's front door. Curtains were drawn on all the windows. Not a surprise, considering the hours the ladies kept. But it was noon, and Charlotte figured someone would be stirring.
Charlotte huddled beneath the overhang of the porch and knocked. The brass peep box set in the door remained closed. She knocked again. After a few moments, she heard noises. The inside peep-box door opened, but Charlotte couldn't see who was on the other side due to the grill and lighting. The small inner brass door slammed shut. More noise, like wood scraping on wood, she thought, and the door swung open.
Charlotte looked down at Charlie, Brigit's son.
“Yeah?” He eyed her with hostile suspicion, but his small stature, dark, unruly hair, and dusting of freckles made him less intimidating than intended.
“Is your moâIs Miss Brigit available, please?” Charlotte had an inkling that asking for Brigit by name and playing along with his role of gatekeeper for the house would get her further than asking for his mother.
His brown eyes glinted with a sense of importance, telling Charlotte she'd managed to get that one right, and he opened the door to admit her. A straight-backed wooden chair scraped across the floor, pushed aside by the door. That explained the noises she had heard and how Charlie used the peephole.
Charlotte stepped inside the tastefully decorated entry hall. Somewhere in her brain she'd expected gaudy, gilded hardware, or paintings and statues of nude women. Instead, she found a polished cherry-wood side table with a sleek black telephone and a small area rug covering the tiled floor. There was a damp wool and tobacco odor in the air. A door to the right was marked PRIVATE, but beyond an archway to the left was an equally demure parlor with several couches and a couple of gaming tables set for faro or poker.
“Wait here,” Charlie said. “I'll get her.”
He shoved the chair against the wall, then knocked on the P
RIVATE
door. A muffled response prompted him to enter. He closed the door behind himself, leaving Charlotte alone in the hall.
Upon closer inspection, the rug was a bit worn, and the striped paper above the wainscoting curled near the ceiling molding. Charlotte stood in the archway leading into the parlor. The carpet and furnishings were clean, the crystal chandelier polished. The scent of floral perfume was heavier here. To the right of the arch, a black upright piano sat against the half wall where a stairway led to the upper floor.
“Miss Brody,” Brigit said from behind her.
The madam wore her dark hair in a neatly pinned pile on her head. Her crisp white blouse, straight black skirt, and polished black boots were more in line with what a school teacher might wear, not the proprietress of a brothel. “Miss Brigit. I'm sorry to arrive uninvited.”
Brigit gave her a slight grin. “Our door is always open. I was just on my way to the bank, however, so if you could tell me what you need . . .”
Charlotte glanced at Charlie, who stood beside his mother with a similar expectant look upon his face. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
The grin faltered into a sigh of resignation. She knew Charlotte was there to discuss Darcy. “Charlie, go wake up Lizzie and Della. Tell them it's their turn to do the cooking. Mrs. Palmer won't be in until this afternoon.” Brigit focused her bright brown eyes on Charlotte. “Come with me.”
She spun on her heel and strode to the room across the entryway. Charlotte followed, trying to not let the woman's abrupt manner get the better of her. She knew Brigit would be difficult. The best way to counter that was to be equally calm and understanding.
A large walnut desk dominated Brigit's office. Behind it was a black leather chair, the only seat in the room other than a low divan in a corner. Artwork covered three walls; the fourth had tall windows dressed with lacy blue and white curtains.
Brigit gestured for her to have a seat on the divan. Charlotte unbuttoned her coat and removed her hat before sitting. Brigit's not offering to take them meant one thing: You aren't going to be here long.
“What can I do for you, Miss Brody?” Brigit crossed her arms beneath her breasts and sat on the edge of the massive desk.
“I'm looking for answers, Miss Brigit, much as you are, I assume.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “I'm waiting for someone to do his damn job and figure out who killed Darcy.”
“Yet you and your girls aren't fully cooperating with the marshal's office,” Charlotte said. She wanted to question the madam about the arguments with Darcy that Marie had mentioned, but that would put Brigit on the defensive. Better to avoid it for now. Charlotte was here for a different purpose. “If you could tell me who Darcy had been seeing most of lately, it would help.”
Brigit glared at her. “She was a whore. She saw a lot of men.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “I mean someone who, perhaps, has some standing in the community and whose reputation might be damaged by coming in here.”
Brigit stared at her for a moment, then started laughing. Not a mere chuckle, but a hearty laugh that shook her body. Charlotte felt an uncomfortable warmth rise on her cheeks. What was so funny? She just wanted to know about the men comingâ
Ah.
When she realized what she'd said, the heat on her cheeks intensified with embarrassment, but she also couldn't help smiling a little. Making Brigit laugh probably wasn't a bad thing. “That's not exactly what I meant.”
“I know.” Brigit wiped the corners of her eyes with the sides of her hands, attempting to control herself. “Which is why it was so funny. In my line of work, you deal with a lot of references to such things.”
“I can imagine,” Charlotte said. She let the madam regain her composure. “What I meant was, could someone who didn't want his visits here made public be responsible for Darcy's death? Was anyone like that one of her regulars?”
Brigit's demeanor changed in the blink of an eye from amused to wary. “There are a number of men who fall into that category, Miss Brody. Proper gentlemen who don't want their friends or wives knowing they frequent my establishment.”
“Please, call me Charlotte.” Anything to create a rapport with the woman would help.
“This isn't the only house in Cordova, but we have a reputation for good women, fair gaming, and discretion. A man walking through that door,” she said, nodding in the direction of the front of the house, “knows he'll get all three, no matter who he is. I wouldn't tell you the names of the poorest of cannery men or miners or the richest city councilmen who trust me and my girls.”
“Even if he killed one of your girls?”
Brigit pressed her lips into a thin line and frowned. Charlotte read the conflict in her eyes. Brigit wanted to know who killed Darcy, wanted to help, but she couldn't betray the trust of her customers either.