Murder on the Last Frontier (21 page)

“That would be great. Thank you so much.” Charlotte laid a hand on Brigit's arm and gave it a light squeeze.

Brigit looked down at where they touched. She covered Charlotte's hand with hers, her grin wide as she raised her head. Her gaze flicked away, then back to Charlotte. “I have to get on with my errands. I just wanted to see how you were doing. See you later.”

She made her way back toward Main Street, head high and back straight.

Charlotte watched until Brigit disappeared around the corner of the neighboring building. She could see them becoming friends, despite what societal boundaries might dictate. If they managed to get past the rough patch that was sure to come, Charlotte wouldn't give a fig what the rest of the townspeople thought. She liked Brigit and would cherish a friendship with her while she was in Cordova.

“Was that Brigit O'Brien?” Ruth asked. Her sudden appearance startled Charlotte. Ruth glared in the direction Brigit had gone, then her blue eyes zeroed in on Charlotte. “You shouldn't associate with her if at all possible, Charlotte. She's a wicked woman who perpetuates sin in our community.”

Charlotte suppressed a sigh. Ruth's vehemence wasn't a surprise; she'd shown plenty of distain for Darcy at lunch the other day. “Brigit was offering her condolences over the fire and some clothing to replace what I lost.”

“I'd go naked before accepting charity from the likes of that woman. I'm sure I have more appropriate clothing for you.”

Charlotte tried to maintain a congenial smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You were sounding quite chummy with her.” With her stern gaze, Ruth looked a lot like her mother. Poor Michael. “People will get the wrong idea if you're seen with her. They'll assume you approve of her ways.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I've told you, I have no problem with Brigit and her girls, as long as they aren't forced into doing anything they don't want to do.”

Ruth's eyes blazed. “I can't believe you support their fornication, their sinning. They exert their wicked temptations on God-fearing men and spread disease like rats.”

It probably wasn't the best time to remind Ruth that her fiancé was the one who kept the women healthy. Charlotte certainly wasn't going to bring up Michael's physical relationship with Darcy.

“Those filthy whores are a blight on our society,” Ruth continued. “They need to be removed from this town one way or another.”

“Does that include murdering them?”

The fire in Ruth's eyes didn't waver in the least. “They dance with the devil and get what they deserve. Every one of them. How could you defend them?”

“How could you condone killing a woman, no matter who she was?” Charlotte could understand Ruth's anger over Michael's affair with Darcy, but whatever happened to forgiveness? “She was a human being, Ruth. One of God's children, as your own father pointed out.”

“She was a whore and a sinner. She and her bastard will rot in hell.” Ruth spun on her heel and stomped back along the path around the opposite side of Sullivan's.

Charlotte stared after her for several moments, the woman's words echoing in her head. She'd heard plenty of rhetoric against sin in her time, but Ruth's rabid reaction to Darcy, Brigit, and the others seemed beyond the pale. Someone needed to stand up to the narrow-minded proselytizers of this town, to change views on the “lesser” women of Cordova. James would do his best to find Darcy's killer, but Charlotte would be the one to make the people care.

A steady rain began to fall. Charlotte cast a final glance at the ruins of her room, then went in search of Michael. She found him as he came out of McGruder's.

“Mrs. Sullivan seems to be holding her own,” he said, flipping his collar up and tugging his hat down. “I have another patient to check on. Are you heading to the house?”

“I was going to have a cup of coffee at the café to wake myself up,” she said. The early morning awakening was starting to catch up to her. “Then do some shopping here.”

Michael reached into his pocket. He sorted out some notes and coins, then handed them to her. “Have McGruder's boy deliver the order. I don't want you putting any more strain on that foot.”

Charlotte pocketed the money. “All right.”

He laid a hand on her arm and searched her face. “You okay? Are you in pain?”

He meant the injury to her foot, but that didn't feel too terrible.

“I'm fine. Just tired.” She attempted a smile. No reason to bother him about Ruth's latest rant.

He chucked her under the chin. “Take some aspirin and have a nap. I'll be out most of the afternoon. Lock the front door and put the ‘Out of Office' sign up. No one will bother you.”

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then headed to his next appointment.

Charlotte limped to the café. Inside, the air was heavily scented with coffee and bacon. Her stomach rumbled despite her not feeling hungry. She settled at a table where Henry took her order for coffee and a bacon and chicken sandwich.

Fatigue enveloped Charlotte. Once she ate, she hoped she'd have the energy to go to McGruder's. Her foot throbbed in time with a growing headache. Wonderful. Maybe shopping would have to wait. But she didn't want to walk back to Michael's then return to the store later. Might as well get the errand over with and get off her foot as soon as she could.

Henry delivered her food. The café wasn't crowded, and Charlotte appreciated the quiet while she ate. She was halfway through the sandwich when a flicker of shadow from the large window caught her attention. She looked up. Was that Michael staring in at her? He'd said he had appointments all afternoon, but maybe he needed to tell her something. Why didn't he just come inside?

She started toward the door. The figure outside dashed away.

Henry came up beside her, coffeepot in hand. “Was that Sam Bartlett again?”

“Sam? I thought it was my brother.”

Henry shook his head. “Nah, it was Sam. I've seen him doing that a couple times lately. Though I can understand why you'd think so. They look a lot alike. More coffee, Miss Brody?”

C
harlotte placed her order with Mrs. McGruder, was assured the delivery would arrive that afternoon, then limped back to Michael's. Keeping her footing on the slick road as the wind whipped up the street made her foot ache and sapped her energy. By the time she set out the sign and locked the door, her head pounded as well. Some aspirin powder and a nap would do the trick.

But despite bone-weary tiredness, when she lay down on the bed, she couldn't sleep. When she closed her eyes, images of the fire and her ravaged room played like a film. Sometimes the roar of flames or her own shouts for the others to get out filled her ears, or the phantom bite of smoke filled her nostrils. Forcing those thoughts out of her head only replaced them with bits and pieces of earlier conversations.

It's a miracle no one was badly hurt, or killed
.
She was a whore and a sinner. She and her bastard will rot in hell.

Charlotte's eyes flew open, and she sat up.
She and her bastard
. Ruth was referring to Darcy's baby. How had she known? Did Michael tell her? Ruth had likely been incensed enough about his relationship with Darcy. Revealing that the young prostitute was pregnant, possibly with his child, would have been foolish.

But how else could Ruth have found out? James certainly wouldn't have told her.

“It must have been Michael.” Charlotte shook her head, befuddled by her brother's interpretation of honesty.

Perhaps he wanted a clean conscience going into the marriage. Or maybe by admitting his sins, and the possible paternity of Darcy's child, he was giving Ruth the option to call off the wedding. Considering his feelings for Darcy might have been stronger than those he had for Ruth, that would have been a safe route to take in seeking to end their relationship. He'd suffer humiliation for cheating on her, and Ruth's reputation would remain intact.

Charlotte heard the outer door open. She scrubbed her hands over her face, ignored the not-quite-gone headache, and rose to meet Michael as he came in.

“Oh, I thought you'd be asleep. Did you get some rest?”

Charlotte crossed the room to the sink and filled a pot with water. “A little. Do you want some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” He set his black bag on the floor against the wall, and hung up his coat and hat. “How's the foot?”

She shrugged. “Hurts a bit, but not too bad.” Charlotte put the pot on the stove and added some coal to the firebox. “Michael, did you tell Ruth about Darcy's condition?”

He sat at the small table, pausing in the removal of a boot. “No, of course not. Why?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. It's something only you and I and Eddington know. Probably Blaine as well.” He dropped the second boot to the floor. “It's not public knowledge.”

Charlotte's stomach fluttered. “Ruth mentioned Darcy and her ba—her baby when I saw her this morning. Would she have spoken to Darcy at all?”

He scoffed. “No. Never.”

“Then how would she have known?”

They stared silently at each other for several moments. As far as they knew, Darcy hadn't told anyone she was pregnant. No one knew, except perhaps her killer, considering the focus of the girl's injuries. There was only one conclusion, if that was the case, and it dawned in Michael's eyes just as Charlotte was about to say it.

“No,” he said emphatically. “That's not possible. Ruth is a good person. She would never do anything so horrid.”

“You didn't see or hear her talking about Darcy this morning.” Charlotte couldn't believe she was considering the petite blonde as a suspect, but what else would explain her knowledge of the pregnancy? “She's disgusted by anything associated with Brigit or her girls and knew you were seeing Darcy.”

“And she was willing to ignore it until the wedding.” Michael's fists clenched in his lap. “Don't you think I know my fiancée well enough to determine if she's a killer?”

“Do you? People hide their true selves all the time, Michael.”

From little white lies and minor denials to acting like a completely different person, only the rare few showed who they really were to the outside world. There was always something people kept to themselves, for one reason or another. She and Michael had secrets. Richard had pretended to be something he wasn't for as long as it served his purposes.

Michael stood and closed the short distance between them. “No. It wasn't her.” His words were emphatic, but Charlotte saw the glimmer of doubt behind his need to believe Ruth would never do such a thing. “No,” he said again, and walked away from Charlotte.

Of course he didn't want to believe, but it made sense to Charlotte.

“What about the mayor?” he asked. He kept his back to her as he prepared cups for tea. “That makes as much sense as anything, and Kavanagh certainly had as much to lose as far as reputation and finances were concerned. Either he'd be revealed as a fraud and possibly a murderer or he could slowly be bled dry.”

She had to agree with him on that, especially since she'd been the one pointing to the mayor. But Ruth's words still niggled at her. “She knows more than she should.”

Michael spun around, his face red. “Maybe you heard her wrong, Charlotte. Maybe you dislike her so much you want to pin this on her, despite lacking proof.”

“I don't dislike her.” The lie came easily, but they usually did when Michael confronted her about her feelings. She had to start being more honest with him. “And I didn't mishear her. She said something about Darcy's bastard. That was the word she used.”

That made him hesitate for a moment, but then he shook his head, dismissing the notion again. “No. It's not enough to convince me the reverend's daughter is responsible for this.”

“Because being religious automatically clears you of wrongdoing?”

He slammed his teacup down, sloshing hot water on the stove. “Enough. I won't have you maligning my fiancée and her values. Find some solid proof before you accuse people of murder.”

He crossed to where he'd left his boots and yanked them on.

“Michael, wait.” She started toward him, but he cast such an angry, hurtful glare at her that it stopped Charlotte in her tracks.

He snatched his coat and hat off the pegs and slammed the door behind him. The outer door slammed as well, rattling the cabin.

Heart pounding, Charlotte took a moment to catch her breath and calm down. Her questions about Ruth had hit him harder than she'd expected, but she shouldn't have been surprised. She'd accused his fiancée of murder. How much more upsetting a topic could there be?

But she couldn't ignore the gut feeling that told her she was on the right track. As painful as it might be, she'd get the proof Michael and James would need.

Charlotte donned her boots, coat, and hat. After she secured a messenger, she'd talk to James. And be prepared for his wrath.

 

James glanced up from papers on his desk. He started to grin when their eyes met, but his features quickly changed into a look of suspicion. “What did you do?”

Charlotte crossed to the desk and sat. She didn't like the fact he could read her so easily. “Something happened this morning, and I decided to go with my gut.”

His frown deepened. “Without consulting me, like I asked you to.”

“Yes, but let me explain.” She told him about the conversation with Ruth. “I think she did it, James.”

He crossed his arms. “No proof other than that? I can barely justify questioning her over what she said, let alone arrest her.”

“I know there's no physical evidence.”

He opened a lower drawer in his desk and withdrew a large brown envelope. He unwound the string that secured the flap. “Just this, and there's no telling who they belong to or how long they were out there.”

James shook the contents onto his desk. A flattened shoe, a smaller envelope with something thick inside, and a wooden toggle button thudded on the surface. She opened the smaller envelope and shook out the cigar stub. It was damp, the paper band mostly torn. Was it the mayor's? She sniffed, but only smelled wet tobacco, not the burnt orange of Kavanagh's favorite brand.

She slid the cigar stub back into its envelope and laid the envelope beside the other items. So much for that idea.

“Sometimes a cigar's just a cigar, Charlotte.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “And sometimes it isn't.”

“It
could
be the mayor's,” he conceded, “but he's not the only one who smokes that brand. Nothing points anywhere near Ruth Bartlett either. No witnesses or suspicions other than yours.” James cocked his head. “What does Michael think?”

Charlotte rose and started pacing. “That I hate her and would do anything to damage her reputation.”

“Well, you certainly don't like her much.”

She spun to face him. “How would you know?”

“I've seen you together,” he said, “and when you talk about her, a wrinkle develops between your eyes. It's there now.”

Charlotte touched a finger to the spot over her nose. He was right. “But I wouldn't suspect her if I didn't have reason.”

“Like you have reason to suspect Mayor and Mrs. Kavanagh and Brigit O'Brien?”

“Their motivation is solid. You know that as well as I do.”

James stood and stepped in front of her. “It is solid, and with some more questioning it may even be provable. But other than the mayor's leaving the council meeting early, there is nothing to put him anywhere near Darcy that night.”

“No, a different man gave Charlie that note,” Charlotte said. “A man who looked like Michael.” She glanced down at the desk, and her gaze locked on the button. “Sam Bartlett's coat was missing a button the other night. And he's built a lot like Michael.”

James's eyes widened. “You don't honestly believe—”

“Sam Bartlett looks enough like Michael that Charlie must have thought about Michael when he was describing the person.” She watched James's expression change from shocked to thoughtful. Taking advantage, she pressed on with her theory. “What if Ruth was upset over Michael's relationship, and Sam used the note to lure Darcy out of Brigit's. Then Ruth killed her.”

James shook his head. “She's a slip of a thing. Not strong enough to do that sort of damage.”

“Maybe Sam did it. Or the two of them did it together.”

“Sam Bartlett won't even look a person in the eye. You think he had the wherewithal to kill a woman?”

She'd sat across from Sam for over an hour, and the boy had hardly made a sound. He ran from her greeting on the street. The only thing that came close to Sam Bartlett's being any sort of threat was when he'd been behind her that night as she approached his family's home.

He was shy and skittish, but that didn't eliminate him as a suspect or an accessory.

“I guess we'll find out soon enough,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I sent an anonymous note to Ruth telling her I knew what she'd done and was going to tell you if she didn't give me money to keep quiet.”

James's expression darkened. “I should arrest you right this second.”

She raised a hand as if that could stop him. “Hear me out. I told her to meet me at Nirvana Park tonight to discuss terms of payment. You go early and hide, then I'll get her to confess.”

“That's the dumbest plan I've ever heard. And too dangerous. No.”

Charlotte crossed her arms. Admittedly, it was pretty damn stupid, but what choice did they have? “Do you have a better way to get her to confess? We have nothing, James. I won't sleep until Darcy's killer is in jail, and I think you feel the same.”

He rubbed his temples, his face a mask of irritation. “You're gonna be the death of me. Or yourself. What time is the meeting?”

 

The somewhat remote Nirvana Park northeast of the town proper was the perfect location for private, late-night meetings to discuss blackmail and murder. With only the small beam of a flashlight to guide her over the rough dirt road paralleling the lake, and the darkness pressing in around her, Charlotte was beginning to agree with James: This was the dumbest idea in the history of dumb ideas.

Two things kept her moving forward. She was determined to see Darcy's killer receive justice, and she wanted to prove herself to James. The former was more important than the latter, of course, but a little self-satisfaction would be nice.

She just hoped she was right.

The lights of the railroad yard to the right peeked through the spruce trees and willow brush. The buildings were too distant to offer adequate illumination anyway, and the smattering of homes along the road petered out not far from where she'd turned off Main Street. Cloud cover had kept the full moon hidden for most of the night. Charlotte soon reached the wider part of the road that indicated the entrance to Nirvana Park, her light playing over the carved wooden sign above the path leading deeper into the woods.

Were there bears in the park? Maybe so, but Charlotte was likely in more danger if Ruth waited for her.

When Charlotte had visited earlier in the day to familiarize herself with the layout, the glass and metal trinkets suspended from tree limbs by ropes and wires and the poles carved with fanciful figures had given the park a whimsical air. It was a popular location to relax and enjoy the peaceful surroundings along the lake, she'd been told. But by night, the chimes sounded dissonant, and shadows made the faces in the wood seem ominous and leering.