Free Murder on the Last Frontier by Cathy Pegau Page B

completely understandable.”
    Charlotte walked the three blocks to Sullivan’s without speaking to anyone. Folks went about their business, allowing her to hurry past as if invisible. That suited her just fine. There was no way anyone in Cordova knew what she’d been through. Not today, not last year. But Charlotte couldn’t help feeling that, if she made eye contact with any of the shopkeepers sweeping mud from the walkway or patrons carrying their purchases, they’d know everything, as if she wore a sandwich board outlining the grim details.
    She pushed open the door to the rooming house, grateful for the next several hours during which she could write up the day’s events and get ready for the gala. Her words might never see the pages of Modern Woman, but perhaps if she made them just words on paper, it would help reduce their visceral kick.
    Charlotte unlocked the door to her room and got to work.
    Â 
    Mrs. Sullivan offered to press the burgundy gown while Charlotte bathed. One of the Sullivan boys—who was older than Charlotte by a good fifteen years and sported a fresh black eye—hauled in the heated buckets of water to fill the claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Though she’d just had a bath the day before, this one felt particularly cleansing.
    After she donned the gown and slipped on her shoes, Charlotte stopped at Mrs. Sullivan’s door for a final inspection.
    The older woman smiled, her blue eyes damp from emotion. She grasped Charlotte’s hands in hers. Strong hands that had been through so much. “You look lovely, dear.”
    Charlotte knew Mrs. Sullivan was seeing her daughter yet again. She smiled and squeezed the older woman’s fingers. “Thank you. I promise not to disturb you when I return.”
    Mrs. Sullivan patted her arm. “If it’s not too late, dear, stop in for a sherry and you can tell me all about it.”
    Adjusting the embroidered silk wrap around her bare shoulders, Charlotte waved good-bye as she stepped outside. The sleeveless gown with the deep neckline was more revealing than her typical garments. It had been a less than practical selection while she packed necessities, but now she was glad she’d thrown it into the trunk. As she walked toward the four-story hotel—the tallest building in Cordova—Charlotte wondered what her future sister-in-law might think of the dress. Ruth didn’t strike her as the type to share Charlotte’s fashion choices. Or many other choices, to be honest.
    Whatever had drawn Michael to her?
    The late afternoon sun had allowed the wood walkways and road to dry, somewhat, assuring there would be little mud caked on her shoes as she arrived at the Windsor. The hotel’s vertical sign, brilliantly painted with red letters trimmed in gold, dominated Second Street. The double doors had been propped open.
    Charlotte followed the well-dressed couples into the lobby. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, giving a warm glow to the hardwood floor. A curving staircase carpeted in a deep green led to the upper floors. Behind the long registration desk, a middle-aged man stood with a tight smile on his face.
    Fifty or so men and women chatted in small groups, while waiters in starched uniforms served what had to be mock-alcoholic cocktails in tall glasses, Alaska’s dry law having gone into effect earlier that year. Folks managed to skirt the law, like Mrs. Sullivan with her after-dinner sherry, as long as they kept consumption limited to private settings. Public venues were a different story.
    The tableau could have been set in New York or Philadelphia, except for the men wearing knee-high leather boots, canvas trousers, and the occasional gun. Not the sort of accessory one found displayed in polite society. The dichotomy of civilization and the Last Frontier, all in one room.
    Most people had clearly already veered off toward the coat-check room, just beyond the front desk, but Charlotte