Murder on the Last Frontier by Cathy Pegau

finger in the pot of blush to brighten her cheeks. “How are things in the States?”
    Charlotte had seen the Cordova Daily Times for sale at the drugstore and the café, so the question was more polite than from a true need for news. “It’s getting back to a semblance of normal. The flu pandemic and the war certainly took their toll.”
    â€œIt was rough here too,” Mrs. Kavanagh said. “Entire villages were wiped out. We had our own losses, of course. Your brother and Dr. Hastings were practically run into the ground, especially after Dr. Garrett succumbed. But overall, we managed to pull through.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear that.” Michael had written about the long hours of tending patients and of a few losses that seemed to hit him particularly hard; he and Miles Garrett had been friends.
    Mrs. Kavanagh packed her purse and snapped it shut. “But let’s not speak of such things tonight. This is a party, after all.” She smiled as she stood. “Shall we return to the festivities, Miss Brody? I’m sure there are a good number of gentlemen awaiting their chance to dance with you.”
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    Mrs. Kavanagh introduced Charlotte to her husband, the Honorable Francis “Call me Frank” Kavanagh, who was standing with the Reverend Bartlett, another gentleman, and their wives. The mayor stuck his thick cigar into his mouth and took both Charlotte’s hands in his to shake them. The burnt-orange-scented cloud of smoke was more pleasant than most, but it still made Charlotte’s eyes water.
    Kavanagh was almost immediately drawn into an argument with Reverend Bartlett and the other man, a city council member, over land-sale laws. The mayor had left the council meeting early the night before, missing that point of contention. Kavanagh was attentive and good-natured, though the set of his jaw told her he was no pushover.
    Mrs. Kavanagh and Mrs. Bartlett made a grand effort to include Charlotte in their side conversation, but it was difficult to focus while surreptitiously searching for Deputy Eddington in the crowd. She needed to tell him what she’d heard in the alley.
    She saw Marshal Blaine dancing with a woman who might have been his wife. Despite the older man’s friendliness, she didn’t feel comfortable seeking him out. Granted, Eddington wasn’t particularly approachable, but he was leading the investigation into Darcy’s murder.
    The exchange in the alley played through Charlotte’s head again. Whatever she could add—if there was any significance to what she’d heard, and there was no assurance there was—would have to be relayed to him anyway. Better to speak directly to the deputy than to be brushed off by the marshal.
    â€œDon’t you agree, Miss Brody?” Mrs. Bartlett said.
    Charlotte jerked her head around to face the women she was supposed to be conversing with. Damn it all. What had they been talking about? She had no idea. “Um.”
    Mrs. Bartlett pressed her lips together, her brow wrinkled with agitation at Charlotte’s obvious slight.
    â€œAre you all right?” Tess Kavanagh asked with more concern than annoyance. “You seem a bit flushed.”
    Charlotte pulled her handkerchief from her purse and daubed at her throat. Maybe she could pass off the embarrassment as a dizzy spell or some other feminine malady. Her inner feminist cringed, but better that than insulting the women any more than she had. “I am feeling a little lightheaded. Will you excuse me, please?”
    Without waiting for a response, she walked away from the others. Instead of heading to the powder room, or to the main doors, Charlotte skirted the outer edge of the crowd. Surely she’d run into Deputy Eddington.
    There he was, speaking to a middle-aged couple. Now she just needed to get him alone.
    Just as she reached them, the music changed to a slower tune. Perfect. She loosely knotted her wrap