Borrowing Death (25 page)

Meade stuck out his right hand. “Nice to meet you, little lady. Andrew Toliver speaks highly of you.”

Little lady? Gritting her teeth, Charlotte offered a firm grip to counter the barely there pressure many men provided when shaking hands with a woman. “He's often spoken of you too, Mr. Meade.”

Meade's dark eyes narrowed, then glinted with amusement when he realized she hadn't necessarily paid him a compliment. “Indeed. Please, join us for the ride back to town.” He opened the rear door. Director Stanley Welsh and the woman he'd escorted down the gangplank sat on the leather bench seat. “Stanley, Carmen, this is Miss Brody from the local paper. Miss Brody, Stanley and Carmen Welsh, and that's their daughter Cicely up front.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Charlotte said, shaking the hands of each of the elder Welshes and smiling at Cicely, who peered over the front seat.

Mr. Welsh slid closer to the opposite side of the car, pressing himself against the other door. Mrs. Welsh made room for her.

Charlotte climbed in beside the Welshes, notebook and pencil in hand. Once she was seated, Meade closed the door and returned to his place in front. It was close quarters in the car, considering all their bulky outerwear, but not uncomfortable. Still, Charlotte was glad it was a short ride into town.

“Let's go,” Meade said to the driver. He then turned to address the backseat. Poor Cicely Welsh. She was squashed to the driver's shoulder, angling her head to keep Meade from talking into her face. Meade seemed oblivious. “Toliver cabled me to say he was laid up with a broken foot, but that you'd be spot-on ideal for the job of writing up articles for the next couple weeks.”

Spot-on ideal? Charlotte was amused with Toliver's fib. He knew she wasn't exactly thrilled with the assignment. But knowing Meade's success was due in no small part to his ability to soft-soap folks to get what he wanted, maybe it wasn't Toliver's wording at all.

“I don't know about ideal, Mr. Meade,” she said. “I certainly enjoy going to the theater, but I'm not well-versed in the film business.”

Stanley Welsh smiled. “Probably all the better for us.”

Wincing suddenly, Welsh turned his head toward the window and coughed into a fold of his scarf.

“Are you okay, Papa?” Cicely asked, her brow drawn with concern. Welsh waved her off, the coughing less intense. Cicely frowned, keeping an eye on her father.

“Film is a marvelous world,” Meade said as Welsh recovered from his bout. “Full of so much potential and growing every day. Why, I expect moving pictures will smother live theater in a few short years—”

“That would be a sad day,” Carmen Welsh interjected. “There should be both.”

Silently agreeing, Charlotte jotted down their exchange in short-hand, willing to let the conversation play out rather than interfere with questions for the moment.

“I should say so, my dear.” Stanley Welsh patted his wife's arm. Charlotte couldn't tell if it was in true support or as pacification in front of a stranger. And a reporter, to boot. “What I think Wallace means is that as wonderful as live shows are, the ability to distribute film around the world will enable scores more to enjoy a story. Get the media to the masses.”

“Exactly,” Meade said. “Especially up here. It's cheaper to send reels of film than casts and crews for live shows. And by the same token, why shouldn't the natural beauty of Alaska be shared around the world?” He twisted further in his seat to better focus on Charlotte. “That's why I traveled from studio to studio, director to director, looking for someone who'd appreciate the natural wonder of the territory.”

“And that's when you found Mr. Welsh?” Charlotte asked.

“Indeed.” Meade beamed at the director. “Stanley talked to Roslyn about coming in, since she'd such a crowd pleaser, and Cicely here wrote a bang-up scenario.”

Charlotte had read the credits titles on some films, happily noting how many women were involved in productions. “
North to Fortune
is your story, Miss Welsh? How wonderful. Have you written many?”

Cicely's cheeks pinked. “A few. Roslyn is under contract with the studio, but she's popular enough now to choose her films. I've written three other scenarios at her insistence. We work well together.”

“Roslyn has the heart of the audiences and the ear of the studio head,” Stanley said, chuckling. “If she requests a certain director or writer, then it will be done if it means getting her to agree to do a picture. Not to mention Cicely is quite talented.”

“I'm pleased to see women with so much say in the industry,” Charlotte said. “Have any of you been to Alaska before—besides Mr. Meade, I mean?”

“No, none of us have.” Cicely gazed out the windscreen. “It's as beautiful as Mr. Meade said. I read up as best I could while writing the story and figured we could change things as needed to remain accurate. Right, Papa?”

“Of course, of course.” Stanley waved a hand in dismissal, perhaps, as if they'd had that discussion in the past. “But we also want an exciting story that grabs the audience.” He clenched a fist and raised it in enthusiasm. “Action! Adventure! Heroic deeds! That's what sells.”

Carmen covered her husband's fist and lowered it. “Don't get overexcited dear. Along with that, we want characters that people can rally behind and believable plots.”

Stanley pecked his wife on the cheek. “That as well.”

“You see, Miss Brody,” Meade said, “there's a lot involved with making a film on location. The production company was initially reluctant to help fund the trip, but Stanley and I convinced them authenticity was key.”

“Absolutely,” Charlotte said.

“We want this film to be made with the full support of the town,” Meade continued. “Can we count on you to help with that?”

Charlotte made a gesture in the direction of the dock behind them. “You saw the crowd, Mr. Meade. I'm quite sure you have it already.”

Meade grinned. “Yes, and it was a glorious reception. But the entire town won't be out with us when we do location shots. At least I hope not.” He chuckled at his own words. “Which means, anything reported back to them, and subsequently picked up by other papers in the States, can potentially influence the success of this film or future projects brought up here.”

Ah, so that was it. Meade wanted to make sure the
Times
painted things in a positive light. Charlotte couldn't blame him, of course, but she wasn't his publicist, she was a journalist.

“Do you anticipate any problems?” she asked.

“There's always some sort of difficulty or another on a film,” Meade said.

“I'm not quite sure I understand what you're getting at, Mr. Meade. Do you mean the man who shouted about fixing the story?”

Meade and Welsh exchanged looks that Charlotte could only interpret as a brief, silent argument. Carmen quirked a slender eyebrow at her husband, and Cicely seemed as confused as Charlotte. Finally, Welsh appeared to give up, shaking his head and glancing out the window.

Meade focused on Charlotte over the seat. “A month or so ago, just after we announced our intent to come up here and revealed the basic plot of
North to Fortune,
I received a letter.”

Charlotte's curiosity stirred. “What sort of letter?”

“Someone had revealed the details of the film and it found the ear of some lawyer in Juneau. There seem to be concerns that the portrayal of Natives may be undignified,” Meade said.

Cicely's mouth dropped open. “Mr. Meade, you never mentioned that to me. As the scenarist, I want to make sure—”

“We took care of it, Cicely,” Stanley Welsh said, his voice hard. “I told Wallace not to bother you with it.”

“Not to bother me?” Cicely turned around as best she could without impeding the driver. Her face was red with anger. “If my story isn't accurate or someone finds it insulting, I need to know.”

“It was just some blowhard.” Welsh gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Everyone gets these sorts of letters. If we abided by every fool who got their feelings hurt, we'd never get a film made. Don't put that in your article, if you please, Miss Brody.”

Charlotte had stopped taking notes, but she certainly took note of Welsh's attitude. “Who wrote the letter?”

Everyone but the driver looked to Wallace Meade. Did they not realize the man behind the wheel had ears and a mouth? Or was he being paid enough to keep mum?

“It was signed by the president of the Alaska Eyak Council, Jonas Smith, and a lawyer out of Juneau, Caleb Burrows,” Meade said. “I know the men by reputation only, and they're no fools, Welsh, I told you that. Wrote back to assure them the film would be truthful.”

Charlotte recognized Smith's name and the AEC, a small but growing group of Natives who were pushing for fair treatment and rights on their own lands. Though the majority of white Cordovans seemed get along with their Native neighbors, there were still tensions, especially in regard to land-ownership policies that had been handed down from the territorial or federal governments. The Eyak had been in the area for generations, but the overwhelming arrival of Caucasians had caused more than a few problems over the years.

Charlotte had overheard the occasional, all-too-casual remarks. She'd learned about a few past incidents, through conversations with Andrew Toliver and her brother Michael's new assistant, Mary, that had been physical, if not fatal.

“Considering how Native Americans in the States are treated in film,” Charlotte said, “you really can't blame the AEC for their concern.”

Stanley Welsh frowned at her. “We know the Alaskan Indians are nothing like that.
North to Fortune
will depict them as the simple, peaceful people they are. And everyone will admire how they survive in such hostile conditions with such primitive tools and ways. Why, in the scene where the Native saves Peter's character, the noble savage becomes the hero. For a short time, at least. And Peter teaches him to be civilized in return.”

Charlotte wasn't intimately familiar with the Native culture, but she cringed inwardly at the idea of a white man “rewarding” a Native Alaskan by teaching him to be civilized. “Mr. Welsh—”

“The Alaska people are far from primitive, Papa,” Cicely cut in. The frown lines between her eyes deepened. “I read up on a noted anthropologist's works and put it in the scenario. What scene are you talking about? I never wrote anything like that.”

Again, Welsh offered a dismissive wave. “I thought the story needed a little more action. We'll talk about it later. I believe we're at the hotel. More fans—oh.”

Charlotte peered out the window as the car rolled to a stop in front of the Windsor, Cordova's most prestigious hotel. A group of a dozen or so people bundled against the cold stood on the wooden walk. Several held signs that read, “Unfair to Natives,” and “We Are a People, Not a Plot.”

Meade glared out the driver's window. “Damnation.”