by Kieran York
Timber City Masks
A Royce Madison Mystery
Kieran York
Scarlet Clover Publishers
Littleton
Copyright © 1993, 2014 Kieran York
First Edition, April 1993 – Third Side Press
Second Edition, Published November 2014 – Scarlet Clover Publishers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher. This includes electronic or mechanical recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, except for the quotations or brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews, without prior permission from Scarlet Clover Publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, locales and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Art, Design, and Technical Director - Beth Mitchum
Photography by Kieran York
Published by Scarlet Clover Publishers
www.kieranyork.com and www.scarletcloverpublishers.com
P.O. Box 621002, Littleton, Colorado 80162
Printed and bound in the United States of America, UK, and Europe
ISBN-13: 978-0692327586
ISBN-10: 0692327584
Timber City Masks
A Royce Madison Mystery
Kieran York
Books also written by Kieran York:
Night Without Time
Earthen Trinkets
Careful Flowers
Appointment with a Smile
Crystal Mountain Veils (A Royce Madison Mystery)
Sugar With Spice (Short Fiction)
Blushing Aspen (poetry)
Touring Kelly’s Poem (forthcoming)
DEDICATION:
I’d like to dedicate this book to my friends.
Thankfully there are too many to name.
I’m so very blessed!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
As always, I thank Beth Mitchum, Shawn Marie Bryan, and Rogena Mitchell-Jones for their expertise, support, encouragement, and kindness as I enter the publishing world. Beth is the Goddess/Shepherdess of Scarlet Clover Publishers. She is the Creative Director and Technical Director – and my friend.
The first edition of this book was published by Third Side Press, Inc. I thank Midge Stocker and everyone who helped publish the first edition of Timber City Masks. Midge was magnificent to work with, and has my undying appreciation.
Chapter 1
Spring, mid-1990s
News of the Timber Gulch murder hadn’t reached Royce Madison. The off-duty deputy sheriff of Timber City, Colorado, was in the epicenter of her own emergency. Rolling to a careful stop, Royce’s navy-colored Chevy Blazer was in a no-parking zone. Royce knew that the zone had been designed specifically for emergencies like this. Placing an ‘emergency only’ sign in front of the High Country Animal Clinic would have opened it up for anyone needing a pack of cigarettes. Royce wished that was all she needed as she slid her keys into the protection of her pocket.
She rushed to the passenger’s side, and her thin arms wound securely around the shivering miniature schnauzer. Within the wrap of a quilted blanket, her five-month old pup whimpered. Smoky’s feeble whines stabbed Royce. She was not used to feeling out of control – with the exception of being helplessly and hopelessly in love with an elusive woman named Valeria Driscol.
Royce heard the familiar groan of the sidewalk’s damp planks beneath her mule skin Western boots. When the cluster of brass bells over the door jingled, Royce recalled that Doc Lawlor had retired two weeks ago. That event had captured the headlines of the Timber City Times. Royce had figured that Doc would always be there. She didn’t like the idea of entrusting Smoky’s life to a new vet. Placing the pup onto the knotty pine counter, she inhaled the pungency of disinfectant. The pup was struggling to move her limp body against Royce. With a press of her cheek against Smoky’s head, Royce whispered, “Hang on, Smoky girl. I’m right here.”
A vulnerable pleading shone from Royce’s sapphire eyes. She wished they were covered by her uniform dark glasses. Those sunglasses camouflaged her anger, her frustration, her sympathy, and her sense of humor from those she would ticket, warn, arrest, or assist. On duty during the daylight, she would take them off only long enough to rub the thin bridge of her nose, returning them quickly to her slender, square face. Being a woman deputy was difficult enough; she didn’t need the additional disadvantage of having her expressive eyes read by villains.
Her pouty lips and softly cleft chin never betrayed her emotions. But when her smile curved, her cheeks went to dimples. Her corn silk-hued hair was short and seemed tailored for the Western deputy hat. Her easy-going stride balanced proudly lifting shoulders. Royce felt completely at home in her buckskin-tan colored uniform. Now, however, her slim, tall, and wiry build was at home in a Western-fitted shirt, button fly Levis, and boots. Yet she felt very susceptible to fate.
Glancing up, Royce saw the woman who reached across the counter to touch Smoky. She quickly introduced herself as Hertha White. When the young veterinarian’s eyes locked with Royce’s, there was an immediate bond of trust. Royce uttered, “Poison. Rat poison.”
“Rodenticide. You’re certain?” the attractive woman in her mid-twenties inquired.
“Smoky was dragging the container when Gran, my grandmother, found her. I was on duty last night, so I was sleeping.”
“She’s not convulsing yet.” There was an optimistic lilt to Hertha’s voice. “Your grandmother just now found her?”
“Yes. We live in a cabin about a mile out of Timber City. So it’s only been ten minutes.” Royce watched as Hertha’s hands gently circled Smoky’s ribcage. Royce recognized the tenderness.
Hertha’s thickly-lashed ebony eyes reflected concern. Sable hair, neatly side parted, was bound back at the nape of her neck. Royce noticed that Hertha’s coppery high cheekbones were the trusses of her somber face. It was a genuinely honest face. Hertha bit the corner of her burgundy lips. Royce figured that Hertha was only about two inches shy of her own five-nine height. It was difficult to tell, Royce computed. For Hertha was slightly heavier and more shapely, and there were no heels on the leg moccasins she wore.
“I wish I had the wrapper. The rat poison,” Hertha spoke. “She’s salivating.” Lifting Smoky’s upper lip, Hertha examined the gum. “Bluish mucus membrane. I’m going to dilute the poison with an IV fluid – then hook her up to some oxygen to assist her respiration.”
“The wrapper. I have the container in a sack outside.”
“It could help if you’d bring it in.”
Royce already knew that sympathetic partial smile by heart. She also knew that this new vet wouldn’t be helped much by inspecting the torn, accordion-pleated box of poison. It was a ploy to reactivate Royce’s mind. Just as Royce comforted accident victims by having them focus on unrelated dialogue until the ambulance arrived, Hertha was sending Royce on an errand to keep her busy.
When Royce reached the Blazer, she understood that it was an automatic response to bring along the one bit of evidence. She opened the sack and examined its contents. There was no price tag to trace the poison. Her mind slid the information into a slot. Smoky had not wandered far from the cabin. Her grandmother’s cabin was located in the center of a twenty-five acre tract. That meant someone had brought the poison onto the property.
Royce leaned back against the fender for a moment. Anger lurched. Her sweet, trusting little dog had harmed no one. Smoky was a gift from Valeria Driscoll. Royce had mentioned that she grew up without pets.
Valeria had cared enough about Royce to recall that. She’d remembered that Royce had been raised in an upper floor home above her mother’s bakery. Moll
y Madison would allow no pets with the bakery in such close proximity. “Molly’s Pantry” was Molly’s business and her domain.
So Royce had grown up without pets. And Valeria had displayed her love. Everyone who knew about their relationship questioned Valeria’s love, her ability to love. Everyone except Royce. Smoky was part of that love made visible. Valeria knew that Royce was living with her grandmother now. Gran, Dora Madison, was an animal lover. She always had at least one stray cat homing at her cabin. The latest was a decade-old, silver-striped tabby named Elsa. Elsa had been curled up along Royce as she slept and had not shared in the deadly find of poison.
While Hertha’s dark eyes scanned the label, Royce whispered into Smoky’s ear. “Hang in there, girl. Please.”
Hertha leaned down to listen to the dog’s panting. Her crescentic silver earrings dangled against Smoky’s coat. She noticed the tears forming in the deputy’s eyes. “We have time on our side,” she reinforced the positive. “And Smoky seems to be a fighter.”
“Yes,” Royce confirmed. “She’s special. I suppose everyone feels that way about their pet.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone. But here in Timber City, it seems most people do care about animals.”
“Why did you come to Timber City? I mean, it’s pretty cloistered. They call it a sleepy mountain town.”
“Probably the same reason you stayed here.”
“It’s my hometown. After college and three years with the Denver Police Department, I longed to get back to my people. And three years ago, I did. I guess the embrace of the mountains is my reason. It’s my territory.”
“Mine, too,” Hertha replied. She lifted Smoky in her arms and turned. “Why don’t you check back in an hour? There’s nothing you can do here.”
“Be near her.”
“I’ll be getting an IV drip hooked up.”
Royce nodded, and then exited onto the sidewalk. She heard Smoky’s soulful whine. Blinking away tears, Royce viewed the panorama of Timber City, Colorado.
A rustic music box-like village of a town, Timber City housed twenty-five hundred citizens. The county tallied another couple thousand in a string of constellation towns.
Timber City was the hub of those towns, and the seat of Timber County. Even when the émigrés from England chased their rich lodes of gold ore, Timber City was the base town. Cornwall miners followed the gold rush to this bustling mining camp, and Timber City became a boom town.
Parlor houses, saloons, dancehalls, blacksmiths, and livery stables were among the first businesses. General stores were dressed up with Victorian facades. Hewn log cabins with stone chimneys became elegant homes. Creeping up the mountain’s shoulder, houses with peaked roofs and jeweled stained-glass windows, became a quaint city.
Now, Royce considered, it was a tourist town as well. On their way through to ski, or witness the changing of the aspen, people would stop. Timber City entertained them with gingerbread houses and pierced aprons of wooden lacework hung from gabled roofs. Homes were surrounded by decorative wrought-iron fences. Sentries, those fences were. And doors were locked with embossed brass door knobs.
Those doors were always open for neighbors, Royce mused wistfully. But strangers were another thing in Timber City, she thought as she strode to the Timber City Times office.
***
The Timber City Times office had always been a second home to Royce. The small weekly newspaper and print shop was located directly across the street from her mother’s bakery. The Times was owned and operated by Gwendolen Joyce Ives and her lover, Nadine Atwell.
Gwen and Royce’s mother had been best friends through school, and their friendship proved unflappable. Twenty-three years before, Gwen had proclaimed to Molly that she was lesbian, and had found her soul mate. Molly hadn’t flinched when she hugged Nadine and welcomed her into the family.
The two women became Royce’s honorary aunts. Gwen was an aunt capable of explaining the mythology of the Old West. Royce had been named after her. And also Royce’s father. It was a combination of Gwen’s middle name, and Royce’s father’s middle name, Roy.
Shortly after Royce graduated from college, she announced to Gwen that in addition to being Gwen’s namesake, she was also a Sapphic sister. Royce had found that her heart was at home with women. Gwen understood the belonging.
They understood one another’s happiness and sorrow. For now, it was the sorrow of a downed pet. Gwen groaned, “Not little Smoky!”
Royce studied her friend as Gwen removed her eyeglasses and rubbed her bronze eyes. Gwen then ruffled her neatly clipped salt and pepper hair. “Why little Smoky? Hell’s bells,” she cursed at the antique Linotype machine. She pivoted her slender body around toward Royce. I don’t understand how anyone could harm an animal.”
“One encouragement. The new vet seems to know what she’s doing,” Royce offered.
Royce glanced around at the rows of metal type. As a child she had been fascinated by the lead foundry fumes that rose from the molten metal. She could recall playing with the Linotype keyboard when she was small. Thankfully, the machines and presses had been preserved, and were now not only being used, but also were historic remembrances of the past. Royce had stacked photo engraved plates, lead slugs, and foundry type as she built a world of Western forts.
Her small-child wonder would watch in awe as sheets of newsprint flowed through the blanket cylinder. For as long as Royce could remember, she had felt a secure wrap in the Times office. From running errands in her childhood, to working in the pressroom in her teen years, Royce had been at home there.
“Smoky is tough. She’ll pull out of it. She’s a pit bull impersonator,” Gwen consoled. Her low forehead cuffed into a frown. “You haven’t had any unsatisfied customers lately, have you?”
“Not that I can recall. And before I left, Hertha said to tell you that it may be the second poisoning. Last week they brought the Laird’s old dog in. Wolfe had the same symptoms. Between age, and the fact that Wolfe was a scavenger, Hertha didn’t question it.” Royce inhaled deeply. “Wolfe died, but Hertha said he wasn’t found until it was too late.”
“It sounds as if there could be someone out there poisoning animals. How about Elsa?”
“Gran’s cat was sleeping in with me this morning. Gran did say she’s keeping an eye on her now though.”
Gwen gave her Irish setter a side-glance. “I’d better watch my herd, too.” Cinnamon was a seven-year old mahogany setter. With her long sprays of feathering, sinewy forelegs, and tail that tapered to a fine point, Cinnamon was a favorite with the townsfolk. Gwen also checked the corner ledge where her buff-colored Persian mix was stationed. Ginger’s kiwi green eyes beamed from her round face. Ruff hung like fringe between her front legs. She was safe, as was Gwen’s old male Siamese, Moz. Moz rarely left his post, which was beside Nadine in the front office.
“That’s one of the great Timber City commonalities,” Gwen divulged as she lifted the wall phone. “Our pets. Most of us have them. And until now, I figured all of us love them.” She dialed Nadine and told her to hold a space on the front page. It would be a boxed, bold-type story of the pet poisonings. It would warn pet owners. After hanging up, Gwen inquired, “Royce, have you told Molly about it yet?”
“I thought I’d go over after I alerted you. Didn’t want to miss deadline on a story like this.”
“You know I don’t want to interfere, but your mother worries about you. Hell, we all know you moved out there with your grandmother because you and Molly don’t see eye to eye.”
“Gran needs a helping hand out there. I don’t like her being so remote. I enjoy living at the cabin.” Royce realized that Gwen wanted to intercede in the feud between mother and daughter. As always, Gwen wanted to be Molly’s panoply. The silence prompted Royce’s truth. “I’m almost twenty-eight years old, and my mother doesn’t want me to be in law enforcement. I’m too old to allow my mother to dictate my career.”
“There’s more to it than that. Eve
n when you were in school, you wanted to work over here instead of at Molly’s Pantry.”
“Gwen, maybe the relationship has always been strained,” Royce confessed.
“More strained since your dad’s death.”
Royce stood. Royce had always refused to discuss her father’s murder. Although it had been nearly a decade since Sheriff Grady Roy Madison had been gunned down by an unknown assailant, Royce still could not talk about her pain. She tried to forget what Timber City would never forget. The slaying of the lanky, affable sheriff was a watermark of infamy. For Royce, it was the turning point. She had become determined to make law enforcement her career. The murderer of Grady Madison had never been brought to justice.
Royce was glad when the phone rang. She began exiting between a row of printer’s benches. Gwen’s rushing words called her back. “It’s for you. Dispatch. An emergency.”
Carefully Royce listened to what would have been Amy’s usual monotone. The dispatcher’s voice now cracked with exigency. “Royce, Trish Chandler-Sumner has been murdered. The sheriff’s sister-in-law. Out at the Timber Gulch exit. Her body was found behind the parking area.”
Royce was aware that the killing of Trish was far more personal to her than the fact that she was Sheriff Yancy Sumner’s relative by marriage. Trish was also Valeria Driscoll’s close friend, and Royce would need to break the news to Valeria.
Royce tried to swallow away the soul noise. Then she muttered, “Come on, Gwen. Let’s roll.”
***
“I have no idea how to tell Valera about Trish,” Royce said to Gwen as they climbed into Royce’s S-10 Blazer. Royce attached the flashing bubble emergency light onto the roof and then hit the siren. “First Smoky. And now this.”