Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  The Blazer’s engine growled huskily as they left the outskirts of Timber City. Royce scanned the rearview mirror. Passing the cemetery, she could see the grave markers that seemed to grow in number each year.

  Royce took the back road up to Timber Gulch. Jagged pines edged the bald, snow-encrusted timberline. Above were curling flocks of clouds. Beyond the gulch about ten miles was the Crystal Basin Ski Resort. Midway between the resort and Timber City was Crystal Village Condominium Community. Valeria’s luxury condo was located there. Royce had been spending much of her free time with Valeria. As much as Valeria would allow.

  The gigantic Chandler spread was on the opposite side of Timber City. It was down the pass and nestled in a lovely meadowland. Trish Chandler-Sumner and her husband, Luther Sumner, lived on the complex in an elegant modern ranch house. It was on the ranch where Valeria and Trish road their prize-winning Arabian horses.

  Royce had often explored the perimeter of the Chandler spread. As a child, she had trekked throughout the county. From adventurous rafting journeys to trips into vacant gold mineshafts, Royce knew the mountain county by rote. Although her parents had cautioned her against entering barren, exhausted mineshafts, Royce did what other youthful explorers before her had done. She investigated the emptied, boarded mines with great precision.

  Engrossed in daydreams, she had sought the secrets of those earth shells. Legendary miners’ spirits remained. Faint echoes of a remote past allowed her imagination to see the bent and weary miners who poked earth in search of gold ore. She could sense the excitement when mine cars, brimming with crushed granite and gold, would exit the shaft. The gurgle of the streams and the broken sluice boxes at their sides added to the mystique. Her great-grandfather had probed the veins of gold.

  Royce swallowed, realizing that she was considering her childhood as an escape from the reality of what she was about to see. There was the need to be elsewhere when that haunting, empty time beckoned. Ideas churned through her mind as slippery, elusive thought-ghosts.

  “You’ll think of the words to tell Valeria,” Gwen murmured. “That’s your blemish.”

  “Blemish?” Royce repeated.

  “Valeria. You’re under her spell. You’re obsessive about the beautiful schoolteacher.” When Gwen’s comments met with silence, her tone intensified. “You know what I’m talking about. Not that she isn’t a stunner. Men and women alike go gaga over Valeria Driscoll.”

  “I didn’t go on a floozy membership drive.” Royce’s speech was clipped, but her stare at the road was steady. “I just fell in love. I love her, not just her looks.”

  “Okay. So I’m butting in again. She’s your little bit of comfort. Her personality could use an overhaul, but hell, most people think I’m abrasive.”

  Mumbling, Royce defended, “People don’t know her. I do.”

  “Did Trish really know her?”

  “They’ve been friends since they were sorority sisters in college, so they’ve known each other for fifteen years. Trish is the reason Valeria moved here.” Trish had enticed Valeria to Timber County. Two years ago there had been a job opening at Timber City’s elementary school, and Trish had invited Valeria to the area. Their interests were similar and had formed a bond early on. In addition to horseback riding, there was skiing and chic parties in Aspen, Vail, and Crystal Basin.

  “Just friends?”

  “Of course. Trish married Luther.”

  “That’s no match made in heaven. Royce, I’m not saying that Trish and Valeria were lovers. Just that they often acted like it. Trish’s wealth impressed Valeria. Opened doors. Valeria could never have afforded the parties, skiing trips, and vacations.”

  As her Blazer pulled into the off-road parking area, Royce spied the familiar yellow band of tape that cordoned off a crime scene. Royce exited. Her memory sketched thoughts of other murders. “In Denver they call the place where a body is found the dump site. Like we’re all just waiting our turn. The great queue simply awaits the time when our bodies will be tossed into the rear of a trash compactor. A disposal unit. Hauled away to the great unknown. Dump site.”

  “Royce, you’re pale as paper. Are you going to be okay with this?”

  “Yes. And maybe you’re right about my desire for Valeria being an obsession. All I know is that this is going to hurt her - so it hurts me.”

  Royce’s professional stride was not hesitant. She ducked under the plastic band. Grizzly murder and accident scenes were the downside of her job. But this was someone she knew. Royce knew she needed to be courageous. She needed to quiet the heart of thunder.

  She wanted Smoky to pull through, and this to be some cruel joke. As she approached Trish Chandler-Sumner’s sprawling body, she conceded that it was not a joke. Forcing her eyes to lower, her skin felt the sting of an electrical shock.

  ***

  Sheriff Yancy Sumner appeared haggard. His robust barrel chest sagged. He had been on duty when the call came. His shift was nearly always seven in the morning until three in the afternoon. The duty roster rotated evening shift, graveyard, and vacations between Royce, Deputy Nick Hogan, a few other part time deputies, and a group of volunteer deputies.

  “Yanc, want me to take over?” Royce asked. Yancy glanced at Royce in surprise. “Amy found me. I’m sorry about Trish,” Royce offered her condolences.

  Rapidly rolling up his sleeves, Yancy drawled, “Naw. Thanks anyway.” He tipped his Stetson back and his reddish-blond hair strung across his temples at a receding hairline. His penetrating olive eyes blinked with emotion. “Crazy goddamn nightmare.” His huge hands lifted and raked through his closely-cropped beard. His light brows dipped. With a pronounced nose, his face was ruddier than usual. “He strangled her and then threw her body there off the trail,” Yancy disclosed.

  Royce surveyed the murder scene. “The killer was smart enough to keep on the trail and then place the body on a marshy pine needle mat. You said ‘he’ threw her body. Got a suspect?”

  “Yeah. We got us one. Got us a suspect. Got us a witness, too. See that kid over leanin’ against my vehicle? Kid’s a drifter named Dave Osborn. Nicky checked him out and he’s clean, except for a couple of vagrancy charges. This Osborn kid seen the Indian who plays guitar at the Bell Ringer. Ray somebody-or-other.”

  “Ray Teirra-Blanca,” Royce offered. “What was Ray doing out here this morning?”

  “Killing, I ‘spect. But that’s exactly what I’m aimin’ to find out. Osborn asked him directions and the Indian explained about the shortcut back to town. He’d been comin’ from the path where Trish was killed.” Yancy sucked in and his massive chest expanded. “Nicky’ll bring Ray in for questioning, and I’ll break him. When I do, I’m gonna be first in line to kick some Indian ass.”

  Royce flinched when racial slurs were slung. Although it was getting better, there were still those using ugly words against others. “Ray’s one of the few Native Americans living in Timber City.” Royce frowned. “He doesn’t seem the type to murder anyone. Mind if I interrogate Osborn?” Royce requested.

  “He’s all yours.”

  Royce approached the stringy young drifter. “I’m Deputy Royce Madison. I’d like to run over the events with you.”

  Osborn’s eyes darted frantically. “I told the sheriff everything I could. I was plannin’ to find a ride down to Denver. I didn’t see nothin’ happening.”

  “Just try to relax and let your mind bring back memories.”

  Osborn trawled his memory. “Oh, yeah. The Indian guy, he told me about followin’ a trail. Said I could save going all around the hairpin road. And as I got nearer, I seen this deer or somethin’ behind some bushes. Nearly scared the shit outta me.”

  “A deer?” she probed.

  “Yeah. Deer. Elk. Behind that bunch of bushes over there. It hightailed it when I approached. I look down and there’s the body. I seen her yellow ski parka. Well, I get to a phone and call the cops.”

  “You’re sure it was an animal? Did you get a good loo
k?”

  “Naw. It was behind them shrubs and no way to see clear. I figured it had to be. Saw the fur. Tan colored and all.”

  “If you can think of anything else, let us know. No matter how unimportant it might seem, it may help.”

  “Sheriff says they’ll need to talk with me official-like. Need to stick around. I been doin’ odd jobs over at the Pine Motel.”

  Royce ambled back to where Yancy was being grilled by Gwen.

  “The Indian done it, but that’s still unofficial,” Yancy spat.

  “Yanc,” Royce questioned, “what would Ray’s motive have been?”

  The sheriff’s eyes became slits. “Maybe he wanted to rape her. Got carried away. Then got scared after she fought him off. He killed her. How the hell do I know?” Pivoting toward Royce, he instructed, “And don’t be giving the press none of the details. I’ll tell her what I think she should know.”

  “People’s right to know,” Gwen jabbed. She had watched the sheriff, now in his mid-thirties, and his younger brother as they grew up. Yancy had been under the tutelage of Sheriff Grady Madison. That had mellowed him through his late teen years, and into his twenties.

  Yancy’s younger brother, Luther, had remained a troublemaker. Yancy had become Timber City’s sheriff when Grady was murdered. Shortly thereafter, Yancy went through a divorce. That was the same year Luther Sumner married Trish Chandler.

  “Now you listen,” he growled. “We don’t wanna blow this case. Just ‘cause you need to print somethin’ in your paper, we aren’t letting a killer go free. And you leave Doc Edwards alone. You’re always chasin’ down the county medical examiner for something. And besides, we don’t want a panic to break out. We’re pickin’ up the Indian, and as far as I’m concerned, we got us our suspect.”

  “Guilty or not,” Gwen said. “And the proper name would be Native American.”

  Yancy munched his words. “You just take it easy. Don’t give me any of that ‘press of the people liberal’ crap. We don’t wanna lose a conviction ‘cause you think you gotta have the lowdown on everything.”

  “Yes, comrade,” Gwen’s sarcasm punched. “To my way of thinking, however, you don’t have much evidence. The drifter implicated Ray, but who can tell about the drifter?”

  “Damn it to hell,” Yancy seethed, “that Indian is guilty.”

  “What was the motive?” Gwen redirected the conversation.

  “Gwen Ives, I know what your insinuating. You’re sayin’ my brother had something to gain. You’re right. Luther does have something to gain. Inheriting the Chandler property would make him rich. But he lost a wife, and I lost a sister-in-law. My brother may be a jackal, but he sure as hell ain’t a killer.”

  “You say?” Gwen rhetorically quizzed.

  The sheriff paused, unclenching his fists. “I was with him. He couldn’t have done it.” With that Yancy trudged toward a cluster of deputies. He looked away as they lifted the body of Trish Chandler-Sumner onto the stretcher.

  Gwen sighed deeply. “You believe Luther’s alibi?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe.” Royce had interrogated the drifter and gotten no new revelations. She had also done a preliminary search of the scene for clues. It seemed too clean. Luther would be a prime suspect if motive were taken into consideration. But he now had a concrete alibi. Royce wondered if it was another bailout by his big brother.

  Her mind cluttered. There was always a space between crime and resolution, and it was excruciating. Stray clues sprayed leads in a clumsy way. There was no arrow pointing to a guilty party. Maybe Yancy’s rush to blame was to cover up for Luther.

  “I’m casting my vote here and now. Luther’s involved.”

  “Plenty amazing,” Royce remarked. Turning, she motioned to Gwen. “I’m going back to the Blazer for my jacket. It’s getting chilly.”

  “And it won’t get any warmer than this today,” Gwen stated. “Guess our systems acclimate to the mountain temperatures.”

  The women walked between the row of County Blazers. Two of the county vehicles were Chevy Blazers. There were an additional three squad cars. Royce had purchased a Blazer for her personal vehicle. Not only was it a good idea for rough Colorado winters, but keeping consistent the type of vehicle made the transition to work easier.

  She put on her denim jacket, and then leaned back against the car’s door. “Gwen, Ray seems like he was always nice and polite. Why would he murder Trish? It is unsorted reality – all unsolved murder is.” Her voice snagged. “Why would Trish have even been down here? She was going to spend the night up at Crystal Village. She and Valeria planned to get an early start skiing.”

  “I don’t have any idea why she’d be where it’s so remote. She wasn’t a camper type.” Moving toward the passenger side, Gwen reasoned, “Maybe she was meeting someone. There have been rumors that she has a secret lover. She played around as much as Luther does. Maybe she was having an affair with Ray.”

  “I forgot to tell Yancy about the dog poisoning. He won’t care about Wolfe. That dog took a nip or two at Yancy’s butt.”

  “Sheriff has a big enough target,” Gwen spoke with a chuckle. “He even walks like he’s got hot rocks in his back pockets. Maybe Wolfe did get a piece of him.”

  “I thought that rocks were on the other side,” Royce joked. “Yancy would have cried if he’d been bitten. Aw, he’s okay. He gave me a job when I decided to move back here. He said he wasn’t too sure about a female deputy, but my dad was his hero.”

  “He seems to completely trust you now.”

  “After three years he began to trust me.”

  “We haven’t had one of our own murdered since Grady,” Gwen considered.

  Royce turned the ignition key, then the heater. Her fingers wrapped the steering wheel. “Murder is chilling,” she observed.

  Chapter 2

  They were unclaimed lovers.

  Royce accepted this relationship with Valeria. Even Valeria’s condo was a clandestine symbol. Valeria’s parking area was privately situated. A view of the entryway was blocked by shrubbery and high evergreens.

  Their affair was by special agreement. The stipulation was that Royce never invaded Valeria’s privacy. For that reason, Royce never appeared uninvited. They never appeared in Timber City together. Valeria insisted that everything be kept tidy. Tidy was her word for discreet. And that required and demanded silence. Valeria wanted separate worlds: straight and lesbian worlds that never intersected.

  Her excuse was that she was a teacher.

  It was a price of love, and Royce paid that price. Passion was the tradeoff, and Royce understood it. As an officer of the law, she also benefited from the masquerade.

  Their love was cloaked, locked inside those hidden winks across a room, half-waves across the street. Valeria enjoyed intrigue. Royce did not.

  Sitting on the entryway step, Royce attempted to classify their love. She wished the camouflage did not include her being without a key to Valeria’s condo.

  When Valeria arrived, she would know something was terribly wrong – or Royce wouldn’t be there without an invitation.

  Without stopping to unload her skis, Valeria hastened to the door. “What’s wrong?” she quizzed.

  “Let’s go inside,” Royce directed. It was obvious to Valeria that Royce was troubled. Royce watched as Valeria’s arm slipped out of her powder blue ski parka. Mirrored sunglasses hung from her matching jumper. The reflective glass coruscated when Valeria turned up the track lighting.

  “Royce, why are you here?”

  Royce groped for words. She stammered, “Val, let’s sit down.”

  Sinking onto the sofa next to Royce, Valeria questioned, “Is it your Gran?”

  “No. No, it’s Trish.”

  “Trish?” Valeria blurted. She nervously flipped her long honey-streaked hair. Her translucent hazel eyes confronted Royce. Perfect lips bobbed for words, “What’s wrong with Trish? Has she been in an accident?”

  Royce watched as the
color drained from Valeria’s face. “Val, I’m sorry – she was murdered.”

  “No. No.” Valeria froze. Her raspy voice trembled, “It can’t be true.”

  “She was found this morning. Her body was located in the Timber Gulch park area.”

  “Luther. That son of a bitch,” Valeria indicted. “She threatened to leave him, and he killed her.” Tears showered down from her enameled eyes. Her wet lashes shut. “It was Luther. Trish stayed overnight last night and Luther phoned this morning. She told me she was going to get that bum out of her life forever.” Valeria began sobbing. She clasped Royce near. “She wanted a divorce. My god, she was willing to pay Luther off.”

  “And she was going to meet him. Did she say where?” Royce swabbed Valeria’s face, wiping tears with a tender reverence.

  “No. She seemed rushed. She just told me she’d join me later at Crystal Basin. When she didn’t arrive, I figured something came up. She’s never been reliable, so I didn’t worry about her.”

  Comforting Valeria, Royce held her closely. “Is there anything I can do – say?”

  “I could use a brandy. This is a nightmare.”

  Royce went to the liquor cabinet and twisted the cap from a bottle of brandy. She poured liberally. When she handed it to Valeria, Royce spoke. “Val, we do have a suspect. Yancy thinks it was Ray, the guitarist at the Bell Ringer Saloon. Luther has an alibi. He was with Yancy when the crime was committed.”

  “Yancy would lie to protect that worthless brother of his. The entire Chandler property now goes to Luther. If Trish would have divorced him, he would have only gotten a fraction of it. He wanted half, and she refused. Some investors wanted the ranch. They offered Trish a fortune. They wanted to convert it into a cross-country ski resort and a summer dude ranch.” With bitterness, Valeria added, “Luther will certainly sell it to them now. He tried to talk Trish into selling.”

  “Yancy is convinced that Ray Tierra-Blanca did it. But if some promoters wanted the ranch, maybe they assisted Luther. Possibly he was with Yancy.”