Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  “Why would Ray want to kill Trish?”

  “Yancy claims there was some hanky-panky. Or that Ray intended to rape her. The drifter saw Ray coming from the area where the body was found. But now you say she was going to meet Luther, it changes things.”

  “Yancy is lying to protect Luther.”

  “Maybe not. What if the investors you told me about had something to do with it? Maybe,” Royce speculated, “they were impatient to get their hands on the land.”

  Valeria sobbed, “No one needed to kill her. Not for money.”

  “Hon, let’s talk about it tomorrow. Right now, you need some rest. Why don’t you take a warm shower? I’ll fix you another brandy. I can stay for another hour and then I’ve got to get ready to go on duty tonight.”

  Royce poured another brandy while Valeria showered. The woman she loved was in a trance. Royce knew that they were both in pain. She heard sobs above the rushing shower. Royce scanned the elegant condo. There was a photo of Trish and Valeria on the shelf. And on the opposite side, a photo of Royce.

  Royce realized the depth of her love for this woman. She admitted that there was more to her love than Valeria’s beauty queen features. More to it than the fact that Valeria turned heads and quickened pulses. For Royce, there was something mystical about Valeria’s magnetic eyes. Valeria’s pearl smile was lush and romantic. Her hair was flowing. Her legs were willowy. But for Royce, some unknown ingredient created the attraction. There was a quiet sensuality. Beneath that, there was some area of Valeria where her secret was kept.

  Royce had been seduced under Valeria’s goose-down comforter. The same one she now tucked around Valeria. Royce leaned and kissed Valeria’s damp cheek. Royce felt Valeria’s arm chain around her neck and she heard a whisper of love.

  Royce would tell Valeria about Smoky in the morning. For now, she wanted her lover to rest. She wanted to take away Valeria’s pain. And she didn’t have a clue as to how she could do that. Valeria’s best friend had been brutally murdered.

  “I love you too, Babe,” Royce echoed. Maybe it was the touch. Maybe it was the words. Royce was willing to be manipulated. She knew only that there was a reason.

  On her way out into the cold evening air, Royce counted the only reason she could rely on as truth: she accepted their relationship because she wanted to believe Valeria did love her.

  ***

  After a very long night of mopping up paperwork, Royce checked in her Smith and Wesson .357-caliber Magnum with the jailer. Entering a cell was the only time a law enforcement officer was without a weapon. She was proud of the sheen from the blue-finish barrel. She was proud of the polish on the wooden handle. The revolver had belonged to her father. It was his prized service weapon.

  Trudging the path between cells, Royce observed the town derelict. She had brought Laramie in from the chilled morning. No one knew much about the old social castaway. He drank hard, went only by his first name, kept to himself, and had been part of the Timber City cast for as long as Royce could remember.

  Laramie had done odd jobs and janitorial work when he was younger and less ravaged by time and liquor. He still swept up at the Bell Ringer Saloon. Other than that, he begged handouts and drinks from tourists. When he passed out on the street, he would be run in for safekeeping. Temperature dips in Timber City were dangerously swift and harsh.

  Royce watched the spurting breaths of his gunnysack body. She heard the gurgling snores. “Rise and shine,” she dispatched. Laramie’s bloodshot eyes pried open slowly. His face was leathery with a bristly, stubble gray beard. With a beak nose, knob chin, sunken cheeks, and bulging veins, Laramie’s appearance was cruel. But Royce knew the man was not evil. There was no way to fit him into any exact category.

  “Mornin’ so soon,” he grumbled. His fingers squirmed through matted slate hair.

  Inhaling putrid whisky fumes, Royce stood back. “Laramie,” she issued her standard teasing, “what’s your last name?”

  Gazing down at the scuffed boots on the concrete floor, Laramie hooted his normal response. “Wyoming, kid. My name is Laramie Wyoming.” Creasing, his face displayed a ragged smile. Broken, tobacco-stained teeth were glacier tips.

  In the adjoining cell was Ray Tierra-Blanca. The singing guitar player was seated on the edge of the cot-sized bed. His elbows dug into his knees and his large frame slumped. Ray was a limber man with coppery skin and flinty dark eyes. Royce knew he’d had a checkered past. She had pulled up a sheet and learned he was twenty-two years old. He was from the Mountain Ute Reservation. He drank too much and often fought too much. What she knew about him was the softness in his voice when he sang. He was exonerated by the sensitivity of his guitar playing. His shoulder-length hair swayed and his lyrics betrayed his stony face.

  Royce leaned against the bars. “I’ve heard you at the Bell Ringer. You’re very good.”

  “I’m very locked up.”

  “Just until they can question you,” she attempted to explain. “Ray, there isn’t any proof that you’ve killed anyone.” Feebly, she sought communication. “Tierra-Blanca. Your name sounds Spanish.”

  “The Ute language is Uto-Aztecan. My name means white earth. Tierra-Blanca was a renegade war leader. He always wore a red shirt. I’m a descendant.”

  Royce glanced at his soiled tapestry-blue shirt. “You usually do wear red.”

  “I should never have put on this blue one.” There was a faint smile before his eyes iced up again. “I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “I want to believe that. I question motive. Did you know Trish Chandler-Sumner?”

  “I knew her. From the Bell Ringer. She was a customer. When she was alone, she requested songs by Hank Williams. She always acted like she was really lonesome. Except when she was with that gorgeous teacher friend of hers.”

  “Valeria Driscoll.” Royce felt her heart clench.

  “Right. Anyway, I liked Trish. She always tipped me better than anyone else.”

  “Did you ever see her away from the bar? Socially?”

  “She gave me a ride a couple of times. When she’d close the bar. It’s only a couple blocks from where I stay – but I had a guitar to lug, and so she’d give me a ride.”

  “Yesterday morning. Why were you up at the gulch?” Royce grilled.

  “I like walking in the morning. It’s quiet. I hear melodies. Then I go back and compose songs. Only the morning is quiet enough for songs.”

  “It’s nearly ten miles out there and back. Why did you need to walk so far from Timber City?”

  “Some mornings ten miles is only half a song.”

  The return walk back down the hall to the Sheriff’s Department produced no songs for Royce.

  ***

  “Did you get anything out of your little powwow with our guest?” Nick Hogan quizzed. An arrogant smirk followed his question.

  “No man is silent on the rack,” Royce answered dryly.

  “Running Bull charm you with a lullaby?” Nick chaffed as he leaned back and put his boots up on the desk. Crossing his ankles, he then folded his hands behind his head. “Well?”

  Royce’s steady stare blazed. Nick was five years her junior, but at times he seemed much younger. She disliked his constant repertoire of smartass remarks. Admittedly, she also objected to his reason for becoming a deputy. He claimed he looked great in his uniform. Town women reinforced his self-praise. With dark brown, curly hair, blue eyes, and an athletic build, the handsome young man had been a ski bum. He had taken the Timber City deputy sheriff job to be near the ski resorts and meet women. It was a decision lacking the motives Royce deemed important. She also believed that Nick Hogan took perverse joy in irritating her.

  “Nick, get your dirty feet off the desk,” she ordered.

  Obligingly slowly, Nick jabbed, “Getting a sheepskin in criminology must have taught you to insert that snap in your voice. Drill instructor snap, I guess. Well, I hauled in the Indian, and you tossed an old drunk into the tank.”

  “Tha
t old drunk is a citizen of this county. He requires just as much protection by the law as anyone else. My father began the ritual of bringing him in off the street.”

  “Your old man has a couple real publicists. You and Yancy. Grady-this and Grady-that! Yancy is always saying that you have the intuition and investigative skill of Grady Madison. If that was the case and your old man was such a terrific lawman, why did he get himself shot?”

  “Unfortunately because you weren’t there to take the bullet for him,” Royce’s words slapped bitterly. “Yancy left a note to call the part-time deputies. That gives us more time to investigate the case.”

  “We have our killer. We just need the evidence.”

  “Doesn’t our legal system require that we get evidence before we name the criminal? And while we’re on the subject, what is Ray being held for? You threw him in the holding tank, and you know you need a reason to detain him.”

  “He’s being held for questioning. And he threw a punch. Resisting arrest.” Nick defiantly swung his feet back onto the desk.

  “If it’s for resisting, then get bail set.” Royce sat on the corner of the desk. She leaned toward Nick. “If you don’t get him out of here, I’ll take my best quarter and call the BIA. They’ll be here in a flash to protect his rights.” Royce crossed her arms. “I have to wonder what you did to make him go for you.”

  “He killed a prominent citizen of Timber City. I had to get him booked. Would have charged him with vagrancy, but couldn’t.” Sneering, Nick divulged, “Couldn’t because he’s staying with his half-breed sister.”

  “His sister lives here?

  “Yeah. The vet is his half-breed sister.”

  “Hertha White,” Royce murmured. “Of course, it translates to white earth.” Royce stood, feeling a sickness in her stomach. As she passed by, she shoved Nick’s legs from the desktop. “Keep your goddamned boots off of the desk.”

  “What’s wrong with you?’

  “What’s right with you?” Royce stormed to the door. “Ray isn’t guilty of anything but having the good sensibilities to take a swing at you. And,” she turned and through her teeth warned, “don’t ever call her a half-breed again.”

  Royce found her colleague’s prejudice offensive, but she knew from past tangles that it did no good to complain. Her father wouldn’t have tolerated it when he was the sheriff. But he was no longer the sheriff, she thought with unyielding turmoil. It was always the same stab going through her heart.

  Chapter 3

  “Ives Vine” was Gwen Ives’ weekly column in the Timber City Times. Most of the community considered it a cross between an elfin smile and the charring smite of a hot poker. Whether Gwen was congratulating or castrating, she amused her readers with her controversial wit.

  Twenty years ago she had praised the opening of Molly’s Pantry. It had been the Timber City Bakery, owned by Molly Madison’s parents. When they retired, Molly took over and expanded the bakery to include a small counter with several stools. Coffee and tea were served with breakfast cinnamon rolls.

  Lunch was also offered, with a single entree: her specialty English pasties. Molly’s grandfather had been a miner from Cornwall and had taken pasties into the mines with him. The pasties were a traditional meal placed into a special metal lunch box that was equipped with a side compartment for hot tea. The tea kept the pasties warm until lunch time. The grandfather called his lunch box his pie can.

  Molly had learned her grandmother’s recipe. She took a circle of pie dough and placed meat, potatoes, sometimes a vegetable, and thick gravy, into the center; folded it in half and crimped the edges; and then baked it. The hand-held stew became her trademark when she opened Molly’s Pantry. The Pantry became a town tradition.

  Molly thrived on working long hours to produce the delectable treats. She would awaken early and mix dough on her huge marbletop baker’s table, converting hills of dough into breads, rolls, and cookies. She carefully constructed pastries to make pyramids on paper doilies, slid trays into display cases, and then unlocked the doors for the swarm of customers.

  After the morning crowd had gone, Molly would begin making the day’s supply of pasties. When lunch was done, Molly found time between selling dinner rolls and deserts to chat with friends.

  Royce knew that Molly would have heard about the murder earlier. As she approached the bakery, she also knew that Molly would wonder why she hadn’t stopped by yesterday. Royce began to mobilize her defense.

  Molly objected strongly to her daughter’s profession. She didn’t understand why Royce would strap a gun to her side. She would never understand why Royce wanted to wear the tan serge uniform that was a target for anyone with illegal intent. Royce reassured Molly that most of her work was rustling cowboys out of the Bell Ringer when they became unruly. And there were obscene gestures from obnoxious kids when their six-packs kicked in.

  She also understood Molly’s concern. The loss of Grady Madison was excruciating for Molly.

  Royce saw her mother through the door’s etched glass. Molly’s short, stocky frame was bulky beneath her full apron. Her permed, beige-streaked hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Intense blue eyes were the focal point of her round, tawny face. Royce had inherited her long limbs and square face with its strong jaw line from Grady. From Molly had come her dimples.

  “Sit yourself right down,” Molly greeted Royce with a hug. “My but you do look worn to a frazzle.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Guess Gran told you about the murder and about Smoky?”

  “She surely did. I just went on over there to the vet’s as soon as I heard. That precious little Smoky. New vet seems nice enough. Whole wheat.”

  “What?”

  “I say she buys whole wheat bread in here.” Easing a cup of coffee toward Royce, Molly studied her daughter’s face. “By the by, I made up some of that velvet cake your Gran loves so. I’ll send it along. Add a couple of pasties so she doesn’t need to bother herself over cooking later.” Molly sat on the high stool behind the counter. “Got some old sourdough bread for your Gran’s wild birds.” She sensed her daughter’s fatigue. “You gonna tell me about this business with Trish being murdered?”

  “Nothing to tell yet. Other than what I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “I wish you would talk with me,” Molly spoke sharply. Her eyes seemed wounded. “You never have talked much with me.”

  “Mom, it’s under investigation. There is one thing. They brought Ray Tierra-Blanca in for questioning.”

  “Why that polite boy wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “He took a poke at Nick when Nick went to pick him up for questioning.”

  “Well,” Molly huffed, “he ought be decorated for that. I always said that Nick is a tad short of flour to make a full loaf.” Molly smiled when Royce chuckled. “Now, you want a cinnamon roll? Got a couple left.”

  “I’ll take one for Gran. I’m not hungry.”

  “I can always tell when there’s no good happening. You’re just like your daddy. Eat like a government mule when you aren’t troubled.”

  “Mom,” Royce said as she reached and took her mother’s flour-stained hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about Dad. I know how difficult it is for you when something like this happens.”

  Molly stood. She lifted her starched apron and wiped her hands. “If they got Ray locked up, then the murderer is out and about. The killer is running around here free as a summer ptarmigan. And that badge makes a target outta you.”

  “Mom, Trish didn’t have a badge and she’s dead. At least I have a gun to go along with my badge.”

  Molly reached and touched her daughter’s stiff whipcord collar. She issued a quick smile. “You’re just like Grady. He always tried to comfort me.”

  “I don’t know why you’re always comparing me to my father.”

  “You resemble him. Royce, I do wish you’d be less melancholy. I’ll be mighty glad when it warms up enough for you to get a little fis
hing done. Guess we have another couple of cold snaps before spring sets in.”

  Royce sipped her coffee. “Some things require more than a stream and a wet line with a fly on the end,” she reflected. “Guess I am jumpy. Seeing someone I actually know who has just been murdered.”

  “That Trish was a nice enough girl. Ran with a wild, splashy Crystal Basin set. And we all know that Luther was never a prize. If Yancy wouldn’t have yanked Luther’s reins, Luther would have been a whole lot worse, I suspect.”

  Royce wanted to tell her mother of her suspicions about Luther. But until there was proof beyond what Valeria had told her, she would keep it to herself. “Mom, I’m heading over to see Smoky for a little bit. I’ll stop back on my way home and pick up Gran’s cake and bird crumbs.”

  “Honey, seeing that little Smoky might just perk you up. Gracious but that cute little thing surely does brighten up my day,” Molly sang.

  “I’m not sure that anything is going to brighten up my visit to the vet’s.” Royce knew that her eyes were dull and her voice glum when she reported, “Hertha White is Ray’s sister. We’ve got her brother in jail, and she’s saving my dog’s life.”

  “And that’s why you’re so blue?” Molly lifted Royce’s chin. Her eyes teared. “I can’t help it, Royce. I always tell you that you remind me of Grady, 'cause it’s so. You are like your daddy. A person of substance.”

  “Even if I’m in law enforcement?”

  “He was.”

  ***

  There was a fierce statement of revolt in Hertha’s eyes. Royce could feel the gloom. “I just stopped by to see Smoky,” Royce spoke tensely. “And to talk with you.”

  “Come on back,” Hertha directed as she led Royce to the back room. She urged a smile. “Smoky seems better.” Adroitly, Hertha slipped the IV needle from Smoky’s shaved foreleg. With a tender touch, she pressed a cotton chunk, doused with alcohol, against Smoky’s arm. Smoky licked Hertha’s palm as the vet gave her a reassuring pat. “The patient is improving.” Hertha eased the small dog into Royce’s arms.