Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  “Yeah. The old bastard is generally too wasted to handle curbs. You add snowdrifts, and it really throws him. I’ll tell Faye. Anything else?”

  “I stopped by the pool hall and talked with Osborn.”

  “What the hell you talkin’ with him about?”

  “I’m still bothered by his seeing that deer or elk behind the bushes.”

  “You still on about that!” Yancy stretched his arms and his huge chest heaved. “That drifter is simple as a stone, and you’re all upset about some goddamn figment of his imagination. That fella just ain’t all together.”

  “He may have a fertile imagination, but he insists that he saw something. It’s been bothering me. Mule deer, elk . . . they’re shy. Too shy to hang around and witness a murder. Animals only stand still when you shine a light in their eyes or if they’re in an open area where freezing their motion is an instinctive reaction. I was out at Timber Gulch again yesterday. The brush is thick enough to give an animal cover to run. I don’t believe a deer would have stood there and watched a struggle. Stayed there. Then crouched away. I think it’s important, and it wasn’t even in the report.”

  “Look Royce, we don’t want folks around here gettin’ all upset. You’re speculating that we got us a killer roaming around. People gonna board their doors. Bar 'em right up 'cause some loony gives you a bunch of crap about Bambi witnessing the murder.”

  “One way to find out for sure is hypnosis. See if he can remember anything else. It might clear it all up.”

  “The goddamn city shrinks are too busy springing the dirtballs. You’d think they wouldn’t have time to screw around with a bunch of hocus-pocus shit.”

  “I could get it set up. Call back some favors in Denver. Would you object to giving it a try?”

  “Not if he’s willing,” Yancy grumbled. “Won’t get you anywhere. Just a damn waste of time.”

  “Another thing. In most homicides, if it’s an act of passion, the killer usually doesn’t have the awareness to clean the scene properly. Rage blinds them to reality. After the killing, they just want to get away from the scene. And if it’s a crime of opportunity, it’s usually sloppy.” Royce frowned and her body sank against the chair. “Plenty amazing. The area was squeaky clean.”

  “You gettin’ all that bullshit outta textbooks?” he inquired as his eyebrows dipped. “My experience tells me that every murder is different. As different as every killer.”

  “Maybe it helps to believe that there is some system to the resolution of crime. Crime usually leaves its signature.”

  “System! What a load of bullshit.” Yancy was amused. “Signature!”

  “I’m not saying that the murderer must have read a killer’s handbook. Ray can’t even keep his guitar case in order. It’s a flipping mess with picks, gum wrappers, and sheet music.”

  “You know, if you get yourself offa this little campaign of yours and work with the department, it would help. We got us a prime suspect. We need to get us a good conviction on that worthless Indian. Instead you come in here with all this speculation crap. He tells you he didn’t do it. No one ever commits a crime. Especially the red ones. He had the opportunity. He knew her. Even was taken home a few times by her. He had the strength in his hands from playing the guitar. Big, strong hands like mine.” Yancy demonstrated with his huge, ruddy hands. With fingers extended, he grasped the air in front of him with a strangle hold. “Now, Royce, the postmortem exam from Doc Edwards says that Trish was strangled. Hands. Not by a cord. That Indian has been grabbing his guitar bridge and has power.”

  “Speaking of our Native American guest,” Royce stressed. “He’s being detained illegally. You’re holding him for resisting arrest. But Nick hadn’t intended on arresting him. Only bringing him in for questioning. You know that, Yanc. This gets into court and we aren’t shining when it comes to tactics.”

  With a scowl, Yancy grunted, “I’ll change the sonofabitching charge. Aggravated assault. Assaulting an officer.”

  “Come on, Yanc. You know Nick could piss off Mother Teresa.”

  Chuckling, Yancy ratified, “Yeah. Hey, he’s a dog’s dinner when it comes to women. And shit on a stick when it comes to most folks.”

  “Could you release Ray to his sister’s custody? She’s the local vet. And he wouldn’t run on her. It’s a tribal thing. They stick together.”

  “His ass is in deep shit, so his tribal custom could go out the window. Along with the Indian.”

  “I’ll watch him. Keep an eye on him. Damn, release him in my custody then.”

  Royce glanced up and watched Nick entering. He was carrying a rifle as he strolled toward her desk. Brandishing it in the air, Nick questioned, “Where should I put this rifle?”

  Royce slowly rotated back to the sheriff and grinned. As she opened her mouth to speak, Yancy interrupted, “Nicky, I wouldn’t be askin’ Royce that question.” He bellowed, slapping his knees. “She’s gonna tell you exactly where you can put that rifle.” With a sputter, Yancy then answered, “Take it on over to the evidence vault. Put it on the shelf with the other confiscated weapons.”

  Nick glowered at Royce. She shrugged and explained, “Hey, I was going to tell you where you could put it.”

  Countering her rejoinder, Nick stood to attention. “I guess I could ask you to show me where you’d suggest.”

  “Now,” Yancy roared, “your rookie is really showin'.”

  Wanting to catch the sheriff in his good humor, Royce prodded, “About Ray? How about it? Spring him until we gather evidence.”

  “If I spring him, you bust ass gettin’ me some goods on him?” Yancy negotiated. “That’s the deal. You get offa chasin’ these elk theories and get me some good hard evidence. But if he takes off, or we have any problems with him, you are in trouble past your badge. Got that?”

  Royce nodded. She had no clue as to how to begin. The crime area had been sanitized. And Ray’s fingernails weren’t even clean.

  ***

  Filamentous clues circled Royce’s mind. Unsolved crime rankled her. This case was a blindfold. Plodding through the snow, she made her way up the path by the side of the vet’s office. She had phoned Hertha and made arrangements to pick up Smoky. Hertha had instructed her to come to her stone carriage house behind the office. She told Royce that she would still be up at eleven, when Royce got off duty. The small cottage had belonged to Doc Lawlor and was sold with the animal clinic. Royce had been in it several times before, but it seemed different now.

  Royce viewed a bright glow from the windows and heard Smoky and another dog barking. When the door opened, Hertha welcomed her. Stepping inside, Royce felt the large cobblestone fireplace’s warmth.

  “I made some herbal tea,” Hertha’s soft voice murmured.

  “Thanks. It’s one cold night out there. Good thing it’s a spring storm. The afternoon sun melted some of the snow off.” Royce knelt to one knee and wrapped her arms around a yapping, impatient Smoky. Tickling the ears of both Smoky and a small chestnut-colored terrier, Royce chuckled. To the terrier with a hind leg splint, Royce spoke, “You’re dancing pretty good for hobbling on a cast.”

  “I bring my patients here nights whenever possible. Less stressful for them than being confined to a kennel. He’s Jimmy.” As she handed a decorative mug to Royce, Hertha repeated, “Jimmy. I’m amazed at the names around here. So many of the traditional 'people’ names belong to pets. And vice versa.”

  Grinning, Royce agreed, “Most of the names around here would be common in Cornwall, England. I suppose it’s part of holding on to our past.”

  “Like White Earth. Yes, I’ve done the same.” Hertha motioned for Royce to sit. As they looked across the small room at one another, they shared a smile. “I like the sound of your name. Royce. It suits you.” She looked down into her mug of tea. “I talked with Ray this evening. Thank you for helping. He told me that you’re doing everything you can. I guess that obnoxious deputy was complaining that you’re undermining their case against Ray
.” Hertha sipped the savory mint-blended tea. “I’m sorry for talking the way I did.”

  “Chances are good that Ray will be released tomorrow. The charges will stand, but Yancy plans on letting him out. In my custody.”

  With a jubilant smile, Hertha’s lips moved slowly around the words. “I appreciate your help. I’m certain that he won’t try to leave. That’s always been Ray’s problem. He doesn’t know when to back away. Royce, he didn’t kill anyone. On the reservation, he couldn’t even shoot rabbits. Why don’t they give him a polygraph?”

  “Yancy believes that since polygraph tests aren’t admissible in court, they’re a waste of time. A wacko will pass the test every time. And a nervous innocent person could fail.”

  “My brother isn’t a wacko.” Her shoulders stiffened. Her head lifted and her eyes blazed with defiance.

  “I didn’t mean Ray. I meant that it just isn’t reliable. Let’s end the war, Hertha. I’m on your side. I’m staking my reputation on Ray’s innocence. I can’t do any more than that.”

  With an embarrassed half smile, Hertha conceded, “You’re right. I’m just glad that you didn’t suggest smoking a peace pipe.”

  “I don’t smoke,” Royce kidded. “But the tea is a wonderful peace offering.”

  “Refill?” Hertha reached for Royce’s clay mug and their fingers grazed. “Your hands are still cold. Why don’t you warm them by the fireplace?”

  Royce surveyed the room while Hertha was brewing more tea. She extended her hands to capture the warmth. Aware of the coziness of Hertha’s cottage, Royce understood the importance of a homey atmosphere. Knotty-pine panels lightened the room. Octagonal newell posts, baseboards, and molding were all carved at their corners. Windows and door casings were also grooved and had medallions at top corners. Cast iron sash weights hung beneath the windows. Throughout the room were Indian artifacts. A large woven rug spread across one wall. Royce glanced down at the corner string. She had been told that the knot is the Native American’s signature. There were baskets, beads, and pottery. One pot had been reconstructed of potsherd. Royce wondered if Hertha had put it together. On the next shelf were numerous books on archaeology, Native American history, veterinarian textbooks, and poetry.

  Hertha handed Royce the mug of tea. “I like the homey way you’ve decorated the cottage.” There was a snug solace, and yet a blithesome cheer about the decor.

  “My spirit is at home here. I felt fortunate when Doc Lawlor selected me to take over his practice. I’d just completed training in Fort Collins and had no money. He said the important thing was to keep the practice alive. He was satisfied with monthly installments rather than a buyout. Fate has been kind. I have a practice and a home.”

  Royce moved to the end of the mantle. She inspected an arrowhead collection. Each arrowhead was neatly placed against a sand painting background. “Great arrowheads. I’d like you to have some of the old arrowheads I found on some of my hiking and fishing trips.”

  “I never turn down arrowheads,” Hertha said with a beam. “Archaeology is my passion. You fish?”

  “I’m a fanatic. Are you an angler?”

  “Definitely. Maybe you can show me some good fishing spots.”

  “I’d love to. Gwen tells me we have plenty in common,” Royce probed.

  “Yes.” Hertha’s shy gaze playfully ribboned Royce’s blue eyes. “I also like hiking.”

  “I’m sure there are other interests?”

  “Yes,” Hertha agreed with a nod. “Gwen told me that you are with the beautiful woman I saw out at the Chandler’s ranch. I was vaccinating their horses. That was the only time I met Trish Chandler. Your lover was riding horses with her. Gwen told me that it must be her from the description. She asked if the woman was breathtaking. I had to agree that she was.”

  “Valeria and I are together, but not living together.” Royce stumbled for words. “We get together as often as time allows.” She then turned, finished her tea, and glanced out the window a moment. When she handed the empty mug to Hertha, Royce offered, “I’ll show you my favorite fishing hole. But you’ve got to promise never to divulge its whereabouts,” she teased. With a hushed, secretive voice, Royce boasted, “Rainbow trout leap right up into the pan. You just take a hook and flirt with them, and they can’t wait to grab the lure. You’ll love it.” Their eyes seamed and Royce wanted to continue, but needed to change the topic. “By the way, I talked with Orson Laird about Wolfe. He doesn’t know where Wolfe could have picked up the poison. He was sorry he didn’t get him in quicker. You saved Smoky.”

  “I’m keeping my cat, Patches, inside. She’s a timid little calico. Probably hiding under the bed. She was brought to me all torn up after being hit by a car. She was a stray. I stayed up all night patching her up, so I named her Patches. Not for the spots, but for her stitches.” Hertha leaned down and petted Smoky. “I’m going to miss Smoky. Great little puppy. That reminds me, her intestinal track seems to have recuperated, but you might want to give her a teaspoon of Pepto to soothe her stomach lining before feedings. Just for a few days. If she goes off her food, vomits, or shows any signs of diarrhea, bring her back. Oh, and a bland menu. Nothing from the table. I’ve got some special bland-diet canned food that I’ll send along for her.”

  Hertha made a quick trip to the kitchen and returned with a sack. Royce took out her checkbook. “What do I owe you?”

  “An arrowhead or two. And a promise of complete recovery from Smoky. Oh, and the location of your secret fishing pond.”

  Royce whistled for Smoky. “Looks like she’s going to do her part. And I can’t help thinking that the arrowheads and pond belong to you anyway. Won’t you let me pay?”

  “You have. You’ve helped my brother.” Hertha accompanied Royce to the door. “And we both belong to the pond. The Ute belief is that we belong to the land, rather than the land belonging to us.”

  Chapter 7

  Royce had been patrolling and decided on one final swing through Timber City. She was glad for the banality of the week. The weekend snow had shut down crime. There had been no vandalism, disorderly conduct, or domestic violence in Timber City. The few fender-benders had all been processed.

  Royce was pleased that she had time to direct her attention to the murder. She mentally searched and sifted clues. When her mind strayed, she usually re-focused. This night she had allowed time to contemplate her life. Fate had directed her life. There were so many trades. If her father hadn’t been murdered, she might not have been an enforcer. She probably would not have remained in Timber City. And she probably would not have met Valeria.

  Royce had mentioned to Yancy how lives are changed by fate. He had brought the department vehicle out to the cabin. Royce had then driven him back to his home. To avoid parking their own cars on Main Street, they often switched vehicles by delivering them. In this way, even though Gran had an automobile, the Blazer remained at her disposal for use in bad weather. It made Royce feel somewhat safer about her independent grandmother staying at the cabin alone nights.

  Royce called dispatch and checked out. One of the relief deputies would be going on duty. Royce gazed up at the bright moon shining down on the mountains. Gran always said the peaks were wearing snow bonnets.

  When Royce got to the intersection, she spotted a speeding auto. She hit her lights and siren. After a brief pursuit, the dark, late model IROC pulled over to the side. Royce approached the car with caution. She pulled out her flashlight and beamed a pool of light inside. Jade Arnall was in the passenger’s seat. The driver was an unknown man in his early twenties. Locks of tightly curled blond hair sprayed in a circle around his head. Some halo, Royce thought.

  “Good evening, Jade,” Royce murmured with disapproval. “May I see your license, sir?” she politely requested.

  Heaving a sigh, the man hurled his wallet at Royce.

  Royce handed it back to him. “I don’t need the wallet, just your license.” As he fumbled through his billfold, Royce pulled her ticket book an
d began writing.

  “Aw come on, Royce,” Jade grumbled. “We’re just havin’ a good time.” Her carrot-red hair was messed and her eyes flashed. She pushed the stray hair from her face. It was as white as eggshell. “Let us go this time?”

  “Jade,” Royce spoke as she leaned on the door of the car, “this is no time to be out with strangers.”

  “We’re not strangers,” he jeered. “And get your hands off my car, lady.”

  “It’s deputy,” she censured as she took his driver’s license and registration.

  “Oh, that’s what it is,” he mocked. “Must be why you’re wearing that monkey suit and the monkey Stetson. I saw a monkey dressed up like you once,” he snickered. “Kindred spirits, or were you on the same Frisbee team?” The couple giggled.

  “Son, there’s a time to lean back and keep your powder dry,” Royce admonished. “And partner, this is one of them.”

  “Would you look at the monkey nameplate.” He peered at her badge. “And badge. And gun. I’m scared shitless.”

  Royce continued writing the ticket. “Right,” she muttered.

  “I’m trembling in my socks,” he scoffed.

  “Right,” Royce spoke calmly as she wrote. “You forgot to mention my pair of one-size-fits-all cuffs. And if you don’t button your mouth, you’re going to be wearing them.”

  Hooting, he bragged, “My hands are lethal weapons.”

  “So’s your breath, so keep your mouth shut.”

  “The lady . . . pardon me, deputy, is a real cobra,” he challenged.

  “Sign here,” she directed.

  As he scribbled, he continued taunting, “I didn’t know they had a lady cop monkey suit. Bet most of you are dykes.”

  Royce handed him the citation. She put the ticket pad back into her pocket. “Plenty amazing.”

  “Bitch!” he hissed. “You are a dyke bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Step out of the car,” Royce ordered as she whirled around.