Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  His eyes squinted and his lips gripped his teeth. Then he grumbled, “Yeah. Well, lotsa folks around here are sayin’ that I had something to do with it.” His eyes targeted hers. They were deep and treacherous. “I’ll tell you a secret, Miss Deputy Sheriff. If I had it in mind to kill that woman, I’da done it one hell of a lot sooner.”

  As he drove away, Royce realized that she had heard two men’s secrets within only a few days. There was no way of telling if either of them was significant. No way, she corrected, except time. And where crime is concerned, time usually decomposes clues and memories. Extinction is the end product of time. Royce understood the premise but wouldn’t accept it. She returned to her Saturday chores.

  Chapter 8

  True rustic elegance, Royce considered, when she heard the squeak of the wrought-iron gate. Elaborately designed gateposts were sentries in front of the century-old Ives’ home. Royce knew the historical importance of the home. Each time she entered, she did so with a sense of Timber City tradition.

  Gwen had threatened Nadine with putting up a guest list in the bathroom. 'This throne was used by two presidents, thirty-seven senators, nineteen prominent authors, and a multitude of opera stars, flicker stars, musicians, and personalities.’ Nadine had mentioned that good sense prevailed, and the guest list came down. But each time Royce entered the bathroom, she chuckled. She wondered what stories the grooved-wood wainscotting could tell. What had the beveled glass medicine cabinet witnessed? What had the coffered ceilings riveted its globe lighting upon?

  The frame home was neatly painted white. With gabled roof, bay windows, carved arches above windows, and fish-scale shingles, it was representative of the town and the era when Timber City began. From the moment Royce walked into the maple-floored foyer, she could feel its heritage.

  An egg-and-dart wood trim led into Royce’s favorite room, the parlor. Gwen joked that the antique loveseats, with white-on-white tufted backs, had held some of the best asses in Colorado. And some of the worst. According to her, the mauve wing chairs and ottomans had soothed the elite, the mighty, and the prestigious of gold rush days. She described the famous poets who had dashed words at the ash writing desk and placed a foot on the brass foot rail. An extravaganza of memorabilia decorated the end tables, walls, and mantle.

  The room’s central focal point was a gargantuan oil painting over the marble fireplace. Jerome Thomas Ives’ portrait reflected a dapper, proud man. His gray-flecked hair and Mephistophelian mustache, grim lips, and no-nonsense eyes dominated the room. It also dominated the home and the newspaper. Ives had dominated Timber City. After spending his fortune, he left behind his legacy: his show-place home, his newspaper, and his granddaughter.

  Gwen Ives worked at keeping up his tradition, the tradition of Timber City. It was not an easy prospect. The fortune had passed, leaving only expenses.

  Royce heard the concert-bell chimes. She could see Nadine’s form behind the door’s stained-glass window. When the door opened, Nadine took the cake that Royce had brought.

  “Mom sent an almond torte along.”

  The almond-sprinkled torte was filled with Molly’s special almond and honey cream center. For twenty-five years, it had been Gwen’s favorite.

  “Looks scrumptious!” Nadine declared. “You too!” She gave Royce the once over.

  “You’re looking terrific,” Royce kissed Nadine’s cheek. Nadine and Gwen nearly always wore Western cut trousers or denims with their embroidered yolk shirts. Tailored, with snap closures, the shirts varied from Western cotton to brighter satins. Sunday was an occasion for a brighter, more luxurious material. They also wore bolo ties with jeweled insets, decorative silver-buckled belts, and intricately stitched Western boots. Royce commented on Nadine’s fringed-yolk shirt. “You plan on letting your house-spouse play with that trim?”

  “Only when she’s nice or naughty.”

  Royce chuckled, “That should cover all the bases.”

  “Love your shirt,” Nadine commented as she tapped the top buttons of Royce’s sapphire-toned, cavalry-bib-front blouse. She wore a lighter colored pair of trousers and lizard boots. “A gift from Molly or Valeria?”

  Royce grinned. “You know how I hate shopping. Valeria. She likes me in blue. By the way, she said to tell you that she’s sorry she couldn’t make it. Another time.”

  “Well, after you called and told us she couldn’t be here, we planned a little surprise. You know Gwen and her surprises.”

  Gwen appeared, yelping as she whirled Royce around in her arms. “Good to see you, sweetheart. And we do have a surprise. I invited Hertha. She said she would be a tad late. Someone brought in a rainbow satin rabbit. Pneumonia. She was getting ready to administer an antibiotic, so she wanted to make certain that there’s no reaction.”

  Nadine instructed, “I’m seeing to dinner, so you two go on in the parlor and get the news talked about. I don’t want any talk of murder and mayhem discussed over my standing rib roast. Beer, Royce?”

  “Yes, indeed. I should catch up with Gwen.”

  “Bring her two then,” Gwen teased.

  As soon as they were seated, Gwen leaned forward. “Well?” she grilled. “What’s up on the case?”

  “Yancy released Ray. I was amazed that he did it with so little cajoling. And I have it set up to take Osborn down to Denver on Tuesday for a hypnosis session. Might not prove anything, but at this point I’ll try anything. Any chance for a clue. There’s nothing at the site.”

  “I should find out more about Peakview by the first of the week. So how was last night?”

  “No night for weak sisters,” Royce quipped. “Lotsa drunken cowpokes. No major confrontation. A crumpled fender in the Eagle Inn parking lot and that was it.” Nadine handed Royce a bottle of beer.

  “Thanks. Sorry I haven’t got anything for your front page story.”

  Chimes announced Hertha’s arrival. Royce hadn’t seen the vet with her long, gleaming hair down. It had always been pulled back. Now it curled around her shoulders and rested on her back. Hertha was dressed in a denim skirt with turquoise appliques and a solid denim top. Hanging from her neck was a large, silver squash-blossom. Chunks of turquoise stone matched her skirt’s design. Royce hadn’t been aware, or allowed herself to be aware, of how lovely Hertha really was.

  “I brought the arrowheads. I was going to bring them over after dinner,” Royce stammered. “They’re in the Blazer.”

  “I thought you might have forgotten.”

  “I never forget a promise.” Royce was captivated by Hertha’s smile and the glow of it. She floundered for words. “Hope the rabbit doesn’t die.”

  Hertha looked perplexed. “Oh,” she laughed, “that rabbit.”

  Embarrassed, Royce murmured, “Yes.”

  “Left the little fellow in Ray’s care. Thanks for helping Ray.”

  “I know he didn’t do it.”

  Gwen added, “The Chandlers must be convinced of that as well. They’ve offered a hundred grand reward. That kind of money would put us back into the black ink,” she joked.

  “Yes,” agreed Nadine. “Now then, Hertha, if you want to make a friend for life, ask Gwen to show you the library.”

  “I’d love to see the entire house. It’s extraordinary. And particularly the library.”

  “Takes everything we have to maintain the house,” Gwen explained as she led Hertha and Royce around. “When our time is up on this earth, we’ll donate the house to the city as a historical landmark.”

  When they reached the library’s rows of lavish walnut shelves, Hertha exclaimed, “It is absolutely wonderful!”

  Gwen took down a well-worn book. Examining the leather binding, she declared, “Literature is part of our historical explanation. The Coquette by Hannah Foster. The coquette refuses a good marriage and is screwed by a scoundrel who leaves her to die in childbirth. The female characters need to be shown the errors of their ways.” She replaced the book and reached for another. “Ah, here’s one of my favo
rites. Brittain’s Testament of Friendship. Brittain’s Testaments are terrific. What a trilogy.” She squinted and pressed her eyeglasses back. “The friendship between Vera Brittain and Winifred Holtby is a beautifully documented story about women’s bonds. Read it?”

  “Yes,” Hertha replied, “when I was in college. Actually, it was one summer when I was a guide at Mesa Verde. I wept when I read the part where she brought crimson roses to the hospital. I always wanted to read it again when I had more time.”

  Gwen slipped it into Hertha’s hands. As they enveloped the volume, Gwen said, “I want you to have this.”

  “I can’t...”

  “It’s a symbol of our friendship. A welcoming gift.”

  “I’ll treasure it. I’ve always known that I belong to the land. Now I’m beginning to feel as though I also belong to the people,” Hertha said. Her eyes glittered with a tranquility. “Last century a Native American who was accepted was allowed a card to carry. It announced that the bearer was a good Indian.”

  Gwen gave Hertha’s shoulder a squeeze. “Some parts of Timber City won’t ever change. But I believe most folks around here will overcome prejudice. After all, we’ve got our first female deputy.”

  “And,” Royce confessed, “the first female deputy doesn’t have a clue as to who Vera Brittain is.”

  Gwen explained in a quick aside to Hertha, “Forgive Royce. She reads about science and how it applies to crime labs. Psychology and how it applies to criminals. Royce, what was the last fiction you dived into? Hell’s bells, this ought to be good.”

  With a blush, Royce mumbled, “Zane Grey.” She then turned and walked toward the dining room where Nadine was placing their dinner on the table.

  Gwen called to her. “Royce, we’ll let you know if we ever need a book review on Riders of the Purple Sage.'" Gwen shrugged to Hertha, “Just imagine her character analysis of Stoner McTavish.”

  ***

  “They loved the almond torte.”

  “Glad you had a nice time. One of these days Gwen is gonna plan her doings on a day of the week when I can attend. Can’t miss my Sunday canasta or all heck breaks loose with the girls.” Molly wiped her flour-dusted hands and then motioned for her daughter to sit.

  Royce felt guilty that her mother was excluded by plan. As she eased her torso onto the stool at Molly’s Pantry, Royce wished things were different. She had considered that very thing last night. Under the dim chandelier light, she had gazed around the Ives’ formal dining room and thought about Molly. As Royce’s mind circled the evening’s events, she thought about how perfectly Hertha fit in with Gwen and Nadine. She had no idea that the vet was so widely read. She always thought that people were involved primarily in their professions. But Hertha was well-rounded. Royce decided to read Walden again. She also wanted to read some of the other titles that were discussed over dinner. She didn’t doubt for an instant that she was the only subscriber to Journal of Criminal Law, Criminology and Police Science.

  “You listening, girl?”

  “Yes,” Royce responded to Molly’s question, “sort of.”

  “I asked why you’re in town so early this morning.”

  “Gran’s Olds needs a battery, and Orson called and said it was in. I figured I could install it before I go in this afternoon.”

  “That stubborn old woman needs a brand spankin’ new car.”

  “She loves her Olds. With all the upkeep, it’s as safe as a new one. I’ve replaced everything on it.”

  “I hear tell that the new vet was a dinner guest last night.”

  “Yes. She seemed to enjoy it. She really likes the Ives’ home.”

  “It does have charm, that place.”

  Royce thought about how Valeria had called the house an old museum and Gran’s cabin quaint. Royce had taken Valeria to the cabin when Gran was on her two-week vacation. Every year for Gran’s birthday, Royce gave her a ticket for a California visit and Gran traveled to the coast to visit her only sister. Royce had decided to have Valeria over for a barbecue. She hoped that the teacher would feel how much love there was in the old cabin. Valeria had not been impressed.

  “Fresh gingerbread,” Molly broke into Royce’s thoughts. She placed a square of gingerbread on a plate and in front of Royce. “You eat that. I worry about you not getting enough to eat.”

  “Mom,” Royce teased, “with you as commander and chef, I don’t think caloric intake will ever be a problem.” She studied the powdered sugar design on the top of the cake square.

  “I worry. You’re all I have since your daddy died.”

  “Mom, maybe you should get out more. I know you have your work here, and canasta and church. But maybe you should try and meet new people.”

  “I know everyone in Timber City.”

  “You’ve been alone so long.”

  “I know what you’re trying to say. Royce, after I lost my man, it was like fate hollowed out my heart. That kinda love was taken away forever. I don’t want anyone else.” Her usual jovial, sing-song voice had become frail. Each word was a thud. “Grady was my life.”

  Royce heard the doorbell jingle and glanced up to see Yancy enter. His face was filled with anger. She knew his enraged expression. He blustered, “Your grandma told me where to find you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Plenty. We let that Indian out and damned if we ain’t got us another murder.”

  “What?” she exclaimed.

  “That’s right. Last night he killed the drifter. Took that Osborn up to the hills and pitched him off a goddamn cliff. I’d say that’s a coincidence that the Indian was just released and now the drifter is dead. What do your fancy criminology books tell you?”

  Royce ignored his questions. “Where did it happen?”

  “That cliff around the bend as you approach town.”

  “But that’s nearly a mile. Ray hasn’t even got a car. How would he get the drifter there?”

  “Last the drifter was seen, he was leavin’ the pool hall. I figure the Indian was waitin’ in the back. He pops Osborn on the head and throws him over his shoulder. Carries him a mile. That Ray is a big Indian. And that bony little old Osborn, hell, even you could pitch him across town. And what do you bet Ray ain’t got an alibi. Course there’s his sister. She could try and cover up for him. Those Indians stick together.” Yancy crossed his arms. “You gave me your word.”

  “Do you want my badge?”

  “Naw.” The tonality of his voice was a waver. “You were just taken in by him. Naw. I don’t want your badge. I can’t afford to be short-handed with all this commotion. I’m on my way back up there to where Osborn was found. They’re bringing up the body. Hell of a drop offa that cliff.”

  “I’ll pick up Ray and bring him in,” Royce sighed. “Before I go, are we charging him with homicide this time?”

  “Looks plenty bad for him. The only witness to seeing him at the scene of a crime is dead one day after he’s released. I say we charge him. Town won’t stand for another killing. And let’s charge him proper this time. None of that assault and resist crap.”

  “I’ll Mirandize him, advise him of the charge, and bring him in.” Royce moved toward the door. Her plod was heavy and each movement seemed to be in slow motion.

  “I think that’s a good thing for you to be doing, Royce. You can show your support of the department by doin’ just that.” Yancy’s eyes gloated. “Late support, but now you’re on the right track.”

  “Yanc, for the record, I still don’t believe Ray did it. I don’t believe he killed Trish or the drifter.”

  “And I think that it’s a mighty good thing that nobody around these parts cares what you believe now,” Yancy grumbled.

  Royce looked across the street and felt a shudder. She exclaimed, “Plenty amazing!” Plenty amazing in the worst sense of the words.

  Chapter 9

  The horizontal blaze of sunshine spread against morning’s layer of foil frost. Royce viewed the murder site. What had been me
ant as an outing for Smoky had become a death tour.

  Royce had first stopped by the summit from which the drifter had been pushed to his death. The carved rock grottoes of a granite cliff had become an execution tool. Dave Osborn’s crumpled body had bounced down the sheer stone wall into a rock gorge. Royce’s examination of the site brought little in the way of speculation. A couple of feet beyond the rim of a metal retainer, the rock disappeared, with a massive drop. The body had been thrown from the embankment and had fallen down the vertical, the gneiss and schist, and had landed on a lower level stony spire. Suicide was improbable. He didn’t fit the profile, he had no known motive, and he could have picked an easier method. An accident was impossible. He would have had to climb over the barricade.

  Smoky had been Blazer-imprisoned during that stopover. She was glad for the chance to run when they arrived at the site where Trish Chandler-Sumner had been strangled.

  As Royce surveyed the area, she considered how benign each of the playgrounds was. The cliffs had been scaled as a sport. The paths had been trekked by sightseers. The gimmickry of homicide, she mused. The dumping grounds had yielded no fingerprints, no ballistic evidence, and no plaster casts of tire tracks or footprints.

  As to clues, the murderer was in a comfort zone. As time progressed, the more comfortable the killer could be. The victim list continued. The body of Trish was decaying. Osborn’s bone-white body had been covered in splotches of crusted, carnelian blood.

  Royce wondered if she could possibly be responsible for the drifter’s death. She believed Ray was innocent. Still she knew that because she hadn’t attended the murders, there was no way she could be absolutely certain. If she had been wrong, Ray had been released to kill again. And if it were Luther, Royce still had a responsibility. It had been at her insistence that the hypnotism session was scheduled for Osborn. Had that spooked Luther, thus signing Osborn’s death warrant? Or perhaps someone else had heard the rumor of the upcoming session and decided that it was chancy to allow a psychiatrist to delve into Osborn’s memory.