Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  “You’re great mentor material, Gwen. On anything else, I’d listen. You know that.” Royce glanced back at the first stack of newspapers. “I’ve got to know everything. I’ve got to try and see how all of this fits together. That means I need to know everything.”

  “Even if it’s painful? There are photos that I’ve capped off from anyone in the family. Notes. Your father was gunned down. I suspect that it was for a reason. Royce, that information and the photos are difficult for anyone who knew Grady. For those of us who loved him, they are excruciating. You and your mother worshipped him. That crosses over the line. You don’t need to see these things. As your friend, I’m admonishing you not to look at my file. There are things that you don’t need to know. Things you don’t need to see. And the more you understand, the more the danger intensifies.”

  “I carry a revolver on and off duty. With the exception of entering a jail cell.”

  “If you’re determined to pursue this, I suggest you take every precaution.”

  “Then you also think there’s more to it?”

  “The murderer has never been caught. I don’t want you involved.”

  “I am involved. And I need to see your file.”

  Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and she peered into the resolve that covered Royce’s face. “I’ll get my meticulously annotated records. You realize the possible ramifications?”

  “Yes,” Royce nodded with affirmation. “Yes.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready for it.”

  ***

  After Royce had thoroughly examined the clippings, she requested Gwen’s file. Gwen handed over the half-inch thick file grudgingly and insisted that Royce take it to the conference room, in case Molly dropped in.

  Royce felt trepidation as she sat alone studying the stack of notes, photos, and forms. The papers seemed so isolated on the large oak table. She felt stranded as she flipped the first page of notes. She was a stowaway with secret information. Royce knew from Gwen’s stormy glance that there was hazardous information in the file.

  With a tormented blink, Royce turned another page. Line by line, she read the account of the murder. The exact location of the body was marked with an X. There were interviews with the shocked and grieving people who found the body. Another page documented the firing of the three shots—two at close range, a third from a distance. The autopsy report’s finding was that, from the projectile of the bullets, the first shot was distant and the second two were pointblank. Royce had never been certain of the order in which the shots had been fired. That explanation settled a long-going question. She had often wondered if Grady had been shot at close range, with a third shot as an afterthought.

  What the circumstances were would remain a mystery. Royce vowed to continue her search. Life is perishable by design, she considered. And her father’s life had been stolen.

  The first photo was a graphic frame of her father’s body. On the ground, Grady’s face was splattered with blood that came from a bullet that had entered his left cheek. Royce had kissed that same cheek when she left home to return to college. Watering, her eyes latched shut. When her eyes finally pried back open, she examined photos of the two body wounds. One in the upper torso had lodged in Grady’s heart. The other was in his midsection. Royce grappled to lecture herself on objectivity. It would be necessary if she were ever to confront Grady’s killer. Without objectivity, she could never hope to winnow clues from their coverlets. Prejudice would blind her.

  After carefully inspecting several dozen photos, Royce read each copiously detailed and documented note. A follow-up on suspects excluded them all. An escapee had been found and had an airtight alibi. A skier who had drunkenly brandished a gun in the next county had the wrong gun and an alibi. An interloper who stalked one of the gift shop owners was in jail for stalking another woman in a neighboring county.

  Nothing there, she considered as she folded shut the file. Then she wondered if she would have been better off not seeing it. It was as bad as she had imagined, so nothing had been gained. But at least she had done it. Grady would applaud her courage. He always said that many of life’s most difficult things are the ones that build the most character. Royce wondered how this might have contributed to her character or her curiosity. Maybe it was just a way to connect with her father again.

  Royce stood and stretched her slender body. The cost was there. For now she felt a pronounced sadness. Grady’s face and his uniform and the long lines of his thin frame became another stored memory. And it was like looking into herself. She was an echo. With the file tucked under her arm, Royce exited the chamber.

  She questioned her motives for looking inside the file. It had unlocked no answers. But she had located two heart messages. One, murder was an obscene joke on humanity. Two, she would miss Grady Madison forever.

  Chapter 10

  “I do believe that spring is finally upon us,” Gran rattled on as she exited the Blazer. “Royce, I always think about seasons comin’ outta a suitcase.”

  “Pardon?” Royce frowned.

  “Why, when a season opens up, it’s just like nature’s suitcase being unpacked. All lovely surprises. Inside spring’s suitcase is all the colorful flowers and such. Poppin’ out the ground.”

  Royce muttered, “I see.” She opened the door of Laird’s General Store and they entered.

  Dora Madison continued, “Dots of color on the mountainside and all. Makes all the difference in the world in a soul’s outlook. How do ya do, Bonnie?”

  Bonnie Laird put her fists on the shelves of her hips and grumbled, “Dora Madison, I been trying all morning to call you. That package you been waitin’ on is finally showed up. All the way from Albany, New York. Heavenly days, but you do get mail from all over the place.”

  “Back aways in time it woulda taken three, four times as long.” Gran took the package and a packet of letters from Bonnie. “Folks nowadays don’t know about how it was in the olden days. Roycie here thinks that flushin’ toilets were here when the Pilgrims came over,” Gran cackled.

  “Mercy, remember those outhouses?” Bonnie asked.

  Royce rolled her eyes. “Oh, no,” she mumbled as she

  leaned her elbows on the counter. “You two act as if I’ve never seen one.”

  “Well, they had two kinda seats,” Bonnie chattered. “One was smooth for the family. And one was rough for the outhouse used by the hired hands. Didn’t want 'em gettin’ too comfy,” Bonnie hooted.

  “And remember, there was always a stack of wood next to the outhouse so’s you could grab an armload on your way back in,” Gran explained. “Glad not to be in those days. But what goes on now,” she confided as she folded her hands, “it’s a good job for me that I’m not young anymore.”

  “Pitiful situation we got here in Timber City,” Bonnie agreed. “All this murder business. Whoever did this deed is a little crawler.”

  “A dirty buzzard,” Gran did her best at cursing. “Why, it has folks cautious as a fox on ice. Even Roycie here is gettin’ into my bad books on account of her grumpiness. Cross as a lion with a sour tummy.”

  “Maybe butterscotch will help,” Royce muttered. “A couple rolls.” Bonnie reached under the counter and placed them on the glass top.

  “There you go, girl.” With her finger wagging, she barked, “Get you a little butterscotch in your system, so you can go on protectin’ Timber City.”

  Royce felt relief when she saw Orson’s large frame coming through the door. Almost always dressed in overalls and an old train engineer’s cap, Orson was a jokester and a story teller. Coal black eyes sparkled in his round face, and his oversized nose was a centerpiece of his humor. He was bald, and wisps of hair fringed down beneath his soiled cap. His bulldog underbite showed only his lower stained teeth. He chewed tobacco, and his teeth were nearly bronze. “Dora, did you get any of them sweepstakes letters today?”

  “Not a one.”

  “By golly,” he proudly announced, “Mrs. Laird and me got our lucky n
umber. Going to be a big drawing in New York City.”

  “What would you do if you ever won a million dollars?” Royce quizzed, “Move, retire, or go on world trips?”

  “Naw. Me and Mrs. Laird like things fine just the way they are. Couldn’t move from here now. And what would I do with myself if I didn’t have this place? Naw, we wouldn’t want nothin’ to change.”

  “For a fact,” Bonnie concurred, “things are fine and dandy just the way they are.”

  ***

  Cobalt-blue raindrops of early evening drizzled against Valeria’s bedroom windowpane. Royce pulled up the collar of her terrycloth robe. She leaned against the window and looked up at the moon’s misty, telluric cast. Finishing the final sip from a cup of Irish coffee, she peered into the bottom of it.

  Valeria’s arm wound around her midsection. Against Royce’s back was the warmth of Valeria’s cheek. Hands softly cupped her breasts. Valeria whispered, “Our bodies fit together so perfectly. We make love in perfect cadence. Don’t you think?”

  “Ecstasy,” Royce said as she turned to face her lover. “Val, loving you is magnificent.” She kissed Valeria’s forehead.

  “Magnificent and magical,” Valeria laughed. “Great superlatives. Great sex. And that, hon, was only the prelude. I’ll top up the coffees and be right back.” When she reached the door, she gave a dramatic flywheel spin back around. “You will stay for some more magnificent and magical moments?”

  Royce’s mouth curved. “I’m under your spell.” She returned to her gaze out into the night skies. Of course she was enchanted by Valeria’s love. Admittedly, it was that unique charm. But, Royce considered, it wasn’t a love imitation. It wasn’t some carnival kind of emotion. Not that the carnival and the carnal were excluded. It was Valeria’s exotic-tasting lush lips. The rhythmic motion of her body. The lift of the lunging, slithering, and pulsating orgasm. Valeria’s moaning rasp. A time of giving and taking love. The passion, the desire, and the intoxicating dreaminess were all there.

  “Are you okay, darling?” Valeria quizzed, returning with the coffee. She straightened out a bundle of sheets and the comforter. “Come back to me.”

  “Sure,” Royce mumbled. “Sorry. I guess I’m just preoccupied with the case.” She eased under the covers and against Valeria’s warmth. “I was thinking about everything that’s been happening. The murders. My father.”

  “Royce, honey, you lost him. I lost my longtime friend and lover. We can’t rule the heartbeat of time. We’re all condemned by time’s ticking. Everyone is. And behind each tick is a mystery. Living is a very mysterious proposition. We trick ourselves into making plans with life. But there are no certainties for any of us. We only have now. Let’s not miss all that lovely ticking away of life by brooding.” Her fingers massaged Royce’s collarbone. “Okay, darling?”

  “Time may be our blessing, but fear is our vulnerability. Fear is our soft underbelly. Right now, for me, fear is mixed with guilt. That drifter isn’t experiencing a ticking of time. And my investigation is stalled. No clues; no evidence.”

  “Evidence isn’t required for self-guilt. We all have our secrets.”

  “And what is your deepest secret?”

  “For one thing, I didn’t exactly live the life of a saint when I was modeling. That was when I went to New York right after college. But just like you always say that talking about your time on the Denver Police Department is difficult to discuss, so is my New York time. I don’t relish talking about my salad days.”

  “I know about the men.”

  Valeria pulled from Royce. Recumbent, she leaned on her elbow. “When you feel as though you’ve been to the front lines, you tend only to trust yourself with certain secrets.”

  “We just made love. I hope you don’t think you’re at war with me?”

  “No, of course not. But some secrets belong inside. Life is self-exploration. Autonomy is required. We needn’t hand over access to one another’s deepest being in order to share love.” Her hand reached to smooth Royce’s hair. “Come on, darling, loosen your cinch and relax.”

  Their fingers chained. “People wouldn’t believe our conversations.”

  “People think I’m an ice goddess bitch with no mind and no feelings.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So cheer up. Life is worth the chromosome on which it’s written,” Valeria gibed playfully. Tracing Royce’s thin fingers with her own index finger, she added, “No one would believe what a sizzling romance we have. Or that you have such a dazzling smile. But I can’t even believe in the smile when you’re so sullen.”

  “Sorry. I’m not much good at pretending it’s prom night when I hurt.”

  “Hon, if it’s about my past, I’ve explained. I was in the wrong place with the wrong people. And I was doing the wrong things. That’s the best I can do with a confession.”

  “It isn’t that.” Royce pulled Valeria against her.

  “Royce, move on. You’ve been so depressed since all this delving into the past began. You’re consumed by it.”

  “An innocent man is jailed. There’s a murderer out free. And I’m getting nowhere on the case.”

  “Maybe if you’d concentrate on the current murders and leave off with this obsessive drive to revenge your father’s death.”

  “Obsessive?”

  “Unhealthy. Yes,” she answered coolly. “You’re trying to solve a murder that took place a decade ago. After all I’ve heard about it, I could write a mini-series about the murder of Grady Madison. You’re stuck back there in the past, and you’re trying to make it coincide with the present. No wonder you can’t solve Trish’s murder. No wonder you can’t nail Luther. That rabid sonofabitch!” she cursed. “He said that he’s got to keep out of trouble. The Chandler property wouldn’t go to him if he were to be charged with a felony. Trish was a pretty smart cookie when it came to putting provisos in her will.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Luther told me. I went out to the ranch after school one day last week and he told me.”

  “You went out there?”

  “Royce, my horse is stabled out there. I’ve boarded her there since I arrived here. You know that.”

  “You may have mentioned it. But that was another of your off-limit areas. Your Trish time.”

  “I can’t ignore the horse.”

  “Luther is dangerous. I hate to think of you being out there alone with him.”

  “We’re not alone. There are stable hands, grooms. Royce, there’s always someone around. And you’re not finding out anything about the murders. Maybe he’ll slip up and say something, and I can tell you.”

  “Damnit, Valeria,” Royce clamored as she sat up, “he very well may have killed two people and you want to play sleuth?”

  “I want Luther behind bars for what he did to Trish. I want him arrested as much as you do. Possibly more.”

  With an explosive clasp, Royce crushed Valeria to her. “Please don’t go out there without someone with you. Find another place for your horse. I don’t want you involved in this. And don’t keep that kind of a secret from me.”

  Valeria kissed Royce gently. “And you, how about your little secret?”

  “My secret?”

  “I hear you’re going on a little outing with the vet.”

  “We’re going fishing,” Royce corrected. “Nothing secretive.”

  “Well, you didn’t mention it. I went in Molly’s to get some cinnamon rolls for a teacher’s conference and your mother told me about it. In passing, of course.”

  “It’s a fishing trip.”

  “So,” Valeria teased as she lifted the mug of Irish coffee. “Looks like we need to chug for the cherry.”

  Royce took several gulps and then reached down and pulled the cherry out by its stem. She carefully swayed it over Valeria’s impatient lips. The snap as Valeria’s teeth pulled it from its stem excited Royce. She felt her face flush and her body burn. That searing passion was enhanced by Valeria’s d
eep, raw kiss. “I’m definitely ready for more magical moments.”

  “Royce, I know I haven’t always, and don’t always, show my love. But it’s important that you know how much I love you.”

  “Please don’t mess around with anything that could endanger your life,” Royce’s eyes were pleading. “I love you too.” She felt the tantalizing nail scratches slowly drifting down her back. Royce’s lips lifted into a smile of sensuality. “Baby, baby.”

  “Let me show you my mystery.”

  “Show me your mystery.”

  ***

  Trish had been a feminist, and Royce guessed that she had retained Timber City’s leading female attorney, Meg Carter. Meg had only been in Timber City for five years, but she had a prestigious client list. That list included many of Crystal Basin’s elite. And Trish Chandler-Sumner was her client. Royce’s supposition proved correct. She was shown into Meg’s plush office. Meg greeted her with a businesslike handshake, and with the aplomb of a city lawyer. Meg had practiced law in Denver for a quarter of a century. When she reached her mid-fifties, she went into semi-retirement. That was not to last. She often joked that she would never retire again. Then there would be no time for sleep.

  Meg’s silver hair was stylish, her manicure perfect, and her designer suit impeccable. Her large frame eased onto her chair as she spoke. “Deputy, sit. Don’t look so formal unless you’re serving me,” she said with a chuckle. Her light blue eyes twinkled, as she asked, “I’m not being arrested, am I?”

  Royce smiled. “No. Not at all. I need a favor. I’m working on Trish’s murder. She was your client.”

  “You want to know how the will broke down?”

  “Yes.”

  She pressed her intercom button and requested that the file be brought to her. “It’s been filed and read, so I’m not betraying a client trust.” With a sly grin, she added, “And I realize that you could have the court order me to turn it over in a murder case. But then I’m sure you know that.”