Crystal Mountain Veils

by Kieran York

  “I’d like to see her in person,” Nick disclosed, “but she’ll be tucked in seclusion up in Crystal for her entire visit. Imagine the famous rock star sashaying down Timber City’s main drag in her fancy underwear.” He laughed. “And can you imagine if she performed anywhere around here?”

  Royce chuckled as she sat at her desk. “I hear she has a pretty ribald act. The Family Morals Coalition is after me for being a female sheriff. Just imagine what they’d do if she grabbed her crotch in front of them.”

  “Oh, before I forget. One of these calls was a threat.”

  “A threat?” Royce felt her back stiffen.

  “Some goof calls in, says he’s going to kill her in the name of our creator.” Nick handed the note to Royce.

  “Plenty amazing,” Royce muttered with irritation in her voice.

  “Call came in a few minutes ago. I’ll check with dispatch and have a tape of the call sent in for our morning meeting.”

  “Nick, we’re going to have our hands full when Godiva and her entourage arrives.”

  She jotted information on the meeting agenda list so she would remember to inform the deputies at the gathering. She had begun the ritual of assembling the deputies when she became acting sheriff. It had not been appreciated. It was now becoming a half hour of complaints rather than updates and instruction. And Royce’s usual easygoing manner was becoming tense.

  Royce considered that usually when there is one threatening call, there will be many more. The superstar Godiva had her own bodyguards, and Crystal Lodge had agreed to boost security. But with a threat against Godiva’s life, the Timber County Sheriff’s Department would need to be involved.

  “Dillon Granger will love it,” Nick chatted. “He’ll be in his glory up there on his own turf protecting one of the most famous stars in the world. Think of the free publicity for his campaign.”

  Royce knew Nick was right. Naturally, Granger would take advantage of every opportunity he could. And he wouldn’t miss this media event. Royce had no political instincts. And wanted none. Her father, Grady Madison, had been sheriff of Timber County for years, and he did it without playing politics. But he’d been gunned down. Ten years later Royce had brought the guilty party to justice, and the city council had voted to make her acting sheriff until the November election.

  “Nick, I don’t doubt for an instant that he’ll get all the mileage he can with it. He might even acknowledge the benefit of our training program. But probably not,” Royce added with a jab. “I know you all resent the training sessions.” Royce had been trained in Denver when she was at the police academy. And then she spent three years on the city’s force before returning to Timber City. She had missed her hometown and its small city flavor.

  “We just don’t understand why all this new order cop crap is pertinent to us. We’re stuck up here in the mountains, and all that riot patrol junk is useless. We don’t have riots up here.”

  “But you all think police training is a riot,” she chaffed. “And you can never tell, the Young Methodists Committee might act up sometime, and Timber City deputies should know what to do.”

  “Deputies here have gotten along fine for years without martial arts training.”

  “Our force needs updating, Nick. But there’s more to it than that,” Royce disputed. “I’m a woman. They resent everything I tell them. It isn’t new order cop. It’s treating people like human beings. No more good ole boy club. We need to treat minorities with respect. No more bias. Bigots are no longer acceptable representatives of Timber County’s law enforcement.”

  “They’re not used to taking orders from a woman.”

  “I require that our performance be exemplary. We live up to the pride of our badges. No more questionable interrogation technique. No more acting as if we’re storm troopers. No more bent cops. No more jocks shooting it out and endangering the lives of bystanders. No more running hot. Speed chases are a thing of the past unless we’re pursuing the suspect of a very serious crime. I fail to see why the deputies are objecting?”

  “You said it. You’re a woman. That’s not all of it, but it’s a big part of the resistance, and sometimes it seems like you’re throwing your weight around.”

  “And if I were less demanding about it, you’d see me as the proverbial weak sister.”

  “We know you aren’t weak.” Nick twisted around to his desk. His face became grim and he was uncomfortable. “Royce, these meetings and training procedures are useless. What do we need with the ‘combat’ training procedures? Is that going to improve the way we throw old Laramie into the slammer when he gets hammered?”

  Royce thought about the town’s derelict. “I realize that Laramie is one of our star boarders and he doesn’t offer much resistance. But I want us to be prepared for anything we might encounter. The police academy in Denver based our training on working mean streets. But there’s no assurance that Timber County will stay as sweet as it is now.” She bristled, “And I’m sorry if you think a woman can’t handle this job. But I have every intention of trying to keep my sheriff’s badge. And of eventually gaining your respect.”

  “Well, if any woman could make a good sheriff, it’s you.”

  “Just not in this century? Or the one after that?”

  Nick glanced away. There was an impregnable silence before he responded. “Maybe not. Maybe we don’t have the confidence in a woman. We’re trained to think of women as the weaker sex.”

  “Gran says that women are spun of a feather exterior and our interiors are woven of steel.”

  “You ought to make Mrs. Madison your campaign manager,” Nick snickered. “Your grandmother has a way with words.”

  Royce gave a jaunty grin. “Nick, having my grandmother as a campaign manager is the best idea I’ve ever heard you come up with. I’m going to consider that! But until then, Nadine Atwell is my selected campaign manager.” She swirled her chair back around to face her desk. She peered down at the message that threatened the life of Godiva. “But for the record, Nick, I still think you have the personality of a cactus.”

  ***

  Laramie was Timber City’s eyes and ears. He knew the town’s history and happenings. He watched; he listened.

  He’d been in Timber City since Royce could remember. He had done nothing to improve his lot in life. He had arrived in town as a drifter when Royce’s father was the newly elected young sheriff. He held odd jobs with sole purpose of making enough money to buy whiskey. A man gnarled by time, he drank himself into oblivion. Often he collapsed on the board walkways that decorated Timber City’s main street.

  Laramie’s body was propped against the outer wall of the Bell Ringer Saloon. Wearing a ragged lightweight jacket and baggy pants, he slumped like a sack of grain feed. His face was ravaged by excessive drink. His nose was a beak, and his matted hair strayed beneath a rumpled Western hat. His craggy face was leathery and worn, with short gray stubbles of beard on his sunken cheeks. His eyes were dark and shadowy, his teeth snaggy and nicotine stained.

  He leaned back, like the great phantom of Timber City, and crossed his arms. He nodded when Royce approached. She had concluded a meeting with the deputies earlier, and then finished the huge stack of paperwork. It was the first opportunity she’d had to make her rounds with the Timber City locals.

  “Laramie, how’s it going?” Royce knew there were secrets about Laramie that she would probably never know. She also knew that he was a self-contained person, not unlike herself. But there was a difference. He allowed no one in his inner sanctum. He had closed his heart to humanity. His usual response with strangers was a monosyllabic wall of exclusion.

  “Election’s getting’ hot. Everybody has their hackles up for a good dogfight. Kid, you got my vote. But that Granger fella is chompin’ at the bit to take your badge.”

  “I’m hearing the growls, and the nips are snapping at me,” Royce acknowledged. “And I appreciate your vote.”

  “Visiting dignitaries comin’ to Crystal I hear.”


  “I don’t know that we can call a rock star a dignitary. But it’s official. Godiva will be here later this week.”

  “That’ll be keepin’ you mighty busy, I reckon.”

  “You don’t miss a thing, Laramie.” Royce glanced away a moment.

  Across the street behind the alley was the stranger’s truck. Royce twisted back, inspecting the area. The stranger was standing near Laird’s Country General Store. Again, Royce noted, his eyes were stationed on the High Country Animal Clinic.

  Laramie pushed away from the building. “Gonna be pissin’ down rain any time now. Drinkin’ weather.” He squinted up at the pewter clouds.

  Royce pointed in the direction of the stranger. “You ever see him around here before today?”

  “Nope. He ain’t been in these parts.”

  Royce saw the crafty glint in Laramie’s eyes. The wily old man bent into his secret. “That fella’s up to no good.”

  “Think I should arrest him?” Royce joked.

  “Naw.” Laramie’s face wrinkled into a laugh. “I think you ought a hang him. Then use ‘im for target practice. He’s a bad ‘un.”

  Royce laughed. “Well, do me a favor, and keep your eyes open. Let e know if there’s anything else you see.” Royce’s hand rested on her belt. “Now then, are you going to be needing an escort home tonight?”

  “Got me a hankering for a cowpoke’s measure of whiskey.”

  “That answers my question. I’ll have one of the deputies keep an eye out for you. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. I wanted to stop by the Bell Ringer anyway.”

  Laramie followed Royce inside and took his usual seat at the bar. Royce motioned to Faye Arnall. “A couple cups of coffee.”

  Faye’s cheer beamed from her round, freckled face that was surrounded by rusty-colored curls. Bright red lips sucked on a cigarette, and her kiwi green eyes flashed. Faye Arnall had been the Bell Ringer’s owner for nearly two decades. Her only child, Jade, had left for college in Boulder a week ago. Faye was relieved that her daughter would finally be away. She kidded that Jade was as wild as she had been as a wayward teen.

  With a booming laugh, Faye greeted Royce. “Not going to contribute to the delinquency of a senior with a snort of whiskey?” Faith poured Laramie’s coffee.

  Laramie dug in his pocket and unrolled a dollar. “Make it Irish,” he said with a growl. “Need to get my engine started.”

  Faye nodded and poured a drink for him. She watched as he drained it. “Is the coffee better with a lacing of booze?” she teased.

  He looked down at his dirt-edged fingernails. “Top ‘er up for me, will ya?”

  “Don’t you be getting too legless,” Royce cautioned.

  Laramie held up the shot glass and toasted, “Can’t do me no more harm than it’s already done.”

  Faye’s teeth were large, her smile expansive, and when she laughed it was hearty and contagious. “That’s right,” Faye agreed. “Hell, don’t blame my booze. It has no additives or artificial colorings.”

  Royce shook her head and followed Faye back to the coffee brewer. Faye topped up Royce’s coffee then poured herself a mug. Royce sat at a booth toward the back of the bar. She motioned for Faye to have a seat. “Laramie is planning a night of drink. So give us a call, and one of the deputies will pick him up.”

  “Shit, he falls down drunk and claims it’s the mountain’s gravity.” Faye pulled out a pack of cigarettes. The blue wisps of her burning match sparked as she lit up. With a cough, she sputtered, “Looks like the mountain gravity got to your smile.”

  “A tough week with everything that’s happening.” Royce quickly inquired, “So how’s Jade doing?”

  “She called last night. She’s getting settled in. That’s why she wanted to get there a day early. Get settled. I doubt if Colorado University teaches she courses she wants to learn. But I never been to college, so they may teach how to drive your mother nuts. Not that Jade needs instructions for that. Kids are at it like rabbits nowadays. But then I could tell ‘em that really good sinnin’ takes practice. I did my share of practicing.”

  “Jade isn’t a bad kid. Just a little restless. Maybe this is what she needs.”

  “I know it’s what I need,” Faye snickered. “Raising a kid in this day and age!” She took a deep drag from her cigarette. Then she sighed. “Royce, I don’t know if it’s got back to you or not,” she began, but stepped on the tail of her words.

  “What?” Royce looked down at the ring on the pine tabletop that her coffee mug had made. “Well?”

  “I thought maybe you’re upset because of what you’ve heard out on the street. Shit, the Family Morals Coalition has been trying to pick your bones clean with the election thing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They want you out of office. And out of town. You know most of them are frustrated wives. That Elizabeth McDermott is at the helm of it.”

  “Judge McDermott’s wife?” Royce frowned. “I knew she was into being proper, but I’ve never done anything to alienate her.”

  “She’s a real Bible thumper. I heard that the Coalition is going to bring up sexual orientation when the election gets closer.”

  “Sexual orientation?” Royce questioned grimly.

  “Not that it matters to me. Hell, I always say that sex is like chili. Better for a bit of spice. I just thought you should know that some of the housewives and God-botherers are on a town morals cleanup campaign. They have plans for winning the election. They’re gonna wait until the right moment and then make an allegation about your being lesbian.”

  “I don’t understand what I’ve ever done to any of these people.” Royce paused. She gulped her coffee. It had become bitter and cool, but it burned her stomach. “Why would these women come after me?”

  “Because they’re a bunch of beige vaginas, and they want to make every other woman as subservient and miserable as they are.”

  “Beige vaginas?” Royce questioned with an escaping grin.

  “Your buddy Gwen’s term for boring women who want to tell the rest of us how to live.”

  Royce figured it sounded like something her family friend, Gwen Ives, would say. And as outspoken as the publisher of the Timber City Times was, Royce was amazed that Gwen hadn’t included it in one of her editorials. “Gwen has never mentioned that term to me.”

  Faye’s full bosoms spread on the table top as she leaned to whisper, “She said it to me once when I was being ostracized by a batch of old biddies. Beige vaginas. Normally Gwen and I don’t agree on much of anything. I’ve told her more than once to put her editorial where the sun doesn’t shine. But we agree on beige vaginas.”

  “And these women dislike me?”

  Faye noticed the bar beginning to fill. She stood. “Royce, you know I don’t give a damn about anyone’s sexuality. But some around here do.”

  Royce looked into the dark coffee at the base of the mug. “I wish life made us all colorblind as to beige and lavender.”

  Faye walked away and Royce remained seated for many minutes. She felt her jaw twitch and her eyes water. The cloud of smoke that Faye had left behind was starting to annoy her.

  Timber City’s season of hate was beginning.

  Chapter 2

  “Come on in, Royce. It’s about to air.” Gwen Ives pointed to the empty office chair. “Make yourself comfy,” she instructed as she poured Royce a glass of iced tea.

  Royce took a sip. “Great. Your house spouse must have made it.”

  “Correct.” Gwen turned up the sound on the small television that had been placed on an antique lawyer’s bookcase. “Nadine puts her special spin on all food and drink. Now, this is important, so listen. Watch the goggle box and you’ll see what I mean.” Gwen gave her short, neatly clipped, salt and pepper hair a ruffle. She rearranged her eyeglasses and her bronze eyes peered at the TV screen.

  Waiting through a commercial, Royce contemplated what could be so important about a national newscast. She gazed around the
Timber City Times office. It was homey. Gwen’s large rolltop desk was stationed right behind Nadine’s. Nadine Atwell and Gwen had been lovers for twenty-four years. They were both approaching fifty and had run the newspaper for as long as Royce could remember. They were family friends of the Madisons. Both the Times and the women’s historical old Timber City home had always been Royce’s respite.

  “What’s this all about?” Royce inquired with amusement.

  “You’ll see.” Gwen leaned near the TV set. “Just listen.”

  On the screen Royce saw one of the network correspondents. It was Marjorie Lovett. She’d seen the attractive woman deliver various reports over the years. The reporter, in her late forties, began her resonant introduction, “It was announced today by Elliot Studios that singing star Godiva will be headlining their latest motion picture production. The production will also star newcomer Tyler McDermott.”

  Marjorie Lovett’s creamy complexion, pale blue eyes, and strawberry blond hair gave her a cameo look. Her hair was cut short and stylishly swept back over her ears. Her smile gleamed and her eyes were expressive. With an air of authority to her tall, willowy frame, she stood firm and extracted answers from interview subjects. Her confidence was polished, and most viewers trusted her informative reporting. Her toughness was not without compassion, yet she never gave free passes to her interviewees.

  “Tyler McDermott. Local boy makes good,” Royce stated.

  Gwen hushed her. “Listen, it gets better.”

  Marjorie Lovett continued her report. “McDermott has been romantically linked with Godiva in the past several weeks. Godiva is quoted as being thrilled about the production. Elliot Studios representatives also announced that part of the film will be shot on location in Crystal, Colorado, home of the Crystal Mountain ski trails and resort. McDermott fans will note that he hails from Crystal. The couple will be leaving for Crystal to spend a week’s vacation before filming begins. Security has been increased because of threats Godiva has recently received.”