Crystal Mountain Veils

by Kieran York

  Surrounding the large, flagstone patio was a wooden privacy fence. Floral sprays streamed from numerous hanging planters. Halved barrels displayed scarlet, vermilion, and white geraniums and petunias. At one side of the patio was a rock grill with smoke billowing. Royce could smell the spiced shrimp and vegetable kabobs. A huge, clear bowl was filled with melon balls, grapes, and berries.

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” Royce said, hugging Nadine.

  Nadine flashed her warm smile. “Gwen helped with the croissants. She purchased them from your mom.” Nadine’s face had the soothing look of a negotiator, with a quiet gentleness, humor, and complete trustworthiness. Thick, charcoal gray hair surrounded a pale, sensitive face. Her slightly aquiline nose and crowded-toothed smile added to her character. Deep topaz eyes searched faces with total interest in what others were saying.

  “Hell’s bells,” Gwen muttered, “I sweep the patio, start the charcoal, and play ball with the dogs, and this woman wants me to prepare the food too.”

  “Cinnamon and Smoky played ball with you,” Hertha corrected with a laugh. She stood to kiss Royce. “Glad you made it on time.” She wore a striped overblouse, lime-colored shorts, and sandals. Her hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck.

  “You look nice, hon,” Royce complimented. “Umm, and smell nice.”

  “Now, no newlywed talk,” Gwen teased. She draped her arm around Nadine’s shoulder. “My house spouse hasn’t been that accommodating lately.”

  Nadine pulled away. “I’ll get the table set.”

  Gwen shrugged. “The rule of the day is to avoid affection.”

  When Nadine returned from the kitchen, she put the plates down with a clatter. “Gwen, if you aren’t too busy, why don’t you bring out the lemonade.”

  “I guess that scowl has my name on it,” Gwen attempted humor.

  Hertha jumped in, “Nadine, you’ve fixed everything. Let Gwen and me get things set up. Why don’t you show Royce your garden?”

  Gwen had no idea how to remedy her lover’s agitation, and Royce could tell. “Great idea,” Royce responded. “How about it?”

  Nadine led the way back to her prized vegetable garden. “It’s not very elaborate this year.”

  Royce surveyed the patch with rows of vegetables. Nadine’s garden was always sculptured, always lush. “Looks great to me.” Royce reached and touched Nadine’s arm. “Nadine, is the campaign taking too much of your time away from the Times, your garden, and Gwen?”

  “No.” Nadine moved away from Royce. She bent down to pull a stray weed. “I’m fine. If anything the campaign is affording me an excuse to stay away from Gwen’s crankiness.”

  Royce knelt on one knee. “Nadine, I asked you to be my campaign manager because it was easier for you to keep away from a conflict of interest with the newspaper than it would be for Gwen. You mostly write feature stories anyway, so that didn’t need to change. And Gwen is city council president. It would have been impossible for her to run my campaign. But the last thing in the world I wanted was for your helping me to cause a rift between you two.”

  “It hasn’t. And won’t.” Her fingers tilled the peppercorn-brown loam. She lifted a clump of soil and grated it with her clasp. “It isn’t the time I’ve spent on the campaign. It’s just that things are tense now. And I have no idea why.”

  “When I was small, I could go to Gwen and she would commiserate with me. But when I hurt, I always came to you. You would patch my wound and wash away the tears. Won’t you let me be there for you?”

  “It’s just that sometimes I feel I exist as half of another person. And she’s the person who matters.”

  “Everyone knows you’re the one who gives Gwen her stability. And the Times its famous middle-of-the-road approach to news. We couldn’t do without you, Nadine.” Royce squinted into the sun. “Please talk to me.”

  “Sometimes it’s as though I live in two different countries. One is loving and one isn’t. Maybe it is me. Maybe I want to do a winning job for you. Royce, to be honest, I had no idea how much money the Coalition has. I’m afraid with our meager funds it’s going to be a difficult time. I know there have been plenty of radio commercials.”

  “They signed a contract with the paper for full page ads. Royce, we don’t even have the funds to spend on liners.”

  “They’re getting their money from around the country. A national pool of hate money. We’re getting ours locally. But don’t forget that it’s the locals who do the voting.” Royce tried to put confidence in her voice. “And you’re doing the very best job anyone could.”

  “I don’t want to fail.” Nadine’s chin lifted. She glanced across the garden. “Up here in the mountains the growing season is so short.”

  Chapter 4

  The mountain clearing was a velvet sheet of wheat-colored meadow. Off to one side were silver ribbon rails that carried trains through the pass. Above, a scarf of the cloud system streamed. Royce had selected the spot for a training session with the deputies because of its accessibility and its beauty. It was between Timber City and Crystal, the small, exclusive resort that rested in the basin of Crystal Mountain.

  Royce and Nick were scheduled to meet that afternoon with the security team at Crystal Lodge, where Godiva would be staying. They would go into Crystal when the session with a dozen deputies was over. Royce had included Dillon Granger and the other deputy from Crystal in the training session. She suspected she would regret Dillon’s participation.

  Dillon, in his mid-fifties, was a large, boisterous man. His ginger-gray crew cut was thinning. His black eyes snapped and were set widely apart, giving him the look of bovine stupidity. His lantern-bulb jaw was set into a mood-reflecting grimace. Royce objected not only to his arrogance but also to his lack of concern about how he appeared while on duty. His uniform was sloppy; his mouth, and more often than not his handlebar mustache, was filled with chewing tobacco; and he refused to wear standard Roper boots. His scuffed Western boots curled up at the toes and were stomping toward Royce. He eyed her like a baseball pitcher sizing up a batter.

  Nick broke the tension. “Everyone remember to wear those flak vests?”

  Royce chuckled. “Come on, fellas. No ’sissy' accusations.”

  The other deputies laughed, but Dillon gave a bullfrog cough. “Let’s get on with this shit.”

  “Deputy,” Royce said with restraint, “we’re here to work on procedures as enforcers. We might need to take protective measures while dealing with Godiva’s visit. We can all do with brushing up our protocol so we do our county proud.”

  “All this procedures crap oughtta strike terror in the hearts of villains,” he muttered sarcastically.

  “This training is not a waste of time. It’s vital that we know how to properly detain, arrest, and incarcerate.”

  “The sheriff means how to punch heads and pitch ass in the slammer,” Dillon chided.

  “I mean precisely what I said. We’re going to be dealing with fans, press, and goofs. We’ve got to know how to safeguard a VIP and do it without a lawsuit for infractions.”

  “I know how the hell to take care criminals,” he disputed.

  “Let’s not waste time arguing. It’s important that we be the best force we can. We owe that to the people of Timber County.”

  Royce pointed at two of the rookie deputies, “Sammy and Tim. Let’s play out a scene. Tim, you’ve got a hostage. Let’s call her Godiva. You’ve got a gun to her head. Sammy, you’ve got your gun trained on Tim. No backup; none on the way. So play it out.”

  Tim pretended to have his gun at his hostage’s head. He barked, “Drop your gun or I’ll shoot her.”

  “I’ll drop my gun, if you drop yours. And let her loose.”

  Royce stepped in. “Never relinquish your gun, Sammy. The only reason for dropping your gun is if Tim had his gun to your head and your gun was aimed at space. As long as there is anything to bargain, don’t drop that gun.”

  “But if I drop it, and he drop
s his, I can overpower him,” he said confidently.

  “He won’t drop his weapon. What will happen is that we’ll have two murders. In any hostage situation, you try for the least amount of damage. Standoff all day long.” Royce turned. “Now, another scenario. This time it’s Tim and Sammy, but there is backup. Each of you pick a place and surround them.”

  After the deputies had made a semicircle around the pair, Royce examined each line of fire. She motioned to Jim. “Always be conscious of surroundings. Jim, if you fire and the bullet ricochets, you may injure Paul. Move up the line about three feet and you’ll have a clear shot.”

  Royce walked behind Dillon. “Deputy, you’re going to throw lead in Aaron’s face.”

  Dillon’s voice rose, “I’m a good enough goddamn shot that I would have a direct hit on the dirtball.” His eyes glared, and his jowls were purple. “I never miss a target.”

  “I don’t want anyone’s life in jeopardy to prove that you’re an expert shot. Those are needless chances we should never take with the life of anyone. It doesn’t have a thing to do with how accurate you are with your weapon.” Royce thought about her own gun. Often the responsibility of it felt like a .357-caliber Smith and Wesson crucifix. “Now let’s trade positions. Paul, Aaron, you switch off with Sammy and Tim. Everybody move.”

  After an hour or so of various role-playing scenarios, Royce stretched and announced, “I think we’ve had enough of a session for today.”

  Walking across the dry streambed on her way to the Blazer, Royce noted that the soil was cracked open with miniature chasms. She stopped and examined the criss-crossed, pencil-thin designs in the ravine. When she turned, she saw Nick following her. “Royce, you want me to drive to Crystal?“ he asked.

  She threw him the keys. “Not a bad idea. It will give me a chance to get Dillon Granger out of my mind.”

  “He loves to make you twist in the wind.” Nick turned the Blazer’s ignition key. With a laugh, he added, “You were on him like a lioness today though.”

  “My daddy taught me to duck when the fuse is lit. And come out well-armed after the explosion.”

  “The way you and Dillon mix it up, you might be doing plenty of ducking when the election gets nearer.” Nick directed the vehicle up the winding mountain highway.

  “I hate arguing. It’s as though we’re waiting to see who will step on the first land mine.” Royce paused. “Nick, I’m reassigning you to Crystal while Godiva and her entourage are here.”

  “Dillon won’t like it.”

  “And with that creep still watching Hertha, I don’t like having you out of Timber City. But Dillon will get over it, and so will I. We’ll just let Dillon bluster. Words provide life with brawls, and actions put down the brawls.” Royce glanced out at Crystal coming into view. “Come on, Adonis, you wanted to get to know Godiva up close and personal. Here’s your chance.”

  Nick pulled the department Blazer into a parking space and turned to look at Royce.

  “Don’t tell me she intimidates you?“ Royce laughed at his silence. “Well?”

  “Your Gran says I’m like a ferret down a rabbit hole after women,” Nick disclosed with an embarrassed side-glance.

  “Well, good luck with Godiva,” Royce murmured. “We’re invited to attend a big press party for her arrival tonight. I guess you’ll be on her like ugly on an ape,” Royce teased.

  “I’ll have to knock Dillon Granger out of the way. He needs the publicity.”

  “I know. This campaigning business is part of the ole boy’s club that I’ll never get on to.” Royce gave a sigh of resignation. “We both know that Dillon doesn’t measure up. But we also both know that I don’t have the support of the other deputies.”

  “Sounds like you want to throw in the towel.”

  “No. Ever read Machiavelli’s The Prince}"

  “If it’s recommended reading, I won’t touch it,” Nick joked. “Why?”

  “It’s a book that has been called a primer for dictators. Its premise is whatever it takes to become and stay powerful is justified.”

  “And?”

  “Machiavelli claims that the Prince should be feared and loved. But if there is to be only one option, the Prince should elect to be feared. Because it’s the subject’s decision to give love, but the Prince decides if he is to be feared.”

  Nick’s eyebrows bobbed. “So what does the princess decide, and why?”

  “Ask her tonight when you get her autograph.”

  ***

  Royce hoped that the small mountain community ahead stayed as peaceful as it looked. Crystal was being developed for the leisure play of the wealthy and famous. It had once been a mining camp filled with canvas tents and saloons. The rich ore brought out of the mountains had made it a boom town. After the silver market declined, the town had nearly became extinct. Then the crystal white, craggy snow peaks brought skiers. And their money. Trails of powdery rooster tails weaved through the timberline spruce. And the city grew within the pocket of slopes. First, there was a ski complex that included a lodge. Then there were bistros, ski shops, boutiques, and they were flanked by swank restaurants. A hamlet of alpine chalets rested within the basin. Glamour began luring more and more celebrities. But until now, Royce considered, they had almost gone unnoticed.

  Crystal Lodge was designed to accommodate the glamour and glitz of its clientele. Plush, the mammoth two-story lodge had an alpine flavor. Godiva’s entourage took the Mother Lode suites. Palatial, the party room held four dozen reporters, special guests, and representatives from Elliot Studios. After a brief news conference, Godiva had retired to her quarters to freshen up. Guests remained behind in the vanilla, teal, and country rose accented party room. They were offered champagne and elegant hors d'oeuvre platters.

  “Sorry, I’m on duty,” Royce declined the champagne.

  Gwen took a chilled glass and held it up. “Since the press conference is over, I’m off duty.” She wore a tailored Western suit and matching boots.

  “You’re looking dapper, on or off duty,” Royce complimented. “Nadine watching the office?”

  “Nadine declined the invitation. She hates these doings as much as I.” Gwen motioned to Marjorie Lovett. “Jorie, this is the friend I told you about. Sheriff Royce Madison.”

  “I’ve seen you on television,” Royce acknowledged, extending her hand.

  “I’m not sure why I’m here covering this fiasco,” said Jorie. “My camera team couldn’t get out of here fast enough. They headed for the Crystal Bistro. Godiva only wanted cameras at the actual press conference and wouldn’t allow them in attendance at the party.” Off-camera, Jorie’s Texas accent crept back into her speech.

  “Maybe she wanted to put on some clothes,” Gwen chuckled. “That was a pretty scanty outfit she had on. And she’s on the arm of the son of the Family Morals Coalition’s chief advocate. Hell’s bells, Elizabeth must not be looking at Godiva’s lushly blooming cleavage.”

  “If Godiva plans on getting in good with my cloyingly sweet cousin Elizabeth, she’d better give her knees a party and invite her skirt on down,” Jorie said with a chuckle. “But beneath that mirthless, sewer-brain exterior, I’ve got to say Godiva’s one hell of a businesswoman. That appeals to Elizabeth. Commerce is considered the high road with both women.” In a whisper Jorie added, “Elizabeth is so straight you could rule lines by her. Unlike her cousins. Gwen rescued me from straight life.”

  “So I hear,” Royce remarked.

  “We dissolved the relationship amicably,” Jorie stressed. “I insisted we stay pals. I couldn’t handle it if Gwen turned her acid wit on me.”

  Gwen bantered, “Some people are intrigued by my poison pen.”

  “Gwen, here’s your big chance to use that venom.” Jorie pointed to the intoxicated, loud woman staggering toward them.

  “Sandra Holt, gossip columnist,” she whispered. “She’s loaded, so she won’t even understand your barbs.”

  Gwen shrugged. “I like it better when the
y think I’m speaking pig Latin.”

  “That she would understand,” Jorie jabbed.

  After introductions, Jorie asked, “Sandra, who is the recipient of your latest razzies?”

  “I dispense them equally, dear,” came the woman’s tight, nasal, swinging-jaw accent that had been developed at an Eastern girl’s college. Her eyes were glazed with liquor, yet naked malice reflected from the grape-green color. Her long, frizzy hair was dyed jet black and framed her thin, well-painted face. Smoke oozed from her bright kewpie-red mouth. “No one with a secret is safe, Marjorie, dear.”

  “Point your cigarette in another direction, please,” Jorie requested, fanning the air. “I guess when you dredge up the garbage, you’ve got to chain smoke to get rid of the stink.”

  With a husky voice, Sandra countered, “We all have our little bad habits, sweetheart.” She took another gulp from her Scotch and soda. “I’m going over by the door. The star should be having yet another grand entrance. And who wants to miss the little sex machine’s performance.”

  “Haven’t you slammed her enough in your rag?“ Jorie asked.

  “I said her mother came from a pet shop,” Sandra said with a shrill laugh. “She drew her own conclusions. And, Marjorie, you draw your conclusions.”

  “Her mother died when she was a kid,” Jorie censured. “The woman deserves some compassion.”

  “What the hell does she want, a retraction? Nobody reads them. I’m not about to apologize to Godiva. Screw her,” Sandra issued a plastic laugh and then settled back into her sardonic grin.

  “You’re right about that. Retractions are useless. You can’t un-ring a bell. Down deep you know you love a good tangle. But with you, it can never be fair. Only malicious.”