Crystal Mountain Veils

by Kieran York

  Sandra turned, stumbling against Judge Jakob McDermott and his wife, Elizabeth. She made an awkward attempt at brushing the spilled drink from the judge’s lapel. “Foolish woman,” he blustered. He examined his prized stein for damage. “This was given me by the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, I’ll have you know.”

  Sandra stumbled back. “And you’re never without it.”

  The judge glared and then addressed his wife. “Elizabeth, I wish you wouldn’t have given the likes of her an interview,” he scolded. “No telling how she’ll mangle the truth.”

  Sandra whirled around. “Listen you old shyster, your wife just told me all about her little Tyler’s idyllic childhood. She’ll get a syrupy story for her time. So nail your nuts somewhere else, buster.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” he challenged.

  “Yank his leash, Liz.” Sandra said to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth quickly interceded. “Jake, just leave it.”

  “That’s right, Liz, you tell him to back away.” Sandra turned. Over her shoulder she spat, “Some judge. Timber County, Colorado. Jesus!”

  Jorie’s eyes opened wide. “Well, Elizabeth, that was some exit your little pal made.”

  “I think it’s wise to develop good relations with the press.” Elizabeth defended. “After all, her scandal sheet has ruined careers.”

  “That vulgar woman is scum. And her newspaper is trash. I’d like to see them both go up in flames. I don’t want you talking to her.” Jake McDermott was still fuming. The redness of his face clashed with his gray hair, goatee, and carefully trimmed mustache. His stocky build was tense and his blue eyes narrowed. His hands squeezed the brim of his white, stiffbrim straw hat. Then, as his temper cooled, his overtly courteous personality returned. “I’m sorry for the outburst. So, how are my wife’s two cousins doing?”

  “The newspaper keeps on ticking,” Gwen reported. “I guess I’m taking some heat from your Family Morals Coalition for backing Sheriff Madison.”

  Elizabeth’s hazel eyes steamed. Her fingers ran nervously through her stylish, ash-gray streaked, brown hair. She dressed conservatively in a copen blue dress, with matching hat, handbag, shoes, and gloves. A print scarf wound around her neck. Her attractive face was fastidiously made up, and her body trim and well-exercised. “Gwen, I don’t think this is the place for a discussion on politics,” she chastised. “Particularly in view of the fact that your paper should at least give equal space to your young friend’s opponent. And we all know that you two are friends,” she accused.

  “Yes. We are,” Gwen acknowledged.

  “And we all know what that means,” Jake said with treacherous amusement. “Don’t we?”

  Gwen blasted, “And for the record, you two and your cockamamie coalition don’t need to accept my ways. Just don’t expect me to accept your hate.”

  Jorie interjected, “Look, here comes the happy couple.” With obvious irony, she added, “The smoochy-face stars deserve their salaam.” She gave a deep mock bow that delighted Godiva. Godiva held up her hand, which was strung to Tyler McDermott’s.

  “We wanted to wait until that soak, Sandra Holt, moved her act along,” Godiva said with her whispery voice. “The little insect is waiting to trash me again.” In her mid-thirties, Godiva was tanned and toned. Her curvy, chorus-line body was aerobically trained. She wore a running suit and jogging shoes. A matching sweatband circled her bleached blond sprays of hair. Makeup had been recently scrubbed from her olive complexion. Large, luminous golden eyes shone from a face with heavy features. Her smile was playful, and her mouth formed words with irreverence. “Sandra’s tongue needs to be pruned.”

  “You’d chop out her heart too,” Tyler added.

  “If she had one,” she giggled. “I’d like to push her off of one of these enormous Colorado cliffs. But she’d only damage the environment.” Godiva glanced back at her. “I’ll get her yet.” Her face did not reflect a sex siren’s nonchalant ease. When talking about the gossip columnist, she showed the tension of a clock wound too tightly.

  Tyler’s laugh was as pleasant as his voice. “Sandra has defamed Godiva in print. And claims it’s good press.”

  Tyler was a perfect protege for Godiva. He was twenty-five, a decade her junior. He had star-quality handsomeness with a bright smile; blue, bedroom eyes that drooped at the corners; and light brown hair that was pulled back and tied, European style, into a short tail at the base of his neck. With a medium build and height, Tyler had taken the Hollywood community by storm. He was voted most sexy new star by many major women’s magazines. And admittedly, his bond with superstar Godiva had not hurt his career.

  “Some party,” Godiva complained. “Think we’d better check everyone’s pulse to make sure they haven’t all croaked. Ciao.”

  “Ciao?“ Royce repeated with a bemused grin. “Does she have any idea she’s in the mountains of Colorado?”

  Gwen sighed, “Makes you wonder who these people are.”

  By the time Godiva was across the room and out of sight, Royce turned and saw that Jorie had resumed a conversation with Sandra. The rest of the room was also becoming aware of the two women. Jorie lashed, “You aren’t a journalist, you’re a damned gossip monger. Someone ought to shut your vicious little mouth.”

  “You think you can do it?“ Sandra screamed. “I warn you, I’ve got a juicy story that’s going to light up the tabloids. And you do know what I’m talking about, sweetheart. You know. I have something on everyone. So don’t push me, Marjorie.”

  “Push you? I’d like to strangle you.”

  “We all have our little secrets, and when I get proof ...”

  “Getting proof never stopped you from cranking out trash,” Jorie yelled. “You realize it’s tantamount to blackmail.”

  “In the movies, they say that blackmail is such an ugly word,” Sandra’s shrill laugh was evil and threatening. “Now, I’m going to bed. You’ve given me a headache. Just remember what I said.”

  Jorie’s eyes held the kind of anger that produces tearing.

  Her hands became fists. “You’ll die before you ruin any more lives.”

  Gwen glanced back at Royce. “I’ve never seen Jorie this upset.”

  Royce shrugged. “If this is how the other half lives, I sure hope I never win the lottery.”

  “You never play the lottery,” Gwen teased, “so your chances are pretty remote.”

  Royce inspected the room; she mingled for about half an hour and then became ensconced in her own little corner. She studied the behavior of the guests and wondered about each of their lives. Then she heard the voice of one of Godiva’s bodyguards. An urgency in his clamoring words shot through the room. “Godiva’s missing!”

  ***

  Word came quickly when Godiva had been located. Her bodyguard announced that she’d gone out to jog around the lodge’s bike path.

  Royce stood at attention. Although they were in one of the main halls of the lodge, it was silent. Royce leaned toward Godiva. “Well?”

  “I gave my bodyguards the slip for a few minutes. That’s no big deal.” Her face was sheened with sweat. “I had a little run. No reason to become alarmed.”

  “It is when I put the Timber County Sheriff’s Department on alert because you’re missing. There have been threats on your life. We take that seriously, even if you don’t.” Royce’s voice was stern, but she resisted showing her anger. “I ought to bring charges.”

  “I needed some space. I needed ten minutes to myself.”

  “You should have let someone know where you were going. You could have been mobbed.”

  “No one even recognized me. I just wanted to run.” Before Royce could issue additional warnings, she heard a scream, followed by a commotion at the other end of the hall.

  The press corps had their block of rooms at that end, Royce recalled. She rushed with the others to the room where they’d heard the scream. Royce pressed past the onlookers.

  Jorie was bent over the
body of Sandra Holt and holding a bloody fireplace poker in her right hand. Dropping it as she stood, she stepped away from the gossip columnist’s lifeless body.

  “Everyone move back,” Royce directed. She carefully made her way to Jorie. “What happened?”

  “I saw the door was ajar and the lights were all on. I couldn’t imagine,” she broke. “I came in, saw Sandra, and thought she’d passed out from drinking. I leaned down and picked up the poker so I wouldn’t trip over it. Then I saw the blood on it. And the pool of blood on the floor.”

  “Go back to the hall and wait. We’ll need to question you,” Royce said.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Jorie declared. “She was dead when I got here.” She appealed to Gwen. “Tell her, Gwen. I couldn’t kill anyone.” Her face was ashen and immobile as if frozen.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Royce said.

  “Royce,” Gwen disputed, “she wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  Royce knelt. “Nick, get the coroner and forensics. Tell them to expedite. And we’ll need to seal the room. Pull in a couple more deputies and begin taking statements. I want you to get statements from Miss Lovett, Godiva, and Tyler. Make sure no one touches the door.”

  “Right.” He turned and began radioing for assistance. Royce surveyed the room. Sandra’s right temple had been brutally bludgeoned. The blood had splattered, but the only sign of smearing had been made by the victim herself. She had smeared two letters on the parquet floor. The grisly message began with a capital L, and the victim had started to write what looked like an O but was only partially completed when the circular motion stopped. She had attempted to identify her killer. Royce gulped. LO. Lovett.

  The room was emptied and sealed. Deputies began herding the guests into the main room in order to take their statements.

  Royce scanned the room. She moved to the desk where Sandra’s datebook was open. The columnist had written, 'A new twist to checkbook journalism!' There was also an empty envelope. Royce looked back at the body.

  When the coroner and forensic team arrived, Royce felt relief. Bags were placed over the dead woman’s hand, to protect crucial genetic samplings of DNA, in case Sandra had been able to scratch her assailant. The team had taken photos; sprayed for prints; and gathered relevant evidence. There had been no forced entry. There had been no struggle.

  Royce turned, and Godiva was storming past the deputies. She was tailed by a group of reporters, including Jorie. Godiva questioned, “Is she really dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Godiva pulled the ’do not disturb' sign from the doorknob. With a vengeance, she pitched it on top of the body. “Ciao, bitch!“ she said with a fiery growl.

  Royce grabbed her arm. “Hold it right there. I ought to arrest you for that.” She turned and saw the other party members and media gathered outside the room. “You may have tainted some important evidence.”

  “Evidence!“ Godiva hooted. “This is the first time Sandra Holt has ever been connected with evidence.”

  “Step outside,” Royce ordered. “We’ll need to question you.”

  “Submit the questions, and I’ll have my New York attorneys answer them immediately.”

  “You’ll answer our questions now, or the Timber County deputies will handcuff you and haul you to jail for obstruction and evidence tampering. Do I have your attention?”

  “I don’t need to answer your questions without an attorney.”

  “You’ve got to cooperate and give a statement. If your statement is incriminating, you’ll need to be Mirandized. Then you have a right to an attorney present during questioning.”

  Godiva’s scowl became a grin. “Well, sheriff, you’re a real steamroller. And you’re adorable when you’re angry.”

  “Nick, get her out of here. And don’t let anyone else through the line until we’ve finished.”

  Godiva’s large eyes flirted with Nick. “You don’t want to see me arrested, do you, handsome?“ she cooed.

  “Let’s go,” he instructed.

  Godiva added, “I just wanted to make sure she was dead.”

  Royce’s back stiffened. “Did you kill her?”

  Godiva laughed. “No, but I think whoever did ought to be decorated. I’m talking a full chest of medals.” She passed by Jorie, “Congratulations. Nice work.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Jorie denied.

  “I didn’t either,” Godiva chanted. “So, if neither one of us of fed her, could it have been a suicide?”

  Chapter 5

  It had been a long seven days since the slaying of Sandra Holt. Royce had compressed as much work as she could into each day. She hadn’t even taken time for lunch most days, opting for take-outs and snacks. This day she vowed to make time to visit her mother and grab a bit of lunch.

  The noon rush at Molly’s Pantry was over. Molly was clearing away plates when Royce entered and took a stool at the small counter. “Royce, honey, how’s the morning been?“ Molly asked as she wiped the pine countertop.

  “Fine, Mom.” Royce watched as her mother poured a glass of herbal iced tea. Royce took a sip and felt the coolness douse her fiery throat. “Hits the spot.”

  “Hertha does come up with some great ideas,” Molly remarked. “I have to admit, I had my doubts about how much folks around here would go for herbal tea. I do believe I’m selling almost as much of it now as my regular tea. Anything new on the investigation?”

  “Sandra Holt had a multitude of detractors. Everyone despised her. A short list of suspects would take the week to name. And they all had the opportunity. After a week of investigation, we don’t have any single suspect. We’ve got them by the bushel load.”

  “But Jorie Lovett is your number one?“ Molly pried.

  “I can’t say that. That’s what Granger believes, and he’s pressing hard to have a statement made. But I did some checking on the stranger who’s been hanging around watching Hertha. I ran his car tags, and motor vehicles reported his name is Rick Brown. Nothing on him, but I did find out he’s employed as a handyman up at Crystal Lodge. He was there at the time of the murder and has no alibi. I’ve got a gut feeling that he could be implicated in some way. But the list also includes everyone at the party.”

  “Any fingerprints in the room?“ Molly inquired.

  “We didn’t bother running Brown’s prints since he’d already admitted being in the room. He’d worked on the outlets in Sandra Holt’s room that morning. Everyone left fresh prints. Jorie. Godiva and Tyler. An assortment of other reporters, all of whom she’d had altercations with at one time or another. And even Judge McDermott left a set of prints.”

  “The judge? Why was he in the Holt woman’s room? Surely he’s not involved.”

  “He had picked Elizabeth up after she’d given an interview to Sandra.”

  “You think it might have been that Rick Brown fella?”

  “We’re looking into it. I can’t get a read on his history. He’s been in trouble before; I can tell because he knows his rights. And I don’t think he knows them from pursuing a law degree. But he hasn’t given me cause to drag him in and put him through the hopper.” Royce issued a heavy sigh. “I was looking through the statements and my eyes snagged on his name. Although his implication in the Holt death seems out of kilter, maybe I want it to be him. I hate to admit it, but maybe I want any excuse to get him off the streets and away from Hertha. But I’m committed never to work with made-to-measure evidence. But he sure tempts me.”

  “He’s still hanging around Hertha?”

  “He went into the clinic yesterday and asked her for a date. When she refused, he charged that she ought to be happy a white man would ask her out. You can see the stink coming off him. He scares me, but Hertha seems to be taking it all in stride.”

  “Did she tell him to leave?”

  “Laramie ran in, asking if she was okay. Brown made a hasty retreat. Laramie’s been watching the clinic for me.”

  Royce’s mind wandered. Chronology is the first element
of deduction. They had a woman with her head crushed in. Her head wound had bled profusely, and her last act had been to scratch a letter and a half using her own blood for ink. Forensic evidence showed little. The collected trace evidence disclosed little. There was a wide spate of conjecture regarding suspects. The smoking gun. Jorie was there, over the dead woman, with the murder weapon in her hand. “I really need to crack this case,” Royce sighed.

  “Don’t be worrying, Roycie, you’ll get on to it.”

  Royce smiled at her mother’s confidence. Hearing the clink of cutlery as Molly cleared the counter reminded her. “I forgot to eat breakfast.”

  “Well, you came to the right place.” Molly reached across the counter and patted Royce’s hand. “What are you hungry for?”

  “Any specials left?“ Royce asked. The Pantry special was Molly’s handed-down recipe of English pasties. The art of pastie-making was part of Molly’s tradition. They were made from a small circle of light, flaky pastry dough. Inside, meat, potatoes, and often vegetables, were mixed with thick gravy. The dough was folded in half, crimped on the edges, and then baked. The delicacy had once been a hand-held stew for miners to take into the mines. It had become Molly’s trademark.

  “Saved some pasties for you and Hertha. She dropped in about half an hour ago. Said she’d get back over here when she saw you, if she wasn’t busy.” Molly peered across the street at the filled parking spaces reserved for Hertha’s patients. “Looks like she’s a mite too busy.” Molly placed a platter of steaming pasties in front of Royce. “You eat these. They’ll give you energy to solve the crime.”

  Royce carefully poured a trickle of tomato juice over the pasties. Her father had always liked his pasties that way too. Her fork pressed down and crushed the edge of the small meat pie. Flakes sprayed across the plate. As hungry as she was, and as delicious as the meal was, she had to force herself to eat. When she finished, she took a final sip of the tea.

  “How about some of my strawberry pie?”

  “Maybe later, Mom. I’d better leg it on back to the courthouse.”