by Kieran York
“We all know that Gwen and Marjorie are mercurial. Sandra Holt upset Marjorie. Marjorie struck out. Neither of my wife’s cousins are blessed with the sweet disposition my little woman has.” His chest puffed when he referenced the social dulcitude of his wife. Gwen’s brows lifted and her eyes comedically rolled. “Be that as it may, I’m convinced the murder was accidental and that Marjorie is sorry for it.” He snorted, “Sheriff, you’d best strike while the iron is hot. If you don’t arrest Marjorie soon, she may never confess.”
“Arresting an innocent person violates procedure,” Royce said through her teeth. “And we retired the rubber hoses from service when I took office. Would you have me starve a confession out of her?”
He twirled the rim of his hat between his fingers. “You’ll soon be hiring on as a security guard at minimum wage.”
“I believe Jorie will be exonerated when I locate Sandra Holt’s killer.” Royce was steadfast.
“You women won’t listen to reason,” he huffed.
Gwen chided, “Unlike your little woman. Enthralling. My, my, you’re so manly to have so much control over the little woman.”
“She’s my wife. The mother of my child!“ His confrontational stance was tense. “How dare you talk about her like that in my presence.”
“Marrying you was not all that bright, Judge,” Gwen challenged. “And fertility does not equal sainthood. I fail to see why you’d expect Elizabeth’s canonization for bearing your offspring.”
“You can’t understand. You’ve never given birth!”
“Neither have you.” Gwen said in a teasing tone. “But credit to your little woman for her duties. Tyler turned out great, which must mean that snobbery and pretension skip a generation.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened. “The Coalition will see that this town has a new sheriff. And then we’ll concentrate on ridding the town of trash like this.” He threw the newspaper on the front counter. “Liberal nonsense! The power of the press should not be used to undermine the values of the people. You don’t know the Bible’s teachings. You’re too busy bending over and kissing the asses of criminals and perverts to read the good book.”
“Judge,” Gwen clamored, her lips churning into a laugh, “as homophobic as you are, I wouldn’t suggest you ever do any bending over. Much less kissing while bent.”
His eyes were on fire. He whirled around and nearly tore his hat pulling it over his head. When the door slammed behind him, Royce, Nadine, and Gwen burst into laughter.
“Talking out the backside of his trousers,” Nadine said through gasps of giggles. “Gwen, you’ve ruined his morning.”
Gwen’s smile beamed. She winked at Nadine. “Yes, but it made my week.”
***
When the last of the cardboard cartons was unloaded from Royce’s Blazer, Royce gazed down the hall at her belongings. Stacked boxes lined the hallway. Royce sat on one of the taller cartons and rested.
“Here’s some tea, hon,” Hertha spoke as she handed a mug of herbal tea to Royce. “Now, come on in and sit by the fireplace with me for a few minutes. I’ll help you unpack later.”
Royce stood and her hand chained with her lover’s. “Yes. It’s been a long day.”
The women sat on the sofa and watched the rags of flame slapping logs of pine and aspen. Royce had brought a load of wood from the cabin. She recommended burning a blend of aspen for the first many fires. Aspen burns hot, she said, and will help clean out the chimney. She noted that the blend also shed a warm glow.
Royce’s arm looped Hertha’s shoulder as the women sagged against one another. “Feels good,” Hertha wistfully remarked.
“Yes.” Royce gazed around at the Native American decor. It was overwhelming to her. There was a mandalas on the wall and next to that a war bonnet with a bright red brow-band. A large indigo-dyed homespun blanket made of natural wool was hung on the opposite wall. A wampum belt, moccasins, and necklace of turquoise and alabaster, were dangling on the blanket’s ends. On the coffee table in front of them was a long, colorful peace pipe. Royce’s glance remained centered on it. “At least we have a peace pipe.”
“I know our tastes in decoration collide, Royce. I haven’t had time to clear away some of my things so you have space for your things too. Anything you hate?“ she asked.
“Take down the war bonnet and leave the peace pipe,” Royce joked.
Hertha laughed. “At all costs, the pipe stays. Actually, the pipe is more symbolic than just peace. Tobacco was part of the curing ritual. Smoking tobacco and peyote either cured or made them think they were cured. To sanctify the body, tobacco was even included in the burial ceremony.”
“No Surgeon General’s warning?”
“Nope. But at least plants had minimal side effects. The tribal herbalist took care of the body, and the shaman cured the soul. That’s where the true deep healing begins. At least that’s how we believe. Keep the body, mind, and spirit in harmony with nature.”
“Your ways are Native American, yet you’ve been living in a white world.”
“But when I was small I was raised under tribal emblems. I’ve been tossed into a genealogical blender. Royce, I hold on to those relics of my people because it’s where I find the most comfort.”
“I don’t understand that,” Royce shifted until their glance locked. “There was so much poverty on the reservation. And you told me about the total sex discrimination. I don’t understand your being drawn to that.”
“It’s the belief that I’m most drawn to. We believe that everything is connected by forces of life. From the first breath our quest is to discover wisdom. That can’t be all wrong.”
“No.”
“I realize that you see people ranging only from kindness to evil. That’s a reflection of your upbringing. And admittedly, I see the white as exploitative.”
“I won’t break any treaties,” Royce chuckled. “If you don’t stage any marauding night raids.”
“That’s a deal, paleface!“ Hertha laughed. She gave a quick kiss and then added, “My people had to work their battles at night. The whites had too many tricks.”
“The 'all’s fair in love and war' message never reached the red warriors?”
“Actually, the whites would convince the Indians to count down before battle. They told the Indians they were going to count to three. Then they would begin firing on the count of two. That trick backfired. The Indians began attacking when they heard the first count. One. And it was all over.”
“Who told you that?“ Royce quizzed.
“My grandmother. Quckhim is the Ute word for grandmother.”
Royce repeated, "Quckhim?“
“Close enough,” Hertha teased. There was a moment’s pause. Each woman looked back at the fireplace. Then Hertha spoke. “Royce, I want this to be your home. And it must feel like your home. Please, let’s decorate it together. I don’t want to exclude my heritage, but we can blend it with yours. We can join the cultures together.”
“I’d like that. After all, the most oppressed group in history is women. Just ask any straight man of any race or color if he would change race or color, but the deal includes his becoming a woman in the process. Would he do it? Not one minority would change their race to become female. Also, ask any heterosexual male of poverty if he would become a woman and have all the world’s riches. Nope. Not one of them would trade in their favorite toy. At least none I’ve asked. So that leaves women the most oppressed group in the world.”
“What a depressing thought,” Hertha said with a frown. “Maybe we should concentrate on praising the fact that we are both women.”
“How about retiring to bed and I’ll show you the Sapphic healing ceremony for sexual harmony and wisdom.”
“No broken treaties.” Hertha slipped her fingers under Royce’s belt and began to unfasten the buckle.
“No marauding raids.” Royce tenderly unbuttoned Hertha’s blouse. “No countdowns.”
“Just one.”
>
Chapter 15
After reviewing the roster, Royce had posted her address and phone number change. So at the morning meeting she wasn’t sure whether the deputies were scowling because she insisted on their qualifying with firearms that morning, or because they disapproved of her new living arrangements.
Dillon Granger had made a point of sleeping throughout the meeting. One of the deputies shoved his shoulder. Dillon grumbled, “Was I snoring?”
Royce jabbed, “That’s how we chose to interpret the barnyard noises coming from your corner.”
When the deputies chuckled, Dillon retaliated quickly. “I don’t need these namby pamby meetings to tell me how to be a sheriff. All this SWAT shit and game playing is for the movies.”
“Qualifying with firearms is real life, I assure you,” Royce disputed. “And being proficient with sidearms and rifles is law. Not my law. It’s Timber County law. I’m only enforcing that law. Which is what I’m paid to do.”
“I’m only too happy to prove I can qualify on the shooting range. What I want to know is if you can qualify with them nut crackers you’re trying to use on us deputies.”
During the last episode, Royce had determined that it would do her cause more good if she would roll with the punches. She was aware that the others were awaiting her response. With a good-natured laugh, she chided, “I’m waiting on the results of your test scores to see if I’ll need to worry about qualifying.”
“Never know when we’ll have us some kinda Desert Storm around these parts,” he sniped. When the room was silent, he wheeled around and exited.
Nick whistled through his teeth. “He’s pissed.”
Royce grinned back at Nick. “He’d better cool his jets, or he won’t be able to qualify. Then he’ll be pissed big time.”
Nick laughed. “He’s saying that he ought to head the operation in Crystal because you’re going to be a lame duck after the election. And he doesn’t think you’re doing anything anyway.”
“He’s a numskull.” Royce went to the coffee machine and poured coffee into her cup. “I’ve been gasping for caffeine all morning, but I didn’t want to turn my back to the opposition.”
“I hear you. I feel like I’m caught in the crossfire. He’s badmouthing me because I took over in Crystal. I wish you’d let me tell the others what he pulled.”
“Hey, Adonis, it will all come out in time.” Royce returned to her desk. She took out a thick file and began going through it. There were more than two hundred black-and-white photos taken at the party the night Sandra Holt was killed. And another hundred snapped after the murder had taken place. Royce scrutinized each frame. She took out her magnifying glass and meticulously examined them. “Next time you see the photographer who sent the contact sheet instead of the prints, tell him we need prints. I’ll ruin my eyes on this stuff.”
“What you looking for?”
“Nick, I’m not sure. Anything that’s out of place. Anything that doesn’t belong.”
“You’re coming to Crystal this afternoon?”
“Yes. In an unofficial capacity. It’s my afternoon off. I’m going with Nadine. She’s going up for an interview and to get some photos on the film’s location. Still like Crystal?”
“Crystal itself isn’t the worst assignment a guy could get.”
Royce chuckled. “I can just imagine you up there reconnoitering with Crystal’s pretty women. Yes. Timber County’s Lothario with a badge.”
“There’s opportunities up there I could never have imagined.”
“Oh? Now let’s hear the truth about the Crystal filming and sorting out Dillon Granger.”
“It’s a viper’s nest.” Nick got to the doorway. “I’m heading up there now. Are you going to stop by and ask Granger if he qualified?”
“No. He’s not socially acceptable even in small doses. Much less twice in one day.”
***
Godiva wore a pink crepe gown that skimmed the floor. The décolleté bodice was trimmed in gold embroidery. She tossed back her ringlet-circled head, and her laugh tinkled like wind chimes. Lights blazed against the opulently elegant set and against Godiva as she delivered her lines with fervor.
Nadine had busily assumed her role as paparazzi for the day. When the cameras were shut down, she snapped photos of the set and stars.
Royce strolled to where Tyler was seated on a huge trunk that transported studio lighting equipment. His knee stuck out of the mammoth hole in the worn denims. His t-shirt promoted a Los Angeles gym. Royce glanced down at her own Levis, primrose color-block print Western shirt, and stonewashed denim vest. She decided it looked bland in comparison to the film production crew’s attire. “Mind if I sit down?“ she asked. “Even if I haven’t got holes in my denims?”
He patted the trunk. His handsome, boyish grin was filled with sparkling white teeth. “I’ll lend you a scissors and we can cut you some style.”
Royce sat. She winced as she muttered, “I remember how I hated having to wear old denims that were patched and re-patched. County lawmen made even less when my dad was sheriff.”
“I remember your dad. He was a hero to all of us. I always thought you were lucky to have a dad like Grady.”
“I was lucky. But your father was the influential, wealthy judge. Everyone always thought of your family as picture perfect.”
Tyler’s jaw clamped. “Don’t believe in perfection and you won’t be disappointed.”
“Meaning?”
“My father used to force me to go hunting with him. I hated that time together. He wanted to make his son into a man in the likeness of Hemingway. He ridiculed my gentle nature.”
“He must be proud of you now?”
“Only when I play he-man roles. That satiates his macho image.” Tyler picked up the script that had fallen and flipped the pages. “I’m tired of these lusterless lines.”
“I’m tired of campaigning.”
“I don’t understand why you’d want to make so many sacrifices.” Tyler frowned. “You were making twice what you make here when you were a police officer in Denver.”
“I may be again.” She looked away. “How do you keep from tripping over all the wires and not bumping into the lights and microphones?”
“It is a collision course,” he said with a laugh. “Working with Godiva is even more frightening.”
“Oh?”
“It takes stamina to handle her mindset.”
“I imagine so,” Royce chided.
There was a pause. Royce glanced around the set and tried to recognize any of the people who might have attended the promotion party. With the exception of Tyler, Godiva, and her entourage, she recognized few faces. Most of the film crew had arrived later.
“Tyler, I need to ask you a question. You know about the threats. The phone calls Godiva’s been getting. You aren’t involved in any way, are you?“ Royce delved.
“No. Not me. Maybe one of her apes. But not me.”
“I ask because the voice is disguised. But we recognize that it is youthful. And the calls are being made locally.”
“I take a back seat where publicity stunts are concerned. At least those kind.”
They looked up when the scene closed. Godiva’s voice lifted and she screamed at her bodyguard, “I don’t know what came over me. I thought you worked for me. Let me explain the rules. You aren’t making them up as I go along. I’m making the fucking rules. You’re following them. Got that?“ she snarled. When he leaned and whispered in her ear, Godiva suddenly made a leap in his direction. Her nails aimed for his cheeks, and she scratched deeply. He struggled against her attack with restraint. Crimson lines trickled as he shook the blood droplets from his face. Sparks flew from her eyes. “Don’t get caught with your hands up an extra’s gown and then come back around me. Fucker!”
“Stop!“ he barked. His hands squeezed her upper arm with the compression of a tourniquet as he attempted to thwart her attack. “Godiva, enough!”
When he allowed her arms t
o drop, her powerful forearm swung out with a fury against his face. “You son of a bitch,” she screamed. “Don’t you ever do that again.” She backed up and then began a panther’s pacing with the air of an aristocrat. “I’ll dump you back on the pavement, buster!”
“So you can move on with your poptarts?“ he grumbled.
“Sex in the hands of amateurs is pathetic!“ she charged. She then flung another fist at his chest. When the director pulled her away, Godiva smoothed her hair and then saw Royce. Her flash of temper ended. She glared back into her bodyguard’s eyes with rage. In a threatening voice, she said, “You stay out of my face and remember that I write your paycheck.” Godiva moved toward Royce and extended her hand. “Sheriff, are you here to see me?”
“No. Just came up with my friend from the Timber City Times.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I’m going to be late for the interview.” She smiled coyly. “Unless you’d like to accompany back to my dressing room and question me?”
“I don’t do interviews. Only interrogations,” Royce corrected. “And the only thing I have to interrogate you about is these phone calls you keep getting. I don’t suppose you know anything about them?”
“Only that they frighten me.”
“You also need to be frightened of false reporting to a law enforcement officer. And obstruction of justice, which is wasting an officer’s time.”
“You’re implying that I’m making the phone calls?”
“I’m stating that it is a criminal offense. And anyone committing a crime in this county will be prosecuted.”
Godiva snickered. “We all believe that. You’ve got a murder that happened under your nose and you’re doing precious little. I don’t think a few crank calls, if I were responsible, would get me the electric chair.” With grandeur and flourish, she twirled around. “Ciao, Sheriff.”
“Ciao, yourself,” Royce mumbled.
***
“Fiddlesticks!“ Dora Madison exclaimed when Royce and Nadine sat down to join her for dinner. “I just bet that Godiva is having those calls made herself.” Dora motioned for her guests to begin passing the plates. “So pleasant out here on the porch this time of year.” She looked at her granddaughter. “You think Godiva’s got someone up to making those calls for her?”