Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  Royce nodded. “I was told that Luther Sumner would lose claim to the Chandler spread if he had any trouble with the law.”

  “I’m assuming that Trish didn’t trust him, and that was her way of making certain there wasn’t any foul play.”

  “It may not have worked,” Royce divulged.

  “Correct,” Meg said, clearing her throat. Her glance back from the file to Royce indicated that she would have liked to say more.

  “We need to know who would have benefited from her death.”

  “There were trust funds that simply revert back to the Chandlers. Written that way in case Trish preceded them. There was a small stipend for her cousin’s child.” Meg scrutinized the document. “And it appears that there was a sizable sum for a friend of hers.”

  “Valeria Driscoll?”

  “You’ve done your homework, Deputy. Yes. A hundred-thousand to be inherited at the time of her death. An annuity that pays fifteen-thousand each year for the next twenty years. She explained that she wanted something to supplement Miss Driscoll’s earnings.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Only a few charitable organizations.”

  Royce stood. “Thanks for your help, Meg.”

  “I hope I have helped.”

  On the way down the hall, Royce conceded to herself that the lawyer’s revelations had given her more concern than help. Valeria had not been on her list of suspects. As a beneficiary, her name had to appear. As Royce’s lover, it would appear at the very bottom of the suspect’s directory.

  Chapter 11

  Cloud-wreathed peaks were their backdrop. To the right of Royce and Hertha was a massive brow of glades that cantilevered over the still lake. Opposite the coniferous forest of evergreen spires was a sheer edge of granite. Huge monolithic rocks gouged out from the mountain’s cleavage. It was, as Royce promised, a breathtaking view.

  The women had spread a large square of vinyl fabric on the marshy ground and then layered a nest of blankets. Circling them were their tackle boxes, assorted fishing gear, picnic basket, and an old aluminum cooler.

  Smoky jounced through the area and occasionally returned to tug at the blanket’s corners. Royce pulled a tiny dog treat from her plaid flannel shirt pocket and rewarded Smoky’s effort. Over her shirt, for warmth, Royce wore a tan vest, with bellowed pockets, snapped halfway. A rumpled twill bush hat dipped over her face. Decorated with hand-tied bait hooks, the hat cast an oval shadow across Royce’s face.

  Other than an occasional playful groan from Smoky, the only sounds were from the dribbling of spring’s milky snowmelt and the gush of ingressing streams. There was not much conversing between Royce and Hertha. Nor was there the need. As if they had a built-in system of communication, a nod or a smile would do. A tap on her shoulder told Royce that she must glance across the lake to see a grazing elk herd.

  By mid-afternoon, clouds began passing across the sun, simulating the flicker of a votive candle. Royce stretched and spoke, “A person’s spirit is more at peace up here.”

  “Yes. Absolutely magnificent,” Hertha ratified.

  Royce unpacked her grandmother’s fried chicken from the basket. “Gives me an enormous appetite.”

  “Our lunch looks wonderful.”

  “You were a hit with my Gran.”

  “My specialty. Grandparents, parents, and animals.” Hertha uncapped a cool, dripping root beer and handed it to Royce.

  “Bet you have many more specialties than that.”

  “It’s too bad that your lover couldn’t join us.”

  “Valeria and I don’t have much in common,” Royce admitted. “Maybe that’s not always the key to a relationship. We need to work at ours. Kind of like the little saxifrage. Those little mountain flowers fight like the devil to survive. Grow in tiny cracks in the walls of rocks, and somehow overcome the odds.”

  “Gwen mentioned that it’s been difficult.”

  “Gwen thinks Valeria’s diadem is too tight,” Royce sighed and then took a long swig of root beer. “I dated a handful of women in Denver. My being a cop always seemed to interfere. I never had enough time or energy. I decided I would never ask more of a lover than she could give. I’m determined not to place constraints on Valeria. Her complaints about me include my style and looks. Too androgynous. That makes being seen in public difficult. She’s a teacher, and I’m a deputy. I don’t run in the same circles she does. But Valeria has a way of making it okay. Gwen doesn’t understand, nor accept, that.”

  “Gwen worries about you.” Hertha passed a plate and then dipped potato salad onto Royce’s dish. “She worries about you and your inquiry into your father’s death.”

  “I have reason to believe that my father’s death may be relevant to what’s happening with the recent murders. That’s confidential, of course. Maybe reading the files about my father won’t help. Trying to solve a murder case is like tipping over a barrel of trash and sifting until something makes sense.”

  “Some murders go unsolved.”

  “Unsolved crime means we haven’t struggled hard enough for the truth. I hate being robbed of truth. And if we accept the blank page and tag an innocent person, we’re accepting a lie. When law enforcers do that, the law becomes neutralized. Our inaction can put us on the inside of a mask, looking out. No better than the perpetrator.”

  “Gwen thinks you’re too preoccupied with all this and you’re not getting enough rest. Sleep deprivation dulls the edge of judgment, Royce. You know that.”

  With a weak grin, Royce tried to change the subject. “The Ute nation was called 'blue sky’ people.”

  “And Native Americans call these the shining mountains.”

  “You’ve studied your heritage, haven’t you?”

  “I’m a continuation of that heritage. For instance, Spanish horses were originally called magic dogs. As the Ute built up their stock of horses, they learned vetting skills. My people cared for the wildlife and for the land.” Her eyes snapped shut. “My people were purposely and systematically killed off. We were called the Ute menace. Broken treaty after broken treaty. We became a nomadic tribe.”

  “Nathan Meeker had a stake driven through his mouth,” Royce pulled the fact from her memory.

  “Because he lied. It was symbolic punishment for those who spoke with two tongues. The Meeker massacre was sad, but it was a statement. The symbolism was a warning. Scalping is very misunderstood. It’s actually a way of sending one’s opponents to hell. If the body isn’t whole, it can’t get into the happy hunting ground. The mutilation was cruel, but it was for a purpose.”

  “Various tribes exploited one another. They would capture women and pelts to trade for whiskey and guns.”

  “Both whiskey and guns are tools of your people,” Hertha flared. Her silk voice cracked like a whip.

  “My people? I’ve got enough guilt without taking on additional burdens of my forefathers.” Royce lurched up from the ground and walked to the mouth of the lake. She felt Hertha’s hand on her arm. “I’m sorry for the outburst, Hertha. I just feel that if I had handled things differently the drifter wouldn’t have been killed. Gwen says we need individual responsibility. But people look to me for protection. Not to be set up as the next victim.”

  “Royce, I’m sorry. Of all the people I never should have accused, it’s you. I just get carried away when I think of the injustices. I know that you’re helping Ray, and I should be standing at your side.”

  Royce turned and their eyes tethered. “And I should be a custodian of everyone’s security.”

  Hertha looked away sadly. Her glance did not sway back to Royce for many quiet moments. Then she reached for Royce’s hand, and they walked back to the blanket. “Well, at least Smoky didn’t eat the chicken,” she uttered.

  Chuckling, Royce tickled Smoky’s ears. “She’s on good behavior when her doctor is around.”

  “Funny, I’m around Patches all the time and it doesn’t improve her behavior,” Hertha said with a laugh. “I’m just gla
d that we caught some fish. I’d hate to show up without some tidbits for her.”

  “We caught the largest in her honor. What more can a calico ask?” Royce lifted her root beer for a toast. “To our first day of fishing. And to the opportunity of getting to know you better.”

  Hertha lifted her soft drink and bridged it toward Royce. “Even knowing that my wild Native American blood has a renegade strain?”

  “Particularly that. You also have Anglo blood.”

  “Other than the fact that it may have made my life somewhat easier, I would have preferred to be full-blooded Native American.”

  “You dislike your father?”

  “I have no father, other than whatever it might be you would call a biological contributor to my being. My mother was unmarried. And she had no choice about my conception. She was raped by three Anglo men.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “I’m also sorry.”

  ***

  “That Hertha seems like a nice young woman,” Gran commented as Royce finished unpacking the Blazer.

  “Yes. She’s a fine person. She thinks your fried chicken is terrific.”

  “Used to send it off when you and your daddy went out fishing. And when your grandpa took you.”

  Royce’s emblematic recollections of her grandfather were of fishing trips. He, in his wading boots, would fly-fish the rushing steam. As a small child, Royce assisted in selecting the correct bait. There was a mystery in the rainbow trout’s iridescent scales. Her grandfather explained away the mysteries of wildlife and of the forest. He explained eagles, hawks, and owls. He diagrammed the land and folds of mountains. He, and his son Grady, took great pride in answering Royce’s questions about the high country.

  “Fishin’ is the best thing in the world for you now, Roycie.” Gran gave her granddaughter’s shoulder a squeeze. “Get your mind offa your troubles. You been lookin’ like death warmed up, I swear. You even been havin’ yourself a little moan. Yes, you were due in for a day at the lake.”

  “It was a great day,” Royce agreed. “I suppose I should have stayed and worked on the porch enclosure. Summer’s nearing.”

  “You just let that be until you’ve got this murder business solved.”

  Royce pivoted back to her grandmother. “You truly believe that I’ll solve it?”

  “Of course, girl. I ’spose you can do anything you set your mind to do.”

  “I’m not so certain.”

  “It’ll all come together. This case will be sorted out. And everything else will also be sorted out.”

  “Everything else?” Royce echoed.

  “The someone special in your life.”

  “When you and Gramp fell in love ...”

  “I guess we just kept givin’ each other handfuls of affection. A kinda love exchange. Then one day I realized I’d given every last bit to that man. I knew it was fine and dandy 'cause he’d been givin’ his love to me too. I knew from the start that he was pure gold.”

  ***

  Royce was amazed at how easy it was to talk with Hertha. Nothing needed to be coaxed. On either side, Royce mused. There were no emotional current-breakers standing in their way. Hertha had offered personal data. She had told Royce that she had fallen in love with a professor. Hertha’s almond-toned face was somber when she told how the professor had broken her heart. Tears were accurate reminders of a difficult childhood. She was always on the perimeter. Never really an accepted part of the Native American community. And discriminated against by Anglo America.

  Hertha’s voice had crashed when telling of her stepfather’s cruelty. She disclosed that she felt guilty for leaving her mother and Ray behind and going to the white school. Ray had become the primary target of a sadist. Although she had not experienced the brutality Ray was subjected to, she felt pain.

  The women had shared an afternoon of swapping their histories, fears, wisdom, joy, and even secrets. It had made Royce even more determined to help Ray. For the time, Royce conceded, there was little she could do. But Hertha had mentioned that Ray wasn’t permitted to have his guitar in his jail cell. Royce had offered to take it in and take responsibility for any problems it might cause.

  She handed him his guitar case. “Ray, you can play it as long as you’re the only prisoner. And I left the strap behind with Hertha, so hanging yourself is out. But if you escape by wrapping the strings around a guard, or cracking a skull with the bridge, I’m in serious trouble.”

  Ray’s broad face beamed. “Thanks,” he murmured as he flipped open the case. His huge hands lifted the Ovation guitar from its case. He began strumming. Then his expression froze and he grilled, “Why are you doing this? Some kinda good-cop, bad-cop game?”

  “No. I assumed responsibility because, first, I believe you’ve got enough brains not to do bodily harm to yourself or anyone else with such a beautiful instrument. Second, you didn’t run last time.” Royce grinned and added, “Third, your sister does excellent public relations on your behalf.”

  Royce listened to Ray’s picking. His huge, harsh fingers created mellow, loving sounds. It was incongruous that this man with a jagged face and hulking body could create sounds so tranquil and tender.

  “Ray, I checked over at the pool hall to see if anyone can recall anything that happened the night Osborn disappeared. No luck with the clientele.”

  “I was home watching a rabbit. That brings untold laughter to the sheriff.”

  “Did you watch TV?”

  “I was in the clinic. On a little cot-sized bed. My time is still off. I’ve been working in bars for so long that my sleep pattern is confused. All I remember is that I checked the rabbit, and it seemed to be doing okay. I fell asleep then. The radio was on for awhile.”

  “Can you remember anything the disc jockey might have said?”

  “Naw . . . Wait, I remember when I went to turn it off. About nine or so, yeah. I remember that Cowboy Calvin saying something about Aspen. He said no snow; no go. Then that he was only kidding, that people should come up for the town’s color and glamour. I remember 'cause I thought that maybe if I had gone to Aspen instead of coming here, I wouldn’t be in this fix.” Ray stopped strumming his guitar. “I don’t guess anything like that is any kind of help.”

  “At this point, anything will help.” Royce stored the information, and she would call the station and verify.

  “Glad to have my ax . . . my guitar, back with me. Life’s too lonely without it.” His eyes trailed Royce as she sat on the cot beside him. “My sister thinks you hung the moon.”

  “She saved my dog’s life.”

  “The Ute philosophy is that animals have souls. Do you believe that?”

  Grinning, Royce shrugged. “If we do, then I would say that they must. What else do you believe, Ray?”

  “Our benign personal god of spirits and peace is a He-She. A supreme deity. The evil supernatural being is Pa-ah-pache. Waterbaby. Guess with all this trouble I’m in, I should be chanting to all the gods.” With a melancholy drop of his shoulders, Ray’s face flushed. “Do you believe in a supreme being?”

  “Some days,” Royce answered, “I do have some doubts. If a supreme being created angels, why follow it up with this little human being game? Rather a deity backslide,” Royce teased.

  Ray issued a quick, furtive grin. “I see what you mean. Think I’ll ever get out of here?”

  “Any answer I give you will be a hollow guess.” Royce considered that he would never accept a contrived excuse. “I do know that I believe you’re innocent.”

  “That, and my guitar, makes me feel less lonely. When I was a kid, I remember I would get to a place where life was just too miserable. I would pretend to be something else. Like a butterfly. Once I could see only an empty dandelion stem. The stem was withering. I was withering. I recreated the life of that dandelion in my head. The Aztec yellow bonnet that fed the bees. Then I was the strong stem dispersing delicate, cottony seedlings for miles. Finally, I began drying up, bowing, and fin
ally rotting into the soil.” Stalling, he looked away. “Hertha always told me to keep reading. Once I balked and told her that I would only get picked on if I handed my homework in. It isn’t the Indian way, I argued.” He blinked an onslaught of tears that were appearing. “She told me that it was in the best interest of my people for me to know the enemy. I now know the enemy. I’m going to be spending the rest of my life in a prison.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “I can try. Ray, before the day Trish was murdered, had you ever seen Osborn around?”

  “I might have. I mean, he did look familiar. Maybe I saw him on the streets or in the Bell Ringer. You know I drink too much. Sometimes all you palefaces look the same,” he blurted with a toothy smile.

  Royce chuckled. “The night he was murdered, the people in the pool hall could only tell me that he kept looking at his watch and seemed in a hurry to leave. It makes me believe that he was meeting someone. But why would he set up a meeting with someone he was going to be a witness against? Not likely.” Royce reflected, not impossible, but certainly not likely. “Ray, are they treating you okay in here?”

  “No rubber hoses. And I do get visitors. Faye was in today. She said she was really sorry. She didn’t say if she believed me or not. She said the sheriff told her that I might have been liquored up too much to remember. But Osborn could have told you that I was coherent. Yeah, I was coming off a drunk, but I didn’t black out. If I had, I wouldn’t be claiming that I didn’t do it.”

  “Your drinking worries Hertha.”

  “Guess of all the people in the world, I shouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

  Standing, Royce rapped her silver ring on the bar. “I’ll get back to work. I’m doing my best.”

  “Thanks for bringing my guitar. And would you do something else for me?” He watched as the jailer’s clanking keys unlocked the door. When it swayed out, Royce exited.