by Kieran York
Chapter 7
A flotilla of cumulus clouds sailed overhead. Royce and Hertha had made good on the promise to Gran and had taken Sunday afternoon off to picnic. Royce selected a favorite spot to place their blanket. The spectacular vista circled the women with granite citadels appearing to be a giant amphitheater. The mood of the mountains and of the women was serene. Even Smoky seemed content to rest quietly. Her head would lift when she heard the throaty lilt of birds; and then as quickly again rest on her front paws.
For many moments, Royce’s gaze was transfixed to the pristine landscape. Rows of pines sheltered the picnic. Shaggy, goldenrod-colored lichen were attached to rocks and the thigh-deep roots of huge trees. Elk-scarred aspen groves quaked. Gamboling forest creatures could be heard rustling. Royce rested her head in Hertha’s warm lap. She looked into the bright face of the woman she loved. Hertha smiled, and her toffee blush excited Royce. Hertha’s smile seemed cryptic at times. In the remote solitude of the backcountry, it became a magnet for Royce’s lips.
“I love you, Hertha,” Royce whispered. She understood the sexual vanity of new love. But she also understood what set this love apart. The connection was so strong that Royce felt forever bound to Hertha.
“And I love you.” Hertha’s eyes twinkled. “A complete afternoon together is heaven. Particularly up here. This is my ancestral home.”
“It’s been my home since I can remember,” Royce commented. “But not for the generations that Native Americans can claim.”
“We’re rooted to earth. The elders have taught that being aware of our ties to earth is part of the order of life. Blending with one’s surroundings gives the spirits resilience to endure.” Hertha’s moisture-glistened upper lip lifted. She issued a full-throated laugh. “This is my heaven. And you are my ticket to heaven.”
Royce laughed. “Making love is our own special admission price. I do know what you mean.”
Smoky made a leap at a chipmunk. “My guard dog was being too quiet, but she’s made a recovery.”
Royce stood and held down her hand. “Come on, lover. I’ve got to show you some Colorado heaven.”
“Where are we going?”
“A very special place. I’ve never taken anyone to see it.” Hand in hand the women walked through a grass-covered meadow, with Smoky following closely behind them. Royce led the way through the lush old growth of the forest. She pointed down to a sheaf of bright flame flowers that jutted from the vapor-pearled tundra. Hertha squeezed Royce’s hand gently.
When they had crossed a feeder stream, they approached a long-abandoned hiking trail. Through a cloud of gnats, they fanned the crisp air. They continued their rugged climb. Royce held branches from whipping back at Hertha. In one thicket, they paused long enough to share a kiss.
By the time they reached the rooftop of a mountain, they looked down through a pass. At the base was a glorious light-filled silver river. They could hear the flushing of glimmering water beneath them. Across the two ledges was a small swinging footbridge.
Royce reached and lifted Smoky into her arms. Then the women began crossing the fifty-foot-high wooden bridge. When they reached the center, they sat. Their legs dangled between the gray ropes. They viewed the surrounding spires, the wedging mountains, and the circling of eagles.
“Plenty amazing,” Royce murmured. The swing bridge swayed slightly. “One of the largest swings on earth’s playground. And today it’s all ours.”
“One of the most lovely sights I’ve ever seen. Breathtaking.” Hertha’s arm reached around Royce’s shoulder and she softly kissed the young sheriff’s face. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
“Hertha, I may not always be as enlightened as you’d like me to be. But it’s important that you know how very much in love with you I am.” She paused, searching for the words that read her heart. “This secret bridge. Well, let’s make it our symbol for bridging our cultures. For bridging us.”
“I’d like that.” Hertha’s eyes closed for several moments and her head rested on Royce’s shoulder. “Yes. I’d like that.”
***
Royce entered the Times office with the scowl of a gargoyle. “I just served Rick Brown with a restraining order,” she muttered.
Nadine glanced up from her stack of copy. “And?”
“He was expecting it. Cocky. He put it in his hip pocket. I warned him that mountain folks keep weapons handy. Anyone intruding onto a person’s property might end up with a couple rounds of shotgun pellets. Didn’t phase him. Then I told him to stop sheep-dogging Hertha. When I used her name, his eyes filmed over like a dirty window. Then he told me I should leave her alone and allow her to choose between us. I wish there was something I could do.”
“I wish there was something you could do for Jorie,” Gwen said with a sarcastic barb.
Nadine pitched the papers she was proofreading and stood. “I’m tired of hearing about Jorie,” Nadine blasted. “Damn it!”
“I’m just trying to get Royce’s attention,” Gwen remarked.
“We’ve got a newspaper to run, and you’re busy trying to think of ways to clear Jorie Lovett while I’m stuck with taking care of the house and business. I’ve had it.” Nadine moved past Royce, giving the desk chair a shove.
“And working the campaign,” Royce said glumly.
“Royce,” Nadine insisted, “the campaign isn’t the problem. Thinking about that is probably the one thing keeping me sane. Having all of the work of the paper dumped on me when it’s really Gwen’s job is the problem.”
“Sorry,” Gwen apologized. “I’ve just been preoccupied.”
“Leave the murder investigation to Royce,” Nadine yelled with anger. She went back into the pressroom.
Gwen peered over her eyeglasses. “I’d leave it to our esteemed county Sheriff’s Department if I thought you were doing anything.”
“I’m working on it,” said Royce weakly. “Gwen, it takes time. You know that.”
“And you’re taking time!”
“I understand your defending her. ...”
“You understand nothing! Royce, I was obsessed with her the way you were with Valeria. You remember how that feels.”
“Yes, I do, and I know Jorie’s an important person in your life.”
“She was my magical mystery tour. Love’s baptismal. Hell’s bells, she has a sweet magnolia kind of loveliness that took my heart away.”
“If you talk like that around Nadine, no wonder she’s upset.”
“Our love life has the fizzle of a damp firecracker anyway,” Gwen grumbled. “Don’t change the subject. A murder has been committed and you’re not solving it.”
“You sound like the national press. They’re convinced we’re mountain hicks and can’t solve the pine beetle problem, much less a homicide.” Royce gave an impatient sigh. “But that’s not the case. We’re doing things properly.”
“Answer this. If Jorie had given Sandra the damaging blow, why would she have waited for Sandra to write her name in blood? Why would she still be standing over her with the murder weapon when we all showed up at the door?”
“Suppose she smashed Sandra’s skull and then went to look for incriminating blackmail evidence. There was an empty envelope on the nightstand. Maybe she took the contents, turned to see that Sandra had not bled to death yet, so she picked up the poker to give the final, fatal blow. Heard someone coming up the hall, so she screamed.”
“Not logical. Why would she take the contents and leave the envelope?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a possible scenario.”
“Your soft-spoken persona is part of your charm, Royce, but sometimes it’s infuriating.” Gwen picked up a black-and-white photo of Godiva. “At least she’s giving us all the information we can use.”
“A film being shot in our own backyard is news.”
“Look at that hair of hers.” Gwen said, finally laughing. “Did she have a bad hair day, or am I out of touch when comes to fashion statements?“
She held the photo up for Royce to see.
Royce laughed. “Like Dolly Parton says, it takes lots of money to look so cheap.”
“Well, Godiva works hard to be sleazy. She demeans women by pandering to the lowest common denominator. She manipulates the media. She has no taste.”
“She’s a marketing genius for pop culture.”
“Pop culture,” Gwen chuckled. “She’s in her element up there in Crystal. All the in people. They grow marijuana in their planter boxes. Hell’s bells. New-age green grocers.”
“Gwen, I want this thing to work out for us. Maybe if some of the pressure were off, I could get it sorted. There’s the election. Hertha’s stalker. The Family Morals Coalition. Maybe I really can’t handle the job.”
Gwen reached over and patted Royce’s hand. “Royce, I love you and I love Jorie. ...” She looked away. “Any more postcards from your Gran?”
“Yes.” Royce stood and walked toward the door. “She sent one from Tintagel.”
“What did she have to say?”
'"Wish you were here.' I wish I were there too.”
***
The copper-red edge of the sun dropped below the horizon as evening began. Royce’s day off had been spent attempting to track information about Rick Brown’s elusive past. After that, dressed in her civvies, she decided to pay an unofficial call on Jorie. She had not wanted to prejudice the case by getting too close to the network reporter. But now, Royce contemplated, clues were becoming as scant as solutions. The trail had become even weaker with a lack of solid forensic evidence. Only Sandra’s prints were found on the date book and empty envelope. Only Jorie’s prints were on the poker.
Royce checked Jorie’s room and was told by another reporter that he had seen Jorie down at the Crystal Bistro. Cocktail hour, he joked. And he indicated that Jorie was living up to the hard-drinking reputation correspondents have.
Jorie was sitting alone at the bar, nursing a brandy. She gazed into Royce’s eyes. “Here to arrest me?”
“No.”
“Of course not. You’d be in full regalia and have the cameras flashing for a collar like this.”
“I’m off duty. May I sit down?”
“Any pal of Gwen’s is a friend of mine.” Jorie took a quick sip of her drink. She had been there for some time, Royce gauged by the slur that was beginning in her speech. “You’re here unofficially. Me too. Guess you’ve heard the network has put me on ice until this is resolved. If it ever is.”
“I’m not about to bring a charge until I’ve got enough evidence to convict.”
Royce ordered a beer and her eyes zeroed in on Jorie. She watched the woman’s face as it turned toward her.
Jorie smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her glum eyes. “This whole thing is like a bad dream. The legitimate media is being indulgent. I’m one of them. But the gutter press is in a feeding frenzy.” Her head snapped back and she laughed. “They have an appetite for murder. And when it’s someone everyone wanted to kill at one time or another, it’s even more bittersweet.”
“Jorie, I realize it’s a difficult situation.”
Her anger seemed feeble. “At least my own aren’t avoiding me like a typhoid carrier. My exile is by choice.”
“Gwen’s worried about you.”
“Yes.” Jorie cast her mind backward and pulled up memories. “Did she ever tell you how we met?”
“Yes. At a family gathering.”
“There was music playing. She came over and whispered in my ear that she liked the music, but that it was inappropriate to dance. If she could dance, she said, it would be with me. I was stunned, but captivated by her candor. By her.” Jorie took a gulp and her pale eyes shut a moment. “She was my first.”
“Jorie, we’re all concerned about you,” said Royce.
Tears appeared in the corners of Jorie’s eyes. “Remarkable. One moment I’m complaining because I’ve got to travel to a small town in Colorado. I want to go to some war-torn city in the Middle East. Some place I can see action. The next thing I know, I’m a murder suspect swathed in angst.”
“I’m sorry you’re hurting. I don’t think you’re guilty. But I can’t prove you’re innocent until I find the person who murdered Sandra. Maybe you can help. I have a question. I’ve given my word to Gwen that I won’t disclose your secret. But it’s important I know if Sandra Holt might have found out about your sexual orientation. Could she have known?”
“Not likely. She thought I romped around with everyone she wanted to. No, I don’t see how it’s possible. I pretended to be a skirts-up kinda gal. I hid out. Maybe 'out' is the wrong word. I’d have no future if I were really out. Just being middle-aged and female jeopardizes my next contract.”
“Sandra indicated she had something on you. A story you would rather not have out.”
“It isn’t relevant. Royce, I wasn’t fighting with Sandra about my secret. Secret!“ Jorie’s eyes flashed. “We are the massive anonymous. And anonymity is our survival project. Our skill at disguise ensures our success. We veil our hearts.”
“Yes.” Royce’s career was also balancing between her veil and the courage to lose. “Yes,” she repeated to herself.
Chapter 8
A curtain of discontent dropped over the Timber County Sheriff’s office. Royce felt the mood shift when Dillon Granger entered the building. It was difficult enough to conduct an investigation without dissension. Nothing seemed to be happening on the case; and leads were drying up, along with memories.
Royce added in the equation of Graner’s counterproductive harping, and the deputies’ gathering seemed futile.
“We are going to qualify with both handguns and rifles annually. Anyone who hasn’t qualified in the past year is required to do so immediately,” Royce announced, gazing around the Sheriff’s Department office at the deputies and their scowls.
“We got us a murder, and you’re screwin’ around with rules and regulations,” Dillon Granger harassed.
The early morning meeting had deteriorated. Royce was becoming angry. The other deputies were concerned about their status if Granger won the election. They were silent. Things throughout the meeting had been tense as a tightrope.
Royce glared at Granger. “Maybe we’ll never need those rules and regulations. But if we do, we’ll be prepared. We’ve been over that, and it seems to be an area of contention with Deputy Granger. But it is the way things are going to be. And I want those vests worn. You’re all complaining that they’re hot. Well, a slab in the county morgue might cool you off. These precautions may never save a life. But then again, they might.”
Granger argued, “I think we’re lookin’ like bozos up here. Murder takes place, a woman is standin’ over the body with the damned weapon in her hand, and we’re not arresting her. That’s my point.” His hostile eyes riveted Royce.
“And my point is that we have collected evidence, and when we have enough evidence to convict, we’ll arrest. This is not a trial-by-popular-opinion investigation. I won’t be pressed to arrest an innocent person.”
'That’s fine by me,” Granger jeered. “'Cause the election’s comin’ up, and you haven’t got anyone jailed. It don’t look good for you, Sheriff. You might do more good tradin’ off recipes with the local women. Leave solvin’ murders up to men.”
“As long as we’re talking about the murder, I suggest we get busy with our investigation.”
Royce instructed, “Sammy, give forensics a call and find out if they have any additional information. Tim, try to contact Sandra Holt’s attorney again. There may be safety deposit boxes. I want every lead followed. No matter how obscure the lead might seem. The rest of you have your assignments, so take off, and be careful.”
Royce watched the men file out. She looked over at Nick. “They don’t want to know proper procedures. Or maybe they don’t want me to tell them. I’ve got to be concerned for their safety and for the safety of those we’ve sworn to protect. Dillon’s constant scoffing is out of line.”
“He’s trying to prove you’re nut-cutting.”
“This department is not going to be known as a group of loose cannons or barbarians.” She wheeled around in her chair. “We’ve got to take pride in our job. I want each deputy to be worthy of their entrusted power. And I want you all safe.” Royce felt as if her argument, and her election, were going to the wall. She gave a deep, anguished sigh. “Now, what do you have from Crystal?”
“Same stories. I went back over everyone’s statements with them. No changes. No rearranges. Nothing.”
“I was hoping someone would recall something else. Or change a story significantly. Also, see if we can get all the photos and video copies taken by reporters that night. Before the conferences, and after the party broke up. Anything shot that night.” Royce eyed the reports. “Maybe Granger is right. The trail is getting older and colder. Let’s go back over it, suspect by suspect.”
“Marjorie Lovett.”
“Murder weapon in her hand. Over the body. Motive. We don’t know. But there had been a fight. What else?”
“An 'L' was printed by the victim. And the beginning of an 'O' which spells Lovett.”
“Some evidence. But not firm. How about Godiva and her vanishing act?”
“I talked with her head bodyguard and he says that it isn’t unusual for her to bolt and run when she’s bored. But she did fight with the victim. And she has some unaccountable time. And her bodyguard could be lying to save her. Saving her is his profession.”
“Also,” Royce recalled, “when she came into the room, she asked if Sandra was dead. That was before she had been made aware of the reason for the commotion.”
“The way she felt about the gossip columnist, maybe it was just wishful thinking.”
“Motive and opportunity,” Royce mulled. “But not enough evidence one way or the other. And we can hardly get an arrest warrant based on that.”
