Exposure

By M. M. Flint

A discovery of old photos draws Ray McCoy and Marijka Estes into a cold case of kidnapping and death. To protect their good names, they follow a trail that lures them back through time and a bit of Cheyenne history, bringing to light local characters and the answer to a young woman’s tragedy.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 -- The Cubbyhole
Chapter 2 -- The Consortium at the Bakery
Chapter 3 -- Editor’s Office
Chapter 4 -- Cold Case
Chapter 5 -- Foot Rub
Chapter 6 -- Window Well
Chapter 7 -- Stranger at the Bakery
Chapter 8 -- The Consortium II
Chapter 9 -- Valise
Chapter 10 -- Hospital Visit
Chapter 11 -- Decision
Chapter 12 -- Travel Plans
Chapter 13 -- Road Trip
Chapter 14 -- Cabin in Arkansas
Chapter 15 -- Lou
Chapter 16 -- Confession One
Chapter 17 -- Confession Two
Chapter 18 -- On the Farm
Chapter 19 -- Marijka’s Report
Chapter 20 -- Whitney
Chapter 21 -- The Library
Chapter 22 -- The Garage
Chapter 23 -- The Find
Chapter 24 -- Hard Pill to Swallow
Chapter 25 -- Editorial
Chapter 26 -- Fire
Chapter 27 -- Grilled
Chapter 28 -- After the Fire
Chapter 29 -- Ray’s House
Chapter 30 -- Visit to Stony’s Home
Chapter 31 -- Adeline
Chapter 32 -- Powwow
Chapter 33 -- The Ruse
Chapter 34 -- Consortium
Chapter 35 -- Epilogue
Doughnut Bread Pudding
Veronica’s Hardtack Recipe

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. M. Flint
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310925450

M. M. Flint

M.M. Flint has pursued life on the rugged high plains in a cabin near Granite Springs, Wyoming, where antelope actually do play all year around. Coyote and hummingbirds, wildflowers, and wind keep her company in the silence.In her sixties, she leaves a trail of experiences, including home building, car mechanics, waitressing (of course), teaching, fabric art, hitchhiking, horseback riding. You name it.She once read in an astrology book that a Capricorn would make a good mystery writer. That's when Ray McCoy and Marijka Estes were born.

Book preview

Chapter 1 -- The Cubbyhole

Ray was hiding in a darkened dusty garage of the RoundUp Motel in Cheyenne, Wyoming, playing at love, even at seventy-five. In this tattered old roadside motel, he was sneaking up on a woman to scare the daylights out of her. He had no idea that he was about to be dragged into a mystery that was about to become evident from a fifty-year-old roll of film.

Where are you? Marijka, not as nimble as she once was, felt her way across the unfamiliar storage room, wary of the uneven dirt floor beneath her feet. Her eyes weren’t good in the dark anymore. She turned her round body sideways to slip by a stack of wooden chairs, toward a workbench at the rear. She called out comments to Ray as she came across old tools and fittings from the past, hardware left untended from as far back as the turn of the century. She ran her fingers over the rusty metal of the scarred workbench – an ancient pair of pliers, a wrench. In this way she made her way through the garage, noting with alarm the threadbare electric wires strung under the rafters. 

Ray waited in the murky room, flattened against the wall, ready to make a grab for her if she came close. He kept his breathing shallow. She ran into a stack of something that clattered noisily in front of her, taking her breath away. She reached out for a wall to follow. Where are you? she called out again into the darkness. He held his breath as he heard her stumbling approach. 

In the semi-darkness, Marijka felt her way along the wall, trying not to knock over any more stacks of whatever was piled up in the storage garage or run into any cobwebs. Inching toward the back, she collided with something big that grabbed at her. She let out the anticipated shriek

Ray burst out with the laugh he had been holding back and threw his arm around her shoulder, as if to protect her. It’s just me. He tried to sound reassuring despite his amusement. Did I scare ya? You’re okay? He chortled with the success of his little surprise. 

Ray McCoy hadn’t lost his grit. He hadn’t lost his desire for female companionship either. Since his wife Millie had died three years ago, he’d tried to put the whole question of women right out of his mind, out of respect for her. Just because she was gone didn’t mean he wouldn’t remain faithful to her. Yet he couldn’t deny that he was lonesome. He missed her. But, here in the dark garage, he wasn’t thinking of Millie.

Marijka took a swipe at him. Oh, very funny. You wouldn’t be laughing if I’d collapsed of a heart attack right now. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed with him or not, he was getting such a big kick out of himself. 

It’s just me, he said again. This place is a little spooky. He held up a shop light on the end of an extension cord Here’s a light if we can find a place to plug it in. I’ll prop open the door so we can see. 

At this repair job just outside Cheyenne, where the dry hills started their roll south into Colorado, Ray and Marijka were sizing up a new job, to replace a used-up, broken-down garage door at a used-up, broken-down motel. The two of them were also sizing up a personal remodel of sorts, she as assistant to his carpentry expertise.

He’d met Marijka Estes at her bakery a couple of years after Millie passed away, and over the months, he was having second thoughts about remaining celibate. Her pecan-covered breakfast rolls, for one thing, were sticky with cinnamon and brown sugar, just the way he liked them. He liked the way she anticipated what a man wanted, a spoon or a napkin. He liked the sound of her name, Ma-Rye-Ka, like the Kingston Trio song. At a little over five foot, she would be just the right size for him. The fact that she was plain, without makeup or airs, worked like a magnet on him. 

While Ray organized the tools and materials for the job, Marijka maneuvered her plump torso through more stacks of broken and forgotten furniture, exploring the other side of decrepit garage. Coming back to the front, she noticed a cubbyhole door situated halfway up one of the garage walls at the top of a half flight of stairs. 

This place is like a museum, she called out. It’s full of history. 

For her part, Marijka, who had started up her bakery in Cheyenne at sixty, was increasing attracted to Ray among the other workmen who enjoyed her coffee break pastries. He was different from the others, quieter, more soft-spoken and courteous. He kept his own counsel, but when he spoke, she noticed, he was fair and to the point. 

This day her job was to interpret the instructions that came with the garage door kit. For Ray, these instructions never made sense, being in some Asian idiom translated to half-baked English. Besides, reading had never been his long suit. He mostly went by the illustrations. As sixty-six, her eyes could still make out the small print, but they both struggled to interpret what actions the words actually intended. 

Look around for a light switch or something. I can’t see a thing in here, he said, despite the open door. 

What do you suppose that little door is for? 

Huh? What door? 

There’s a small door by the stairs. 

"Huh? 

When he started in with the measuring tape, Marijka returned her attention to the door and climbed the six dusty steps for a peek inside. She pulled gently on the latch that once could have held a lock of some sort. She stuck her head in, trying to see into the dark, and felt cooler air streaming past her face. Thin shafts of sunlight slanted in from holes in the siding. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, the tiny store room came into focus. She pulled herself up into the little room, wrinkling her nose at the mustiness. 

Besides a tangle of electrical wires strewn with cobwebs, she could make out a tire, a toolbox, a jar of nails and a couple of splintery wooden milk boxes left over from the days when the dairy man delivered milk in glass bottles, with cream still at the top. In those days, she remembered, you poured off the cream if you wanted it, or if you didn’t, mixed it into the milk by turning the bottle upside down.

She raised the lid from the nearest box, carefully laying it back, and looked in. It appeared to be a box of rags. She lifted out a dusty pink checkered fabric strip. Setting that aside, she reached in again and felt around. Her fingers found what felt like a leather box, with a strap. She hoisted the item out to discover that she held an old camera. 

Ray went back and forth to his old turquoise Cadillac to fetch cardboard boxes that would hold the debris as he tore into the second half of the old garage door.

Hey, Ray, Marijka yelled. C’mere. 

Ray, resigned, shifted his concentration from the job to see what she was going on about. 

From the cubbyhole door, she pulled the box all the way out and onto her lap. Here, can you take this? she called to Ray over her shoulder.

Look what I found. She held the camera out to him. It’s a nice one. 

What? Oh sure, he said, refocusing his attention on her. He took the box and set it on the dirt floor before returning directly to his metal parts. 

Marijka jumped to the floor and approached the milk box. Fabric, she inventoried for Ray, who was not listening. She plucked out a sash of checkered pink gingham. Looks like a dress belt. She extracted a pair of brown pumps. Shoes. Cute. 

A belt buckle on a tooled leather belt. She read the lettering on the belt, ’Butch Rodriguez.’ Look how big! Why would anyone want a belt buckle this size? 

That’s probably why it’s in the box, along with the pink fabric, Ray muttered. 

Look at this old camera. She carefully turned it over in her hands. She tested the winder, expecting it to be loose, but her push met with tension. I think there’s still film in here. She unsnapped the leather cover to take a look at the lens. The compact camera just fit into her palm. 

Etched into the metal ring was, PRECISION OPTICS 68 MM. An electric flash was attached to the top. This is a beaut! she exclaimed. 

Ray grunted a response again studying the assembly instructions. Can you make out what this means? 

I’m on my way, she assured him. 

Marijka set the items back in the box. These pumps might just fit me, she thought, turning them to assess their size. A flower earring fell out from a shoe, which she caught, and something else tumbled out and rolled across the dirt floor. She followed it into a cobwebbed corner. Picking it gingerly out of the murk, she saw that it was a companion to the camera, a 35 mm canister that rattled.

Chapter 2 -- The Consortium at the Bakery

Ray and the coffee break gang showed up at the Marijka’s Bakery a few minutes after ten the next morning. Ray was taking a break from the RoundUp, finishing up the garage door. Veronica Williams, part time waitress made sure the guys had their orders. Scott Baker, a.k.a. Zyrk, so-named because he spent all his spare time working on cars, dressed nattily in a tailored maroon polo shirt and designer jeans. He owned Yarvel Construction; Tim Dowley in his over-alls, who laid brick for a living; Stony Colburn in a red and white cowboy shirt with snaps instead of buttons was editor of the Cheyenne Tribute, and Roger Tummel in an over-sized blue work shirt was a retired social studies teacher. Roger knew the workmen well, since he hired them on a regular basis. He was a talker who hired the help as much to have someone to talk to as to remodel his home.

The whole lot of them was avoiding the summer Frontier Days celebration, the city’s annual money maker. Known as the ’Daddy of ’Em All,’ the weeklong rodeo doubled the population of Cheyenne for the last full week of July and replenished the city’s coffers for the year. The Frontier Days Committee, of which Stony was the publicity chairman, carried more weight than the City Council. You were somebody if you were on that Committee. 

The boys felt at home in the bakery at the large table, one Marijka had brought in especially for them. The table took up a place of prominence, placed between the 100-year-old glass doors and the long oak pastry counter showcasing the morning’s delights. The coffee pot was handy, and the guys weren’t shy about helping themselves to refills. There was room for eight chairs, none matching, accumulated from a year’s worth of garage saling. Ray had revived several of them, regluing and doweling the struts. Storefront windows let in plenty of the morning light and allowed the men to keep an eye on the day’s traffic. 

Back in one corner, a decrepit old timer seemed to shun the light the others enjoyed. The Candy Man, dressed in a long wool coat despite the heat, more or less lurked in the darkest place in the room. The guys were used to his presence, as the old feller never bothered anyone, except to offer passing children a piece of peppermint candy wordlessly pulled from the depths of his coat pockets. He never spoke to the patrons in the bakery, just took surreptitious sips at his coffee and listened in on their conversations. Like everyone else there, he came for the hearty aroma of fresh baked bread as much as anything. 

How’s everyone this morning? Ray asked, taking a seat as if he were not wearing a black tuxedo jacket along with his work boots. His tool belt was strapped on over the jacket, the ever-present tar paper knife stuck in one of the leather loops. He wore holey jeans, though. Tim shook his head at the sight of his long-time friend. 

None of the men wanted to stoop so low as to comment on the apparel of a man, and a long silence squeezed them, while they all saw fit to busy themselves with their coffees. At last, Roger took the bait. 

What’s with the monkey suit, McCoy? 

Ray put on a puzzled look. What? Oh this jacket? he laughed. He stole a glance at Marijka to make sure she was taking this in. I just thought I’d dress up a bit, you know, try to look a little more presentable. 

Marijka whirled around, her silver hair on the fly, diffusing a roundish face. She straightened her shoulders to her full five feet four to face Ray. Her red apron askew over Levis, she set down the coffee pot on the nearest table and raised her hands as if to stop traffic. Ray, I did not say that you needed to wear a tuxedo to work. All I said was there comes a time when a person throws away his old clothes. At some point, when there are more holes than fabric, it’s time to break out a new shirt. 

Yes. Ray, concealed a smile, bowing his head in deference to her point of view, avoiding the blaze of her green eyes. And I am agreeing with you. Her teasing about his raggedy work clothes had gone far enough. As far as he was concerned, clothes, including his patched blue nylon jacket, were to be worn until there was no wear left, until they were threadbare like the wires in the old garage. On this day he showed her he could dress up if he had to. He had forced his arms into a tuxedo shirt and jacket he found at Goodwill and strapped his tool belt around the get-up. Now he was stuck having to carry out his joke, even if it meant measuring, sawing and hammering in a monkey suit. 

It was Marijka’s turn to shake her head, watching him hide his smile. Then, she turned to the table at large. "I think he looks great, fellas. What do you think? Shall we all go find ourselves a tuxedo to work in?

Tim cleared his throat, slapped his leg and said, How’s it going out at the RoundUp, Ray? 

Tim had repaired a stone wall out there earlier in the summer when a pickup truck backed into one of the units. With oil workers and Walmart truckers holed up in the cut-rate units, not to mention the regular nightly drunks, there was always repair work to be done. Doors with holes punched in, if not downright pulled from their hinges, provided the guys with steady fill-in jobs. 

Sure has changed since I was a kid. Ray said.

That was your grandfather’s place, wasn’t it, Roger asked, conversationally.

Yep. I grew on that hill. Ray said. Grampa Archie had all sorts of animals, a little farm. He turned the chicken coops into motel rooms in the 40’s. when the highway came through.

We found something out there yesterday, Marijka interjected from behind the cash register. Maybe it was your grandfather’s box. In the confused silence, she explained. We found an old camera, brand new. Looked like it had been tucked away in there a long time ago. 

Stony, the newspaperman, perked up. Now that’s a find. What are you planning to do with it, sell it on eBay?

Hadn’t thought much about that, Marijka said. Won’t do anything with it until we see what’s on the film inside. 

How do you know there’s film in it? If you opened it, it’ll be ruined, the newspaper editor, offered helpfully. 

We didn’t open it. But when I tried to crank the film winder, it gave a bit of resistance. I guess it could be broken, but it’s so new looking. It didn’t look as if it had been used much at all. 

How do you plan develop the film? Zyrk asked Everything’s digital now. 

I can take care of that, Stony said. We still have a darkroom at the newspaper. No one except old Bram uses it. I’ll ask old Bram to have a look, if that’s okay. He kind of laughed to himself. Know how he times his developer? 

Stony didn’t wait for an answer. "He recites The Cremation of Sam McGee under his breath. At a certain point in the poem, he knows it’s time to remove the film from the developer." 

He ought to know what he’s doing. He’s been at the newspaper for a hundred years, Ray said. He took our class picture in high school, back in the early fifties. 

Marijka said. The camera is in the truck along with a canister that also rattles like it has film in it. I’ll bring it in. 

Ray polished off his breakfast roll and set down his coffee cup. He pushed back his chair and rose to go. See you fellas. I gotta get that garage door behind me. Hitching his tool belt over his jacket, he let his eyes flick over to Marijka and nodded goodbye. You coming this afternoon? 

I’ll be there about 2:30, if you need me, she promised.  

To a man, they raised their cups for a refill, while they tried to think of something to say, finally pouncing on the ever-ready complaint about the July heat and the Frontier Days traffic. 

Hey, Ray. I got a job for ya. Roger said, to get the ball rolling again. I decided to take down my old TV antenna. Thought maybe you could figure out a way to bring it down. 

After a moment, Ray said, Sure. I could do that. I’ll be over to take a look at it. He could think of a lot of jobs he’d rather do than anything at Roger’s. The trick was to get in while no one was home and get ’er done before Roger got back, in the way, talking at him and trying to help. 

Ray turned to take a coffee to go. 

Thanks, Veronica. 

Veronica, large and dark, took the job as fill-in for her other job as a Trolley Tour guide for the City. Just before ten every morning, off came her plentiful white apron and catalog work shoes and on went the leather boots, battered cowboy hat and western shirt in costume for the hour and a half tour on the refurbished trolley car. Because she knew a lot more of the town’s history than the script called for and passed around historical photographs to the tourists, she made pretty good tips, especially during Frontier Days. 

She loved telling about the railroaders who worked their way from east to west, laying hundreds of miles of track. Out-of-work Civil War soldiers provided protection against Indian attack. Cowboys rode herd over huge herds of cattle grazing on the long buffalo grass. Veronica brought to life the great blizzard of 1887 when the European cattle barons lost all their money, as they had over-invested to take advantage of the tall prairie grasses and the advent of the new railroad to make their millions selling beef to a hungry world. And then in one winter lost it all. She didn’t leave out the prostitutes that flourished with them. And ghosts that roam the old buildings to this day. At the end of the trolley route, rolling up Baron’s Row, Veronica pointed out what was left of the old mansions. At the end of the tour, she collected her photos and her tips, took off her boots and hat, and walked the two blocks back to the bakery to help Marijka with the lunch crowd. She often launched into a history lesson right there in the bakery whenever she saw an opportunity to enlighten the regulars. 

Chapter 3 -- Editor’s Office

Hey, Ray! I’ve got something for you. It was Stony Colburn on Ray’s answering machine. Ray had come home exhausted but satisfied after a day that had gone well for a change. He had repaired a storm door, put in a gate, and started on a storage shed, an exclusive building for the lawyer’s new garden tractor. His customers loved him because of his get-to-work-early ethic and easy manner. He knew what he was doing and his customers could bank on his sound advice, as he was as careful with their money as his own. He would not, however, get anywhere near advising about décor. That’s up to you, he’d say, backing toward the nearest exit. 

Just tell me if you think this purple or this green would look better. Only that. 

Ray would diplomatically scrutinize the paint samples and eventually decide judiciously, Either one will be nice. 

Ray was relieved to hear Stony’s voice and not Roger’s on his recorder. Although Roger was a friend, he could drive a guy crazy, always in the way and always looking for the cheap fix to a problem. Stony’s sonorous message went on, I got those pictures developed from your mystery camera. You’ve really stumbled onto something there, Ray. Give me a call. After noting a couple more jobs on the answering machine, Ray called Marijka. 

What are you doing for dinner? he asked. 

Cooking up some pork chops. Want some? 

For me? Naw. Let me take you out. You’ve earned it. 

Dinner’s already finished. All I need is one more item. 

What’s that? Ray asked. 

You, she laughed. All I need is a taster. 

A taster! Well, I can do that, Ray said. He thought about picking up a handful of flowers from the grocery store for her. He was getting to like this woman, more than he’d planned to. As he told everyone after Millie died, I’ll never have another woman, and he’d meant it. 

Hey, he said, remembering. Stony called about them pictures. Says they’re done. Says we stumbled onto something. 

Oh? What’s that? 

I dunno. That’s all he said on the machine. 

And you didn’t call him back? 

I’ll call him tomorrow. 

Tomorrow? Let’s see if he’s still at the office. If he is, maybe you could find out what we’ve stumbled on. 

Well, I guess so, Ray said, more interested in seeing Marijka than in seeing Stony. 

I’ll give him a call. Call you right back, she said. 

A few minutes later she called Ray on his cell phone. Stony’s still at his office. He’s expecting you. Says he’s got a real news story about that film, with your permission. 

My permission? I’ve got nothing to do with it. That’s up to you. You found it. 

He said it’s part of a murder that goes way back to the 1950’s. He’s looking through the morgue for the original article. 

The morgue? What original article? 

He didn’t say. Do you think you could swing by the newspaper office and pick up the pictures? He can fill you in. 

Sure. What about the morgue? Ray sounded confused. 

Oh. The morgue is what they call the file of old newspaper clippings and photographs. Don’t worry, it’s not the dead people place. Take your time. Get the whole thing. Dinner can wait. Call me when you leave his office, ok? 

I’ll see you when I see you, Ray said and carefully closed his cell phone. 

In Stony’s office the two men shook hands, as the editor came around his desk to meet Ray. He seemed energetic for the end of the day, despite his white hair and wrinkled skin. 

A huge picture window showcased a panorama of the summer-dry prairie to the west, the Laramie Range beyond and a wide blue sky still bright with late afternoon sun. 

Have a seat, Ray. I’ve got quite a story for you. 

Ray reluctantly sank down into a brown leather armchair and looked around the office. Several photographs of local dignitaries graced the walls. Plaques and certificates commemorated Stony’s long history of volunteerism and awarding-winning photos from his career as a newsman. 

Everybody knew about Stony’s career rise--first as a cub reporter, then legislative journalist, desk editor, finally as editor-in-chief. Ray didn’t see why Stony had to display the whole story all over his office. Every few years, during an apartment fire or train wreck, the paper was awarded a prize for photojournalism, which Stony also exhibited. And, of course, family portraits of his wife and grown sons took up one corner of his mahogany desk. Ray just wanted to be out of there; his stomach growled, reminding him of Marijka’s dinner waiting for him. 

Sorry I can’t give you back your camera, Stony said. I was asked to turn it and the negatives over to the police. Detective Simpson is in charge of the case now. He handed Ray a brown envelope. But, he hastened, here are prints.

Do you want to tell me what’s going on? 

No, go ahead. Take a gander at those photos. See what we’ve got. I’ll fill you in as you look. I went back to the morgue and found the date, July of 1954. 

Over fifty years ago? Ray reluctantly opened the metal prongs on the envelope.