The New Mexico Scoundrel

by R Scott Wallis

“I try very hard not to trip down the path that others have navigated quite recklessly. Without naming names, I think you can probably think of a few major news conglomerates that clearly have a corporate-governed political agenda. There are organizations that worship on both sides of the political spectrum and I don’t think they are doing Americans any favors. I’ve made it very clear to my newsrooms around the world that we are to be 100% nonpartisan in our reporting of the news—and to only deal in facts—and I am generally very happy with the outcomes. The local affiliate stations, the papers, and the European satellite service, for the most part, comply with that way of thinking. But there are slip ups. And, more importantly, there are a lot more people working in journalism today who do not work for one of my companies, so I can’t tell them what to do. But I can help mold the minds of the future with conferences, articles, videos, endowments, scholarships, perhaps even our own journalism school. And hopefully we can lead by example and set a few zillion current news people on the correct path.”

  Her mind was reeling. “That’s a lot,” Skyler said. “Who’s spearheading the project?”

  “I am, for now,” he said confidently. “I quietly gave up running the day-to-day operation of the company a decade and a half ago, although I’m still chairman of the board. So, I have time on my hands. I’m meeting with potential executives and industry professionals to eventually operate the foundation because I’m just too old and too fidgety to be tied to a desk chair.” He sighed deeply. “But it’s been hard to convince these people who I’ve been courting to leave their current positions. I might have to pay ridiculous amounts of money to get them to agree to come work on the project.”

  “I imagine that you have ridiculous amounts of money at your disposal.”

  “I do. And I can’t take it with me and I don’t have heirs to speak of. Not any worthy ones, rather.” He paused and smiled at the waitress when their meals were delivered. When she was out of earshot, he continued. “I outlived three wives. Collectively, we had seven children. Four of them have passed on, too. Two of them are housewives—actually, they’re both grandmothers now; can you believe that? My children are grandmothers!—but they have no interest in my businesses or me, for that matter. We’ve all been estranged since the late-1970’s.”

  “I’m sorry to know that,” Skyler said, wondering why he was being so forthcoming about his personal life, although she suspected none of this was secret information given that several articles and tell-all books had been written about the man over the years. “That leaves one more, sir.”

  “Sasha.”

  “Sasha Martin. The current C.E.O. of Martin Media Worldwide. He’s positioned to inherit everything?” Skyler asked.

  “Hell no. He makes a tidy salary and he has tons of stock, but he’ll never gain full control and he knows that. He always has.”

  She wasn’t sure if she should keep asking questions.

  “For several reasons, I’ve let him keep his job, but he’s disappointed me many times. When I pass away, the company will be sold. Broken up into pieces, I presume. The vast majority of the assets will go to charity.”

  “You don’t want Martin Media to outlive you?”

  “I think the money can be used to help more people by breaking it up, my dear. My 71-year-old son has more than enough money to live out a very happy retirement. Most of the employees will still have jobs under new ownership. And the cancer centers and schools and libraries and museums and adoption organizations that I help to fund will flourish beyond their wildest dreams.”

  “It’s all very admirable, Mr. Martin.”

  “Foster!”

  “Foster. I’m so sorry. But for now, it’s all about the future of journalism?”

  “That’s right. And I am going to throw truckloads of money at this. And I want you to help me spend it.”

  Skyler brightened. “I’m happy to help and I’m very good at spending money that isn’t my own. Responsibly, of course. But more importantly, I’m very honored that you think so highly of my work that you’d trust me to help with such a worthy cause.”

  “I did my homework after Carissa Lamb recommended you. You have an amazing track record.”

  “Well, Mr. Martin, I would be honored to be a part of the team. It’s a very worthwhile venture and something that I could certainly sink my teeth into. I bet Carissa and even Brenda Braxton—the celebrity chef and my best friend—will be enthusiastic donors to the effort. I know a few other people with deep pockets, for that matter. I just might be a de facto fundraiser for the…oh my goodness, I never asked. What is it going to be called?”

  Foster’s face crinkled up. “I don’t have a name picked out yet.” He fished a small green notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped through some tattered pages. I have a very long list of possible names. Maybe you can help me decide.”

  “Again, I’d be honored.”

  “If we are going to work together on this project, there would be a few stipulations.”

  “Alright.”

  “You are required to call me Foster. Never Mr. Martin.”

  “That’s an easy one. Done.”

  “Plus, you’ll need to drop all of your current clients and move to Las Vegas.”

  Skyler’s mouth quite literally dropped open.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  One of Brenda’s recurring nightmares involved trying on new clothes. She absolutely dreaded the process and the humiliation she felt in and out of store dressing rooms, which is why in recent years, she employed a personal shopper to comb through every store in New York City to bring her scores of things to test in the privacy of her own home. She was not just overweight, like an alarmingly growing population of Americans, she was a tad shy of obese, and she required just the right type of outfits to compliment—or attempt to disguise—her ample figure.

  She didn’t have the typical, perfectly shaped television personality body, but for some reason the public liked her, the food she prepared, and her line of products, so it was working to her advantage. But Brenda knew that she was entirely too large and she was determined to do something about it…in the new year.

  She promised herself the same thing every year right around Christmas time.

  And then she went on to gain 10 to 20 pounds over the holidays and never would get around to changing the dangerous pattern. The need for new clothes was a constant one.

  A vicious cycle.

  And because she was in Santa Fe instead of Manhattan, without the use of her trusty plus-size stylist, she was standing in the back of an upscale New Mexican boutique while a sales clerk pinned the bottom of a pair of green slacks.

  “I absolutely love that color on you,” Georgia said from a velvet divan somewhere behind Brenda. She sipped champagne from a delicate flute.

  “It’s not too green?”

  “No. It’s evergreen. It’s classic. And perfect for this time of year.”

  The clerk got to her feet and looked at Brenda through the mirror in front of them. “With an oversized man’s white oxford, with the collar popped, maybe?”

  “You’ve read my mind,” Brenda said with a smile.

  “Not really,” the clerk chuckled. “I watch you on T.V. I know your style.”

  “You’re hired! Can you move to New York?”

  ​Georgia finished her wine and set the glass down on a small side table. She got to her feet and grabbed a pile of sweaters. “Okay, I’m ready to try these on.”

  The clerk escorted Georgia to the last dressing room on the left then took Brenda back out to the showroom floor to look at a coral necklace that the chef had her eye on for Skyler. A young redheaded woman, who had been trying on a dozen different outfits in the back, left without buying anything, and then there were just two women looking through the racks in the store. Anna stood near the sales desk as she surveyed the room and her husband stood outside next to the idling car, which was parked illegally in front of the shop. He had his eyes on everyone walking up and down
the crowded sidewalk.

  A few moments after she was entered the dressing room, Massimo Modena clamped his large rough hand over Georgia’s mouth and pulled one of her arms behind her back. She struggled, the two of them trampling the sweaters she dropped, but he was much bigger and stronger and his grip continued to tighten. He leaned backward allowing one eye to peek through the small gap in the curtain. There was a rack of clothes blocking the view of the store; the perfect cover.

  He pulled her out of the dressing room and through a swinging door that read, ‘Staff Only.’ She’d struggled fiercely for a few moments but then seemed to lose her will to fight back. Georgia didn’t resist as Massimo twisted and pushed her toward the back of the store. He popped the handle on the back door, propping it open behind him. In seconds, they were outside in the biting cold, standing in the alley between the store and a windowless brick wall. Parked next to a Dumpster, was a small compact car with its trunk open.

  Five minutes later, Massimo pulled the car onto US-285 and headed north. His former client…his former girlfriend…the celebrated coloratura soprano…was riding in the trunk.

  It took a full eight minutes before Anna sensed something was wrong. She worked her way to the end of the back hallway and stopped in front of Georgia’s dressing room.

  “Miss Reece? How’s it going in there?”

  Silence.

  Anna ripped open the curtain to find a pile of sweaters, Georgia’s blouse and coat, her purse, and an iPhone on the bench. She flew through the swinging door and scanned the storage room then peered into a darkened half bathroom. The retired police detective pressed the small button on her earpiece. “John. Georgia is not in the store.”

  As John bolted through the front door, Anna opened the back door and looked up and down the alley. Nothing. Her husband was on her back in seconds.

  “What the fuck?” he screamed.

  “She was in the dressing room. Trying on sweaters.”

  “And now?”

  “She’s not.”

  “Anna, for God’s sake,” he said. “How did we let this happen?”

  She braced herself against the brick wall. “I don’t know. We checked this door. It was dead bolted from the inside. It needed a key and the key was not in the lock.”

  “Did anyone even know we were coming here today?” John asked, not expecting an answer. “I’m going to have a look further up and down the alley. Go back inside and, I don’t know, go see who else is in the store right now. Go!”

  Anna hurried back into the boutique and found Brenda and the sales woman looking at necklaces on a large black velvet placemat. She sidled up next to the chef. “I don’t want to alarm you, ma’am.”

  “What is it?” Brenda said in full voice.

  “Keep your voice down, if you will. Miss Reece appears to be missing.”

  “How on Earth is that possible? She didn’t come this way. This store is tiny; we would have noticed. She’s in the back trying on all those sweaters we picked out.”

  “She is not back there, ma’am. She must have gone out the back door. It’s unlocked.”

  “She left on her own?”

  “We have not determined that yet.” Anna turned to the sales woman. “Do you have security cameras in the shop?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the woman said, her hands trembling. “We’ve never had the need.”

  Brenda put down the jewelry she was examining and pulled out her cell phone. “I can try calling her.”

  “Her phone is in the dressing room along with…” Anna struggled to speak. “Along with her blouse, coat, and purse.”

  “Well then she certainly didn’t leave by herself now did she?” Brenda exploded. “Anna! How could you two let this happen?”

  “I’m devastated, Miss Braxton. This has never happened to John and me before. We’ve never…”

  Her husband suddenly appeared. He was holstering his weapon as he approached the three ladies. “I found nothing. There don’t appear to be any cameras in the alley. How about in here?”

  “No,” the sales women, Anna, and Brenda all said in unison.

  “Fuck!” John screamed. He startled the only other person in the store at the time, an elderly, frail looking woman who was sifting through silk scarves in a sales bin. “What the fuck?!” John said again under his breath.

  “What do we do now, detectives?” Brenda asked with a decidedly sarcastic tone.

  “I guess we call the police,” John said softly. “Damn it to hell.”

  “Because that’s worked so wonderfully up until now.” Brenda started for the back of the store. “I’m going to get out of these God damned green pants. Jesus Christ on a cracker.”

  * * *

  Skyler nearly choked on a piece of steak in her mouth. “Excuse me? Move to Las Vegas?”

  “Well, that’s where I plan to base the foundation. It’s where my house is—the only one I kept when I started downsizing my once-ostentatious lifestyle; it’s up in the hills in Henderson—and I have a very good relationship with the University of Nevada there. U.N.L.V. could be a good place to launch the initial course work.”

  “But, Foster,” Skyler said after she took a moment to force down the meat with a long sip of water, “I’m an east coast girl. I live in Washington, D.C. My staff all lives there. And I have a house in Wabanaki, Maine, where I spend the summer months. Plus, I have clients that I have become quite fond of. You wouldn’t want me to abandon them without proper notice and, quite frankly, I don’t want to stop working for any of them. They were all hand-picked and have become like family to me. It’s not like you’re asking me to leave a big firm where I’m just one of thousands. This is my own business. It’s my own baby. I’m the one.”

  The old man smiled and leaned back in his chair. “And I don’t want you to do that either. I guess that was just a little test.”

  Skyler exhaled. “It was a mean test, if I’m being honest, Foster,” Skyler said.

  “I didn’t intend to be mean. And I always want you to be honest, for goodness sake. Even an old codger like me realizes that this is the 21st century. Technology and ever-present screens have taken over. A person can work from anywhere he or she pleases. You can be in Washington or Wabanaki or even Waikiki, for all I care. We can get together for face-to-face meetings when it’s necessary and the rest of the time we can meet virtually. Believe it or not—I actually know how to Skype. So? How’s all that sound?”

  Skyler sighed pleasantly. “I like is all very much, thank you.”

  “And, by the way, I’m absolutely gaga over the state of Maine. Perhaps I’ll have to come up there next summer and we can do some work over lobster rolls and a Portland Pale Ale.”

  “That would be lovely. You’d love Wabanaki. People come to visit and then don’t ever want to leave.”

  “I used to own a home on Cobbosseecontee Lake, just west of Augusta. Do you know it? Most call it Cobbossee, for short.”

  “Do I know it?” Skyler said with a laugh. “My aunt and uncle had the cutest little camp along Pond Road on the east side of the lake. I remember swimming in that ice-cold water and listening to the loons when I was a little girl. A magical place, indeed.”

  “Indeed. That was during my water skiing phase. I’d spend Memorial Day to Labor Day there in the 1960’s. I’d water ski for hours on end. It drove the executives of my company crazy. Back then, it wasn’t as easy to get ahold of people. No email and no cell phones, of course. And I didn’t even have a landline at the lake. I ran my business through the United States Postal Service and frequent trips to a pay phone at a diner in Manchester. Those were the days.”

  “Unless you take a trip to Timbuktu or the Galápagos Islands, I don’t think that kind of sweet escape exists these days.”

  “So very true.” Foster raised his hand and indicated to the waitress that he was ready for the check. “This has been lovely, my dear, but I have trails to hike and Christmas cards to address.”

  “You don’t do th
at yourself.”

  “I absolutely do. I’ve whittled down my list to just a few dozen people who I actually care enough about to hope that they have a Merry Christmas. No more empty sentimentality for this old man. At one point, perhaps as early as a dozen years ago, my corporate card list was in the tens of thousands. That’s just a ridiculous waste of money.”

  Skyler felt the hairs on her arms stand up—she’d completely forgotten to arrange for anything holiday-ish for her clients. She made a mental note to call her assistant Enzo just as soon as she got back to her car.

  Skyler and Foster parted ways in the lobby. They’d made plans to reconnect after New Year’s, and Skyler was excited about the opportunity to work on such a worthy and important cause. While celebrity projects were lucrative and full of rewards—like promoting Carissa’s clothing line and getting network television product placement deals for Noah’s craft vodka—this was the kind of work that she could get newly energized about.

  Back in her car, she called her office and pleaded with Enzo to come up with holiday gifts for her clients.

  “Christmas is six days away, Skyler,” her annoyed employee said flatly. “You’re just thinking about this now?”

  “The question should be me asking you, why didn’t you think about this three months ago?”

  “I did,” he said softly. “But I guess it got pushed to the bottom of the pile when we started getting so darned busy.”

  “Alright, this is my mistake; let’s stop with the blame game. Enzo, darling, can we pull off a Christmas miracle?”

  “With enough money, we can do anything, darling.”

  “Great.” Skyler navigated out of the downtown area and pointed the car up into the hills. She marveled at the crystal-clear sky and majestic snowcapped mountains ahead of her. “Do we know where everyone is?”

  “For the most part, yes,” Enzo said. Skyler could hear him furiously pounding away on his keyboard. “I have the master calendar pulled up. It shows where everyone is supposed to be, at least. Carissa is spending Christmas in Las Vegas. Noah is at his step-mother’s house in Tampa. Gretchen and Blake are…”