Dead Editor File

by G G Collins

  He didn’t let his father’s withdrawal of support stop him. He worked his way through college and completed his MBA. In a few years he had become a successful businessman moving from opportunity to opportunity. It was the game that was fun. He watched trends and was always front and center for the next big moneymaking break.

  However, after the newly married bliss wore off, Preston Jr. never forgave Jessica for coming into his life. He blamed her for his parent’s alienation. In a short time, he grew to hate her yet refused to let her go. She pleaded for a divorce. He declined, convincing her he still cared, only to punish her again. She’d spent most of her time alone while he womanized and made business deals.

  When Preston inherited Endicott Publishing she thought their lives had taken a turn for the better. The move to Santa Fe had been a good one for her. The serenity of the area transfused her and she even felt their marriage might have a chance. It was not to be, Preston didn’t much like the prevailing small-city attitude, preferring the faster pace of Los Angeles. After all, Santa Fe wasn’t even a major airport hub.

  * * *

  Jessica took a different approach. She became active in many organizations. She was soon recognized by nearly everyone in town who counted. The power and influence she derived from this gave her the courage she needed to finally divorce Preston and stick him for a more than comfortable standard of living. He owed it to her. Jessica had more than earned it.

  This gave him another way to make her life wretched. He withheld payment every month forcing her to sic her attorney on him time after time. She found amusement in sending a stamped self-addressed envelope to him, the outdated tool of the publishing trade. He would not forget that she existed. But her life outside of philanthropic duties was empty and meaningless. Most of her energies were spent harassing the man who had made her life unbearable.

  Standing at her dressing table brushing her bottle red hair, a relic left from her poor beginnings, she absently listened to the news. As a girl she confused flashy with rich and had never quite moved beyond that. A news break made her set down the hair brush. Was it Preston? Was he the dead CEO? She hoped so with every fiber of her being.

  * * *

  Donald Lovitt sat watching television in his dark living room. His mother napped in the chair next to him. She did a lot of that lately. Sometimes he wished she’d die in her sleep—better than continuing on as she was.

  It seemed the police thought Endicott had been murdered. Didn’t that beat all?

  * * *

  Virginia Compton sat in a wingback chair and stared at her TV screen. One tear ran down her cheek as she twisted a cloth handkerchief.

  Chapter 3

  Taylor wasn’t surprised to find the police at the office again the following morning. She was somewhat surprised to see Virginia waiting in her office.

  “Good morning Virginia.”

  “Oh.” She sat in Taylor’s visitor chair, chin in hand. “Good morning dear.”

  “I see the police are back.” Taylor dropped a manuscript on her desk. “I guess it was Preston they were referring to last night on the news?”

  “That’s why I’m waiting for you,” Virginia said. “It seems foul play is suspected. They’re being closed mouthed about why.”

  “I can’t believe Preston was killed. Murdered.” It was difficult to say it. The word carried so much finality. He wasn’t only dead, but someone killed him.

  “The police think so or what would be the point of all this?” Virginia absentmindedly swept the room with her arm.

  Taylor sat down slowly. “Who would do something so heinous? Surely, they don’t suspect someone in the company?”

  Virginia pulled a pencil from the jar on Taylor’s desk. Holding it loosely in her hand she let it drop repeatedly. The eraser made a slight tapping sound each time it hit the desk.

  “Probably routine. It’ll all be over by lunch.” She slid the pencil back into the jar and rose to leave.

  “Virginia, who’ll be running the company now?”

  “I don’t know. I hope it’s not . . .”

  Taylor could swear there were tears in Virginia’s eyes as she left her office. It was upsetting of course, but Virginia Compton didn’t strike her as the sappy type. What did she mean by her last statement? Who was it she hoped would not be running the company?

  “Excuse me, I’m Detective Victor Sanchez.” The detective stood in the doorway. He was handsome in a rough sort of way. Police work probably had a way of doing that. He was dressed in a dark grey suit which seemed to Taylor a bit too conservative for a detective, at least according to the mysteries she’d read.

  “You’re,” he consulted a small note pad, “Taylor Browning?”

  “Yes I am. Please come in. Would you like to sit down?”

  “No ma’am, but thank you.” He made some notes next to her name: auburn hair, green eyes, looker.

  Taylor stood pushing back her chair. She leaned against her credenza. Sitting in the presence of this man made her uncomfortable. No reason really. He seemed a perfectly nice person. But Detective Sanchez was a man on a mission.

  “I understand, Ms. Browning, you were present when the body was discovered?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Anyone else there?”

  He knew she had been there so he must know who the others were. Why was he asking something he already knew?

  “Virginia Compton, Alise Wyatt, Jim Wells, Luther Jacobs, the building super. He unlocked the door.” She thought a moment. “The officer and maybe Donald Lovitt. No, he might have been in the office, but I don’t remember seeing him upstairs when they found Mr. Endicott. I believe Candice Kane was downstairs.” Taylor used her full first name.

  He nodded but did not add anything to his notebook, but a slight smile threatened.

  “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill Preston Endicott?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Is it true you have been employed here a year?”

  “About, yes.”

  “How well do you know Jim Wells?”

  “No better than anyone else. We’ve worked together on various books since I’ve been here. And we’ve had lunch or drinks from time to time, usually with some of the other staff.”

  “I gather he and Mr. Endicott did not get along?”

  “Except for a few meetings, I rarely saw them together.” It was almost the truth. She’d come upon them in the parking lot one day. They seemed to be in a heated argument, but stopped talking abruptly when she appeared.

  “And when they were together, how did they get along?”

  “Okay, I guess. Why?”

  “The results of the autopsy will not be back for a couple of months, but preliminary tests suggest that Mr. Endicott was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned!” Taylor exclaimed. “He really was murdered?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “What kind of poison? How?”

  “That’s what I have to find out,” Sanchez said. “How he ingested poison while in his office, alone, with the door locked. We’re checking the coffee from his cup to see if it contained the poison.”

  “I don’t envy you.” Taylor said.

  “So now you understand the seriousness of my questions. Care to add anything?”

  “I guess I have to,” Taylor responded. She told him about the scene she’d witnessed in the parking lot between Jim and Endicott. “I didn’t hear anything so I have no idea what it was about.”

  Sanchez made notes: Argument, Endicott/Wells, parking lot. He was about to pose another question when Candi’s voice broke in through the intercom.

  “Taylor, sorry to interrupt but Dominique is on her way up.”

  “Oh no! Can you stop her? I’m speaking with Detective Sanchez.”

  “Already tried. You know Dominique.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Candi.”

  Sanchez raised his eyebrows in question but before Taylor could answer Dominique
breezed through the doorway clutching her sizable purse to her chest. She nearly collided with the detective. Dominique Boucher, Endicott’s best-selling mystery writer, reminded Taylor of a Bedouin because she wore layers of sweeping, billowing clothing. Quite a clothes horse and beautiful woman, Dominique could pull it off, but Taylor thought it all part of an effort to look mysterious. It worked.

  “Oh well,” she said in mock indignity readjusting her fedora over her sleeked back black hair. “I had no idea you were with someone.” She raised one precisely shaped eyebrow at Sanchez as though skeptical about his existence.

  “I believe you did, Dominique.”

  “You mean her?” she gestured in the general direction of downstairs. “Never could understand a word she said. Really, you should get better help.”

  Sanchez made another note: Who or what is she?

  “Dominique,” Taylor said with the last bit of her patience. “What do you want?”

  “It’s time for a royalty report.”

  Taylor glanced at Victor Sanchez with a look of apology.

  Returning her attention to Dominique she said, “As I have told you before royalty statements are sent out twice a year. That will be sometime next month. If you refer to your contract—”

  “You know me,” Dominique interrupted. “I just get all confused when it comes to those legal things.” She dismissed the contract with a wave of her hand.

  “Have you read Alone to Die yet? You’ve had the manuscript for several weeks.”

  “Dominique, do you know that Preston died yesterday?”

  Taylor knew from experience that Dominique could be quite demanding, but really.

  “Yes, but I would assume business to continue as usual. It has nothing to do with me.”

  Taylor couldn’t believe her ears. How could anyone be so self-involved?

  “I need to finish my meeting with Detective Sanchez. So if you will excuse us.”

  “Oh. Well. Fine!” She left with garments swirling around her.

  Taylor sighed. “Notice how she sucks all the energy from the room?”

  Sanchez nodded in noncommittal. “Anything else?”

  “I’ve told you all I know which is nothing.”

  “Vic.” A uniformed officer called from the hall. “Can you get loose a minute?”

  “If you think of anything else please give me a call.” He handed her his card.

  Taylor stared at the card in her hand while wondering just who in the company could hate Preston enough to kill him, and did they have a dislike for anyone else?

  * * *

  At 5:15 p.m. Taylor was on her way out when she noticed Jim lounging on one of the sofas in the lobby.

  “Thought you’d never give it up,” he said

  “Had a few things to finish.”

  “How about a drink?”

  She considered what this could mean. They’d had drinks a couple of times, even lunch with some of the others. And there was that one day of second-hand shopping when she was furnishing her house. But why tonight? Why not tonight? She was overanalyzing. Maybe Jim needed to talk about it.

  As they walked through the Plaza, Santa Fe’s heart and soul, Taylor remembered the first time she came to the City Different.

  It was years ago, at least eight. She and Dave were on their first real vacation since their marriage several years before. During the hour’s drive to Santa Fe from the Albuquerque Sunport, Taylor felt herself transformed as the landscape changed in the ebbing light.

  When they floundered into the plaza while looking for their hotel she could not believe the excitement. Tourists hurried about trying to find the best deal with the artisans at the Palace of the Governors before they packed and left for the day. That was before she knew they came to the Palace every day as they had for generations to sell pottery, jewelry and sand paintings. Except for an occasional trip to an Indian Pueblo, Taylor bought most of her crafts there. Only Native American artists were allowed a special permit to sell wares at the Palace.

  * * *

  The restaurant was located near the plaza. They took the Mexican tile staircase to the second floor. Jim found an empty table on the balcony and ordered a scotch for himself. Taylor bypassed the seventy-some flavors of margarita for the house version. It was a cool evening; the overhead heaters were on. Sitting there with the ristras hanging from each end of the balcony always made her feel like a visitor again and brought back happy thoughts. Before she lost Dave; before her life changed.

  “Heard Dominique swooped by today,” Jim said.

  “What?” Taylor’s thoughts tumbled back into the present.

  “Oh yes. Right in the middle of the detective’s questions.”

  “Candi was upset,” Jim said. “Dominique doesn’t know she exists. It’s too bad we need authors in order to publish books. Most of them are pretty difficult especially right before their book comes out. I can’t remember how many times I’ve been hung up on or watched someone slam out of an office. I’ve always said we should never accept a book from an author any closer than a five-hundred-mile radius.”

  “I think they get caught in the system and become frustrated,” Taylor said. “It’s hard to understand why it takes so long to see their book in print. Print estimates, production, bar codes, ISBN numbers, Library of Congress, promotions, sales reps, and all the minute details in between failed to make sense unless you lived with it day to day.”

  “Doesn’t make sense to me anyway,” Jim said leaning back in his chair. “Publishing is a histrionic business.”

  “Don’t forget all the contrived urgencies; when everything absolutely, positively has to get there overnight. A half-dozen book reviewers call me everyday wanting a book Fed-Xed. I bet they make that request thirty times a day and never know if all the books arrive on time, if at all.”

  A few quiet moments followed and Taylor found herself wishing Jim would get to the point; unless, of course, the invitation should be taken at face value.

  “Have you stopped painting that house of yours? Must be a lot of work.”

  “I’ve no idea why I thought I could do it all by myself. One thing’s for sure; I’ll only leave feet first.” Taylor said and gasped. “Sorry, not quite appropriate considering recent events.”

  “Don’t be sorry on my account. There was no love lost between me and Endicott.”

  “Really Jim, do you think you should be saying things like that with a police investigation going on?”

  “Probably not, but it’s no secret. Say, what did the good detective have to say anyway?” Jim said with excessive nonchalance.

  Taylor wondered if she should tell Jim the truth and decided to punt instead.

  “Not much. He asked a few questions, none of which I could answer. I guess it was routine.”

  “Nothing is routine with the police,” Jim offered. “Routine questions from the police are like our standard contract; the worst possible deal.”

  The server walked by and he held up his nearly empty glass. She nodded in acknowledgement.

  “What about you dear?”

  “No thanks,” Taylor said.

  “Taylor, you remember the day you saw Endicott and me talking in the parking lot?”

  “Well yes.” So this was it. He was finally getting to it. Should she tell him that Sanchez knew or keep it to herself?

  “So what?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “Yes, but Sanchez might think differently.”

  “I felt I had to mention it,” Taylor said. “He pressed for information, however slight.”

  “No harm done. People were standing in line to get to Endicott.” He finished his drink. His glass hit the table with an exclamatory clunk.

  “Time to get moving. See you in the morning.”

  Taylor finished her drink. She felt like a chump. Why did she tell Sanchez about Jim and Preston’s squabble? Because he made her uncomfortable and she wanted to be honest. But did s
he have to be that forthright? Yes, chump about covered it.

  * * *

  Jim slapped the steering wheel of his Jeep and swore. “I’m in trouble now!”

  Chapter 4

  The following day found Jim Wells bent over a production schedule for an upcoming travel book. Making a schedule and trying to stick to it frustrated him at every step. Endicott Publishing was never on time with anything. Sometimes it wasn’t even their fault. With so many details to coordinate with various businesses and freelancers it was a nightmare he lived every day. He’d give a lot to go back to full-time book designer. Now that was a great job. He didn’t mind spending hours getting a detail right for a cover. Since Endicott had filed him away in the basement he’d considered quitting many times. For some reason he wasn’t even aware, he continued the grind day after day. He looked up when he felt someone watching him.

  “Jim Wells? Detective Sanchez. A word please.”

  Jim offered him a chair, an orange, molded plastic affair left over from the early days of Endicott Publishing. All the outdated and ugly things migrated to the basement.

  Sanchez declined and continued to stand inside the door.

  “You’ve heard this is now a murder investigation?” Sanchez asked.

  “It’s a small company, and of course there was that rather cryptic reference on the news last night.” Jim knew he shouldn’t be sarcastic but it seemed to tumble out in spite of his better judgment.

  “Preliminary examination has revealed the deceased was probably poisoned. As an artist you would be familiar with toxic materials.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Jim stood. “What are you implying?”

  “Only that you might know about potentially deadly products.” Sanchez held up his hand to silence the protesting Wells. “And if anything might be missing from the supplies.”

  “In case you haven’t heard the full scoop on me, I am no longer the art director around here. I haven’t touched a paintbrush in months, and wouldn’t know if anything was missing from the art supplies.”