by G G Collins
“Why aren’t you art director?” Sanchez’s face revealed nothing.
“Endicott demoted me to production manager, that’s why.” He didn’t flinch or mince words.
“Why were you demoted?”
“That is the question. He never shared his reasons with me.”
“And even if he had you could quite easily keep them to yourself.”
“Listen Sanchez, my feelings for Endicott are well-known, but I didn’t kill him.”
Sanchez ignored the protest. He was used to them.
“A small cut was found on Endicott’s lip.”
“So?”
“So would you have any idea how it might have happened?”
“I’m sure if the medical examiner can’t figure it out, I would be no help whatever.”
“You see an open cut like that would make a poison absorb much faster into the blood stream. It could have been made by the killer or Endicott may have cut himself shaving, or even sustained a paper cut.”
“A paper cut,” Jim said sheepishly. “Big deal. We all get those; part and parcel of the trade.”
“I guess I don’t have to tell you to stay in town until the investigation is over?” Sanchez didn’t like Wells much. There was always one flippant type on every case. He made a note in Spanish: Wells/alec inteligente.
“Dangit, if I didn’t let my passport expire,” Jim said in his best red-neck imitation.
Sanchez left Jim to his production charts.
* * *
Taylor dropped her green reading glasses on her desk. She could hear voices approaching from the hall. Before Endicott’s death she had been able to work for hours without allowing herself to become distracted. Now it seemed every minor commotion got her off track.
“A paper cut,” Jim said to Virginia. “Sanchez said Endicott had a paper cut on his lip. Obviously, the ME was thorough, or doesn’t have a lot to do. We get paper cuts every day. There’s paper everywhere in a publishing business.”
“Heard about the big meeting?” Jim burst into Taylor’s office while Virginia remained in the hall looking apprehensive.
“What meeting?” Taylor asked.
“Appears the shift of power is about to be announced. Meeting’s in an hour; conference room. Be there or be square,” Jim said with exaggerated importance.
Taylor looked down at her jeans and sweater; not exactly appropriate attire for a major conference. Except for Virginia, who was always properly dressed for the corporate set, they were all pretty casual. It was one of the few policies Preston had allowed to remain. The elder Endicott had believed an imposed mode of dress hindered creativity. It was a belief she herself held, but it did catch one unaware at times. No matter, her sweater was a beautiful purple weave. The jeans would be under the table. She would only be listening today.
“Do we know who?”
“Nope, everyone’s lips are sealed, at least those without paper cuts!” Jim laughed. Was she right in detecting a hint of hysteria?
* * *
Donald Lovitt was still shaky from the questioning with Detective Sanchez that morning. He was intimidated by authority figures. His private life was out of control and wouldn’t improve until his mother was gone. Work wasn’t much better. Sometimes he altered a few numbers just because he could. He hadn’t always done it, only for the last few years when things seemed intolerable and his mother’s medical costs went skyward.
Donald had been a charity case for Endicott, Sr. From his earliest memory Mr. Preston, as he was instructed to address the man, had been a part of his mother’s life. He knew his mother was in love with him. He also knew Mr. Preston was married and this made his mother sad.
On his thirteenth birthday, while opening a gift from Endicott Sr., he had asked her if she loved Preston. She’d replied, “Of course, he’s a dear friend. Look at the lovely books he gave you.”
He’d watched his mother waste her life waiting for something that would never happen. That’s when he decided numbers were a lot safer than people, and he had taken his first bookkeeping course. Numbers made perfect sense. They were either right or wrong—no maybes. His mother was so proud at his graduation from college, an education paid for by the only man who had ever contributed anything in his life.
The one gentle pastime he allowed himself was horticulture. He loved flowers. He had been inspired by his mother who once had a flourishing garden. As she aged, the flowers lost some of their luster and vigor. When he established himself at Endicott Publishing, he installed a greenhouse on the south side of his mother’s house. She was then able to putter inside at her own pace.
Lovitt had lived on his own for only a few months before his mother’s health required him to return and care for her. She suffered from congestive heart failure and he absolutely refused to house her in a nursing home. There were still many good times for her especially in the afternoon and when she was most animated and cognizant. It made him happy to find her watering and weeding in the greenhouse when he came home. Lately however, she spent most of her time in her chair reading the same book repeatedly or watching TV, although she could no longer figure out how to change the channel.
Congestive heart failure can finish off a person in a flash or last much of a lifetime. It slowly takes away circulation and oxygen from the body including the brain. The circulation problems were bad enough. It had ended her daily walks. But the lack of oxygen to the brain caused her to forget small things or even entire days. It was a never ending frustration for both of them. He grew tired of constantly repeating answers to questions she was asking for the fourth time. He hated himself when his patience waned. He too began working in her conservatory; it was the only escape from their health-imposed house arrest.
Forcing bulbs fascinated him. The very idea that you could compel a flower to bloom in off-season went against anything he dealt with in accounting. The fragrance of spring was always present in the Lovitt house with tulips and hyacinths blooming in splendor on every available tabletop.
Lovitt quietly wrung his hands beneath the conference table awaiting the unknown as the rest of the staff filed in for the meeting.
* * *
No one was surprised to see Jessica Endicott there. Taylor had never met her but recognized the woman by the flaming red hair. Unlike her own auburn tresses, Jessica’s brassy mane was hard not to notice. Even without the hair she would have been a standout anywhere. She was voluptuous in a tailored hot pink suit with a silk jewel neck blouse in turquoise. Stripper heels matched her suit. A single strand of pearls was her one concession to conservative office attire.
Several board members were present and Taylor assumed the two other people were attorneys for the firm. One, a woman dressed in a traditionalist navy suit closed the door when everyone had arrived. Why the door needed to be closed was a mystery to Taylor, there was no one on duty in the rest of the office except the voice mail. The other attorney introduced himself as Clayton Reynolds. He cleared his throat and began the meeting with several pages of document reading.
Taylor found her mind wandering because of the legal gibberish. Couldn’t they just get to the point? She allowed herself to consider the horror Endicott must have felt when he realized he was sick. Did he know he had been poisoned? Did he know he was dying? It must have been frightening to be sick, alone and obviously unable to call for help. She wondered if he had been reaching for his phone when he fell over on his desk.
Reynolds finally got to something interesting. Jessica Endicott was the new owner of Endicott Publishing. Everyone was spellbound at that announcement. An audible and collective “Oh” followed.
Taylor was astounded, along with everyone else, that Jessica would be the publisher. She and Preston had been divorced for months. From what she’d heard about their relationship, it seemed poetic justice. Taylor realized she had been wrong. Someone besides Jim hated Preston. Jessica must. Would she kill to get the company?
Jessica took the podium and surveyed the stunned
and waiting faces around the large table. This was the big moment. She had rehearsed many times because she wanted to get the most impact for her words.
“As new owner and CEO of Endicott Publishing it will be my first duty to inform the legal firm of Reynolds and Reynolds, hired by my ex-husband, that their services will no longer be required.”
Jessica was thrilled to see the two lawyers’ faces drain of color. There was even a small gasp from the usually together Virginia.
“A written notice will go out tomorrow,” Jessica added.
Reynolds placed the documents he’d been reading from on the lectern, closed his briefcase with a snap and left the room without a word. His young assistant hastened to follow her employer.
“Next week I will make decisions relating to staffing.” For a moment she thought about softening the statement, but decided to enjoy these few minutes of power, something she’d always experienced from the victim’s side. She cringed at the fact that she could so easily inflict it on others. She didn’t intend to lay off the staff except maybe for Compton, figuring she had an affair with her ex-husband.
The meeting was adjourned.
* * *
Could she be out of a job? The hard tact Jessica had chosen worried Taylor. Would her dream of living in Santa Fe be squelched so quickly? Would she be able to finish restoring her house? Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. She knew about dreams ending and how hard it was to start over.
Back in her office Taylor quickly scanned a book query. It saddened her that she too was partially responsible for shattered dreams just by doing her job; in this case saying no thanks. If only they could all be published. It didn’t work that way in life and it certainly didn’t work that way in the publishing business.
Whoever thought the creativity of writing could mix with the business of publishing must have been out of their mind. Publishing business; oxymoron or painful truth? Maybe both.
She added a rejection slip and was about to lick the adhesive on the envelope when horrified, she flung the offending envelope onto her desk.
“Could it be?” She hurriedly left her office.
“I’m going out for awhile Candi,” she said downstairs.
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. Have to go by the office supply store, and I think I’ll be coming back by way of the police station.”
“Okay.” Candi’s expression never changed. Taylor hadn’t determined if she was actually smarter than all of them or kept her cards close to the vest.
At the police station she was escorted to a bull pen. Standard fare metal desks dominated the décor, if you could call it that.
“Ms. Browning,” Detective Sanchez said extending his hand. “When I left you my card I never expected you to call.” He grinned enjoying making her feel uncomfortable.
“Look, I feel ridiculous being here anyway,” Taylor said annoyed.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Browning. It wasn’t my intention to offend. Do tell me what’s on your mind.” His killer smile was emerging in the form of a smirk. “Sit down.”
“Detective, you don’t want to know everything on my mind,” she smiled sweetly. “Why don’t I tell you what I’ve discovered?”
“Please do,” Sanchez leaned back in his chair, arms behind him head. He looked dangerously close to falling over.
“In our business we get a good number of solicitations from writers hoping we will publish their books.”
“Go on,” he prompted.
“Oh, this can’t be anything.” Taylor stood to leave.
“Ms. Browning. Tell me what brought you all the way out here.” This time there was no smirk, only brown eyes deep enough to drown in.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Some of these inquiries include self-addressed, stamped envelopes.”
“I’m not following.”
“We lick the envelopes! Most of us do. Endicott was lying on a small stack of envelopes—on his desk—dead!” She slapped her hands in frustration on Sanchez’ desk. He didn’t appear to understand. She tried once more. “The cut on Preston’s lip.” Her voice rose. “The poison could have been on one of the envelopes.”
Sanchez shouted to someone named Matt to get the evidence file on the Endicott case. Matt was breathing hard as he raced to Sanchez’ desk and dropped the large file folder.
Taylor waited, not sure if she should be breathing. God, what if she was right? She must have licked hundreds of envelopes herself. What if there were more? Maybe the factory that made the envelopes had made a mistake. People all over the country could die. It was horrific to think about.
“Matt,” Sanchez bellowed at the young man again.
“Yes sir.”
“Is this all?
“Yes sir.”
“Okay. Thank you.” He seemed puzzled.
“What’s wrong?” Taylor asked leaning over his desk.
“There are no envelopes in the file.”
“But they were there. I saw them. They were next to his arm. Remember the coffee spilled on them?”
“Somehow they didn’t make it to this file.” Sanchez frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that evidence may have been tampered with. In the meantime, no one, and I mean no one, is to lick another envelope in that office.”
Taylor pulled out a dozen freshly purchased envelope moisteners from her purse and dumped them on his desk. “I’ve already thought of that.”
This time Sanchez’ smile was real and not lost on Taylor.
Chapter 5
It was a perfect day for a funeral, a rare rainy day in Santa Fe. A downpour would be more accurate. They had slopped around the streets at the church service and were now making their way through the sodden ground of the cemetery.
Taylor held her umbrella close to her head. It was keeping only the top half of her body dry. Her skirt was soppy and she feared her low-heeled shoes would have to be thrown away. She thought of Jim and Alise back at the office, dry and warm. Alise was certain to be overwhelmed with the switchboard since Candi usually had competent command of it. Taylor winced as more water poured over the top of her shoe and seeped between her toes. Forget the shoes, she’d probably get pneumonia. She hoped the minister would make his comments mercifully short.
When she reached the blue canvas tent erected over the grave site, most of the group was there. It seemed a bit strange, considering her history with Preston, that Jessica had come. There was no outward appearance of mourning. Virginia looked sad, on the verge of tears but controlling it. Donald was, well Donald. She would probably never really know him. He never allowed his business façade to drop. Candi was crying quietly into a well-worn tissue. Taylor handed her another. Candi seemed to get along with everyone at the office, even though no two were remotely alike. It made her a fantastic receptionist. Taylor thought she genuinely liked Preston. He’d always had a pleasant greeting for her.
There were maybe a dozen other people there, none of whom Taylor knew. Was one of them the killer?
* * *
Taylor changed clothes and shoes after the service and returned to work. She had worked late at the office many times but tonight there were many unfamiliar creaks and groans. She wanted to concentrate on the work at hand, the new mystery from Dominique. She could drive one to distraction but on the other hand she could crank out book after book and her readers loved them.
This one was a bit troubling considering what had occurred. She had only read the first few chapters, but it had already been established as a locked-room murder. Dominique hadn’t written one before so Taylor decided to take it home where she could read uninterrupted.
Outside her office she heard a tapping noise. It seemed to be coming from Virginia’s office. Taylor walked carefully across the wooden floor hoping to avoid any creaking planks under the carpet. She thought she was the only one working late. Strangely, Taylor saw no light coming from under the door. A startled gasp escaped her as she stepped inside
. The editor was staring out her window watching the last of the sunset. A street lamp cast slips of light through the open blinds. Virginia was indulging in her nervous habit of dropping her pencil repeatedly on the desk.
“I had no idea anyone was up here. Are you all right?”
“Oh yes, dear. Just doing a little catch-up. The meeting and the funeral put me behind.”
“In the dark?”
“Well no. I was doing some thinking first. Sorry if I frightened you.”
“No problem. I was about to take home Dominique’s new manuscript. Oddest coincidence, it’s a locked-room murder.”
She couldn’t mistake Virginia’s alarmed reaction.
“Sometimes I wonder if there is such a thing as coincidence.” She left it hanging, not really a question, not quite a statement.
“I’ll see you in the morning then. Perhaps we’ll all feel better.” She left before Virginia could respond.
Taylor had an overwhelming urge to run from the building. Instead she took one measured step after another. Succumbing to the anxiety would only blow it out of proportion. She steadied herself and her nerves by gripping the handrail firmly as she took the stairs to reception. Taylor felt as if someone was watching her and looked back up the stairs. No one was in evidence. Maybe the first floor was occupied? It was certainly full of shadows. It couldn’t be more than twenty feet to the front door and yet it seemed much farther. She was relieved to be outside breathing in the smoky piñon that floated through the evening air. This whole thing was making her a nut case.
* * *
After a hot bath which she knew would cause her regret as it would dry her skin, she heated chicken tortilla soup, her own recipe, and shared it with Oscar. The Aby loved tortilla chips. He ate cat food, but she knew better than to deprive him of some of his favorite people food. Single cats, those who live alone with people, never quite grasp the fact they are not human. Relations flow along much more affably if the feline is allowed to feel human on a regular basis. If such expected portions are not provided, mysterious things begin to happen around the house. Drapes somehow ended up on the floor in shreds or vases that have stood for years appeared in a heap of pieces. Taylor had learned to allow Oscar his humanity. She fed him another tortilla strip and he crunched it, one happy fellow.