by G G Collins
“You’re a junk food kitty,” Taylor said.
He blinked his gorgeous amber eyes as if to say, “whatever.”
Taylor went back to the manuscript. At the end of the third chapter, she came straight up out of her reclining position on the banco. She fingered through the next couple of chapters of Dominique’s book, stopping to frantically read a paragraph here and there. The plot of Alone to Die could be the story of Endicott’s murder. Her victim was not in publishing, but just about everything else seemed to fit: powerful man, disliked by nearly everyone, ex-wife.
“Geez, what is going on?”
Forget relaxing at home. Was Dominique somehow involved? Maybe there was no factory error in making the envelopes.
Who would be suspect? Surely each staff member would be a person of interest, but also his ex-wife, creditors, business enemies? Even an angry rejected author. Taylor grabbed her legal pad. She made two headings: Suspects and Motives.
Jessica Endicott was the first on her list. She hated her ex-husband, but Taylor didn’t know the details, just that it had been a bad marriage.
Virginia Compton followed, but Taylor didn’t think she was a viable suspect as she seemed to genuinely care about Endicott. But there was always the woman scorned.
Next was Donald Lovitt. Taylor didn’t know him very well. He showed up at meetings and that was about it. He never attended holiday parties. But she’d heard his mother was very sick.
Alise Wyatt was the most recent employee and Endicott had abused her verbally. The whole office had heard his castigations. Taylor knew nothing about her but what she had heard.
As much as she hated to add his name, Jim Wells went down next. It was obvious that he and Endicott did not like one another.
Candi Kane was the last staffer on the list. She had always seemed friendly with Endicott. Perceptions could be misleading.
Dominique Boucher had submitted a new manuscript which was hauntingly similar to Endicott’s murder. On the bright side, if Dominique turned out to be the killer, she couldn’t make unexpected appearances from prison.
She went back to reconsider the possibility of a rejected author. People were angry these days for all kinds of reasons. Getting rejected by a publisher could be hard to take. Most writers stop at disappointment, but one who feels particularly beat up by the world could become the next homicidal fanatic.
Even the authors they published could become quite distressed over the way the book was edited, their contract, why it took so long to publish, the cover art. There were a myriad of non fail-safe steps in publishing a book. And almost every author went through a phase near the end of the process where they became upset and hung up on one of the Endicott Publishing employees or slammed out of the office after airing their grievance. It was kind of like stage fright only noisier. The staff had become accustomed to this and could mostly ignore it. Usually the author would apologize later and all was mostly forgotten.
Of all the people who made her list, Taylor had to admit that Jessica Endicott had the best motive, but that didn’t make her a murderer.
Jim couldn’t have done it, she told herself. It was too hard to believe. He could be difficult, even combative, but surely it was just bravado. Weren’t all artists insecure? Maybe she read that in one of their self-help books. Anyway the idea made her feel better.
Taylor studied her list again. Alise didn’t seem too likely. She’d only been there a few days when Preston was killed. Taylor thought Virginia not the killing kind, whatever that was. Donald seemed docile and rarely spoke, and for heaven’s sake, he took care of his mother.
She was left with a list that told her nothing. Company outsiders might have it in for him. He was a ruthless businessman. What about Endicott Publishing board members? She didn’t even know most of them. Perhaps a jealous husband had done him in? With her limited knowledge of the situation she wondered if anyone could be trusted.
Maybe the opportunity to do a little digging would present itself soon. Amateur sleuths always did a little snooping.
The thought of it made Taylor pace her warm kitchen and feel cold.
* * *
Alise was having another bad day. With the insufferable boss dead, she thought her troubles over, but with the takeover by Jessica Endicott, what would become of her? The office was buzzing with rumors. The thought of job hunting again made her want to move home with her parents. They told her she would never amount to anything and a series of short-term, no-count jobs seemed to fulfill their prophecy. With resolve she didn’t have, she hoped that wouldn’t be the solution.
Right now, she’d settle for finding that file. Jessica was looking for confrontation. All the furniture in Endicott’s office had been removed as soon as the police released it as a crime scene. Workmen were now busy cleaning and redecorating the room. Jessica hovered around Alise’s desk all morning asking for this and that. Alise thought she would scream if there was one more demand. Fortunately, Jessica’s interest had turned to the new alarm system she was having installed in the building.
Jessica could be heard arguing with the foreman about the need for a separate alarm in the basement. She felt the additional alarm was necessary because of the relative ease in breaking into the basement windows. The amount of expensive art work and equipment kept there justified the expense.
But that left Jim and Donald with the responsibility of making certain the basement system was operative. Jim had complained about having to code two keypads: one at the lobby door and the other in the basement.
Victor Sanchez watched with amusement as Alise tore through drawers, searched the top of her desk and finally dumped the wastebasket. With all that was going on, she hadn’t noticed him even though he was standing within inches of her desk. He cleared his throat and she nearly catapulted from her chair. On occasion, he secretly liked the power his position gave him. It could be amusing.
“You scared the nuckin futs out of me,” she gasped before recognizing the detective. “Oh sorry. I’m trying not to swear. My grandmother taught me that one.”
“Looking for something?” Sanchez asked.
“Yes, but I’m sure it will turn up.” Alise twisted a lock of her hair. This whole thing was making her a little spastic.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He waited for her to calm down.
“Sure,” she tried to sound obliging but Sanchez was about the last person she wanted to talk with.
“The day of the murder did you enter Endicott’s office?” he looked through the open door at what had been the publisher’s office and noticed the bustle of activity.
“Not me. I don’t even like to go in there now. Jessica, Mrs. Endicott, is redecorating; can’t be finished soon enough for me.”
Sanchez pondered a few moments how best to approach the subject of the missing mail. This only compounded Alise’s agitation; she began twirling her hair again.
“Ms. Wyatt, is it within your duties as secretary, er, administrative assistant,” he corrected. “Are you charged with taking the mail at the end of the day?”
“Yes, I go by the post office on my way home. Why?”
“Did you mail anything the day of Endicott’s death?”
“Yes. Or at least the day after.”
“How can you be sure, there was a lot of confusion?”
“Because it was weird.”
“Weird?”
“My basket had two envelopes when I arrived that morning. No one did any real work that day so I was surprised by the outgoing mail. Usually, there is a lot more. Right before I left to go home I remembered the mail. By then, there were several more envelopes.”
“Go on.”
“I mailed them.”
“Can you remember anything about the envelopes? Names, addresses?”
“One was Mr. Endicott’s PNM payment.”
“His home electric bill?” Sanchez asked.
“Yes, he kept his personal checkbook in his desk. According to Virginia, uh,
Compton, he had all personal statements sent here.”
“Anything else?”
“His alimony payment to his ex-wife,” she thought. “And several large brown envelopes.”
“Thank you. I may have a few more questions later.”
“Oh sure,” she said.
As the detective walked away Alise thought she could do without any more questions. All she did was mail a couple of letters. Big deal.
Sanchez was disappointed. It was almost a given that the evidence had been mailed. He couldn’t believe it. Mailed! This was a new to him. What were the chances of getting those envelopes away from the postal service? He knew it was nil.
Chapter 6
“Candi,” Taylor said. “I’m going to Taos to see Dominique. It will be late this afternoon when I get back.”
Candi shook her head in disbelief as she watched Taylor leave the office. Why would anyone go out of their way to see Dominique?
Taylor turned off onto the Highway 285/84, or the Low Road to Taos, for the 90-minute drive. There was the more scenic High Road, but it was also longer. Today, she just wanted to get there.
Along the way she caught glimpses of the Rio Grande and the occasional float trip in progress.
She wasn’t sure what she would say to Dominique when she got there but was determined to find out what had prompted her to write this particular mystery.
Despite some similarities to Santa Fe adobe architecture and tourist traps, Taos maintained its own personality. It seemed more rugged and conducive to its western heritage. And it had world-class ski slopes.
It was said that either you were a Santa Fe person or a Taos person. There exists between the two cities a rivalry for tourism dollars and individuality, the sides not being quite equally divided, but then Taos is smaller. There is a snobbery to both which says each is more unique, quaint or less commercial than the other. Both had too many T-shirt stores to not be commercially oriented. And like any military base city, most of which would not survive without the base, they dislike being a tourist draw, but depend on that very industry for their continued existence. Despite the yearly summer rush and the ski season that overcrowded the cities, they have desperately fought to maintain what made them different in the first place.
In Santa Fe, building ordinances were enacted that allow no new building in the downtown area be taller than the state capitol building, known locally as the Roundhouse. No one wants the dazzling vistas blocked by a skyscraper. Only approved colors of brown may be used on adobe structures such as homes and businesses to keep the architecture compatible with the natural surroundings. This also earned the Santa Fe nickname of The City Different.
Storm clouds gathered in the mountains near Taos as Taylor edged around the plaza area and turned onto a quiet street a few blocks away. The sky looked about to open but frequently it would blow over without a drop.
Dominique lived in a classic adobe house, at least it was classic on the outside. The stories about the lavish and eclectic interior were constantly being expanded. Those who had seen it left breathless, but were they rapt or aghast?
The best thing about Dominique was her books continued to backlist well, as her agent was always pointing out. Each consecutive advance had grown larger. The fortunate, and some would say unfortunate, consequence of this was Dominique remained with Endicott Publishing. The balance sheet showed she was worth it.
Taylor took the walk to her door, braced herself and knocked. After several minutes she tried the doorbell. She hoped the trip hadn’t been made for nothing. She was about to leave when the door was thrown open.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Dominique was flush with irritation.
“Business,” Taylor smiled sweetly.
“Can’t business wait until a decent hour? I’m just out of bed. The least you could have done was call first.”
“Oh, like you do when you visit us?” Taylor said kindly knowing she would pay. “Besides you look terrific. We should all crawl out of bed looking like you.”
Dominique did, in fact, look her usual gorgeous self. Her makeup must be permanently applied to stay so perfect. Taylor felt plain around Dominique, though with fine alabaster skin and deep auburn hair she was quite striking without all the fussing needed to keep the temperamental author in full bloom.
Dominique ignored the remark and sucked up the compliment.
“Won’t you come in?” She offered graciously
Taylor gasped in astonishment at the foyer of the house. There was nothing southwestern about the interior. The décor was eclectic art deco, except for the clothes Dominique was wearing, everything was black or white. The floor was highly polished tile, the stucco walls of the foyer and living room were high gloss white. The overstuffed furniture was striped in a satin fabric. Tables were ebony laminate with sparing amounts of knickknacks in highly polished silver from the Nambé Pueblo famous for their fine silver products.
There wasn’t a trace of the usual Mexican tiles and hardwoods used in most of the region’s houses. Instead of warm and welcoming, Dominique’s home screamed, “Don’t touch; don’t get comfortable.”
“Gosh Dominique, why do you live in the southwest?” Taylor knew she was treading on dangerous ground.
“I like the weather! No reason to be yet another southwest style casualty.” Dominique said with triumph as though Taylor’s reaction was exactly what she desired.
For a few moments they stood in awkward silence. “Have you eaten?” Taylor asked.
“No. Never eat in the morning.”
“It is now afternoon. How about having lunch with me?”
“A salad would be fine. There’s a café around the corner. The courtyard should be pleasant today.”
The two made a stark contrast as they walked along Bent Street; Dominique in her flowing garb and Taylor in jacket and jeans. The locals were used to Dominique and other colorful characters, the tourists stopped and stared. Dominique ate it up.
“Have we worn out your welcome in Taos bookstores?” Taylor asked.
“No,” Dominique said. “But summer is the best time because of the tourists. Winter can be quiet.”
There were several bookstores in Taos. Taylor visited those near the plaza during a signing for Dominique. One had a couple of resident cats. They spent time dozing in their beds, perfect reading companions; short on talk but loved a good head rubbing.
These bookstores had to be resourceful. Remaindered books could be found here along with the diverse books the area enjoyed. Books featuring New Mexico sold well to visitors. It had been a tough few years for these bookstores. Some long-time stores had gone out of business. Most struggled to keep their doors open.
The restaurant was in one corner of the plaza. The courtyard was enchanting with sunlight filtering through trees and around umbrellas. Late blooming flowers grew in window boxes and Mexican pots. Two musicians played folk music for the mid-day crowd.
They chose an outdoor table. Dominique ordered a salad, no dressing, and Taylor chose a veggie wrap. Taylor always puzzled about women on diets. Dry salad was completely foreign to her.
“What business?”
“Excuse me?” Taylor asked. Dominique had a staccato style of conversation.
“What was the business you came to see me about?”
“Oh, your new manuscript.”
“What about it?”
“It’s different. You’ve never written a locked-room murder before.”
“I’m a writer. I can write more than one kind of book.”
“But Dominique, in view of what has happened, your book could be about Endicott’s death. You have the president of a small company killed in his locked office. Everybody hates him, including his employees, business associates and ex-wife. Does this sound familiar?”
“That’s ridiculous! What could I possibly know about Endicott’s demise? It’s fiction.”
Taylor couldn’t tell if Dominique’s exclamation had caught the attention of
two businessmen at the next table or if they had been listening all along. She stole another glance. She would have sworn the table had been empty when they sat down. Was she being paranoid or had they been followed? Taylor tried to suppress the shiver she felt. This wasn’t a fictional mystery. A man was dead. Maybe she should go back to the office and leave the sleuthing to the police.
“Did you hear me?” Dominique asked.
Taylor’s phone made the alert sound. She pulled it out of her purse and saw a high wind warning had been posted for northern New Mexico in the evening. She hoped the return trip would not be spent fighting the wind.
“Uh, yes. Listen, I have to the back to the office.”
“Without finishing your lunch?”
“I’ll get it to go; I forgot an appointment. My phone reminded me,” she lied. She really wanted to be away from these two guys sitting next to them. She glanced over and one met her eyes. She quickly looked down.
Her fear instinct kicked in. Taylor felt very much like she had the day in the doctor’s office waiting on her husband, the day they received his diagnosis. The feeling of jeopardy was so strong that she simply could not resist it.
The walk to Dominique’s house seemed much longer than it had earlier. She hesitated at the entrance to an alley. The alley was quicker than the street, but staying in plain sight seemed a better strategy. By the time she was safely inside her car she was beginning to think she’d overreacted, but the sensation had been intense.
Several miles outside of Taos she began to relax. She had exaggerated the threat. It must be the stress of the situation. Taylor felt foolish. The next thing she’d think someone was following her. Driving began to relax her and she enjoyed the lovely countryside.
“Oh no.” Where had that thought come from? A glance in the rearview mirror told her a white Honda was trailing her, but at some distance.
“People on vacation.” Taylor said aloud. “Seems like every time I rent a car, it’s white.”