by G G Collins
Taylor jerked her arm and attempted to break through the widening space. The man’s grip tightened until she was about to give up. Where was Jim? Couldn’t he see she was in trouble? That’s when things went to pot rapidly.
“Excuse me, but she’s with me.” Jim tapped the back of the suit.
In a split second she was free and Jim had a fist lodged in his face.
“Leave him alone!” Taylor yelled.
It fell on deaf ears. A woman screamed. The band fled the stage, instruments in hand. The snake dancers scattered. One of the revelers caught Jim under the arms as he sagged momentarily. Jim, being the peace-loving artist, was not much of a fighter. A single blow had abruptly ended his chivalrous effort to save her. Taylor looked about for something to swing and picked up a chair. She crashed it down on God’s gift to women who groaned. For a moment she hoped it wouldn’t hurt his face. He passed out at her feet.
The law arrived just in time to see her soon to be famous chair swing. Next thing she was watching Jim rub his face in the patrol car they shared. Her mind slipped gratefully into neutral until they were ushered into the police station about thirty minutes later.
There were questions and explanations. When everything had been resolved, or at least rationalized to everyone’s satisfaction, she and Jim bumped into Victor Sanchez as they were leaving.
He stopped dead in front of them, surveyed Jim’s bruised face and her disheveled clothes and flashed the boyish grin, but this time it had a devilish quality that made Taylor want to spit.
“Snake dance, huh?” he said.
“For heaven’s sake Sanchez,” Jim erupted. “Let’s get out of here.” He took Taylor’s already aching wrist and nearly dragged her out bodily. Laughter exploded behind them.
After the cab ride back downtown she and Jim picked up his Jeep from the hotel garage. The drive back to her house was mostly chilly. Jim managed to moan every time he cautiously rubbed his face. Taylor thought spitefully that if he wouldn’t rub it, it wouldn’t hurt. He would never let her forget this. No, she was going to owe him big time.
With a sigh of relief, she stepped through her kitchen door and closed it. Her shoe squished into a puddle left just for her.
“Oscar!”
Chapter 10
Where was it? It was here when she left for lunch. Taylor had been reading Dominique’s manuscript earlier and left it on her desk. She lifted their new book catalog, a pile of mail and her printout of mystery reviewers. She even looked beneath her desk, but the manuscript was gone.
Virginia was working at her computer editing. Her fingers flew across the keys as she corrected, deleted and added flourishes. She had intensity when she worked that Taylor envied. It was difficult to distract Virginia while she was editing, but Taylor thought it best to do so.
“Virginia, excuse me.” Virginia held up one index finger and Taylor waited while she finished the line she was working on. Virginia was an excellent editor; every writer’s dream. Several authors had remarked that she made their writing better. An editor couldn’t receive a higher compliment.
“Did you take Dominique’s manuscript from my desk?”
“No, I’ve been working on this all day.” She absently stirred a cup of tea. “This must be cold by now. I’ll have to brew another.
“You might check with Jessica. Although I don’t think she’d take the manuscript without mentioning it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Taylor was puzzled. She left manuscripts on her desk all the time. No one bothered them. Not even a page turned. She reluctantly headed for Jessica’s office. A missing manuscript could be inconvenient but it would likely turn up.
“Is she in?’ Taylor asked Alise.
“Sure thing.”
Taylor hesitated at the door to Jessica’s office. While it had been redecorated, she thought a smudging, if not an exorcism, might be in order. There was a sensation of iniquity hanging in the air. From what she knew of Jessica and Preston’s relationship it wouldn’t surprise her at all if Jessica was partly responsible for some of that.
“Jessica, do you have a minute?”
“Taylor, come in.” She was working at her desk. Classical music came from her CD player. Jessica waved her in and tossed back her nearly neon hair in one motion. “What’s up?”
“I don’t want to make a big deal of this, but Dominique’s manuscript is missing from my office.”
“Really?” One carefully sculpted brow arched in question. “Virginia?”
“No. I already checked with her.”
“No one else would have need for it?”
“I can’t imagine why.” Taylor said.
“Can you talk for a minute?”
“Sure.” Taylor took one of the visitor chairs.
“At our meeting the other day you remarked that Dominique’s new book was different from her others. I believe you said a locked-room murder?”
“The same.”
“What exactly is it about?”
Taylor didn’t think she had much choice here. After all, Jessica was the new owner of the company.
“A quick summary of the first half of the book goes like this; the powerful and much despised head of a small company is found dead in his bedroom after the locked door is broken down by police. Nearly everyone is suspected, including his ex-wife.”
“I see.” Jessica put down her pen and gazed out the window. “The location of the story?”
“It’s southwestern. Scottsdale.”
Jessica sighed slightly. “And what type of business is it?”
“An art gallery.”
“I just knew you were going to say book publishing.” This time the sigh was audible.
“I know. The similarity has bothered me since I began reading the thing. It would have to be a coincidence. What could Dominique possibly know about Mr. Endicott’s death in advance of his murder?”
“Indeed.”
Taylor left Jessica to ponder the mystery.
Candi was buzzing her as she returned to her office.
“Yes Candi?”
“Our favorite author is holding on line three.” Candi could not disguise her amusement at having put Dominique on hold. Taylor grinned and reached for the phone.
“Hello Dominique. How can I help?” She tried to sound casual and hoped Dominique would find it contagious.
“Taylor we really must set up more signings. My fans tell me on Facebook, Twitter and my author website, we are not doing nearly enough.”
A publisher’s constant dilemma; how much money to spend on promoting both book and author before profits were eaten up? Each author deserved promotion and certainly if a book is worth publishing it should be worth promoting. With Dominique it was a finer line. Her fans were legion, but still, the bottom line was the bottom line.
“How about something in the area?” Taylor asked.
“I was thinking Mystery Loves Company or Powell’s Books.”
Ugh. Mystery Loves Company was in Oxford, Maryland and Powell’s was the famous bookstore in Portland, Oregon. Both coastal. Signings at either meant airline tickets and hotel bills for Dominique.
Before she could come up with a good answer, Dominique hurried on. “Powell’s really knows how to treat an author.”
“Dominique, how about I call Tattered Cover in Denver. That’s not a long drive. And then set up a couple of signings here in Santa Fe and Taos? The tourist season is still percolating and you’re bound to attract a good crowd. When your next book comes out we’ll do another push.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Dominique’s tone indicated quite clearly what she thought of Taylor’s response.
“For now Dominique, it is. With Mr. Endicott’s death and the estate ongoing, we are not able to access much capital. Expenditures, except for monthly bills, needed to keep the company running, are just out of the question until Mr. Endicott’s death and his estate are settled.”
“Fine. Call me when it’s set.” She
hung up without saying goodbye or thank you. Grrr.
Taylor heard footsteps in the hall. She watched as Victor Sanchez and two uniformed police officers walked past her office. Her pulse quickened. Something awful was about to happen; again. By the time she reached Jessica’s office one cop was reading Jessica her rights, the other was clicking the cuffs in place around her wrists.
“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?” the officer finished reading.
“Yes,” she nearly hissed. “What I don’t understand is why?” She glared at Sanchez who stood nearby. “I’ve admitted to hating the man, but I didn’t kill him.”
“The envelope found in your garbage was treated with the poison,” Sanchez answered calmly. “You should not make any further statement without counsel.”
By the time Jessica was led out, a small crowd of staff had materialized in the hallway. The office grapevine was effective. A quick headcount showed everyone but Donald and Candi were assembled. Jim seemed curious, but not overly concerned. Alise looked lightheaded. She wondered if staying had been a good idea.
Taylor nearly gasped at the look on Virginia’s face. Taylor was confident that Virginia’s hand was hiding a smile.
“Detective Sanchez,” Taylor said. “Are you sure about this?”
“I can’t really discuss the new evidence,” he said. “We didn’t have any choice but to arrest her.”
“I don’t think she did it.”
“Why not?”
“Just a hunch.”
“When you have more than a hunch, let me know,” Sanchez replied. “Right now we have to book her.” He hurried after the others escorting Jessica out of the building.
“Well, this development leaves a very interesting question,” Jim said. “Who are we working for?
“You look like the Cheshire cat, Virginia. Know something the rest of us don’t?” Jim asked.
“I would assume that it’s business as usual, at least until someone tells us otherwise,” Virginia replied, turned on her heel and headed back to her desk.
“So Jim, how’s your face?” Taylor asked wanting to break the tense atmosphere.
Jim leaned against the wall in his usual stance; legs crossed at the ankles. He touched the blue-green bruise on his cheek carefully and winced, probably for her benefit.
“Hurts like the dickens. Had to keep an ice pack on it all night.”
“I think the swelling has gone down,” Taylor tried. They had endured a myriad of remarks from their coworkers. Jim was taking it in stride. For Jim, this kind of attention was as good as any. He would milk it for all it was worth.
“Still feels swollen to me.” He rubbed at his face.
“How long are you going to hold this against me?”
“Why Taylor, I wouldn’t do that. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
“The kind who will never let me forget it.”
“I wouldn’t say never. How long do you plan to live in Santa Fe?” He chuckled as he walked down the stairs.
Since she couldn’t solve the mystery of the missing manuscript, Taylor turned to her promotional list. She was choosing reviewers for their latest mystery. It was important to choose the best ones for each book. No sense sending a cozy to a reviewer who reviews police procedurals.
The ARCs, advance review copies or galleys as they referred to them, had arrived and she wanted to send them to the industry reviewers such as Publishers Weekly and Kirkus. Galleys weren’t much more than a photocopy of the set type with a heavier paper binding. Some publishers could afford to make them fancier with a prototype cover. They were expensive, but you couldn’t beat advance reviews. They got the word out to the booksellers and librarians who read the trade publications.
Some review publications preferred a digital ARC and she had already emailed those. But for the old school reviewer who wanted to hold a book in their hands, they still had them made.
They were also helpful in soliciting endorsements such as blurbs for the back cover. Several would be going to the best mystery bookstores for reviews in their newsletters.
Booksellers knew everything; what sold, what didn’t, what their customers liked and what was trending. Taylor enjoyed talking with them. Most, although certainly running a business, had a great time. They made her job fun.
She couldn’t concentrate long, however. Her thoughts soon turned back to the mystery at hand. Had Jessica really killed Preston? Jessica, like Jim, had been demonstrative about her feelings for Preston. Or was it a great cover? If not Jessica, who? After all, she had sent the envelope to Preston.
Something nagged at her. Something that happened a few days ago, she couldn’t quite grasp it. The frustration was similar to misplacing an item. You knew it was there somewhere. Hmm.
* * *
Jessica squirmed uncomfortably in the backseat of the patrol car. Preston seemed to reach out from the grave to cause her continued wretchedness. For one moment she savored how it might feel if she actually had murdered him, but she would not have used poison. Oh no. If she’d killed him it would have been very messy; a hand grenade for instance, after first tormenting him for days with his eventual demise. Never mind, she’d be out on bail by evening. She would not pay for someone else’s crime, even if she would have preferred the privilege for herself.
Chapter 11
Donald Lovitt held the letter in his hand. It was from a law firm. They were going to read Endicott’s will. Why he was invited baffled him. He absently stirred his cup of tea as he speculated about who else might show. Jessica was sure to be there. Endicott’s parents were dead and there had been no children produced from his marriage. His business matters had been settled and Jessica had won that round and taken over the business, but his personal estate was yet to be determined. But why was he to appear at the reading?
* * *
“Taylor,” Candi said. “Detective Sanchez on four.”
“Thank you.” Jessica had been released on bail and was back at work. Maybe something new had surfaced.
“Taylor Browning.”
“Ms. Browning. Victor Sanchez. I wonder if we could talk.”
“Sure. Do you want to come by my office?” Taylor asked.
“I was thinking of something on neutral ground. Would you object to lunch at Rancho de Chimayó tomorrow?”
Oh dear. Was this the latest take on criminal inquiries?
“Is this police business?”
“Partly,” Sanchez hedged. “I’d like to ask you about that little, uh, soirée the other night at La Fonda. I thought the Rancho might be more pleasant for you.” He hoped she bought it. Victor found himself attracted to the lovely Ms. Browning. It must be her green eyes or maybe the spark in them when she was feeling put upon. He didn’t want to commit to anything other than the case right now. It wouldn’t be professional; and he realized this was on the margin.
Rancho de Chimayó was another memory filled place. But she couldn’t avoid them all or there would be no point in living in Santa Fe.
“Ms. Browning, you still there?” Sanchez asked.
“Yes, I’d like to go; haven’t been there since I moved to town.”
“Shall I come by for you at your house?”
She gave him her address.
“Uh, I have it.”
Of course he had it. The police had looked about her yard shortly after the murder, taken note of the lily of the valley growing neatly in one flower bed, and left.
“What time?” Taylor asked.
“How’s eleven thirty?”
“See you then.” She hung up.
* * *
Once off Highway 285 the pace slowed appreciably as Victor maneuvered his car along the narrow twisting blacktop east of the town of Pojoaque. The low hills pushed right up to the road in some places and trees grew in the fences along the farms. Evidence of rain in the form of short downpours littered the pavement where gravel and sand had washed and remained on the road. Today the arroyos were dry, and lined
with sun-bleached rocks. No one would suspect they could run full and overflow.
After a few miles, the farms and houses gave way to vistas of the purple Jemez mountain range to the west and the large open areas along the highway. Green piñon dotted the brown land behind barbed wire fences, and chamisa hugged the shoulder of the road. An occasional outcropping of rock formations reached heavenward as if to draw attention to itself.
Soon the vastness gave way once again to a lovely green valley of trees as their car descended, slowing for a lazy cow crossing the road. The village of Chimayó, about twenty-five miles northeast of Santa Fe, was a spiritual place.
“Would you mind stopping at the Santuario?” Taylor asked. “I’d like to light a candle.”
“Of course not,” Victor said. “It’s right on the way.”
Victor made the turn and parked in the tiny lot.
“I’ll wait here,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”
Taylor purchased a votive in the gift shop, crossed the tiny bridge which spanned a stream. The gates of the Santuario were always open and hung in disrepair. She enjoyed the quiet peace and fragrant air of the arborvitae which lined the walk. In the courtyard she passed several crosses and markers.
She marveled once again at the longevity of the building itself. Built in 1814 as a private chapel, the church had survived the ravages of time and changing cultures. The walls were plaster but the ceiling was heavily timbered with vigas or beams. The elaborate altar screen or reredos was carved and painted with religious symbols. The church was a faded, but ornate; a collaboration representing both Spanish and Native styles.
Holy water was to her right as she entered the Santuario. She dipped her fingers and made the sign of the cross.
Several people were praying near the altar and she walked discreetly by so as not to disturb the worshippers. The votive slipped into a holder. Many other candles were already burning and she could feel the heat on her arm as she dipped a white taper, which served as lighter, and gently lifted the flame of another candle to hers.
“For you Dave,” she whispered.
Before her emotions became too strong she left the altar and ducked into the small prayer room where the discarded crutches, canes and braces speak for those who report they have been cured of their maladies.