Dead Editor File (The Taylor Browning Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by G G Collins

  Dead Editor File

  by

  G G Collins

  Copyright © 2017 by G G Collins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chamisa Canyon Publishing

  chamisacanyon@live.com

  Attn: Rights & Permissions

  Book Cover by Villa Design

  Editing by Jay Terre

  ISBN 978-0-9884674-8-4

  1. Cozy—Fiction. 2. Santa Fe, New Mexico—Fiction. 3. Cats—Fiction.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  For Judi

  Wonderful friend; intrepid traveler.

  “Much publishing is done through politics, friends and natural stupidity.”

  — Charles Bukowski, American Author

  Dead Editor File

  By G G Collins

  “Can’t you do anything right?” yelled Preston Endicott, Jr. at his newest secretary. He looked heavenward and spread his arms wide to emphasize his dramatic tantrum. “Is it not possible to find competent help these days?” he said in his best booming theatrical voice.

  Alise’s bright blue eyes brimmed with tears. The employment counselor told her he was a difficult boss, but she’d never expected to be subjected to such wrath on the second day of her new job. She was competent. She was! Her administrative assistant skills were above average and she prided herself with getting along with everyone.

  Endicott’s face had taken on an angry blush and his veins bulged dangerously. Alise’s legs threatened to fold if he reached another decibel. Instead they carried her quickly away from the tirade, down the long hallway, where every door had been discreetly closed, to the stairs.

  It was four o’clock. She still had an hour to call the employment office before it closed. Maybe they could find her another job; one where yelling would be kept to a minimum.

  “Hey, I want this mess cleaned up!” Endicott swept a handful of mail from his desk onto the hardwood floor. “Do you hear me?” he bellowed. Alise would have to be in another county not to.

  There was no answer from the fleeing young woman, only the sound of her footsteps down the stairs.

  “I have to do everything myself,” he muttered picking up the scattered mail. It was impossible to slam the heavy, carved door to his office, but he was able to get a thud if not an actual slam.

  Endicott stomped across the beautiful Oriental rug. He bought it only because the carpet was expensive and auspicious, not because he liked it. His office had the air of power. A sprawling mahogany paneled desk was topped with a sheet of glass. There were no mementos under the glass. He was not sentimental.

  “I can’t stand anymore incompetence today,” he told the downstairs receptionist over the intercom. “I am not to be disturbed!”

  “Yes Mr. Endicott,” she replied. Candi had worked at Endicott Publishing for four years and knew better than to say anything else, especially after witnessing a tearful Alise run through the lobby.

  Endicott tossed the mail onto his blotter and stood looking out the balcony doors. When he sat down heavily in the dark leather chair it creaked in response to his weight. He was not an overweight man but tall, at least 6 feet, 6 inches. He had an imposing presence—usually provoking wariness, if not fear.

  The first small envelope obviously contained his electric bill, and the second he knew was from his ex-wife, Jessica, a reminder to him of his late alimony payment. Although it was old-school, since most book queries now arrive via email, she always included a self-addressed, stamped envelope for him to use when he sent her check. He presumed she thought it a joke. He took his checkbook from the center drawer, wrote checks, jammed them into envelopes and sealed each one himself with a flourish.

  “Ah, more hopefuls.” Using his thumb he tore open several large, manila envelopes containing queries from optimistic writers still using this method of submission. They were addressed to him personally. Normally they went through editorial. But these writers had taken the time to look up the big cheese. Each held samples of a writer’s work, submitted after exhausting hours writing and rewriting both the manuscript and the accompanying cover letter. Most of the time they were returned. When everything worked in synergy the writer would get an acceptance letter with contract to follow. Not these authors.

  Endicott himself was published—mostly business articles—but he didn’t give a hoot about these writers. He was in no mood to be pleased by anything he read. “Blasted things should have gone to an editor anyway.” He sniffed.

  Usually he let his assistant or the appropriate editor screen queries, but he felt particularly punitive at the moment and since the object of that feeling had jumped ship he would take it out on some unsuspecting wannabes. Endicott pronounced each query “Garbage, junk and trash.” He unceremoniously crammed the material into the return envelopes, threw in a prepared rejection slip, licked each envelope seal and dropped them on his desk. Everything else was tossed into the trash.

  Endicott leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll fire that hussy tomorrow if she dares to show her face at all.”

  He made one more trip to Alise’s desk, dropped his payments in the outgoing mail, returned to his office. With a quick poke of his thumb, he locked the door. He was in no hurry to mail the queries. They could sit on his desk for awhile.

  * * *

  The following morning, Taylor Browning was late but didn’t realize it yet. She was trying on her new outfit—the so-called southwest look—denim skirt, boots, chambray shirt with embroidered collar and bolo tie. It wasn’t going well.

  “Oscar,” she addressed her Abyssinian cat. “I keep trying to get this right and end up looking like the woman in the poster, Another Victim of Santa Fe Style. What do you think?” Oscar stretched and yawned.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  She pulled everything off, tossed them in a heap on the bed, and dressed in her usual jeans-sweater-jacket-loafers. “I don’t know if it’s better but it sure feels more comfortable. Oh no!” she caught a glimpse of her clock by the bed. “I’m late.”

  “Come on Oscar. I’ll get your breakfast.”

  She negotiated the ladder standing at ready in her bedroom. The house she owned was one of those “fixers” as realtors loved to call them. Actually, it had been a wreck waiting for the perfect time to collapse. She spent most of her money having the structural, wiring and plumbing repairs made. Granted, these
were the most important, but they had depleted her budget. She could live with scratched hardwoods, peeling paint and the general tackiness left from renters prior to the owner giving up his tax break for the more attractive occupation of former landlord. Her house was located in the coveted historical east side of Santa Fe, on a hill high enough to watch the sunsets. When she saw the deck off the living room facing west, she hadn’t cared if it took the rest of her life to restore the house. At the rate it was going, it probably would.

  The only completed rooms were the living and dining rooms. Both had viga ceilings made smooth by a fine craftsman of the time. Years of renting had not damaged them. Had she started in her bedroom then the last thing she looked at before she slept would have been something other than a ladder and her rehabbing tools.

  Oscar’s breakfast consisted of a pouring of dry cat food into a ceramic elevated bowl. His name was stenciled on the side. Oscar sniffed, whipped his tail and left the kitchen. He was clearly miffed at the slight.

  “Oh, all right. You’re such a prima donna. I’ll get your food. Couldn’t you give me a break just today? I’m not late every morning; just this one.” She opened the can and poured the smelly, disgusting, brown lump onto a plate. Oscar peeked around the kitchen door and raised his nose to the aroma. Pleased, he chowed down.

  “Glad you’re happy. See you tonight.” He ignored her as she left through the side door to the garage.

  It was such a lovely day, one of those perfect Santa Fe days with a cloudless azure sky, cool morning air and the promise of a warm afternoon. Yes, this was a Mustang day. She passed on the almost mandatory—in Santa Fe—SUV for the red 1967 Mustang. Her father had collected classic cars and she caught the bug from him. When this one became available, Taylor bought it. The former owner, another woman, had cared for it painstakingly, and she carried on that tradition. The Pony had regular visits to its mechanic for tune-ups and oil changes. Taylor faithfully checked the fluid levels herself. She drove it only a few times a week, never in rain or snow. Taylor loved it almost as much as she loved Oscar.

  She slid into the seat and pulled the tilt-away steering wheel into place. It had been a loaded model in its day. Hers didn’t have FM radio, and she missed that, but it was a dream to drive. The Mustang was perfect for the narrow streets of the high desert town. It maneuvered well into petite spaces and around the ever present delivery vehicles which blocked traffic everywhere.

  The outside of her house looked almost new. It had been painted one of the approved brown colors. The turquoise window trim was just the right accent for the new mud job. Legend had it the color turquoise would ward off evil spirits, thus it was a popular color for windows in the city. The house was a single story adobe with two bedrooms. Its rounded corners reminded Taylor of a spice cookie. The front door was recessed under a covered portal with vigas protruding over the porch.

  The house looked larger than it actually was because of the two-car garage. She hoped to enlarge the house in time, maybe add an office. For now, her home office claimed the spare bedroom, but something off the back of the house under the aspens would be just the thing.

  Taylor had done most of the cleanup work herself spending every available hour trimming and raking. She left the ancient piñon trees with their twisted branches and tasty nuts. Several large chamisa dotted her front yard adding interesting texture and bright yellow color in the fall. A bank of lilacs clung to the steep yard along her driveway. They had been beautiful and fragrant in summer. She wanted to add wildflowers later on, maybe next year. At present, it was as good as she could get without dipping into her shriveled bank account. She drove the car toward downtown.

  Taylor hastily applied lipstick while stopped at a red light.

  “Is that thing ever going to change?” Mañana, she thought. That’s the way of Santa Fe. It was the very reason she’d moved here, for a slower pace. She was thrilled when the position of mystery editor at Endicott Publishing became hers. It was a brand new life, away from the pressures and hectic lifestyle in Denver; a place to start new memories.

  She dazzled the folks at Endicott Publishing with her knowledge of mystery pioneers like Mary Roberts Rinehart, Agatha Christie and newer authors of the genre. She was happy to be chosen for the job. Nine years as an advertising executive, whatever that was and she had never been quite sure, had convinced them she was adept at marketing and promotions. Now, she was madly reading mysteries to reacquaint herself with the mystery genre. It had been years since she had taken time for pleasure reading, having grown up on the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew; later moving on to more grownup mystery masters.

  More often, she took the scenic East Alameda Street to work but today she was traveling Palace Avenue because it was closer. She swung onto Washington where her office at Endicott Publishing resided. At glance at the Sangre de Cristo range to the northeast of the city showed the peaks clear of clouds. The mountains were breathtaking. Santa Fe was nestled at the base of the Sangre’s with the Jemez Mountains to the west. The golden foliage of the aspen forest covered much of the mountains at this time of year. It was a vivid contrast to the cloudless sky. Autumn had always been her favorite season, and here it meant the chile harvest. The fragrance of roasting chiles filled the air. She had to admit there really wasn’t a best or most beautiful season in this region, only different and distinctively lovely each in its own way.

  Endicott Publishing was a two-story building of the Territorial style. Several rows of bricks, some horizontal and others vertically placed, added a decorative edge to the flat roofline. Although it was painted brown it was different from the more traditional style of adobe architecture with its rounded edges. Here the lines were straight.

  Newer buildings weren’t made of real adobe bricks but standard building materials with a stucco finish giving it the adobe look. The publishing office was one of those.

  Caught up in the new morning, Taylor hadn’t noticed the police car until she walked from the parking lot. With all the painters working on the building the patrol car was wedged between two white vans identified as Santa Fe PaintMasters and Adobe Restoration Specialists. They had been working on the office for the past week, repairing cracks in the stucco and in general giving the place a facelift. There always seemed to be buckets, spackling compound and ladders lying around. Everyone around the office wished they’d get on with it and finish.

  During the past year her only experience with the Santa Fe PD was one of polite nods. What on earth were they doing at Endicott Publishing? Other than office equipment there wasn’t much to steal. Only petty cash for coffee and doughnuts was on hand, and most employees were delinquent in their contributions. Must have been someone after computers she thought. She hoped she’d taken the time to backup her computer files when she left yesterday. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember.

  The lobby was a warm and inviting place decorated in soft brown and accented with pale peach upholstered furniture and sky blue pillows. It and the conference room were carpeted. All the rest of the office had hardwood flooring with luxurious runners on the stairs and upper hallway.

  The conference room was off the reception area. Its dark double doors were closed. Restrooms were to the left of the entry and discreetly screened by a wall. A large hammered tin mirror reflected each visitor as they entered the foyer.

  The main staircase always caught her eyes first. It was meant to be impressive. The banister was rich dark wood elegantly curved into the lobby, but ascended to the second floor straight and wide. Art work, included O’Keeffe’s, Hiatt’s, Burns and West’s, hung on the paneled walls here and throughout. Taylor’s much loved corner was the book display at the back of the lobby. Every book released by Endicott Publishing was represented on these shelves. Their bookshelves were arranged in sections containing travel, personal transformation and regional books. Her favorite, the mysteries, were clustered center stage.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Candi who was answering a call. She touched her
headset, spoke into the mouthpiece and punched a button on her console. The phone system had the ability to Skype, interface with her computer and control the camera and alarm system. In other words: mission control. Taylor never, ever wanted to try working that thing. She had mastered, mostly, her smart phone and that was enough for her.

  “Mr. Endicott’s office is locked,” Candi replied with the complete confidence in her answer as a total explanation.

  “Since when did that become a crime?” Taylor nodded in the direction of the cruiser out front.

  Candi, whose last name was Kane—yes, really—shrugged her shoulders, combed her fingers through her now disheveled short bleached blonde hair. She could have used Candice, but she enjoyed people’s reaction to her name. The young woman was also fond of short skirts and men generally liked them on her too. In her twenties, this was her first job and she seemed born to it. Whenever there was a question of most any kind, everyone knew to ask Candi. There were few secrets, but she also knew when to be discreet. She answered another call. “One moment please.”

  Without wasting further time, Taylor hurried up the stairs to the second floor. Her office was the second door on the right. She dropped her purse and several manuscripts on her desk and hastened to finish her sprint down the length of the building to the last office on the left.

  Several people milled around Alise’s desk in front of Endicott’s office. Jim Wells leaned against the wall, arms crossed, with a grin on his bearded face. Jim was a highly awarded artist now living the frustrated life of a production manager while wishing for the glory days of his college years. He could change from hilarious to caustic in a blink.

  Virginia Compton, senior editor and Taylor’s supervisor, wanted nothing more than to get on with her day. A meticulous person, as any good editor is, she found much serenity in one organized and well-planned day after another. Translation: boring. One could count on her to know a good book when she read it, but little occurrences such as this could put her off her feed.