by G G Collins
“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.”
She slowed her car having inched above the speed limit while contemplating the vehicle behind her. Unable to resist another look, she found the Honda close enough to see it was occupied by two men. Taylor’s knuckles turned white as she clasped the steering wheel.
“Get a grip Taylor, you’ve been reading too many mysteries. Your imagination is getting out of hand.” She admonished herself.
There was a restaurant coming up in a few miles. If she could turn off without the Honda seeing her and park behind the building, the Mustang would be hidden from view. As the only classic red Mustang she’d seen in Santa Fe, it was conspicuous.
Taylor slowed and pretended to take in the scenery. The Honda backed off. She continued to dawdle and the white car became nearly a speck in the mirror. They didn’t appear to be interested in her. The turnoff was coming up soon and she was taking it regardless. The curve she had been waiting for appeared. As soon as her car was safely around it she stepped up the speed for the short distance to the bridge.
The Mustang was designed for acceleration, a feature she rarely employed. She made a too sharp turn, the bridge sat at a right angle to the highway. Her car skidded a bit, but it also was a great car in a tight spot. She crossed the narrow bridge over the Rio Grande to the restaurant. Because of telltale dust she edged slowly through the parked cars at the back until the building blocked the view from the highway. She left the car and watched carefully for the white car being careful to stay hidden behind the restaurant. A few seconds later the Honda zipped past the bridge on the way to Santa Fe.
What next? Go on home, return to Taos or stay put? Stay put. She preferred to stop shaking before driving again. The hostess sat her at one of the patio tables beneath the trees where she could watch the highway and enjoy the river. Taylor ordered an iced tea and willed her body to relax.
It was a charming area nestled in the trees with the river nearby. If those jerks showed at the restaurant she would call the police. With all the diners it was unlikely anyone would try anything too diabolical.
“I hope to feel truly stupid when I’m safe at home tonight,” she mumbled to herself, stretched her legs and drank most of the tea at once. Ten minutes later a white Honda coming from the direction of Santa Fe crossed the bridge.
Taylor watched the car drive slowly through the dusty parking lot. There were two people inside, but she couldn’t see them clearly. They were sure to see the Mustang among the other cars. Taylor pulled her phone from her purse and let her index finger hover over the 9-1-1 icon.
While she waited for the men to discover her, she watched as the hostess sat a retired couple. They were both clothed comfortably and had the air of those without a schedule. They settled in at a table on her left.
The men had ample time to locate her car. She could stand the suspense no longer. She left sufficient money for her tab and tip, and walked up the terraced slope to her car. She was aware she might be walking into some kind of trap.
No one was in sight. There were only about a dozen cars parked, including the Honda, but no one skulked between or under—she looked—any of the cars. Anyone observing her might have thought her daft.
Taylor eased into the driver’s seat feeling like a total dolt. Obviously that nice couple on vacation was driving the suspicious car, not two dastardly criminal types. She couldn’t believe how her imagination had gotten so totally out of control. Horribly embarrassed, she headed the Mustang home. At least no one would know about her rampant paranoia.
When Taylor reached the office she was too agitated to notice the company she worked for was no longer Endicott Publishing. Workmen had removed the sign during the day. The urgency she felt was so great she ran through the front door, past Candi, whose hand held a crumpled mess of phone messages, straight up the stairs to her office. She paused just long enough to find a number in her address book, and dialed with trembling fingers.
“I’ve got to talk with you.”
Chapter 7
“Detective Sanchez for you Taylor,” Candi announced the following morning.
“Thanks. Hello, this is Taylor.”
“Sanchez here; got your message. Sorry I was out of town last night.”
“I need to talk with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Not now. I might be overheard and besides I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes.”
“You got time during lunch? I’ve got a coroner to see this afternoon.”
“Where?”
“You pick.”
“How about the new place on Canyon Road?”
“I’ll be there.” The line went dead.
* * *
The conference room had the same feel as the last time everyone met, suspense crackled through the air. This would be the first meeting since the coup as Jim called it.
That morning Taylor had finally garnered the courage to wear her, by now, not so new southwest style outfit. She played with the silver belt buckle trying to make it more comfortable, and thought about removing the bolo tie before the meeting began.
“Hey Annie Oakley!” Jim plopped down beside her and pushed her chair around so he could get a better look. “Boots too.” He grinned playfully knowing full well this was not the impression she wanted to make.
“Jim,” she said.
“Yes darlin’,” he drawled.
“Drop dead.”
Jim howled with laughter. It would have put the mischievous Kokopelli to shame. He turned to Donald and asked him about two new players on the University of New Mexico basketball team.
Taylor was slightly amused, but determined not to show it. Jim could be so overbearing at times even when he meant well. She nervously twisted her rings, now on her right hand. It had been a difficult decision to remove them from her left, but she couldn’t retire them completely. When she married Dave it was supposed to be forever.
Across the conference table Virginia made notes on her writing pad. She caught Taylor’s eye and smiled politely.
The nervous fidgeting stopped abruptly when Jessica entered the room. She walked directly to the head of the table and placed her black briefcase on the gleaming surface. Today she wore a red suit with velvet lapels and black stilettos.
“It’s so dark in here.” She asked Alise to open the heavy drapes, used mostly for Power Point presentations. Sunshine poured into the room. With the gloom dispensed, the mood seemed to lighten.
“You’ve probably all noticed by now that I’ve changed the name of the company to Piñon Publishing. I did this for a couple of reasons. I thought we all needed a fresh start, and I wanted a name which reflected the region.”
Taylor liked the new name. The aroma of burning piñon was one of the things she loved about Santa Fe. It was especially fragrant after a rain when the clouds held the smoke near the rooftops.
“At this time,” Jessica continued. “I do not plan any changes in staff.” There was a collective sigh. “Changes may be in order at a later date, but for now I want to get a feel for the business. I, however, am not qualified to take on the duties of editor-in-chief so I have authorized a search for this position with a New York headhunter. I will fulfill the duties of chief executive officer and publisher.
“Jessica pulled out the CEO’s chair which had become, sometime in the last few days, a much more feminine model. The dark leather chair had been replaced with one in a plum fabric that matched the other chairs in the room.
“Now,” Jessica continued. “We will continue to publish the travel, inspirational and mystery lines that have performed so well for us in the past.
“Virginia, can I count on you for some extra help until the new editor-in-chief is found?”
Virginia looked wounded. In fact, she was the
only one who had not loosened up after Jessica’s announcement about staffing.
“I’m sure I can help out,” she said woodenly.
“Okay Jim.” She looked directly at him instead of out the window as Endicott had done. “How are the covers coming on the new books?”
Jim perked up. Was she actually going to allow him to do what he was hired for? When he spoke it was with new respect.
“They’re being done by freelancers. I’ll be happy to check on their progress and supervise the final covers.”
“Good.” She turned to Donald.
“I’ll need to see spreadsheets. Something that shows where we’ve been, where we are and where we are going, financially speaking.”
Donald nodded and made a note.
“What about Dominique Boucher’s latest book?”
“I’m doing the first edit,” Taylor said.
“And what do you think?”
“It’s different from her usual style, but good.”
“Same protagonist?”
“Yes, but different plot.” Taylor wasn’t sure she wanted to divulge much about the storyline at this moment.
“How is it different?” Virginia wanted to know.
“It’s a locked-room murder mystery.”
“Really? How much have you read?”
“Only a few chapters.”
“Who’s the victim in this one?” Virginia pressed.
“A man.” Taylor paused wondering how much to reveal; aware Endicott’s killer could be in the room. “He’s a rich and powerful man, hated by all, so there are plenty of suspects.”
“How are the promotions going for the latest mystery?” Jessica asked Taylor. Fortunately Jessica didn’t seem to be all that interested in Dominique’s latest. Taylor was happy for the change of subject.
“Advance copies are out,” Taylor said. “Still waiting on Library Journal. Publishers Weekly liked it, but Kirkus had another opinion.” Actually they hadn’t liked it at all. To be more exact the reviewer hadn’t liked the protagonist calling her “immature and sophomoric.” Taylor felt that if the reviewer had been compelled to be so descriptive, the writer had struck a chord. Anyway, getting a bad review from one of the major media was always preferable to no review at all. At least they had noticed the book. She wasn’t worried. The mystery booksellers she talked with regularly were telling her it would be a hit.
“Appearances?”
“We’re waiting for a ship date from the printer to finalize book signings and readings. Reviewers for the finished book have been chosen. The warehouse personnel are on standby.”
“Good. Okay, I think that covers it.” She closed her briefcase and everyone pushed back chairs to leave.
“Virginia,” Jessica said. “Would you mind staying?”
Taylor thought Virginia was going to faint. She’d never seen her react like this before. Virginia was the one who always had it together. Endicott’s death must have been harder on her than anyone knew.
The clock in reception told her she’d have to hurry to make her appointment with Detective Sanchez. It was only a few minutes by car to Canyon Road, but the golden aspens had brought in another surge of tourists. She crept along the narrow one-way street of milling people, and hoped a parking spot would magically appear. Two blocks from the restaurant she parked. After ditching the bolo tie, she hurried down the street.
The charming restaurant along Canyon Road had several dining rooms with kiva fireplaces for frosty evenings. Today the windows were thrown open to catch gentle breezes. Red geraniums bloomed in the window boxes. Outdoor dining was available in summer under a portal or at umbrella tables clustered next to the coyote fence—spruce-fir latillas attached to a steel frame.
Sanchez was drinking coffee at one of the outside tables. He pulled down his sunglasses and looked at her over the rims.
“What do you like to drink?” he asked.
“Iced tea. Thank you for meeting with me,” she added.
Over a delicious Cobb salad Taylor told him about her visit to Dominique, and how she had denied knowing anything about the murder even though her new book was similar. She left out the harrowing drive from Taos. That was too embarrassing and would weaken her credibility. He listened politely.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“You’re telling me you think your author, Dominique, may know something about the murder? And she wrote about it?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit bizarre? I mean the timing.”
Taylor was regretting her impulse to talk with the detective. He was obviously going to poke holes in her story, and probably laugh at her again. Why had she felt compelled to call him? Because he was the only person she could trust. At least she was making that assumption.
“Ms. Browning,” he said softly, folding his hands on the table top.
Oh no. He was going to be patronizing. That was worse than laughing outright.
“I don’t think we have much to go on if you can’t positively say the book is about the murder.”
He had her there.
“I’ve obviously wasted your time.” She picked up her purse to leave.
Sanchez touched her arm. “Please, finish your lunch,” he said. “You haven’t wasted my time. I . . .”
“Have a few more questions?” Taylor finished the sentence for him and sank back into the chair.
“Well, yes.” He had the decency to look chagrined.
“These proposals you were telling me about.”
“Queries. We call them queries.”
“Do you keep track of them?”
“You mean do we log the queries?”
“Exactly.”
“No. We do log solicited manuscripts as they come in, but not queries. We get so many of those it would be impossible to track them all. Most of them go back without being read. And no one licks the envelopes anymore.”
Sanchez smiled. “So there would be no way to identify returned queries?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Seems the secretary, Alise, mailed several envelopes the day of Endicott’s murder.”
“But what would they have to do with the murder? Do you suspect a psycho author? Granted many writers have a love-hate relationship with publishers, but murder?”
“They may have been the envelopes on Endicott’s desk when his body was found.”
“My heavens. That would mean they were . . .”
“Moved,” Sanchez said. “You’re correct.”
“But who moved them?”
“Another little thing I have to figure out.”
“And we’ll never know who sent them? Who the killer might be?”
“We know one of the envelopes was his electric payment. We can probably rule out the electric company. The other was addressed to his ex-wife.”
“Jessica?”
“The same.”
“She’s a suspect?”
“Among a growing number of persons of interest.”
“Am I a person of interest?” Taylor wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but the question floated between them.
“Let’s say we are continuing to ask questions and look into the backgrounds of everyone connected to the deceased.”
“Oh.” She had to ask.
“Taylor,” Sanchez said as he paid the check over her protests.
“One other thing. I wouldn’t tell anyone else about the subject matter of that manuscript.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Who did you tell?”
“The entire office. We discussed it in conference this morning.”
“I think you should take a few extra precautions until this is over. In case there is something to your theory.”
“Like what? I don’t own a bazooka or an attack dog, unless you count Oscar my cat.” Despite her attempt at humor, Taylor didn’t like the cold knot developing in her stomach.
“Don’t talk about the manuscript anymore than you already have.
If there is a murderer loose in the company you don’t want to aggravate him, or her.”
“Her?” Taylor asked.
“Women do kill. And poison is their favorite weapon. I’ll be in touch.”
He left her sitting in the Santa Fe sunshine thinking scary thoughts. Maybe he didn’t think her story was entirely a paranoid delusion.
Chapter 8
The two women faced off across the conference room. Jessica, the newly empowered woman finally in control of her life and Virginia who feared she was losing control. Jessica almost felt sorry for her as she considered what to say.
Virginia Compton stood still by sheer will while she waited for whatever it was Jessica had in mind for her. She smoothed her slightly creased khaki skirt in what she hoped was a nonchalant fashion. Virginia was a nearly colorless person. To one who thought brown an exciting color the short, red suit Jessica wore was an affront. She couldn’t imagine continuing to work at Piñon Publishing with Jessica at the helm. It was bad enough that the younger people dressed so casually, but to have the owner looking like a floozy was too much.
Losing this job she loved like life itself was something she didn’t even dare think about. It was her life. Her parents were dead and with no family, the company was her family.
The search for a new editor-in-chief was a slap to her face delivered with a ferocity she couldn’t understand. Virginia had felt nothing but contempt from this woman for as long as she’d known her. She would make the best possible editor-in-chief for the company and yet Jessica seemingly had not even considered her. Preston would not have approved.
“Virginia,” Jessica said. “I must warn you, your position here is tenuous.”
“I think you will find my performance . . .” Virginia began.
“It has nothing to do with your performance or abilities. I am in a good position to know full well your capabilities because my former husband went on about them ad nauseum.”
Virginia blinked at the venomous tone.
“I want to know one thing,” Jessica said. “Did you ever sleep with my husband?” She used the euphemism not to spare Virginia’s sensibilities, but to trivialize her.
Virginia reeled at the question. How dare this woman ask her such a question? She knew for a fact that Jessica hated Preston, their marriage had been a twisted, ugly relationship which should have ended shortly after it began. And she knew, as did anyone who knew Preston, that he had many affairs. So why did his ex-wife care if she had been one? She would not dignify the question with an answer. Her association with her former employer was of no concern to his ex-wife. Virginia turned on her heel and left the room.