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

by G G Collins

  She padded through the house in bare feet clad in her nightshirt; a navy cotton knit which hung to her knees. There was a nightlight in the kitchen so she saw no need to switch on any lights. She put on the kettle. To avoid making a mess, she poured milk by the light of the open refrigerator, and placed the small pan on a burner. Oscar materialized on the countertop. He was allowed to do this only for meals and their night prowling. He sat regally awaiting his warm milk. Taylor poured some from the pan before it got too hot and set a saucer in front of him.

  When the water was hot, she quickly steeped the green tea, added honey and topped it with the milk. A small squeeze of lemon finished the insomniac cocktail. Taylor pulled herself up on the counter next to Oscar. They sipped and lapped in happy companionship.

  “Oscar, you love these nocturnal adventures, don’t you? It’s second nature to you feline types.”

  Oscar’s only answer was to look up at her with his adorable clown markings and a spot of white on his chin.

  “Lick down Oscar.” Taylor was about to demonstrate when she heard a loud explosion followed by glass shattering somewhere in the house.

  Oscar practically dug under her to escape. She held him close and placed the other hand over her head should plaster begin dropping.

  “Now what!” Fear cut through her body. It sounded more like a window rather than a vase or knickknack.

  Her first instinct was to cower in the corner, but then Oscar regained his courage and was about to jump down from the counter to check it out.

  “No Oscar.”

  She clasped his slender body with both hands and quietly slid down the cabinet to the floor. Holding the squirming cat with one hand, she opened the lower drawer. It was the deepest. She tossed the towels out, placed the cat inside and pushed his head down gently, closing the drawer.

  “Please be quiet,” she whispered.

  Another piece of glass fell and splintered on her painstakingly refinished floor. Taylor wished there was a drawer big enough for her to crawl into. Instead she tried to become part of the kitchen.

  Was someone in the house? She tried to listen, but her heart beat so loudly she was certain it would cover any sounds an intruder might make.

  The landline hung on the wall opposite her in the breakfast nook. She had to do something. She crawled along the floor edging slowing along the lower cabinets, in front of the stove, until the door to the dining room gaped uninvitingly. The distance across the opening was only a few feet, but it seemed huge to Taylor as she peered into the gloom. It looked empty, but she couldn’t be sure no one was there.

  She did what she later thought was a funny thing. She pulled her nightshirt down over her legs, so her skin wouldn’t show, turned her back to the arched opening to conceal her face in the darkness with her hair, and crept by the doorway like a stealthy ninja. For a few moments she cringed against the wall.

  With shaking hands she reached for the phone, pulled herself slowly upright and fumbled with the receiver. Her finger tried to punch in 9-1-1, but she missed the last digit. Then she remember, one-touch dialing! She depressed the button for emergencies.

  The female voice who answered seemed so in control, but far away. Taylor gave her address first and then in a voice she was certain could not be heard she told the operator there might be someone in the house.

  The operator relayed her message to dispatch and returned.

  “Can you get out of the house?”

  “I think so.” Taylor looked across the room at the door to the garage. “Probably, but my cat?”

  “Leave your cat. Get out of the house. The police are on the way.”

  Taylor held the receiver with a clenched hand, unwilling to give up the calm person on the other end. A person sitting in a room with other people; absolutely safe.

  “Are you still there?” The voice asked. “Get out of the house. Now!”

  She didn’t want to, but the voice had been so certain. Taylor hung up and started for the door, fully upright this time and in a big hurry. The doorknob was within her grasp. Oscar scratched at the drawer. She knew when he realized his scratching was not being answered he would begin meowing loudly. She had to retrieve Oscar.

  He had found his voice and was plaintively crying for release. Taylor tried to open the drawer without it squeaking and still grab Oscar before he ran off. She gave up, risked the noise and clutched the wiggling Aby. Oscar was tired of this game and hissed his discontent.

  “Quiet Oscar. It’s okay.” Taylor tugged at the hand towel hanging from the stove and wrapped it around the angry cat.

  Taylor wondered if her heart would survive its vigorous beating. Would it burst if the tension didn’t break soon? Taylor raced across the kitchen to the door, but before she could open it a man appeared at the window. She shrank back out of sight holding Oscar in a death grip. He bit her thumb and she cried out, but managed to hold onto him.

  “Police,” a man called outside the door. She jumped.

  “Anyone in there?” That was followed by a loud rap from a night stick.

  Taylor regained some of her aplomb, hand poised to open the door, hesitated.

  “Hold your badge up so I can see it through the peep hole.” The officer complied.

  “Vic, over here,” he said while holding his badge up.

  Taylor opened the door.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  She gave Detective Sanchez a withering look. Torn between the relief she felt that he was there, and her anger at him for somehow not knowing she needed help, gave her conflicting emotions. She sagged down cross-legged on the floor and cradled Oscar in her arms. A few tears escaped, but were quickly wiped away.

  “Secure the structure,” Victor said. Uniformed police swarmed throughout her house.

  “Are you all right?” He squatted in front of her.

  “What are you doing here? Do you live at that police station?”

  Followed by: “I’m okay.”

  “Do you have a carrier?” he asked.

  “Carrier?”

  “For Oscar. I think he’s had about enough. His eyes are bulging.” He nodded toward the small cat with the large amber eyes.

  Taylor relaxed her grip on Oscar and motioned to the pantry door.

  “In there.”

  Victor placed the carrier next to Taylor and she gently pushed Oscar into the cage. He was happy to oblige.

  “I’m going to set him in the pantry to keep him away from the noise.” She left the door cracked so he could see her sitting at the table.

  “Vic,” one of the uniforms said. “Looks like someone shot once through a window of the master bedroom. Bullet’s in the interior wall. Glass all over the place.”

  “Any sign of the perp?”

  “Negative. We’re looking.”

  “Taylor,” Victor said. “Do you have any idea who could have done this or why?”

  “Of course not. All I know is, I moved here for the sunsets and tranquility.” Taylor laughed moronically; hysteria about to overcome her.

  “I’m going to make some tea. I may sweeten it with Ativan. Do you want some?”

  “No thanks but go ahead. Doing something will help you relax.”

  “That’s why I’m doing it,” she said testily.

  Another uniformed officer brought her robe from the bedroom. She gratefully donned it and tied the belt.

  “Did anything atypical happen today?” Victor asked. “Something that might explain this?”

  “Atypical? Today? Why no, I’d say it’s about the first day that nothing odd happened. Except . . .”

  “What?” Victor prompted.

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing.”

  “Taylor, at this point everything is important.”

  “It’s just I thought I saw someone hiding behind the bushes at the office.”

  “When?”

  “This evening after work. Jim and I were looking at the car.”

  “What car?” Victor asked.
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br />   “The tan one. Like the one in the bookstore parking lot.”

  “You didn’t mention seeing a tan car at the bookstore.”

  “Sure I did. You must have forgotten.”

  “Taylor, you’ve got to tell me these things. What year was the car?”

  “It wasn’t last year’s model. Jim said so.”

  Victor spread his arms in an act of defeat.

  “He says Virginia drives last year’s model.”

  Taylor dropped a tea bag in a cup.

  “Virginia? Virginia Compton? How is she connected?”

  “I don’t know she is, but someone driving a big tan car, maybe a Mercury, was leaving the bookstore parking lot when I drove in.” She paused and filled her cup.

  “Did I tell you the driver was wearing black? It couldn’t be Virginia. She never wears black.”

  Victor wore a look of true affection and astonishment. Her mind worked in mysterious ways under pressure, not to mention how cute she looked in her rumpled robe.

  “What are you staring at,” Taylor snapped as she stirred three teaspoons of sugar into her cup of tea.

  “Do you know how much sugar you put in that?” he asked, grinning.

  “I like it sweet.” She drank every sickening drop of it.

  Chapter 19

  The following morning Taylor witnessed the least funeral-ish service she had ever seen: Dominique Boucher’s. There was no church service. Her wishes were to have the entire service done out of doors. It was to be a private affair. The office was closed, but Alise had volunteered to remain on phone duty. Everyone assembled at the mortuary where the cremation had been done. They piled into two limos wrapped in lavender bows. Ruth Standish, Virginia and Donald rode together. Taylor, Jim, Jessica and Candi filled the remaining car. Virginia was better off with Ruth than Jessica. The short procession headed north to the village of Tesuque.

  “Why Tesuque?” Jim asked.

  “Dominique owned some property and wanted her ashes scattered there,” Jessica replied. “How’s her book coming?” Jessica directed this question at Taylor.

  “It’s ready for line edit, but since Virginia’s uh, no longer with us, I guess it’ll have to go to a freelancer.”

  “Can’t you do it?”

  “I’m really not qualified to do it.”

  Jessica was beginning to annoy Taylor. They were on their way to a funeral and here she was talking shop.

  “Virginia has years of experience. I don’t. I think it should go to someone with more editing skills.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you got the experience,” Jessica snapped.

  “Very well.” Taylor did a quiet burn. It was Jessica’s fault their best editor was now on permanent leave.

  Less than thirty minutes later the cars moved through a crowd of perhaps fifty people dressed in various degrees of mourning attire. Some carried lighted candles. There were two security people keeping the milling group from the driveway. Flowers, many in lavender bows, dotted the ground next to the entrance. One of the guards opened the gate wrapped in a lavender ribbon.

  “How did all these people find out where Dominique’s service would be held?” Taylor asked.

  “Twitter,” Jim replied. “Ruth Standish Tweeted it yesterday.

  “I’m not sure I follow her, but then I’d have to read my feed,” Taylor added.

  “My dear, you should follow everyone we work with,” Jim said.

  “Uh-huh.” Social media was the last thing on her mind.

  They drove through the gate onto a dirt road that curved through trees to a spacious clearing. A black van and a blue sedan were already parked.

  “She must have planned to live here,” Candi pointed to the slab that awaited a house.

  “She certainly could afford it,” added Jim. “I’d live here too if I could; one of the best addresses in the area.”

  “If you don’t count Wilderness Gate,” Candi observed.

  The black van looked ominous until three men dressed in kilts and holding bagpipes emerged.

  “Bagpipes?” Taylor raised an eyebrow.

  “Ruth Standish made the arrangements. I assume she’s carrying out Dominique’s wishes,” Jim said.

  “Funny, she was in my office yesterday and didn’t say a thing about making arrangements,” Taylor said. “I thought she came all the way from New York to lambast Piñon Publishing and our haphazard handling of Dominique’s royalty statements.

  “What can I say; she’s as peculiar as Dominique. Maybe they were friends,” Jim surmised.

  The group gathered on the far side of the concrete slab and stood silently waiting for whatever was about to occur. It was a cloudy day, but not raining as it had at Preston’s service. From within the trees bagpipes played Amazing Grace. The eerily beautiful music drifted across the clearing wavering in intensity as the musicians approached the small gathering.

  When the last note had played, the minister, obviously a member of an alternative sect, read Dylan Thomas’ poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. There was no eulogy and no need for one. Everyone was aware of Dominique’s many accomplishments. The ashes were shaken from a lavender urn among the tall ponderosa pine and golden aspen as the young bearded minister swung a censer of burning incense. Its fragrance mingled with the pine. A mourning dove called nearby.

  One woman in a black veil stood alone. Taylor wondered who she was; a fan, long-lost family or friend?

  Taylor could well imagine Dominique raging against the dying of the light. She mourned her loss to the literary world. Dominique had been a fine writer and a brilliant storyteller. She would miss her for those reasons.

  * * *

  After the service, they returned to the office. Alise was grateful to see them. Mission Control had proved more difficult to man than she expected.

  “I don’t know how Candi does it,” Alise said. “This has everything but the nuclear codes!”

  A small white handkerchief tied to a pencil edged its way through Taylor’s office door.

  “Okay if I come in?” teased Jim.

  One boot toe tested his welcome.

  “Come in Jim,” Taylor said. “After the night I had and the funeral this morning, I can stand even you.”

  “Gee thanks Taylor. I don’t know when I’ve been more touched.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” He seated himself comfortably. “So what happened last night?”

  Taylor told him the whole scary incident, careful to leave out her nearly incoherent remarks made to Detective Sanchez.

  “You shoved Oscar into a drawer? I bet he liked that!”

  “Not really, but I had to do something with him.”

  “Sounds like you did fine. Did the good detective think it had anything to do with the murders?”

  “I’m sure he does. What I can’t figure out is what I could possibly know that would threaten the killer?”

  “You’ve read the manuscript,” Jim pointed out.

  “While it is similar to our mystery, it certainly did not point any fingers. The murderer in the book was the mistress. Does that apply in this case?”

  “Hmm,” Jim rubbed his chin. “What about Virginia?”

  Taylor was surprised Jim would think of Virginia in that way.

  “I thought of her, but Jim, do you really think she is capable of murder? And, was she Preston’s mistress? I don’t want to believe that.”

  “First,” Jim said. “Every one of us is capable of killing. Whether we actually do the deed depends on the circumstances and what motivates us. I’m including self-defense in my observation.”

  “In that case, I guess I could agree, but what about Virginia? Could she have been Preston’s lover?”

  “Donald says he referred to her as the love of his life in his will.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Donald was plenty steamed about it. Endicott left $500,000 to Virginia and only $5,000 to him.”

  “Since when did he start talking?
I thought he was holed up in his office counting his fingers or something.”

  “Since the reading of the will, but it’s not like a conversation, more like mumbling as he punches numbers into his computer.”

  “Why would he leave any money at all to Donald? He’s a good accountant from what I know, but that’s all.”

  “Maybe because he is a lowly accountant. Gee Taylor, how would I know? I hadn’t given it much thought. All I know is Donald is livid, for him at least, about the whole thing.”

  Taylor thought back to the day she visited Donald’s mother. The faded splendor of their home was testimony to a limited income; an income used primarily to pay for medical treatment. Unless they were hiding money in a mattress, Taylor couldn’t imagine there was any excess.

  “Hey Taylor.” Jim snapped his fingers. “Anyone home?”

  “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

  “How about you stop thinking and let’s take the afternoon off. The aspens are at peak color. We can drive up to the ski basin and take the lift to the summit. Do you a world of good.”

  “Oh Jim. I can’t take off. Look at this mess. With Virginia gone I just couldn’t.”

  “Best time to do it, when you need it the most. Besides, you never take off.”

  He leaned over her desk and tousled her hair.

  “Come on,” he teased. “Just say yes.”

  “Oh, okay!” She gave in. “Let’s do it.” Jim could be so charming when he tried.

  “Good. Meet you in the parking lot.”

  By one-thirty they were driving Hyde Park Road in Jim’s Jeep. Although the road steadily climbed it didn’t have many switchbacks for the first half of the drive. After that, it was one sharp turn after another. Jim steadfastly refused to follow the speed limits and Taylor found herself getting a bit dizzy as he took the corners too fast.

  “Jim, would you please back off a little. This is supposed to be a relaxing drive.”

  “Sure. But those speed limits are for the snow season.”