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

  The only other person there besides the police officer, was Endicott’s secretary Alise. She was the newest staff member and things weren’t going well. Taylor, like everyone else in the office at the time, had heard Endicott’s outburst the evening prior. Endicott was hard on staff especially young women. The odd thing was he seemed to genuinely like Candi.

  “So what’s the deal with Endicott’s office?” Taylor asked. “And why the police for a locked door?”

  “Alise found the door to his office locked this morning when she attempted to leave some legal forms for his signature,” Jim replied. “Alise picked up a voice mail this morning inquiring about him. Apparently Preston didn’t show for his Moose Lodge meeting or some such.”

  “That certainly sounds like reason enough to call out the law,” Taylor said with sarcasm.

  “Mr. Endicott has not been seen by anyone since yesterday afternoon,” Virginia explained. “He had a speaking engagement at the local entrepreneurs group. I tried to reach him at home, but his housekeeper said his bed hadn’t been slept in last night.”

  “Maybe he spent the night at someone else’s house,” Jim offered, barely stifling a chuckle. “He is divorced.” He clearly found the entire situation amusing.

  “Miss,” the officer turned to Taylor. “Do you have a key to this office?”

  “Well, no. Doesn’t Alise?”

  “I don’t have one.” Alise was about to cry. “Mr. Endicott didn’t give me a key. It’s always been open before.”

  “Shall I get a battering ram?” Jim raised one eyebrow in question. “The basement storeroom might reveal one.”

  “No,” the officer said. He wasn’t amused. “The building super is on his way. We’ll just wait for the key.”

  “Think I’ll go look at production schedules,” Jim said. He ambled away in his hiking boots.

  “Do you think he’s all right?” Taylor asked Jim as he passed her.

  “Who cares?” He smiled but a sharp edge was there.

  “I know he’s a jerk, but he does run the company.”

  “He’s only running the company because he’s the son of Preston, Sr., who was one heck of a guy. And, I repeat, who cares?”

  Taylor returned to her office and settled in to start the day. She twisted the wand on the mini-blinds and let in the light. Her office was on the west side of the building so she enjoyed the morning light best along with the views of people coming and going to the Plaza just a block away. Most afternoons she had to close her blinds to the strong sunlight. Her office was diminutive, but comfortable. The desk was a streamline affair of oak with rounded ends. There was a table to her left that held her computer and printer. The walls were white stucco with her favorite O’Keeffe, “Red Cannas” hanging on the wall opposite her. Looking at the bright flowers always gave her a lift after hours of editing or during a challenging meeting with an author or agent.

  She began reading the manuscript where she left off yesterday. As she turned the last page of the chapter, Luther Jacobs, the building super, wandered down the hall jangling his keys. Curious, she followed him.

  Jacobs owned and managed the building. He was never in a hurry. It had taken months to get him to paint the building even though its exterior was obviously in need of a major refurbishing.

  Before Taylor could get to her door she heard the scream.

  * * *

  Jim Wells hoped, with only a twinge of guilt, something had happened to Endicott. That jerk had been a thorn in his side since Preston, Sr. stepped down and handed the company, lock, stock and coffee machine to the current Preston.

  Jim’s career as an award-winning book designer had all but wasted away and died since the transfer of power. Previously, he had designed all covers and made most of the decisions on books from end pages to typeface. Now he was the production manager keeping minute detail of each book as it went through the publishing cycle. It was a great job for someone with a head for minutia; but a real crippler to a creative soul. But who was he kidding? He hadn’t done an imaginative thing in or out of the office for years. All inspiration stopped the moment Preston Endicott, Jr. bounced him out of his upstairs office. He currently shared the basement with Donald Lovitt, the accountant and primary paper-pusher for the company.

  Lovitt wasn’t hard to work with, but he was dull in capital letters. And he couldn’t tell a book by its cover. He’d been with the company from the beginning. Old man Endicott had just about taken him to raise, put him through school on a scholarship, gave him this job and kept him on all these years. He liked the basement, wasn’t one for staring out windows. His numbers kept him happy or so it seemed. Good heavens, the guy was numbing.

  Maybe something had finally done Endicott in. A nice heart attack would solve a lot of problems.

  Until then, Jim hated his job, and he hated the basement, and most of all he hated Endicott for making his life the dreary existence it had become. There had been no warning, no premonition, only utter chaos when the younger man had taken over. He never figured out the why. Maybe now he wouldn’t have to. Yes, the world would be a better place without Preston Endicott, Jr.

  * * *

  Taylor rushed into the hall and nearly collided with Jim. Candi must be too frightened to come upstairs and was holding down the fort. Alise was sitting on the floor with her back against her desk. Tears were streaming, and her hands trembled. Virginia’s hand covered her open mouth. She was otherwise composed.

  “Who screamed?” Jim asked unnecessarily.

  “Don’t touch anything,” the officer cautioned Jacobs who stood just inside Endicott’s office. The officer pressed on Endicott’s neck trying to find a pulse. It was evident even to the untrained eye the man was dead. He had collapsed forward from a sitting position across the blotter on his desk. His head was lying on one side revealing a face void of color, stricken in death. His right arm rested in a pool of vomit. An overturned cup of coffee next to his hand spread its contents on several manila envelopes. A brown stain soaked what had been a white cuff. Endicott’s eyes stared. Taylor couldn’t be sure if in surprise or pain.

  “I can’t believe it,” Jim exclaimed rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “He really is dead. Justice exists.”

  “Jim,” Taylor protested. “How can you say that? The man is dead.”

  Jim shrugged and left Endicott’s office. Taylor could have sworn she heard him whistling as he walked away.

  In the next few minutes Virginia pulled Alise to her feet, and helped her into her office. The police officer called for the coroner and homicide detectives.

  Taylor waited behind Alise’s desk so she could look out the window as a distraction. Outside a young couple held hands and walked along the quiet street oblivious to the drama unfolding in the office building next to them. The sky was as clear as it had been earlier, but the peace had been marred.

  She looked down the staircase and saw Jim sitting in reception talking with Candi. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  Jim certainly was an odd man. It puzzled her that he apparently experienced none of the feelings of shock and sadness the rest of them were feeling over the loss. Could he really be happy about Endicott’s death?

  * * *

  As Taylor observed the world outside she remembered her first encounter with Endicott. During her employment interview Taylor thought Preston Endicott was abrupt but polite. She remembered thinking it was only a formality. Endicott seemed confident in Virginia’s choice and was in a hurry to leave. As she left his office that day she turned to thank him and noticed the way he was looking at Virginia. Without knowing either of them she could only guess at the meaning, perhaps one of sadness or even regret. At any rate, it had nothing to do with her.

  The ambulance arrived along with several other police officers. Taylor returned to her office. She’d allow Mr. Endicott some privacy. While she struggled to concentrate on a new marketing strategy, uniformed people came and went in front of her door. At last, the body was wheeled by
. She sighed and hoped the worst was over.

  Everyone left early. Jim and Taylor walked along the far side of the office to the parking lot in back.

  “Can you believe it?” Jim asked pointing to a ladder placed neatly against the ground next to the office wall.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think this is the first day since the painters descended that I haven’t had to walk over, around or through some of their stuff.”

  “It’s the only thing right about today,” Taylor said.

  “Oh come on. The world’s a better place.”

  “Jim, dry up!” Taylor increased her pace and left Jim behind. Sometimes he could be so obnoxious.

  * * *

  Alise decided to stay. Whoever became the new publisher would have to be easier to work for than Endicott. She nearly quit last night after his screaming fit but jobs were not that easy to find in Santa Fe. Fate had stepped in overnight and made it a better place to work. She picked up the outgoing mail, leafed through it and noticed Endicott’s handwriting on two envelopes where he added his return address. One was his electric bill and the other was addressed to his ex-wife. She would mail them on her way home.

  Chapter 2

  Taylor squeezed the remote control and closed the garage door on a bad day. As she stepped into her kitchen, the Saltillo tile floor and sage cabinets made her wish she enjoyed cooking. Alas, she was a disastrous cook.

  The room was warmed by a skylight during the day. It was the kind of room people gravitated to. When she replaced the wallpaper in the breakfast nook, it would be perfect. Currently, the walls were a mess of partially scraped paper. Maybe if she focused on one room at a time, she could get somewhere with this project. She had been dabbling and not making much progress.

  Oscar met her in the living room, tail held high. He weaved his way across the hardwoods. He had been snoozing on the window seat next to the fireplace where he spent most of everyday. It was a perfect place to watch birds. He stretched, first into down dog and then cobra pose. Thoroughly flexed, he rubbed Taylor’s leg. She picked him up.

  “Hi Oscar. How was your day?”

  He purred contentedly and answered with something resembling “ouw.”

  “I know, life is hard for a cat.” She stroked his agouti fur. He closed his eyes in complete happiness.

  Taylor bounced down lightly on the sofa taking Oscar with her. He curled up in her lap while she absently rubbed his ears. The soothing white stucco walls, pastel woven rugs and howling coyote folk art lightened her mood. Next to the coyote on the raised hearth sat a brightly painted barrel cactus with a tiny ladder braced against it. There was a carved rabbit in her favorite store she wanted to buy next pay day. It would make a nice addition to her growing collection.

  The coyote she had purchased on a much earlier visit. They were no longer as popular. Chickens seem to have taken over. Santa Fe depended on tourism and the latest popular item was constantly evolving. Jewelry and pottery managed to stay trendy all the time.

  “Let’s go watch the sunset.”

  Oscar followed her outside onto the deck. Sunset was one of the best reasons to live in Santa Fe. This daily spectacle would make the endless months of late-night painting and cleaning, aching muscles and sore neck worth it. Oscar’s fur ruffled slightly as her fingers tickled his side and he stretched to catch the last warm sunbeam of the day.

  “You wouldn’t believe my day.” He looked up in mild interest and proceeded to catnap.

  What on earth had happened to Preston? Did he have a heart attack? Taylor couldn’t remember hearing any talk about possible health problems. Surely Virginia would have said something. She seemed to hover over him. How awful to die alone like that with no one to hold your hand or say goodbye. She had been unable to stop herself from glancing up as Preston’s covered body was rolled by her office on a gurney. That was a memory she didn’t want to keep.

  Taylor returned her attention to the sunset in its final ovation. Sandia Peak in all its massive grandeur really did look like a watermelon. It was easy to understand why it had been so named. Sandia was such a charming word; much more lovely to the ears than watermelon.

  “Time to eat, boy.”

  After tuna salad, shared with Oscar, and a glass of pinot noir, the morning tragedy was pushed to a remote area of Taylor’s mind. She turned on the TV in the nook and curled up to catch the weather report, a habit developed during years of living in a capricious climate like the Midwest where she grew up. And while Denver had much lovely weather, it could snow until you had to dig out your car. Santa Fe had terrific weather. It had not been difficult getting used to it. Three hundred plus days of sunshine, cool nights and dry mountain air had an energizing effect.

  The mystery manuscript she had been reading rested on the ledge with the TV. She settled back on the cushioned banco and began her nightly ritual of searching for the next great mystery. Much of her reading had to be done at home as there always seemed to be something that just had to get done at the office. It was a bit like a treasure hunt. The vast majority of manuscripts weren’t what Endicott Publishing was looking for. There were no real guidelines on this. It was something they knew when they found it, something writers had suspected for years. She was finishing page sixty-two when something on the news caught her attention.

  “. . . breaking news. Police suspect foul play in the death of a Santa Fe publisher and CEO. Details to follow in this evolving news story.”

  “What!” Were they talking about Preston Endicott? There were other publishing companies in Santa Fe, but it seemed unlikely two CEOs would have died in the same day. Murder? Murder in paradise; especially her corner of paradise?

  “Oscar, would you like another glass of wine?” She raised the bottle. He stared at her; his expression was one of a teetotaler condemning the ungodly. “No? Don’t mind if I do.”

  * * *

  “So they think someone killed the degenerate!”

  Jim Wells punched off his home office TV with the remote. Things were finally picking up. The scotch sloshed precariously in the glass as he plopped down in his favorite chair. He swallowed it in one gulp and licked his lips to remove the last traces of his favorite brand. He poured another from the bottle on the floor.

  “Here’s to you Preston.” Two swallows emptied the glass again. “One more ought to do it.”

  Memorabilia filled this room. An old wooden table burdened with books and old magazines cluttered one corner. A roll top desk sat beneath the only window. It too was a mess.

  He put back another shot and reflected on the past. He’d meant to take all that stuff off the walls, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  “Not healthy to dwell on ancient history, Jim ol’boy,” he muttered.

  But what the heck, he had won them all. Dozens of plaques, ribbons, trophies and certificates hung everywhere. He’d been somebody back them. Reporters interviewed him, fans asked for his autograph and people paid money to hear him extol the many virtues of the fine arts. Rich cats wrote fat checks for his paintings at his one-man shows in New York City.

  The money evaporated like water in the desert. He’d grown up poor without any idea of what to do with money other than spend it. Cars, clothes, women, even gambling; and don’t forget booze. It became his friend. He still couldn’t believe he’d lost everything; and had no one to blame but himself.

  When Preston Endicott, Sr. offered him a job as art director for Endicott Publishing he swore he wouldn’t bungle it again. Second chances didn’t come along every day.

  It had been one of his many fresh start days when he met the elder Preston. While hiking off a hangover on one glorious New Mexico day, he’d stopped to take in a vista. There among some early spring wild flowers was Preston taking pictures. He recognized the artist because he’d attended one of his shows and liked what he saw. He knew also of Wells descent and that most of it was Well’s own fault. But there was a certain something about the young man, a drive and immense tal
ent if only the self-destructive ways could be managed. Preston offered him a place in his publishing company as art director, a position which had not existed until that moment. The older man felt the time had come to design book covers in-house. An astonished Jim Wells accepted on the spot and began work the following week.

  The months which followed were ones of intense creative pleasure. He began winning cover awards and national attention for the company. He dropped all his bad habits, except drinking, which he controlled so as not to miss any work. For the first time in his life he experienced a contentedness and a full sense of belonging even better than his halcyon days. Unfortunately, the elder man’s health became tenuous and his son stepped into his life effectively ending his second chance.

  * * *

  Jessica Endicott hadn’t begun life as a loathsome woman, but after nine years with Preston, Jr., it was the only way to survive. Born to farming parents who barely scratched a living from the soil, little Jessica dreamed of a better life. When she was fourteen, her father left his family and life worsened.

  Her mother attended beauty school on a government grant and then supported her family by working six days a week in the only salon in the small California town. Her mother didn’t just become a hairdresser, she became renowned, even coiffing some of Hollywood’s most famous heads. Jessica always looked trendy because mom kept up with the latest styles. It was one of the reasons the younger Preston noticed her that day at the University of California, Berkeley. She wasn’t even a student. Because she was carrying a friend’s books, Preston assumed incorrectly.

  Crossing the campus with her friend she bumped into the young and handsome Preston. From that moment on she set her sights on becoming Mrs. Endicott, Jr.

  By the time he discovered her roots he was determined to stay in a relationship with her. He was rebellious and thought the best way to assert his individuality and independence was to marry this girl from the wrong side of town and throw the marriage in his parents’ faces.