Second Place Winner:

Death of the Malevolent Muse

by S.M. Harding

I looked out over the high desert, took a deep breath of sage scented air. The sun was setting in technicolor hues, swabbing orange and crimson on the underbellies of the few cloud survivors. I turned and watched as Taos Mountain flamed, deepening crimson flowing down its peak. Sangre de Christo the first Spanish had called the mountain range. But it was only now, in the late afternoon, when the sun set in the west, that the mountains ran with blood.

It had seemed so innocent, so possible, such a good idea – at the time .

The Malevolent Muse, a mystery authors' group, had been batting around plots and characters and language at Skull and Bones Restaurant for over three years. Bess Morris wrote romantic cozies; Father Gabriel Drew, tightly plotted locked room mysteries; Josella T. Logan's P.I. was beyond hard-boiled; Retta Sorenson's Sun Featherstone used her psychic abilities to solve noir crimes; and Elton Thisbee wrote horror. My own protagonist was an amateur sleuth, one sharp cookie with an eye for detail and total visual recall.

On a bitterly cold January day, Retta had brought the glossy brochure for the Southwest Writers' Center to our meeting. We passed it around with growing excitement. Who wouldn't want to be seduced by sun and more sun when marooned in Indianapolis , snow piled up to your knees in sooty mounds? Big mistake .

The slick brochure had shown the newly opened retreat center for writers, a quaint adobe structure, corralled by a wall on four acres of land, minutes north of Taos Plaza . Available to any writer's group on a weekly basis by the Southwestern Writers' Center for an astoundingly high fee, it came complete with a nationally recognized author to lead a workshop.

What wasn't apparent at the time was how a group who met only monthly for three hours, and squabbled constantly during that brief time, could survive together for a whole week in a self-contained compound without even TV for a diversion. “A writing intensive,” the brochure had burbled, “with high desert silence to free the imagination.”

The silence had freed only loose tongues, and the constant carping was already fraying my edges, pushing me into the solitude of the desert.

What would day two bring ?

“Marty, where the heck is the maid service?” yelled Bessie from the patio. She started steamrolling her way through the sage, rabbitbrush and houndstongue. Her corduroy skirt was a magnet for the burrs and by the time she huffed up, the skirt looked like it had sprouted a fungus. “I'm short a hand towel and I can't find that woman.”

“Alyce Cordova?” I asked, using the Spanish pronunciation.

“Dumb way to say a name,” Bessie said between breaths. “What's wrong with plain old Alice ?”

I looked back at the mountain. The magic had fled. “There are extra towels in the hall cabinet.”

“Cold out here,” she said, hugging her puffy body with arms that had sprouted goose bumps. “Where's the big catus, the sand and the heat? The brochure said ‘desert'.”

“This is northern New Mexico , not southern Arizona . High desert.”

“Hope they've got extra blankets. Which cabinet?” she asked, but didn't wait to hear the answer.

I followed as she steamrolled back to the adobe house. She jerked open the sliding patio door, sent it banging on its track. Crossed the common area, leaving prints of desert dirt on the tile like a jackrabbit's trail. She rounded the corner into the hall, and I could see the collision coming as I trailed her inside.

“Umph,” said Bessie, spiraling backward.

“Shit,” a guy with piercings and tattoos said, reeling to the side.

“Why don't you watch where you're going!” said Bessie, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

“Why don't you, you old – ”

“Elton!” I said. “Can the attitude.”

Bessie tucked her plaid blouse back into the elastic waistband of her skirt. She glared at him.

He tucked his hands in the sleeves of his holey black sweater like a monk. He slouched toward the common area, head bobbing, a bald turtle out of water. He sprawled on the couch, putting his heavy black boots on the glass top of the coffee table. “Old cow,” he muttered.

“Creep,” Bessie said as she walked into the hallway.

He is a little creepy with the grommets in his ears. And who in his right mind would tattoo “Knightstown” around his neck?

“Hey,” Elton said, noticing me. “Light the fire, it's damn cold in here.”

I slid the door closed and fastened the latch. “Little early for a fire,” I said, walking toward the wing that housed our rooms. “Maybe after dinner.” I could hear him mutter one of a constant stream of expletives that he squandered until they carried no meaning, just an irritating negativity.

I tapped on a door halfway down the corridor and heard “Come!”

Retta had already made the space her own. An improvised altar of crystals, silver goblet, and black bowl graced a small table. She gathered up the tarot deck she'd spread out on the bed. A card fell to the woven rug, the black and white skeleton stark against indigo, crimson, and shades of turquoise wool. “It keeps coming up,” she said as she bent to pick it up, silver and turquoise bracelets clacking over the words.

“What could be more appropriate for a mystery writers' group?” I pushed away the frisson of apprehension that snaked up my spine.

Retta looked at me with ice-blue eyes wide, something moving quick as a blink behind their opaque surface.

“So, what's up?” she asked, her long broomstick skirt swirling around her legs as she rose from the bed and slipped on a pair of Uggs. She placed the death card in the bowl, face down.

“Have you seen the Taos guidebook by any chance?” I asked. “I thought I'd walk into town after dinner.” Something different about that death card, something weird. Something about the skull.

“Uh, no, but I'll go help you look,” Retta said. “I'll bet Bessie copped it.”

“In which case, I won't see it until we leave.”

“I'm surprised you're getting stir crazy already.”

A reply was made unnecessary by the dinner bell. As we walked down the hall, I was struck by the multiple footprints on the tile floor. The dust we'd tracked in made the floor look like a stamp-it project. A good thing to remember if I ever needed footprints for clues. We stopped at the pass-through counter and sniffed.

The aroma of chili peppers wove through the kitchen when Father Gabe glided in on feet shod in leather soled slippers. “Oh, my, something surely smells good!” he said, raising his grizzled eyebrows like white, fuzzy circumflexes. He lifted a lid and inhaled deeply. His eyes teared as he flashed the cook a big smile.

“It better not be spicy,” said Bessie, who had plowed into the room on Gabe's heels. “I can't do spicy.”

“Got any mac and cheese?” Elton asked, slouching behind Bessie.

“Oh, I love spicy!” Josie said, who entered the kitchen from the other hall, which led to the long meeting room in the other wing of the house. Her red cowboy boots clunked across the tile floor.

“No mac and cheese,” a small Hispanic woman said. She pointed to the pots on the stove with a wooden spoon. “Tacos. Make them any way you want. Back burners, mild, front burners, hot.” She turned and pointed to the counter which divided the kitchen from the common area. “The front row of bowls, hot. Back row, mild.”

“My, my, you are certainly something,” Gabe said, clasping his hands together as if he was preparing to say grace. “I don't believe I've ever seen such a feast!”

“Stop prattling and let's eat,” Bessie said, grabbing a plate, punching up her glasses, scanning the food.

I thought the neat rows of pottery were laid like an altar offering before the Philistines. The cook had placed small bouquets among the rows, adding more color.

“Too bad Ginny has to miss this,” Josie said, picking a plate from the stack. “I can't believe she broke her leg the day before we left.”

“Do you know if she really did?” Elton asked, loading grated cheese onto a taco shell. “Maybe she's going to sneak in here in the middle of the night and kill us. Where's the microwave?”

“Could we please have American food tomorrow,” Bessie said, the tone of demand erasing any sense of request.

“Yeah,” added Elton, “no more of this wet-back stuff.”

A deathly silence descended on the group.

“We're in New Mexico , asshole,” Josie said. “And mac and cheese is for the blighted.” She started working her way down the front row of offerings.

Retta shrugged and picked up a plate. She started down the line, straightening bowls as she went.

I followed and filled the shells with a bit of everything in the back row. Took the plate out to the patio and ate slowly, savoring the blend of tastes. Cool and hot, jalapenos and lime. Contrasts coming together to form something new. If only people . . . I know! Retta's tarot card had a face glued on the skeleton. Something cut from a photograph. To cast a spell? For good or evil? How weird.

I watched the sky darken, the stars swirl through the sky and fought an impulse to walk out into the desert without looking back.

* * *

I woke with the sun, snuck into the kitchen and began a pot of coffee. I took a cup onto the patio and watched the sky. If this whole workshop was a disaster, at least I'd have memories like this.

I still wanted to walk in the desert, but I had to settle for the perimeter of acreage encircled by the wall. I was almost to the back corner when I began to see footprints. Large with a distinctive tread. They went on, doubled back, then came my way again. A little farther on, something had been dragged. I saw it as I stepped around a stand of aspens. An upended crate. Scrapes at the top of the wall. Evidently, Elton had had a midnight rendevous with a vendor of tequila or local drug dealer. Just what we need .

I got up on the crate and looked over the wall. A small stream glittered by in the morning sun, the water dappled by the aspens growing on the far bank. Cottonwoods grew on this side, making deep shade. I was about to get down when a glint of metal caught my eye. I scanned the trees until I saw the car. I wondered who would park a car so far from a road, but since it had New Mexico plates, I figured it belonged to some fisherman I hadn't seen. By the time I finished my walk, the group had gathered in the common room.

“I have never worked with a group of mystery writers,” Alyce said, looking over the assembled group, the clear morning light incising lines around her eyes. “But I am sure it will be quite an experience for all of us.” She paused, took a breath, and looked at us. “The first exercise I would like you to do – ”

“I thought you were going to edit our manuscripts,” Bessie said, “not make us do silly stuff.”

“Now, now, Bessie,” Gabe said, folding his hands over his generous belly. “We all want to grow as writers and Alyce is one of the premier writers of – ”

“Bessie doesn't read literature ,” Josie said, re-crossing her feet on the low table. “Just the competition. Those romances masquerading as mysteries. Queen of the soft porn cozy.”

“No man I've ever met would act so outrageously rude as that gumshoe character of yours,” Bessie shot back.

“I've written a list of your names,” Alyce said, striding forward with an Apache burden basket in her hand. “Draw one, and write a character sketch of that person in one page.” She placed the basket on the coffee table, looked at the group. “Do not rely upon physical description, but attempt to show what motivates the character. Here is the situation: X is stranded in a small town and goes into a diner for lunch.”

“Where's the town?” Gabe asked.

“Why's X stranded?” Retta asked.

“Who's X?” Bessie asked.

“Who cares?” Elton said, slouching toward the table, hitching up his hip-hop shorts on his skinny butt. “Let's just get it over with so I can get some writing done.”

“X is whoever you draw,” Alyce said. She drew in a long breath.

“Whomever,” Bessie said.

“Transitive verb,” Retta said.

“Objective case in the clause,” Bessie replied.

“Whatever,” Elton said, drawing a piece of paper from the basket. He looked at it, threw it back in, and pulled another.

“The ‘facts' of the situation will come from your perception of the character,” Alyce said, beginning to back toward the patio door. “We will meet again before lunch,” she glanced at her watch, “11:30, yes?” She scanned the group. “Then you will read what you have written.” She escaped through the door to sunlight.

Alyce had been haughty and cruel in her critique, I thought, though perhaps we deserved it. Retta had done a passable job on the liturgical Gabe. I'd tried my best with Retta, but discovered I hadn't the foggiest notion what made the woman tick. The rest were death-spattered entries full of clues to unnamed crimes, poison in the daily special, and Elton's massacre by cleaver-wielding vampires.

Alyce had assigned a field trip into Taos for work on description. One building. “Make it vivid. And no murders, no clues, no blood. And not one mention of a vampire.”

“You just day-dreaming or plotting the next Theo Bench caper?” a voice said behind me. I turned, blinded by the sun, but caught a flash of red on the ground.

“Josie?”

“Sorry,” she said, moving around the table to another chair. “Didn't mean to startle you. Shit, everyone's super-sensitive, ready to jump down the nearest throat.” She plopped her booted feet on the table, leaned back into the sun, adjusted the denim mini skirt. “What'd you think of the crit?”

“I wondered if Alyce will make it to Saturday,” I replied, putting my pad on the table. “Whether someone in the group will murder her first or if she'll figure a way to do us all in.”

I watched Josie stretch, a feline twist to the wrist and the arch of her back. Something in Josie, tightly wound, ready to pounce, at odds with her eclectic, indolent exterior . “What do you know about Retta, I mean, outside of the group?”

“Not much. Daddy Sorenson left his only child very well-off, which allows her to follow whatever muse beckons at the moment. Good thing. She'd never make a living with her woo-woo mysteries. Why?”

“My character sketch was supposed to be Retta.”

“Yo, know where you're going,” Josie said, nodding her head. “ You're supposed to be mine! And I didn't have a clue, which is why I poisoned you right off the bat!” She laughed, throwing her head back.

“I draw as much of a blank on the rest of the group, you included.”

“We're not a social club, Marty. We look at the writing, not the writer. Although, with Elton high half the time, it's hard to imagine he's more than a punk with literary ambitions.”

“Wasn't there something about a kidnaping? In Retta's family?” I asked. “Years ago. She must have been a baby.”

“I think it was a sibling, not Retta. Something went wrong and they never got her back. Or him. Poor kid.” Josie shrugged. “There's a little deeper weirdness under her New Age stuff. She's cold. Tell you one thing, she's got a generous streak. Gabe said she picked up the tab for Bessie for this little excursion.” She stood up abruptly. “You ready to go?”

“Now?”

“Van's leaving for our field trip in ten.”

The group scattered quickly into the narrow streets of Taos , as if each found the others contagious. I'd walked east on Kit Carson Road until a street called Morada Lane had invited. A modern sculpture caught my eye, looking metallic and frenzied in front of the soft lines and warm colors of the old adobe house. I'd immersed myself in the textures of the adobe, the way the light changed through the trees. I glanced at my watch. I'm going to be late if I don't go now .

I charged up the slight incline on Kit Carson Road , hiking boots beating their own rhythms on the wooden sidewalk, when I saw Gabe and Josie slipping out of a storefront. I couldn't quite make out the name, the ornate Victorian signage proclaiming Michael's Something Something. They were looking in a brown paper bag, laughing like two kids playing hooky, thinking up the excuse of the century.

I hurried on, began to scan the area for the van. The rest of the group lounged by the plaza entrance, all with shiny plastic sacks bearing the name of Plaza shops. I waited for the long train of RV's to pass and the light to change. When had they had time to shop?

* * *

I'd struggled through a sleepless night. Too many people roaming around, slamming doors, whispering, giggling. I thought it was Elton, drunk or stoned, who'd made the crash in the common room, but with all the noise, who could tell?

I got up to start the coffee. The hall outside my door was thickly layered with dusty footprints and the early morning sun etched more in the dirt outside. I followed them to the back corner. Another clear set of boot prints had joined the paratroopers' going over the wall. I climbed up on the crate and looked at the tranquil scene. The water slipped over the stones, the sun warmed the scene. I looked for the car, but didn't see the Taurus. As I turned to get down, I saw it, parked this time under another grove of cottonwoods. Had Elton rented it to pursue his devious quest for another high? Or had the fisherman returned ?

When I returned to the kitchen, the coffee was finished brewing and Retta stood in front of the fridge.

“The woman said they'd be OK if we sprinkled a brown paper sack with water and then put them in the oven at three-fifty,” she said as she pulled six slightly battered sopaipillas from the fridge. “Five minutes or so, just to warm them up.”

Retta opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink, then worked her way around the storage areas of the island. “I can't find any paper bags.”

“Hold on,” I said, “I think I saw one in the wastepaper basket in the hall.” I went to the basket, pulled out the bag from its nest of manuscript pages. I was tempted to read some of the discarded efforts, but returned quickly to the kitchen in favor of some coffee.

I was only halfway through my first cup when a full-throttle scream erupted from the direction of the common room. Retta and I ran into the room to find Bessie standing over the recumbent form of Gabe. Her scream had dribbled off to small shrieks and a shaky finger pointed to the prone body.

I saw a knife embedded in his chest, a pool of blood dripping onto the tiles. I took a step forward, stopped, immobile. Retta moved around me, just in time to catch the fainting Bessie.

Alyce came from the bedroom hall, still in a nightgown, followed closely by Josie who was dressed except for her boots. Both stopped, one foot forward, statues.

“Madre de Dios ,” murmured Alyce, covering her mouth with her hand.

Josie moved quickly across the floor and knelt by Gabe's body. She put two fingers on his neck, moved them slightly, then shook her head. “No pulse, and his body's cold.” She rose, stepped back. “Gabe is dead.”

“He can't be dead,” wailed Bessie, slipping from Retta's grip and into the nearest chair. The rollers in her hair were askew, her untied robe exposing her flannel jammies. “Who's going to do my plotting?”

“Retta,” said Josie, “go check the doors, see if they're locked. Ditto windows. Oh, and see if you people can find Elton.” She walked from the room, stride firm, head held high, creator of the hard-boiled gumshoe who never lost his cool.

In the stunned silence, everyone could hear her pick up the phone, pause, then start to report a murder at the Southwest Writers' Center.

I thought I should check the conference wing and started back through the kitchen when an acrid odor sent me scurrying to the stove. When I opened the oven, smoke rose like a burnt offering. Grabbing the mitts, I pulled out the bag of sopaipillas and dumped it in the sink. A smoke alarm began to blare. I ran water until the fire was out, then picked up the soggy mess to throw in the trash. It came apart in my hands, and I stared at a logo which read “Michael's Magical Emporium” in the same Victorian script as the store sign.

“Doors are all locked,” Retta said as she returned to the common area. “Windows are closed and locked. Anybody find Elton?”

“If all the doors and windows are locked,” squeaked Bessie, still sitting in the chair, arms wrapped around her, “then that means, oh, God.”

“Yep,” said Josie, “that one of us did it.” She sat on the couch, put her feet on the table. “Cops are on their way.”

“I doubt it,” I said, moving into the room to stand by Gabe's body.

“Doubt the police are coming?” said Bessie. “Why wouldn't they?”

“That one of us did it?” asked Retta. “With everything locked . . . ”

“Doubt that Elton did it in a drugged frenzy?” said Josie.

I reached down to the pool of blood by the body, stuck a finger in it, brought it to my mouth and tasted it.

“My God!” cried Bessie into the shocked silence. “You should be ashamed, acting like one of Elton's vampires at a time like this.”

I smiled. “The steak sauce that we couldn't find last night, or at least some of it. Along with ketchup, and, um, salad oil?” I addressed the last question to the area of the couch. Then I bent over and pulled the dagger from Gabe's chest, or at least a spring-loaded version.

Gabe's belly started shaking, and as I helped him up, he laughed. “How'd you ever catch on so quick?”

“Elementary, my dear Father Pyror,” I replied. I threw the knife on the table where it clattered to Josie's feet.

Alyce had risen, her face the color of raw dough. “You mean this is a joke? You people make a bad farce at the expense of others?” The color returned to her face quickly and her eyes flashed. “You people are insane! Go! Turn off that alarm and leave! All of you! Now ! This place is a sanctuary for writers !”

“Don't you want to know how she figured it out?” asked Josie, kicking the offending prop with her foot. “How did you?”

“First,” I said, “the blood was still dripping but you said the body was cold. Second, why would you have somebody else check windows and doors?” I looked at Josie. “Your kind of action P.I. would have done that and delegated someone to call the police. Three,” I said, walking into the kitchen and returning with the burnt remains of the brown paper sack, “I saw you two coming out of the store yesterday.”

“Oh, no,” cried Retta, “the sopaipillas! I forgot them!”

“I didn't know what kind of store it was until I saw the remains of the bag,” I said, “but it explained all the whispering and giggles I heard last night after Elton passed out. Also, the layer of prints in the hallway when I got up this morning, cowboy boots and slippers going back and forth between your rooms.” I sat on the table, my back to Josie. I didn't mention the boot prints I'd seen heading outside.

“You guys have really screwed up this workshop,” Retta said, fire in her ice-blue eyes. “This was the opportunity and you throw it away on some sophomoric gag. You idiots !” She slammed out of the room.

Elton tucked his head into the room, looking as if he should have played the corpse. “Man, that tequila was some kick-ass stuff. I feel like shit.” He slouched in the nearest chair, put his head in his hands. “What the fuck's up for today?”

We tried talking to Alyce, promising there'd be no more stunts. She was adamant: out. Our dream week was dead, and I had a feeling ‘The Malevolent Muse' was, too.

* * *

I leaned back in my seat, glad takeoff was over, and craned my neck to see out the window of the plane. The New Mexico landscape of mesas and mountains spread out below.

The week hadn't turned out so bad. I'd rented a car, driven over the mountains to Chama, explored southern Colorado , then drove back to Albuquerque stopping at Abiquiu. The others had scattered in pairs or alone, reassembling in the Albuquerque Sun Port this afternoon. Still grousing about everything under the beautiful sun.

I opened a Sante Fe paper I'd picked up en route. I scanned without thought, giving equal weight to ads and articles, until a picture caught my eye.

I closed my eyes, willing the image on Retta's tarot deck to emerge. Yes! I opened my eyes, looked carefully at the picture in the paper. Same photograph, same face. I read the headline: DNA Proves Agua Fria Waitress Heiress . The article described the kidnaping of now-deceased millionaire Marcus Sorenson's baby girl over twenty-five years ago. The investigation had gone nowhere, the child had been presumed dead, and no one had ever been prosecuted for the crime.

I looked at the face again. A striking resemblance.

I glanced over at Retta Sorenson, a smile playing at her lips as she wrote. Plotting more mayhem? For her fiction? Or her life ? I closed the paper, folded it neatly, returned it to my briefcase. She'd plotted it well. Staying at an enclosed hacienda where supposedly no one can get out and the victim is seventy miles away . Perfect alibi, surrounded by people all day, gate locked at night. Except Elton had gone over the wall, twice if the tracks of his boots had told a true story. And then there'd been the track of the Ugg boots leading to the crate. And the car. Had she make a trial run to test out the timing? After all, she'd had the rest of the weak to execute the plot. And her sister. I wonder if Retta rented the car under her own name. Easy to check since I could remember the plate number of the Taurus .

Retta raised her head from the laptop.

Perhaps the death of ‘The Malevolent Muse' had served a purpose. Perhaps, just perhaps, that death had saved a life. At least for now . I looked out the window where the earth had already assumed the flat regularity of the Great Plains .

I nudged my seat-mate. “Hey, Josie, want to hear a great plot for a stand-alone mystery? An heiress discovers a sister, who was kidnaped as a baby, is alive and living in New Mexico . She grabs an opportunity to get close to Santa Fe , devises an airtight alibi, but before she can kill the sister, the alibi's blown sky-high. Will she try it again?”

“What are you babbling about?” Josie asked, rearranging her pillow.

I glanced up the aisle and was met with a lethal stare from blue snake eyes. I felt a chill. “Will she try it again with someone watching her every move?”