A Mystery Story: Death on Canyon Road

The New Mexican editor Ben Swan shares with readers a mystery story in progress - and you can help! See his note at the end of the story for details.

Chapter I

Gloria felt it was going to be a good day. The wind had died down from the morning's Arctic blast and by the time she got to Black Shadow Art Gallery the sun had warmed her so much that she had to take off her black lace shawl.

She opened the doors, propping them ajar with her lucky horseshoe. Dressed in a teal chiffon pantsuit, Gloria let the sun embrace her as she took in the beauty of Canyon Road. She could almost see mules and pack horses meander up the narrow trail, as she was sure they would have done a hundred years ago.

The adobe buildings, punctuated with the dark wood of the portals and vigas, dotted with the red of ristras hanging creatively here and there, made her feel a part of the landscape, however artificial it might be. She breathed deeply, thinking of the yoga class she had missed that morning, raising her arms in a Mountain pose, clearing all negative energies she had retained from another night of restless sleep.

She inhaled deeper, a three-part breath that allowed her to be a part of the universe. It was at the deepest part of the inhale that she became aware of something that just wasn't quite right -- like lighting Himalayan rose incense when her soul was prepared for nag champa. But this was more the scent of cold sesame oil combined with a public restroom and last night's garbage still on the counter. She crunched her nose, forming the well-known grimace of "ick" and turned to look at the carved Indian who appeared to be hawking tobacco. This was a contemporary wood-carving, tastefully promoting dream catchers, in spite of what the local newspaper had written, prompting a bit of not-unwelcome attention in the guise of political correctness.

It was from that area where the odor was orignating, however, and she couldn't get rid of the itch in her nostrils. Tucked in the corner of her tasteful portal was the source of the smell: a bundle of a person, wrapped in a red woolen blanket.

A homeless nothing, Gloria thought, wondering how she was going to get rid of the person before the tourists started making their hapless way up the popular destination.

"Git," Gloria tried, working the best South Texas accent she could muster, but not wanting to crack her makeup or allow this person's essence into her being. "I don't have time for you right now. This is going to be my best day."

The huddled mass didn't budge. Gloria peered down into the red, trying to find a face.

"Hello, in there," she tried again, working up a threatening tone. "You're going to have to leave, or the boys in blue will be informed of your reluctance to 'git.' "

Still no response. Gloria crouched down closer, reaching her hand out to the mound, slightly hesitant. She tried to shake the pile of blankets, when her hand hit a sharp object tucked inside the pile.

Gloria suppressed an "ouch," having mistakenly learned the pain you suppress is weaker than the one you release. But it did hurt, and she opened her clenched fist to note a trickle of blood. She spied the remains of the evening's freeze in the shadows of the entryway and broke off some ice shards to cool the wound's heat.

Gloria brushed back her hair and thought of her options: She needed to find out what had cut her; she needed to get rid of this person, and she needed to do it quickly because what she really needed was a significant sale. Now was the time to consider her warrior power, that goddess energy she felt within.

She nudged the blanket with the point of her Prada, careful not to smudge the rich red finish. A coin tinkled from the bundle; old and silver, it looked more valuable than half the goods in her gallery. She pocketed it quickly, not thinking of the blood or its owner, only reacting to the bright reflection of the coin and smoothness in her injured hand. The pain disappeared, and Gloria moved away to call the only person she knew who could get rid of this intrusion to her morning: Kate Brown.

That was the best thing about being on Canyon Road, about being on the inside of Canyon Road -- that you could pick up a cell phone and call someone who could make things move, like the lump of person in her doorway, the smudge on the start of her otherwise perfect day.

Calling the police would take too long and Kate would be discreet. She punched No. 1 on her speed dial and it picked up on the second ring. Not bad for 9 a.m., Gloria thought.

"What is it Gloria?" Kate asked in that New York twang she hadn't lost even though she'd lived in Santa Fe for more than two decades. "I was just on my way to my power-yoga class."

"I've got an issue," Gloria said, looking over at the still unmoving lump in the doorway. "There's someone on my doorstep and it won't leave. In fact, it won't even move."

It was then that Gloria felt a jolt, as if she'd touched an electric fence. She turned to take in the figure of a man dressed in black. It was the cowboy hat that Gloria noticed first. Not Canyon Road. More Cerrillos. Gloria was a quick judge of character.

She didn't know whether to run or to point out where the man could tie up his horse. Her hand was still on the cell phone, but the line was dead. She tilted her head, squinting her eyes to get a closer look at the man. His face was in the shadows and the brilliant sun blinded her.

"Looks like you got an ill one," the man said, taking in the lump of soul still huddled in the corner of her portal. "Been there a long time."

Gloria worked up a smile, trying to channel her high-school cheerleading personae. His gravelly voice felt soothing, but she couldn't place the accent.

"I'm not sure what that is," Gloria said, and as eyes adjusted she noticed the pawn circled around his hat. The coins looked familiar. "Just some homeless thang finding a warm spot for the night."

Gloria looked around her; the sun had chased more shadows from the Canyon Road boutiques. "Police should really patrol this area more often."

Her gaze caught the movement of something running down an alleyway. A coyote, she thought, wondering why the beast would be here now. She heard them howl only as she closed the shop, never in early morning.

The stranger looked at her as if he wanted to point something out, maybe a misplaced hair or a fold in her flowing blouse that shouldn't be there, but instead he looked at the crumpled body in the doorway. The form still had made no movement, the shadows making a striped pattern on the body.

Gloria sensed this man knew the person, the way he looked at the body. Perhaps Kate wasn't needed after all, and this dark stranger could quickly resolve her dilemma. The stranger followed her gaze, taking in her cut hand and motioned to touch her.

Suddenly she felt exposed and consciously struggled to put up karmic walls of defense. She withdrew her hand and looked around, hoping Kate would come to her rescue.

"Looks like you got yourself a scratch," the stranger said. "That's deeper than you imagine, I bet."

"It's really nothing," Gloria replied, saying she had cut herself when she was cutting a bagel that

morning. She was hesitant to tell the truth so elaborated on the breakfast incident, knowing that he knew, too, it was a lie.

The stranger moved over to the bundled person. She watched as he bent down to nudge the form.

"This elder's not moving anywhere," the cowboy said, opening the blanket and revealing a woman in a sitting position, her face tucked in her folded arms. The woman's gray hair was covered with a red handkerchief, but long strands of a loosened ponytail wound down to the dusty red-brick floor. He gripped the end of an antler attached to a necklace made up of turquoise and silver. It was astonishingly beautiful.

It was then that Gloria realized what had cut her hand. She felt faint, as if the bright light of the sun was imploding in her head, where the beginning of a dull ache was forming.

The man turned to catch her as she felt herself tumbling and heard the dull roar of a Land Rover zipping past, the driver screeching to a stop after finding a treasured parking space.

It was Kate, Gloria thought as she felt a darkness engulf her. The cavalry has arrived.

Help write the story

Most of this chapter was written during the preconference workshop of the Tony Hillerman Writing Conference: Focus on Mystery. Taos author Sean Murphy favors a sort of speed writing that gets the blood going and pens flowing on any type of writing. It's preferable to a blank page, he says. The idea is to simply write, and in this particular exercise, in 10-minute intervals. During that time Murphy threw out arbitrary words or events, which we then would include into whatever we were writing. Words like "red," "ice," or "smell" were absorbed into the exercise. Since I knew I wanted to write a mystery, his suggestions became part of my story. In that vein, we hope readers will interject words, thoughts or even plot twists to this story, which will appear monthly in Sunday magazine. I'll incorporate them into each chapter of my first mystery. Thanks for playing along. Please send your suggestions to bswan@sfnewmexican.com.