Death on Canyon Road, Chapter 4: Disappearing Act

Gloria Singleton surveyed the destruction of her gallery: Broken window, smashed Pueblo pottery, a counter of collectibles turned on its side, bloodstains on the floor. But what bothered her most was the one thing that wasn't there: Her prized Frank Howell, the painting of a mystical shaman with outstretched hands looking up at the sky as if waiting for a word from God.

Or perhaps, Gloria often wondered, the shaman was offering advice to God.

Right now, she needed some sage advice of her own, Gloria thought as she pushed debris from one of her favorite Southwest-inspired rustic benches and sat down. She evened out the wrinkles of her chiffon pantsuit and looked at the empty spot where the painting had once hung, trying to envision what the shaman would have told her. It was a part of her daily meditation practice: Using the shaman's image as a mandala, she could drift into her happy place and find answers to her deepest frustrations.

But he was gone, Gloria thought, closing eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of the shaman imprinted upon her subconscious. And so was Kate, Gloria acknowledged, shaking her head when no image appeared.

The paramedics had rushed Kate off to St. Vinnie's for observation. Shock, they guessed, but it wasn't a difficult diagnosis. "Man down," Kate had mumbled to herself as she watched the last breaths of the customer, "man down." The blank expression on Kate's face bothered Gloria most of all: Tough Kate taken down by the death of a Texan.

Gloria tried to reconstruct what had happened, why her morning had turned so quickly from a sense of optimism to full-blown tragedy: a homeless person apparently dead under her portal, a cowboy snooping around and the final insult, a fainting spell. Then Kate had come to her rescue about the same time the morning's first customers pranced in. She was just about to greet them when the shot rang out from somewhere and found its mark on the big man's forehead.

The next few moments were pure pandemonium: the hysterical trophy wife, Kate frozen in place, the sense of things moving in slow motion. Gloria was present enough to place a call to 911, but it was as if the police had already known about the shooting: They arrived within moments.

The police questions were intrusive, Gloria thought, because she could give them nothing but a description of the events that led up to the shooting. They had wanted more, Gloria pondered, as if she knew the motive for a senseless killing.

The customers -- Eddie Ponderosa and his wife, Tiffany -- identified in the rush of the investigation, had never been in the store before, Gloria explained. A Texas couple taking in the sights of Santa Fe, a romantic interlude, perhaps, Gloria thought, or on the lookout for one more piece of art for their Houston minimanse.

They too were gone, Eddie to a cold morgue somewhere, Gloria imagined, and Tiffany to the hospital for sedation. Perhaps she and Kate were in the same room, Gloria thought, although she could not imagine the no-nonsense Kate striking up a conversation with a trophy wife, who was now -- what would they call her? A trophy widow?

The police were less than accepting when she told them of the homeless woman and cowboy. Gloria had to repeat the circumstances several times, the detectives eyeing her with suspicion and jotting down notes. She had no explanation for how the two could disappear so quickly.

The stolen painting was little more than an afterthought to the police, Gloria thought, and their reaction was unnerving. Certainly it was terrible to have a man die in her shop, she told them, but the painting really was irreplaceable.

"Well, I imagine insurance will cover that," one detective bluntly replied. "If we determine it was indeed stolen."

And then they were gone, as quickly as they had flooded her store, snapping photos, taking notes and whisking everyone away. The Canyon Road Gallery Association had probably been behind their expediency, Gloria thought. A random shooting would discourage browsers, contributing to an already difficult season.

Perhaps even worse than the police were the reporters who buzzed around her gallery, trying to break through the police tape, calling her on the gallery phone. A television reporter, Anita Corazón, had even gotten through to Gloria on her cell phone, interrupting while she was answering police questions.

She spotted the woman in front of the gallery a few minutes later, gleefully offering the public her opinion, in front of a television camera, about the shooting. The woman's long, brown hair was no match for New Mexico wind; it looked like a rat's nest. Gloria had refused an interview on camera.

The other journalists were equally unrelenting. There was an effusive young woman from the Albuquerque paper and two aggressive reporters from the local paper who peppered her with questions. They brought with them a host of photographers, who had to be shooed away.

Gloria worried that what she had told the reporters would be turned around into some confusing jingoism, a journalistic hodgepodge of events that would make her sound like an idiot. The police told her it was best not to say anything, but she felt she had to tell them something. Those who don't say anything usually look more foolish than those who say too much, she thought.

So she took her time relating the events to the print reporters, just as she had to the police, but this time she left out her encounter with the cowboy and the homeless woman. The reporters eventually seemed satisfied, their questions trailing off to the inevitable, "How did it feel to see someone shot?" And then she was left her alone to pick up the pieces. Deadlines, Gloria thought; everyone has something to finish somewhere. No one lives in the present.

She felt a cool breeze coming in from the broken window. "Something else to fix," Gloria said aloud as she stood up to find cardboard and perhaps some duct tape. That was her burden now, carrying on, trying to make sense of the ordeal.

Walking over to her desk, something glittering on the floor caught her eye. The silver dollar, that piece of pawn she had found on the old woman. How did that get on the floor, she wondered, as she bent down to pick it up. She didn't recall losing it.

The bell on the door jingled, startling Gloria: She must have forgotten to lock the door. Gloria wrapped her cold fingers around the coin, tucking it into her palm and feeling its familiar warmth. Looking up, she was about to tell the person the gallery was closed when she thought she recognized the man approaching her. One of the pesky reporters, she thought, the skinny one.

"I really don't have anything else to add," Gloria said, standing up to confront the man. "And I wish you would respect my privacy. This is a difficult time, and I'm as much a victim as anyone else."

The man walked toward her, a black form in the darkening gallery. He was still wearing those odd sunglasses, Gloria thought, wondering how he could see with them on.

"Ms. Singleton," the man said, exposing his teeth in a wide smile. "There're just a few things I need to double-check. It won't take but a few moments. You know how editors are."

Gloria shook her head, feeling whatever energy she had left dissipate. "No, I really don't," she replied, sitting back down on the bench, waiting for the inevitable question. Perhaps this time he wanted her opinion on crime in Santa Fe. What kind of a test was this, she wondered, preparing herself.

"What's this I hear about an encounter with a homeless person right before the shooting?" the reporter asked. "There's some thought that the two events are not just random incidents. Did you provoke the homeless person in any way?"

The question startled Gloria, and she gave him a stern look. "Where did you hear something like that?" Gloria asked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know as well as I that those who operate shops along Canyon Road form a tight community," he said. "People hear things. And they like to share what they hear."

The man sat down near Gloria, inching up to her on the bench. She didn't like the reporter invading her space, didn't like the way her face reflected back to her on his glasses. She started to make a move away from him when he grabbed her arm, twisting it in a way that made her wrench.

"But you don't really have to answer that," he said, smiling again. "There's plenty of time for conversation. Right now, there's somebody I think you should meet."

The man pulled her to her feet, twisting her arm behind her and moving her through the gallery. Gloria considered screaming, wondering if her voice would carry, if the police were still nearby. But she could only think about the pain in her arm, a pain that continued to shoot through her entire body.

The thought of a scream carried with her as she heard the gallery's bells tinkle again as the door opened and a small white van sped to the portal, stopping with a screech. The van's side door opened quickly and the next moment she found herself in the darkened bowels of the van, being held tightly by a woman.

"Gloria," said the driver quietly, "so good of you to join us."

Gloria's last thought, as she once again fell under a chloroform-induced sleep, was of the coyote she had seen earlier in the day. But this time, the coyote was wearing the black hat of the cowboy, circled in pawn. The beast was running into the beckoning arms of a tall, dark shaman.

Help write this story

This mystery story had its genesis at the Tony Hillerman Writing Conference: Focus on Mystery held in November in Albuquerque. The first chapter was written at a workshop led by Taos author Sean Murphy. Murphy suggested words, emotions or events, which were incorporated into a writing exercise.

In that spirit, drop a line or e-mail about what you might want to see in the story and I’ll see what I can do with them. You can reach me at bswan@sfnewmexican.com or send ideas c/o The NewMexican, 1368 Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe, NM 87505.

For previous chapters of the story, visit www.freenewmexican.com/mystery.