The Black Orchid

By Peggy Blevins

Sayson Malloy has secrets that she must keep hidden from everyone. As people around her begin to unravel, pieces of her façade begin to crack and fall off, revealing her past that she left many years ago. Annabelle Fillmore, a reporter from the Los Angeles Post, becomes entwined in this mystery, where her personal and professional lives become one with Sayson Malloy and the Black Orchid Gallery. The Black Orchid Gallery’s opening was one of the first stories Annabelle covered as a new reporter for the Los Angeles Post. That story would forever change the course of Annabelle’s career and future. It became the nightmare story that would not end—and the beginning of a new future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503586192

Peggy Blevins

Peggy grew up in a small rural community in Nebraska and graduated from the University of Nebraska. She began her newspaper career at the Omaha World-Herald and soon moved to California, where she worked for the Orange County Register, the San Jose Mercury News, and the Los Angeles Times as an advertising executive. She calls on her rich rural roots from the Midwest and eclectic Southern California experiences to bring this novel to life. This is the first in a series of mysteries about Annabelle Fillmore, who is a reporter.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Annie, help me.

Annabelle woke up with a jolt with that familiar phrase. It is a phrase that will forever be etched in her consciousness.

Without hesitation from the early morning brain fog, she said, It must be August 27, to Frank, her loyal yellow-haired tabby cat.

Loyal may not be the correct word to describe a cat, but they are always there when you need them or when they need their neck scratched. Frank always knows when he’s needed. He will curl up on her lap as if to say, I’m here to help soothe your day. His purring lulls her to that quiet place in her mind, away from the clutter of life.

Annabelle rolled over and touched the empty pillow next to her and wondered whether it would be occupied tonight.

Frank is now pawing at her side for attention with that soft voice, asking for breakfast.

OK, Frank, just one stop before breakfast.

Annabelle made her way to the bathroom for that morning stop and picked up her phone to check for morning messages.

No phone messages, good. Three text messages and twelve e-mails. Not a bad morning, she thought. Text messages from Natalie, Bob, and Mark. I’ll read Bob’s text first since I know it will cheer me up.

Good Morning Sunshine… home this eve 5, dinner out!!! Bob’s text read.

Annabelle quickly responded, Yes.

Bob responded back. Reservations 7PM, Gladstones, Love u miss u.

Annabelle immediately cheered up with news that Bob would be home tonight and they’d be dining at her favorite restaurant, Gladstones, in Malibu. Bob, her significant other, was called out of town unexpectedly on business. Annabelle knew he had handled the urgent business quickly to be able to return back home so fast—and be with her tonight. Annabelle and Bob have been together for five years. Marriage has never come up in their relationship, and that suits Annabelle just fine. She does not need or want to be confined in a relationship, especially after her parting with Mark.

Frank is getting impatient now and is winding himself around her feet, breakfast on his mind.

Frank, let’s get some breakfast and coffee. I’ll read the rest of these messages after you’ve had breakfast and I have coffee.

On the way to the kitchen, Annabelle heard a noise coming from it. She grabbed her revolver and slowly made her way toward the direction of the noise. As she turned to the kitchen, Peter was there.

Peter, I could have shot you, she said, and they both laughed at the thought of it. Annabelle said, As expected, you are here today. Peter smiled.

Frank is now meowing and ignoring the conversation, insisting upon his breakfast. Frank is accustomed to people arriving at all hours and welcomes the attention from others.

Let me feed Frank. Annabelle turned, addressing Peter, but he was gone.

Annabelle thought, Just like Peter, drops in and then disappears as quickly. I’ll connect with Peter later this evening. What do you want for breakfast this morning, Frank? Chicken or fish? I think chicken.

Annabelle dished out one tablespoon of canned food mixed with kibble in Frank’s favorite dish and placed it on a clean food mat.

Fresh water and a clean mat for my messy ten-pound kitty.

Frank immediately began eating and ignored Annabelle.

Now I’ll make coffee for me and a protein drink… Let the day begin, Frank.

As she was making her protein drink and coffee, her thoughts returned to those texts and e-mails.

The time difference between California and Nebraska gives her a little time to respond since she is two hours earlier than Nebraska. It is now 6:20 am, and she needs to be at work by 8:30 am. She has about thirty minutes of spare time.

She grabbed her smartphone. I’ll read Natalie’s text first, she thought.

Natalie is her younger sister, younger by one year. Natalie lives in Nebraska, is married to Sanjay, and has two children, Matt and Sybol. Natalie is a programming director for a large investment firm, and Sanjay is a software engineer for MW Inc. They met in graduate school at Stanford University, fell madly in love, and married. Both are from such different backgrounds but make it all work. After a trip to Nebraska, Sanjay fell in love with it, and both found top positions in large corporations there. Graduating in the top 10 percent of their class at Stanford and working for high tech corporations in Silicon Valley helped them secure top positions in their fields.

The message from Natalie read, "Annie, it’s Aug 27. How r u doing. Each yr should be easier but it’s not."

Natalie is correct. The memory of their friend’s death should fade with each passing year. But now intensifies annually with constant reminders of that day when we were both in high school. I was a senior, and Natalie was a junior. I was so excited to be in my last year of high school in that small Nebraska town and ready to break free, go to college, graduate, and move to the West Coast. I was still debating between a major in journalism or criminology. In the end, I chose both. That fateful day made the decision for me.

Nat doing fine, Bob home 2nite, din at fav rest, Gladstones. Will call later. Send. I rushed a text message off to Natalie. It’s getting harder to keep secrets from her. We are so close yet so far away in our philosophies in life and beliefs. Natalie is logical, and I’ve got a foot in both the logical and unexplained world. Both have served me well in my career and personal life.

Now for that message from Mark. Mark was my first real love after moving to Southern California. He introduced me to fine art, food, wine, and alternative ways of thinking and viewing the world. I was from a small town in Nebraska where there was one view of the world. The differences in people were that you were Methodist, Catholic, or Lutheran. Each small town in Nebraska had a cultural heritage that was brought with them from their European roots, but with each passing generation, pieces are lost. My Irish roots were fading.

Mark’s message said, Thinking of u 2day, tell Peter Hello.

Mark totally understood my relationship with Peter and was neither skeptical nor jealous of it. Mark helped me understand how Peter and I were connected and bound by destiny.

Another text message from Mark said, And how is that new Man in your life… I miss our talks.

I met Mark at an art show in Hollywood that I was covering for the LA Post. At the time, it seemed like punishment to me since I wanted to be a crime reporter and cover the important issues of such a large exciting city. I was a new reporter and desperately wanted to prove myself. When I began working at the Los Angeles Post, I was a general assignment reporter and covered a variety of stories—stories no one who has been there for a while wanted to cover.

The art show opening was in Hollywood at a new gallery on Melrose Avenue named the Black Orchid Gallery. The owners of the gallery were television producers who funded the gallery to showcase some of the new talent they had found and as a way to give back to the community where they lived. That was part of the script they handed out on the beautiful programs everyone received at the door. The program featured a black orchid that was the centerpiece of the exhibit—not just one black orchid but a vase full of the most exotic orchids I had ever seen, sitting on top of a perfectly polished mahogany table. At the back of the gallery was the scene-stealing painting of a black orchid. This painting would be the mainstay of the gallery. The black orchid is a symbol of power and absolute authority as well as a sign of the elite class. It is also the national flower of Belize. As I think back, the name is befitting how this assignment would change my world.

Mark was invited to the opening, along with many other Hollywood producers, directors, actors, actresses, politicians, and paparazzi. I was a little starstruck until I discovered that these events were weekly occurrences. Champagne that contained a small orchid floating in the glass and small bites were served by glamorous starlets who were trying to outdo one another for the attention of the producers and photographers. After the opening speeches, several strategic photographs, and an interview with the owners, it was time for me to go. I’d had enough small talk about what the artist was trying to convey and the deep meaning of their conceptions.

As I was making my way to exit the gallery, Mark stopped me and said I was missing the most important part of the story. The critical part of the story was the true meaning behind the name of the gallery, the Black Orchid.

I introduced myself to Mark and asked what his name is. Mark Sheppard, author and scientist. I’ll guess this is one of your first assignments for the newspaper.

Why do you ask that? I replied.

Annabelle, you are in such a rush to get out of here, you’ll miss the story behind the story. I heard your interview, and you missed asking the question beyond the answer.

Annabelle was irritated but also intrigued by Mark’s observation. It was true she rushed through the interview since she thought this was just another frivolous gallery opening that fed the egos of the power-driven Hollywood moguls. She was proud of her interviewing style and ability to get further into the psychology of the person whom she was talking to, but tonight she rushed the process because she thought it was a useless assignment that did not utilize her skills. In time, she would realize her editor, Mary, knew exactly why she had sent her to this particular event—to capture a story bigger than anyone could imagine.

Mary Lytle was an excellent editor who could spot great talent and had helped launch many successful reporters’ careers. Mary was playing a strong hunch on Annabelle’s interviewing technique tonight but underestimated Annabelle’s ego. Ego is important to reporters but must be kept in check to get the story right and put the interviewee at ease. Most stories come from the best or worst day in a person’s life, when their emotions are raw. One wrong word can instantly cause a person to shut down, and the story may be lost of crucial pieces.

Annabelle looked directly at Mark. Mr. Sheppard, I’m not sure why you are asking this. It is as if you know something that is unseen or about to unfold.

Mark looked directly into Annabelle’s eyes as he said, I do. Then Mark exited the gallery without looking back at Annabelle.

Annabelle felt a shiver, as if her soul had been touched. As she reflected on this exchange and wondered who this person was, she made a note in her phone to research Mark Sheppard and returned to the Black Orchid opening, this time with the intent to determine if there was more of a story. That decision changed her destiny in many ways.

Chapter 2

Mark’s comments were so cryptic, but I always knew the underlying message. I replied to his text message with Bob is great, Peter stopped by this AM, where r u.

In Peru, research, seminars. Will write when back in LA. How about lunch, Mark texted back.

Lunch with Mark could turn into a two-day event. After we ended our romance, I met Bob. I will always love Mark and am forever drawn to his wisdom and knowledge, but a lasting romantic relationship with Mark would be like holding on to a thought as you fall asleep. When you wake up, the thought is gone. Mark is a free spirit who cannot be encumbered by relationships that do not allow him freedom to live life and explore on his terms.

The safe response is Let me know when u r back. Be careful. A.

Now I need to get ready for work so I don’t miss my train. Catching the red line to downtown makes commuting much easier on those days when I don’t want to drive. Having access to a car at work is also beneficial when I need to get to an unfolding story. Riding the train allows me time to think and catch up on e-mails and text messages. I learned quickly which cars are quieter, which cars the police ride on, and which cars have the chatty, loud talkers. My preference was always the cars the police sat on since I felt safer, and sometimes I could pick up stories or information from the conversations among the detectives. It was rare I would hear something since they were usually very guarded on what they said. Some of them knew I was a reporter, and I always felt they intentionally let information slip to me. A couple of these slips turned into great undercover stories that led to the arrest of government employees on corruption charges. No words were directly exchanged, and after a while, I would glance at them with an acknowledgment that I had indeed received their message.

After a couple of stories broke that led to arrests, filed charges, and convictions, Ralph was telling all his buddies what a great story the LA Post wrote that broke the investigation wide-open. Ralph also works in Downtown LA, is a detective for the LA Police, is in his mid-forties, and has seen a lot of crime in one of the world’s largest cities. That was Ralph’s way of saying thank you for helping put those corrupt people away. Everyone would agree but then grumble about how unfair the Post is in reporting about the LA Police Department.

There has always been a love-hate relationship between the media and the police department. The media reports the news, which is usually not pretty and often involves the LA Police Department not in their finest moment. To be fair, the LA Post also reports its own troubles: ownership changes, bankruptcy, and bad management. There’s a constant revolving door of publishers, editors, and marketing executives. With each change comes new promises of the future.

The Internet changed the world of newspapers, but I still believe in the fourth estate and that it is our responsibility to report the news and reveal corruption wherever it is. Newspapers will continue to evolve and settle in a respective place on the Internet. In the meantime, I’ll continue to ride the red line and keep my smartphone ready to take notes of conversations I hear.

It’s my stop to get off the train and walk a couple of blocks to the Post. Another beautiful day in Southern California. As I walk toward the Post, my thoughts drift toward the stories I’m working on and the date August 27. Labor Day weekend is close, and so is the end of summer. It is the beginning of a new school year, and what happened around this time in 1998 is still in my memory.

I think to myself, Peter, why will you not let this story end? What unfinished business is there? Tonight I need to end this annual remembrance and move on with my life. I need to ask everyone to let go and, more importantly, to let me go. It’s time to put the past in the past.

Then I hear a familiar voice. Yes, it is time. You are ready.

Chapter 3

As I walk into the Post building, I’m always awestruck by the history and fascinating people who have walked through these doors. The large lit globe in the center of the lobby reminds me of how things in LA affect the rest of the world and vice versa, plus the publishers, editors, presidents, politicians, movies stars, sports figures, CEOs, scientists, Nobel Prize winners, and the less famous who make up the daily stories. These people are the unwitting central theme of what makes a daily newspaper important, an endless supply of people who make up and change the world we live in. And the exciting thing is that no two days are the same. You never know what story will unfold and where it will take you. The key is to be open to what is said and not said, what is observed, what the research tells you, and most importantly, the feeling in your gut. No detail is too small to ignore or story too insignificant. The story takes you where it wants to go, not where you want the story to go.

As I pass the morning guard and scan my employee card, the elevator door opens, but today I think I’ll take the stairs. As I open the stair door, I’m met by Ben, one of the photographers who is rushing to an accident. Ben is my favorite photographer to take on assignment. He captures the entire scene so completely without getting in the way of the story. Ben’s photos freeze the unvoiced story for later recall.

Ben shouts to me, Annie, come with me now. There’s been an accident at city hall.

Without hesitation, I run with him. I learned long ago sensible shoes were a must for a reporter. City hall is one block away, and although I have trouble keeping up with Ben, I’m only a couple of steps behind him. The morning commute is on, with buses and cars obstructing the view of city hall. But the sounds now are different. There are other sounds, like sirens. Once we reach the corner, we see a lot of police activity at city hall. Squad cars are screeching to a halt and begin blocking traffic. Police are rushing out of police headquarters across the street. Ambulances and fire trucks are arriving. How this scene so quickly changed from only a couple of minutes ago when I walked into the Post. The light changes, and off we run to an unfolding event.

As I run, I check to ensure my press pass is outside my purse so I can quickly gain access to whatever is happening. As we cross the street, we can see a crowd gathering on the lawn by the south entrance to city hall. There is a body on the ground, and police are working to quickly hold back the crowd now gathering. Most of the crowd are employees at city hall.

One of the onlookers shouts, It’s Mario Estancia, the city prosecutor.

Ben is rapidly taking photographs while he can before the police create a barrier and start cordoning off the area with yellow tape. It appears that Mario has been shot at close range. From the amount of blood that is pooling and where the shots occurred, I think this was a fatal attack. I am able to get close enough to see the blank stare from Mario’s eyes that I have witnessed too many times in the past. The eyes are truly windows to the soul, and Mario’s eyes tell the story that the soul has departed.

I can’t let emotion creep in now. I have a job to do and must compartmentalize all feelings surrounding this event. I know that interviewing bystanders is a risky business and must be done with sensitivity to what they are feeling. Did they know the victim? Where were they when the shots were fired? Did they work with Mario? Was he working on a case where he was threatened? What do they know about Mario?

I immediately began talking to the witnesses. Some were too traumatized to talk, others were more than willing to tell what they saw or who Mario was, and there were always conflicting stories. But one thing was certain from all witnesses: Mario was shot at close range by a small man who spoke to him in a language that sounded like Spanish with a strange accent, like a mix of New Orleans Creole and Spanish. Now the police are asking me to leave and rounding up the observers to interview them.

I looked around for Ben and thought, Where is Ben?

At that moment, my phone rang. Ben was calling me. Annie, come to the east entrance of city hall. I’m standing there and can get you in. Come quickly.

I hurriedly go the east entrance of city hall. Ben was inside the door. He opened the door, and I quickly entered. With all the activity outside, this entrance was left unwatched. We needed to act quickly. Ben and I ran to the elevator and exit the floor where the office of the city prosecutor is.

After I discovered who had been shot, took photos of him and the crowd, I immediately went to the city prosecutor’s office and began taking pictures. It was easy access since everyone had left to see what was happening outside. Annie, look into that office and tell me what you see, Ben whispered.

Before Ben could finish his words, I saw what Ben was talking about. A single stem of a black orchid in a vase had been delivered and was still in its florist wrapping.

Ben, there is a card. We need to see what the card says and who delivered it. I’ll go in and you watch, I whispered excitedly and, without hesitation, entered the city prosecutor’s office.

As I made my way to the flower and card, we heard a commotion down the hall. Ben whispered, Hurry.

I pulled the card from its small envelope and was confused by the words and signature. Quickly, I used my phone to take a photo of the card and the envelope from the florist. I returned the card in the envelope as the police detective yelled, What are you doing in here? You media people think you can snoop wherever you want. Should I have you arrested?

The detective