Snow White and the Seven Murders Read online

  Snow White and the Seven Murders

  Amorette Anderson

  Published by Amorette Anderson, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN MURDERS

  First edition. June 6, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Amorette Anderson.

  Written by Amorette Anderson.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Epilogue

  For my readers...

  Thank you for inspiring and encouraging me!

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair

  1

  Sara White squinted at her computer monitor. The words of her latest article swam before her, making her eyes ache—a tell-tale sign that she needed a break.

  “Time for a walk,” she whispered to herself, pushing her office chair back away from the desk.

  She stood and lifted her arms into the air, giving her back and shoulders a nice stretch.

  “Are you going for some fresh air?” Cinda, Sara’s colleague at the paper, poked her head up from her cubicle across the row.

  Cinda seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to Sara’s movements. Whenever Sara sneezed, Cinda offered a “God bless you,” and whenever Sara opened up a ziplock bag of trail mix, Cinda asked what she was eating.

  “I think so. I need to give my eyes a break and stretch my legs. This piece is going nowhere.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Cinda said. “I need to get my steps in for the day.”

  Sara watched the top of Cinda’s head of sleek strawberry blond hair move across the cubicle, and then Cinda emerged into the aisle.

  Cinda wore a calf length, pale blue dress, with small white flowers hand embroidered along the edges. Sara envied Cinda’s wardrobe. Every item was unique and adorable. Cinda sewed her own dresses, and even ran a small Etsy shop in her off hours. Sara had browsed the shop once or twice, but always stopped before hitting the “buy” button.

  What would she do with a cute dress? It wasn’t her style.

  She preferred simple black pants and a white blouse, to match her snow-white skin and her long ebony hair. Wearing the same thing every day made getting dressed in the morning easy and efficient, and she always made sure to add little dashes of colorful jewelry, bright heels, or scarves so her work outfits didn’t get too boring.

  “Which article are you working on?” Cinda asked, as they headed toward the newsroom’s exit.

  “The one about the sale of the Peak Mine outside of town,” Sara said with a heavy sigh.

  “Dragging, is it?” Cinda asked. “I can’t believe that place is for sale already. Wasn’t it just bought up by some hotshot new owner last year? What happened... not making a profit?”

  “He died,” Sara said, as she pushed open the glass doors that led out into a spacious lobby. “Car accident on his way home from work. It happened two weeks ago, on May 28th.”

  “That’s awful!” Cinda said. “I hate driving at night. I’m a great night driver, but it’s the other cars I worry about... Was it a collision with a drunk driver or something? Or did he hit an elk or deer?”

  Sara bit her lip. She actually didn’t know. She hadn’t looked much into the accident. Instead she was focusing her attention on the business details of the sale. She was the head reporter for the business section of the Dayton City Newspaper, after all. She left accidents and such to the front page and local news staffers.

  Now that they were in the lobby, Sara felt a familiar sense of pride for her place of work. The words “Dayton City Newspaper”, composed of large, sleek silver lettering, popped out against the weathered brick lobby wall. The lettering hovered over the large desk, where two receptionists fielded phone calls for the paper.

  “Did he have a family?” Cinda asked. Without waiting for an answer, she went on chatting. “I always think that’s the saddest part—when a wife or children are left behind. Imagine that—being married one minute and then poof! Becoming a widow and single mother the next.”

  Sara couldn’t imagine it.

  At thirty-one, she was single.

  Scratch that. She wasn’t single. She was married to her career.

  Her go-nowhere career—but that was a different issue altogether.

  They reached a bank of three elevators, and Sara punched the down button.

  Without asking Cinda, she knew exactly where their walk was leading them. They would exit the building and travel around the block, as they did every afternoon around two. The dose of sunshine was a healthy alternative to a cup of stale coffee from the break room, or a sugary treat from the vending machine, both of which were pick-me-ups that Sara tried to avoid.

  Just as the elevator doors yawned open, one of the receptionists spoke up. “Sara... Sara White? Is that you?”

  Sara turned. “Yes?”

  “You just had a phone call,” the receptionist, a woman by the name of Bea, informed Sara. “Someone from a company called Sand Hills, I think he said.” Bea glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand. “His name was Amir... let’s see here... Amir Malick. He asked that you call him back.”

  “Thank you, Bea,” Sara said with a nod, while Cinda held the elevator doors open. “I’ll stop by and grab the number on my way back through. I’m just popping out for a minute or two.”

  “Ed wants to see you, too,” Bea said, as she shuffled a few papers on her desk. “I meant to tell you earlier, but things have been so busy up here since that fire on Fourth Street. Phones ringing off the hook.”

  To prove Bea’s point, the phone started ringing at exactly that moment. The other receptionist was still on the line with another caller. Bea placed her hand on top of the phone and got ready to answer while still looking at Sara. “He wants you at the four o’clock editorial staff meeting.”

  “Editorial staff... but I’m not on the editorial staff...” Sara protested.

  Behind her, she could hear the rhythmic sound of the elevator doors straining to close, again and again, against the resistance of Cinda’s hand, which was still holding the doors open.

  Bea shrugged. “That’s what he said. Four o’clock.” She then picked up the phone, silencing the persistent ringing. “Dayton City Newspaper, this is Beatrice, how can I help you?”

  Sara turned back to the elevator and stepped inside.

  Editorial staff...

  Her mind was working a mile a minute. Did this have something to do with Glena Lawson’s maternity leave? News of Glena’s impending leave had traveled like wildfire through the cubicles, just three months prior. Every head of department would be considered for taking her place as Associate Editor, and that juicy-carrot-at-the-end-of-the-stick had fueled a race for the position. Temporary promotions like that almost always led to real promotions, and every head of department wanted the increase in salary.

  Sara had not joined in on the frenzy.

  She was good at her job. Capable. Dependable. Intelligent. Yet despite all that, she knew that she’d never get the Associate Editor spot.

  There was no way.

  Circumstances wouldn’t allow it.

  Fiona wouldn’t allow it.

  The uncomfortable feeling of frustration fueled another round of thoughts. I know I’ll never be promoted to editor... so what am I still doing here? Why do I put up with it?

  I’ve reached the end of the line a
t this paper. I’ve risen up as high as I’ll ever make it, and I’m just thirty-one. Do I want to do this job, at this salary, for the rest of my working days?

  She thought of the long hours and meager pay.

  No.

  It’s cruel, that’s what it is. I’m stuck. Pinned. There’s no way out.

  “I deserve better,” she whispered to herself, completely lost in thought.

  “What was that, Hon?” Cinda asked. She was examining her nails, which were painted pale pink and chipping on the ends. “Did you say something?” She lowered her nails and gave Sara a quizzical look.

  “I... nothing,” Sara said. She gave her friend an apologetic smile. “Just talking to myself again, that’s all.”

  “What was it that Bea was saying? Something about a staff meeting?”

  Sara knew that her friend had caught the words “editorial staff”, just as she had, but was too polite to press the issue.

  Of course Cinda knew that the Associate Editor position was up for grabs—everyone at the paper was aware of it. Sara had told her friend on many occasions that she wasn’t going to vie for the position along with the other hungry head of departments. It had become somewhat of a sore subject between the two, seeing as Sara always clammed up when the topic arose.

  Today was no different. Sara pressed her red-painted lips into a thin, straight line, and glared at the lit-up elevator numbers, which decreased with every passing second.

  3 - 2- 1. Ding! The doors opened.

  They stepped out into the lower lobby. Cinda was still waiting on an answer from Sara.

  Finally, after exiting the building and stepping out into the fresh Colorado summer air, Sara offered one up.

  “Bea said that Ed wants me at the four o’clock editorial staff meeting. I have no idea why.”

  “Glena Lawson’s last day is next Friday,” Cinda said hesitantly, while turning right.

  “I know that.” Sara followed Cinda on their usual route.

  “Maybe Ed wants you to step up to her position while she’s on leave,” Cinda suggested.

  Sara shook her head. “That’s not happening,” she answered curtly, picking up her pace.

  “You always say that,” Cinda protested, hurrying to match Sara’s long stride. “I don’t see why. You’re the best person for the job. You’ve been here the longest out of any of the head reporters—since you were twenty for goodness sake! Ed adores you. Everyone knows that.”

  Sara couldn’t argue. Ed did adore her. She just couldn’t tell Cinda why.

  Instead, she walked faster. “I’m not interested in taking Glena’s spot. I’m a reporter, not an editor.”

  “But you’d be so good at it,” Cinda said. “You’re a natural leader.”

  Sara didn’t offer a response, letting her friend know that she was done with the discussion.

  Mercifully, Cinda took the hint. “What do you think of the fire?” she asked.

  Sara smiled, letting her friend know that she was grateful for the change in subject. “I’m sure the guys out in the van are happy. They were the first ones on the scene—they even beat Channel 9 News, and I heard they caught some images of a firefighter carrying a child out of the building. Johnny must be beside himself with joy.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have to cover stories like that,” Cinda said. “The real estate pages may seem sleepy to some, but at least I don’t rejoice every time there’s a murder, accident, or fire. I really can’t imagine. It’s sick, if you ask me.”

  “People are interested in that sort of news,” Sara said absent-mindedly, as she watched a passing pedestrian led by a stout French bulldog.

  The dog marched with purpose, a happy bounce to his step. Watching him made Sara smile.

  She used to have a little Maltese, Martin, who walked in much the same way. Sadly, she’d said goodbye to Martin when she moved out of her father’s mansion in the suburbs of Dayton, eleven years back, at the age of twenty.

  She’d said goodbye to more than just Martin on the day that she moved out. She said goodbye to her old life—a life of luxury and belonging.

  The French bulldog passed by, and in his wake, a poodle trotted down the sidewalk.

  Sara and Cinda walked in silence for a minute, just watching the people and dogs that passed by, and then Cinda proposed another topic of conversation. “So, who is buying the Peak Mine, then? If the old owner died suddenly, he must not have had a buyer lined up. What was his name, anyways? The guy that died in the car accident.”

  “Matt,” Sara replied. At least she knew that fact. The article was still coming together, but she’d been researching it for four days now, since Monday. “Matt Ferris. His lawyers put it up for sale, and there were several bidders right out of the gate. It will go to the highest bidders—there are two companies still jockeying for that position. That’s what I’m writing about. First I’ll do a piece about the bidding for tomorrow’s paper, then I’ll follow up with a piece this Sunday on the sale.”

  She glanced down at her watch. It was 2:15. She’d need to get the article in to the editors before Ed’s staff meeting if it was to be printed in tomorrow’s paper. The Friday paper always had a double spread for business articles, and as head of the section, she wrote the feature piece. Again, she picked up her pace.

  “Slow down, Hon,” Cinda said. “Or else I’m going to have to start jogging to keep up with you.”

  “Sorry,” Sara said. “It’s just I’d better get back to my desk soon, if I’m going to finish this article and make it to the meeting. I wish Bea’d gotten the message to me earlier.”

  “She does her best,” Cinda said. “What was that other call she told you about? The name of the caller sounded exotic.”

  “Must be an employee at the company in Qu’abar that I’ve been trying to get a hold of. I need a quote for the article that will be printed up tomorrow. I’ve left a message with the company's PR agent three times now, and she keeps promising that one of the higher-ups will call me back. The time difference makes it a challenge, I suppose.”

  They reached the end of the block and turned right again. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted from a bakery across the street. Had it been a less busy afternoon, Sara may have suggested that they stop in. She loved getting a loaf of fresh bread to bring home to the small cottage that she rented on the edge of town.

  But the thought of her impending deadline and meeting kept her feet moving. She wanted to finish up the brisk walk and get back to her desk.

  Cinda, who seemed to be on a perma-diet, inhaled the air hungrily. “Oh my God, that smells so good. What I’d give for a piece of fresh bread with butter...”

  Sara laughed. “Still doing the low carb thing?”

  “Not just low carb,” Cinda said unhappily. “I’m trying the Paleo thing. You’re only supposed to eat what cavemen ate. I miss bagels. And muffins. And cookies. Oh, my God! Cookies...” Then, as if she wanted to stay away from the topic of her restrictive diet she asked, “Where’s Qu’abar? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Neither had I,” Sara said. “Until Monday, when I started researching the prospective buyers. It’s a small country in the Middle East... near Egypt, on the Mediterranean Sea. A monarchy, very private, with almost zero tourist activity. They have a remarkably high concentration of wealth. The country’s practically floating on oil.”

  “And this company wants to buy up a little old mine near Dayton, Colorado?” Cinda asked incredulously.

  “Lots of overseas companies were interested in the Peak Mine, actually,” Sara said. “China, Russia, the UK. Rare earth elements are very lucrative. They’re crucial for the manufacturing of many different things... iPhones, laptops, jet engines, solar panels... military equipment and weapons.”

  “You really know your stuff, girl,” Cinda said, clearly impressed.

  Pleased with herself for doing such thorough research, Sara went on. “The Peak Mine is one of the biggest REE mines—that’s rare earth elements—in the US. That
’s why we’re running the feature piece for it this Friday. It’s a big deal.”

  “It’s going to sell fast then, hmm?” Cinda asked.

  “I wouldn't be surprised,” Sara said. “Though I don’t know at this point who will get it. There’s a company out of New York that’s desperate for it—they own several other REE mines, and are clearly eager to expand their operation. But this Sand Hills company out of the Middle East isn't afraid to top every dollar offer that the New York company makes. Sand Hills seems to just keep throwing cash at the issue—almost as if they have no limit. The bidding started at 15 and is already up to 20.5.”

  “Million?” Cinda asked.

  Sara nodded.

  “Must be nice,” Cinda said wistfully.

  Sara knew that her friend sometimes struggled to pay the bills. Dayton, Colorado, was one of the top ten cities in the US to live, and landlords weren’t afraid to charge a premium for apartments. The cost of living was high, and being a single woman in the city meant footing the bill solo.

  Sara was aware that at least half of Cinda’s salary went to covering her one-bedroom downtown condo. Another quarter went to paying off student loans. That left very little cash for throwing around, so Sara understood her friend’s envy.

  Thinking about Cinda’s living situation made Sara grateful for her own. The little white cottage that she had moved into, when she was forced to leave her father’s house, was a unique old-fashioned gem in a sea of modern high-rises. In fact, it was nestled between two four-story apartment complexes. Her roommates, a quirky group of older gentlemen, kept the property in pristine order.

  She couldn’t wait to get home and sit on the swing on the front porch that overlooked the front gardens. A more peaceful home she could never have imagined. It was a heavenly—if different—living situation.

  I just have to get through the afternoon, she thought. Then I can return to my sweet little home. I’ll get my article turned in, and get through this meeting.

  Cinda began gabbing about her real estate pages, and Sara was happy to listen for the rest of the quick walk. The two women stepped back inside the office building feeling refreshed, and rode the elevator back up to the sixth floor. As they crossed the Dayton City Newspaper lobby, Sara stopped at the front desk and picked up her messages from Bea.