Page 100 of Killer on the First Page
Tanvir’s Hardwares & Bait Shop was a mainstay on Main Street, as was Singh’s Things, Harpreet’s fabric store.
“Our daughter is studying medicine in Portland, but Tanvir and I hope she will return to Happy Rock someday and open a pharmacy here, perhaps next to my shop. But we worry.”
“That she won’t come home?” said Miranda.
“That she’s not getting enough to eat, that she isn’t making friends, that she is studying too hard, or that she is not studying hard enough. Tanvir likes to pretend he doesn’t worry about her; he says she is a very capable young woman—that’s his finest compliment, by the way—but I know he worries. It’s the people we worry about who we love most.”
And where did that leave Miranda Abbott?
“Bea, you grew up here. You never thought of leaving?”
She was genuinely puzzled by the question. “My Bob and Doc Meadows—and Ned, of course—we grew up together. Owen’s dad owned the garage, as did his father before him, although Owen is quite a bit younger than the rest of us, so we didn’t know him that well when we were kids. Atticus came much later, in high school. From Garibaldi,” she said. “Not that we hold that against him! We’re not like that.” (Garibaldi being next town along the bay.) “Here in Happy Rock, we are always welcoming, never judgmental. Not like those people in Garibaldi, who think they’re so hot.”
“Oh, yes,” said Harpreet. “They’re terrible. I went to the DMV, and the lady behind the counter made a little comment, said, ‘Oh, right. The town with the manure store.’”
Bea pshawed this. “They’re just jealous of our hotel and our OperaHouse and our—” She stopped herself. Happy Rock was also locally famous for Hiram Henry House, home of the town’s Better B&B.
“The B stands for Better View, by the way,” said Miranda. “It’s a reference to the lighthouse. I confronted Geri about the name. She was genuinely hurt, said no, it was not a comment on your business, Bea, that you weren’t rivals, you were fellow innkeepers. They even asked if they might get your recipe for peach cobbler, they enjoyed it so much.”
“How lovely,” said Bea. “How very lovely.” But then added, “Over my dead body.”
On the TV screen, Pastor Fran was defusing another bomb. The blue wire or the red? Did it really matter? Whichever one she snipped was always the right one.
“You’ve had such a large life,” said Harpreet, with an envious sigh.
“Pastor Fran had a large life. I just tagged along for the ride.”
* * *
THEDUCHESSHOTELmight boast a good view, and Hiram Henry House abetterview—but the best by far was the view from the Cozy Café, with its panorama of the harbor and the lighthouse at the far end. Sailboats and seaplanes and the dark forests beyond.
Mabel Greene tossed the plate down in front of Ned Buckley with a clatter. Since her days with the ACLU’s Anti-War Coalition, Mabel had never warmed to officers of the law, something about which Ned remained cheerfully oblivious. (Meanwhile Myrtle, the other half of Mabel and Myrtle, had never left Happy Rock and was mildly ambivalent regarding officers of the law. She liked Ned, though.)
A fat slice of pie with sliced apple and caramelized sugar on top, Ned’s dessert looked almost as good as the view from the café. Andthough she was currently eschewing dessert for mineral water and a selection of celery, Miranda was impressed. She watched wistfully as Ned attacked it.Must get myself down to TV-friendly form, just in case.If she was going to return to the screen, she had to account for the weight the camera inevitably added.
The Saturday paper lay folded on the table in front of her, the headline:ASIDE FROM THE TRIPLE HOMICIDES, A GOOD TIME WAS HAD BY ALL!
“Ned,” said Miranda. “Do you remember the murder at the Opera House during the Little Theater’s performance ofDeath Is the Dickens?”
“Of course. Your first case.”
“That took three months,” she said. “And the murders at the Duchess Hotel?”
“The body in the dumbwaiter. How could I forget?”
“That took three weeks. This one was solved in three days.”
“Mmmph?” he asked, mouth full.
“I was just thinking, next time, we’ll have to solve it in three hours, and then in three minutes, till finally it would have to be done in three seconds. There’s a body—and there’s the killer!”
He choked back a laugh, chased down the pie with coffee.
“Are they going to formally charge Inez?” she asked.
“Looks that way. Waiting on the DNA. You were right, by the way. Tiny traces of melted wax were discovered in Wanda Stobol’s stomach. Would’ve been missed in a standard autopsy, especially since she’d taken no medication while she was in her cell and she died from cardiac arrest. Killed by a sudden spike of adrenaline that damaged the heart, which is to be expected of death by stress—had it been natural causes. But it wasn’t. It was murder.”
“The case is wrapping up, then.”
