Page 11 of Killer on the First Page
“Jeez. That’s terrific. You got any of thosePastor Fran Investigatesnovelizations? From your TV show?” His face was flushed, but his upper lip was pale and beaded.
Miranda threw a triumphant look Edgar’s way. In his typically obstinate way, her husband-in-name-only had long refused to carry any of those cheap pocketbook Pastor Fran novelizations, partly because they were so cheesy, partly because they reminded him of those horrible days in network TV, but mainly because he was the one who had written them. Under a pseudonym, of course.
“Ah yes,” said Miranda. “The Pastor Fran Casebooksby Stone Rockwell. I know the ones of which you speak. We do carry them.”
When Edgar and Miranda had hit an impasse over whether to stock these books, she’d suggested they put it to a vote. Miranda had won by 0.04 percent. Since then, the novelizations had been selling regularly, much to Miranda’s delight and Edgar’s chagrin.
“The Stone Rockwells are housed in our second-hand section in the next room,” she said. “Beside H.R.F. Keating, naturally.”
Off he scurried.
Edgar glowered. Miranda gloated. And the customer reappeared soon after with a stack of used paperbacks, their creased covers featuring that familiar 3D-style lettering from the TV show—Pastor Fran Investigates—with airbrushed and highly idealized depictions of Miranda Abbott as Pastor Fran in her trademark and wholly inaccurate clerical collar, peering into darkened doorways, peering into darkened alleyways, peering into darkened laboratories, hands poised, karate-chop-ready, or racing a speedboat in a red bikini (clerical collar still inexplicably in place), or climbing the Alps in unduly snug lederhosen, or parachuting from the Concorde (dubious that last one, to say the least). The paperbacks had titles likeThe Case of the Hidden Blow DartorThe Case of the Secret Guillotine(which sort of gave away the ending) orThe Case of the Cyanide Cigarette(ditto) or the one with the dental flosscoated in poison, titledThe Case of The Poisoned Dental Floss(most assuredly ditto).
“You are in for a treat,” Miranda assured the blushing fan. “For the author of those books is with us today!”
Edgar’s glower was now a glare. He hated having attention, good or bad, called his way. In this, he was the exact opposite of the woman he’d married.
“I present to you, Mr. Stone Rockwell himself!” Miranda made a ta-da gesture, stepping aside to graciously let the (metaphorical) spotlight shine on Edgar instead.
“Do you think...” said the man, with a shy glance Miranda’s way. “Do you think I could maybe get them signed?”
With a sigh, Edgar reached into his pocket for a pen, but no—the fellow didn’t mean Edgar, and he didn’t mean Stone Rockwell, he meant...
“Would you? I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind?” He held out a pen of his own to Miranda.
“Of course,” Miranda said, taking the copy ofThe Case of the Twins Who Were Actually Secretly Triplets.She clicked the pen decisively several times. “And to whom shall I sign it? And how?”
“Maybe as Pastor Fran?”
The role of the karate-chopping church sleuth had defined her to such an extent that even her fans had trouble separating the two.
“Let’s make itBest wishes, from Miranda ‘Pastor Fran’ Abbott,” she said, signing with a flourish. As Miranda always said, an alter ego is not an ego altered.
* * *
AFTER THE CUSTOMERhad exited the store, on a flurry of thank-yous and awkward farewells, Miranda tilted her head and said to Edgar, “I’ve met him before.”
“John D. Ross?”
“Not the author. That customer. The one who had me sign your books. The one with the weird upper lip.”
“You noticed his lip?” said Edgar.
“I’m an actress, darling. I am attuned to the traits and tics of others. I’ve seen that fellow before. I know it.”
“You have a lot of fans,” said Andrew. “Maybe on some red carpet, way back when?”
“Not in LA. More recently, and closer at hand.”
As Edgar struggled to rearrange the shelves to make space for the newly arrived John D. Ross paperbacks, a creak was heard in the floor above them. A loud and meaningful creak.
Edgar’s expression soured. He looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, for god’s sake.”
Another creak, then a thump, and a moment later, the pipes rattled and the rush of a flushing toilet could be heard.
Edgar, muttering: “I’m gonna kill him.”
The clumping of work boots coming down the stairs followed, loosey-goosey, and the clattering toenails of a dog on the hardwood halls.
