Page 12 of Killer on the First Page
“Well, Emmy likes him,” Miranda said.
“Emmy also likes rolling around in squirrel excrement and rabbit poop.”
Owen sauntered in. “Good haul?” he asked, referring to the books Edgar was now pulling and re-pulling from various places on the shelf.
“Owen, what have I told you about going upstairs?” Edgar asked.
“Not to do it?”
“I live up there, Owen. That is my home. The second floor is off-limits. The bookstore is locatedhere, on the ground floor. I don’t want you going upstairs to use my bathroom. We have a small restroomfor customers down here. There is no reason for you to go tromping through my place.”
Owen had the latest issue of theEllery Queen Mystery Magazinedigest rolled up in one of his hands. “Yeah, but the toilet down here is so cramped. You can’t really stretch out and enjoy yourself.”
“Upstairs is off-limits,” Edgar repeated.
“But Miranda goes up there all the time.”
“That’s different, she’s my...”
Say it, say it...
“Co-owner,” he said. He turned his gaze to the rolled-up mystery magazine Owen was holding with a proprietorial lack of care. “Shall I have Andrew ring that up for you?”
“Naw, there’s no need. I finished it upstairs.”
Edgar, teeth gritted: “And how are we supposed to sell that now? Would you buy a magazine that has been taken into the can?”
Owen was confused. “Of course not. Like I said, I already finished it. Why would I buy it now? Anyways. I should probably skedaddle. I got a big to-do to go to. Later tonight.”
“A what?”
“A to-do to go to.”
With that, he ambled himself out of the room and down the hall. The bell jingled again as he left.
“Good riddance,” said Edgar. “At least he won’t be at our reception, scarfing down free food and wiping his hands on the tablecloth like the reverse Midas he is.”
A giant floral arrangement squeezed past them, self-ambulatory it seemed; only the shiny track-suited legs of one of the G’s could be seen. An autumn selection with golden reds and russets, tiger lilies and orange gerberas, acorns and pinecones and huckleberry clusters. Something Martha Stewart could only dream of.
“This will definitely be the fanciest in-store event we’ve had!” said Andrew.
At past book signings, Edgar would put out a selection of soon-to-be-expired discounted cheese cubes from TB Foods and various wines-in-a-box with plastic cups. Never mind a floral centerpiece. Or tablecloths. Or linen napkins.
“Can I lend a hand?” Andrew asked, and Geri (or was it Gerry? They even sounded the same) said they would be delighted.
Andrew practically danced his way to the kitchen to assist. Finally, something that didn’t involve cheese cubes!
Miranda joined him—in a supervisory capacity—leaving Edgar alone to face the conundrum of the scrambled bookshelves. How to reshelve them in proper order while a reception was being prepared?
Before he could tackle the problem, a shadow fell across the room and the world went black-and-white. Apt, because Kane Hamady had now entered the story—and nothing would ever be the same.
Kane stood, backlit in the hallway, broad of shoulder, large of stomach. Ill of temper.Twinkle, twinkle, Killer Kane...
With a terse nod thrown to Edgar, he stepped into the room. A full head of thick gray hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. A man’s man, much like his fictional hero, Mick Hardy. As a hard-boiled detective—or “private dick”—Mick Hardy was constantly chugging from a bottle of cheap scotch he kept stashed in his desk drawer amid the riffraff of a sin-drenched city. Kane had no bottle of cheap scotch in hand, but like his alter ego, he could strut standing still. A two-fisted author known for holding grudges, not to mention vendettas, Kane swaggered his way into the main room, overcoat hanging loose, a red-tinted toothpick in his teeth, a trilby hat pulled down. The toothpicks were cinnamon, the hat was felt. And Kane, as authors are wont to do, immediately spotted his own books on the shelf. With no middle initial to gum things up, Kane Hamady’s were still filed under H.
H forhard-boiled. H forhomicide.
Without a word to Edgar, he unabashedly began turning his novels face-out on the shelf.
