Page 16 of Killer on the First Page
“Not exaggerated. False. He’s not an actor, but he is acting a role—or rather, inhabiting it.”
Geri looked at them with that same pained expression. They’d almost forgotten she was there. “Do you really think it’s a flophouse? Our B&B, I mean. It’s in a historic building. Hiram Henry was the founder of Happy Rock. We spent our life’s savings to move here and renovate it...” Her voice trailed off.
“I have yet to visit your fair establishment,” said Miranda, “but I do hear it’s lovely.” Not wanting to betray her dear friend Bea, who also rented out rooms, Miranda added, “There are, of course,manycharming inns in Happy Rock, and yours is undoubtedly amongst them.”
Placated, Geri headed back to the kitchen.
Miranda turned to Edgar. “Did he really break Fairfax DePoy’s fingers?”
“Kane? He did—symbolically.”
“How does one break someone’s fingers ‘symbolically’?” she wondered.
“It started when Kane made an offhand comment at a Mystery Writers of America panel discussion, where he claimed that JackStryker—the romantic hero of Fairfax DePoy’s novels—was merely an Elizabethan version of Mick Hardy, his hero. Well, Fairfax took umbrage. Mick Hardy, for example, is described as 6’3” of hard, coiled muscle, whereas Jack Stryker is described as 6’6” of hardened, coiled steel. Fairfax DePoy’s novels drip with romance. In the Mick Hardy novels, it’s just one vulgar sex scene after another. Women are constantly slapping Mick Hardy, and Mick Hardy is constantly mashing his mouth into theirs in what is presumably a simulacrum of a kiss.”
“The old kiss and a slap,” said Miranda, with a tired sigh. A staple of Hollywood noir in its day.
“Kane got his revenge on Fairfax the old-fashioned way, in print. In his next novel,Myself, the Retribution, private dick Mick Hardy investigates a character named Shorty the Plagiarizer, an evil stump of a man who creates and sells fake documents to unsuspecting collectors. Mick Hardy follows the Plagiarizer onto a subway train, traps him against the window, and, one at a time, breaks the fingers on his writing hand. In his next novel,You, the Victim, he has Mick Hardy drown Tiny the Thief in an airplane toilet. Then, inWe, the Preliminary Review Committee, a charlatan named Petit Pierre is fed through a leaf blower. In every book since, Kane has a diminutive character who gets in the way and is brutally dispatched by Mick Hardy. Fairfax DePoy is, of course, notably short in stature.”
Miranda’s head was spinning: every author seemed to have a character who acted as their stand-in—John D. Ross with his houseboat-living ex-Navy man Trevor Lucas; Kane with his tough-guy private dick; and Fairfax with the swashbuckling Jack Stryker. How utterly incomprehensible to confuse a character with one’s true self, thought Pastor Fran—er, Miranda Abbott.
“So, a literary feud,” she said. “Not a real feud.”
“Nothing writers do isreal,” said Edgar, speaking as a reformed writer himself. “C’mon. It’s not a healthy way to make a living,huddled in a room all alone, making up conversations between imaginary people. Affects one’s noggin’, as Kane would say.”
An angry jangle above the front door brought a woman into the bookstore. A tall woman with blond bangs, Germanic or perhaps Icelandic in her features, she had a large bucket bag thrown over one shoulder and a smartphone in hand, with a peacoat and canvas pants that were halfway between gaucho and cargo. A striking woman, unduly attractive but existentially tired. She looked frazzled and overwrought. Having to deal with authors all day will do that to a person, for she was—
“Sheryl Youngblut, publicist at large,” she said, hoisting the bag back into place on her shoulder. “I’m with SR Promotions. I’m overseeing the authors.”
“The writer wrangler!” said Edgar. “We’ve been emailing back and forth. Nice to finally meet you in person. I’m Edgar Abbott, owner—co-owner—of I Only Read Murder.”
Miranda stepped forward with a smile. “And I’m Miranda, majority co-owner.”
Edgar, under his breath: “By 0.04 percent.”
“Still a majority, my dear.”
Sheryl was barely aware of the banter—or was it a bicker? Miranda was never sure. Thumb-texting in a flurry, the stressed-out young woman looked up and said, “I’ve lost one of my authors. The others arrived yesterday morning. I checked them in at the B&B, but Lawrence Block never showed up. He got lost changing planes in Minneapolis, apparently. Called me from Gladstone, saying he couldn’t find the place, and I had to explain we’re in HappyRock, not Gladstone,and I asked, ‘Are you at least in Gladstone,Oregon?’ and he goes, ‘No, Gladstone, Missouri. Why, is that a problem?’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, a little.’ Last I heard, he was hitchhiking west on the I-70. As for the other writers, I booked a tour of the lighthouse for them today.I just sent them off, but a couple of them skipped out beforehand. Just as well.” She sighed. “The tour seemed, how shall I say, a wee bit aromatic. Not the lighthouse, the vehicle.”
“Oh no. Those poor people,” said Miranda. “You didn’t— Tell me you didn’t. You didn’t book a local tour guide to take them, did you, dear?”
“I did. Melvin something-or-other.”
Edgar made a “yikes” face, and Miranda put a hand on Sheryl’s arm in sympathy. “Not Melvin Jacobson of S.J. Fertilizer Supply Company?”
“Fertilizer?” said Sheryl, as though that both explained everything—and muddied the matter further.
Edgar cleared his throat. “Melvin runs a manure transport companyandTillamook Bay Tours—out of the same vehicle. A former school bus with wire mesh in the back separating the passenger seats from the cargo area. What it lacks in suspension, it makes up for in lingering odor.”
“I believe he does hose it down now and then,” Miranda said, trying to put a positive spin on it.
Sheryl Youngblut sloughed her bag onto the table, almost upsetting the floral arrangements, and closed her eyes for a moment. “A manure tour? They’re going to kill me.”
“Who? The authors?” said Miranda. “Not to worry. Authors just write, write, write. They neverdo.”
“Is it true?” asked Sheryl, snapping her eyes open, her voice suddenly, unnaturally calm. “Did the bookstore really receive a collection of John D. Ross first editions? I read about it in the trades.”
“We did,” said Edgar. “And one of his earlier unknown manuscripts.”
