Page 18 of Killer on the First Page
Andrew stammered, “But—but I can’t.”
“Don’t worry. I’m here for the rest of the day. Won’t be needing the Jeep.”
“No, I mean—Ican’t. I’m not good with standard drive.”
But Edgar waved this aside. “You’ll be fine. It’s downhill most of the way. Worst case, you can coast if you have to.”
Which is how Miranda Abbott found herself being jounced about in the herky-jerky of a stop-and-go, gear-grinding misadventure, as they wound their way down, down, down through the trees along Beacon Hill, past the hotel to the harbor below, with Andrew white-knuckling it the entire way, shifting gears up and down, more or less at random, to loud protests from the engine.
“You’re doing wonderfully well,” Miranda assured him as he lurched the vehicle onto Harbor Road in a series of fits and near stalls. Andrew had driven regularly in LA; Happy Rock with a stick shift was much more nerve-wracking.
They arrived at Bea’s cottage by the water on an agonizing internal screech (both from the car and from Andrew) and a final pop of the clutch.
“Whew!” said Andrew.
“Strange, isn’t it,” Miranda mused, “how ‘standard drive’ is no longer standard. Just as ‘common sense’ is increasingly uncommon. I remember when I first learned how to drive a standard on my TV show. A Jeep, in fact. Just like this one. I was undercover as an army cadet, you see.”
“Wait. What?” His hands were only now relaxing on the wheel. “You can drive a stick?”
“Of course! One of my many hidden talents.” She scooted out the side.
“You could have told me!” he shouted through the car window. “I would have let you drive.”
“Nonsense, how else would you have learned? When Pastor Fran went undercover as a toreador, they put me straight into the ring with a cape and a young bull. Not an aggressive bull, but a bull nonetheless. One must plunge into life from the high diving board, not splash about in the kiddie pool. Come along, Andrew!”
Another life lesson from Miranda Abbott: to play a toreador,becomea toreador. A lesson Kane had attempted, but failed at.
* * *
MIRANDA LIVED INthe attic suite of Bea’s B&B, a clapboard cottage painted in faded blues. Miranda in the attic. Andrew in the pantry. An economical arrangement, as neither of them paid room, only board.
Like Miranda, Andrew was nursing a heartache of his own. When his “almost husband” had ended things in LA, he had followed Miranda north to Happy Rock, and she often thought, if you fall offthe edge of the earth, perhaps Happy Rock is where you land. There were worst places, but still...
Every time she entered Bea’s cottage, Miranda felt a twinge of regret. It was so far from Burbank, so far from the Hollywood Hills, so far from the person she’d once been.If only I’d have stayed in LA one more year, maybe—just maybe—Hollywood would have taken me back into its fold.
Bea Maracle, Miranda Abbott’s self-described “biggest fan,” was a smile-creased woman in her middle years with gray hair in a sensible cut. She was also the love of Ned Buckley’s life, even if she didn’t see it.
Bea was wearing an apron that readLove is the loveliest happiness of the heart(phrasing that baffled even Miranda), and she was pulling warmed peach cobbler out of the oven as Andrew and Miranda came in.
Bea’s peach cobbler was as celebrated throughout the region as Miranda’s lemonade was notorious. The aroma of the cobbler embraced them in a sweater-hug of warmth.
“It’s for the big to-do at the Murder Store tonight,” Bea said.
Miranda often wondered if Bea Maracle hadn’t opened her B&B primarily for the company. After her husband died, Bea had retreated into a world ofPastor Fran Investigatesreruns and high-school yearbook memories. Bea and her husband, Bob, had gone to school together in Happy Rock, and after they’d married they’d been devoted fans of Miranda’s TV show. Even now, Bea had the entire series on VHS, Miranda Abbott as Pastor Fran looking much younger and far more agile.
Miranda thought about the trays and trays of elegant food that Geri and Gerry were preparing up at the bookstore, including a full selection of artisanal desserts.
“Bea,” she said, “about your cobbler...”
But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take that from Bea as well. The fact that Bea hadn’t been asked to host any of the guests stung enough. Why had they shoehorned everyone into the old Hiram Henry home anyway? Surely they could have put, say, Fairfax DePoy at Bea’s? Miranda knew that Bea read his historical romance mysteries; she recognized the breathless covers with the open-shirted smoldering men and bosom-heaving women.
“I’ll send some SunnyD up to the reception, too,” said Bea, “just in case Edgar runs out of beverages.”
“And I shall focus on preparing myself for the Grand Ball. Andrew, my wardrobe awaits! I was thinking something green...”
“You’ll have to narrow that down,” Andrew pointed out.
“Something in greensatin.”
