Page 2 of Killer on the First Page
Lachlan rummaged in his voluminous coat pocket and retrieved a single paper clip, which he untwisted and then used to turn the lock in the display case.Who carries paper clips with him?Miranda mused. The plexiglass front swung open, and from his other pocket Lachlan produced a Sharpie. On the poster, at the bottom of the listof authors that were coming for the mystery fest, he added a new name, replete with a superfluous flurry of exclamation marks:With surprise guest LACHLAN TODD! King of the Locked-Room Mystery!!!
He stood back to admire his handiwork. Even his smile was a sneer. “There. Fixed it.” Lachlan closed the display case, twisted the lock back into place. “You have a master, a maestro, a maven, a queen, and a so-called prince. A king completes the set, wouldn’t you say? Outranks a prince, certainly.”
He was referring to Ray Valentine, the Prince of the Police Procedural.
“Ray Valentine traffics in realism,” Miranda pointed out. She’d been introduced to his work at the bookstore: granular examinations of the plodding yet compelling nature of police work. “You, in contrast, create elaborate Rube Goldberg machinery.”
“The episodes ofPastor Fran InvestigatesI wrote were always among the most highly rated,” he reminded her. “You didn’t have any problem starring in those stories at the time. Bought you a house, as I recall.”
Ah yes. A house in the Hollywood Hills... So long ago as to be a dream.
Lachlan chuckled at the other names on the poster. “Edgar is up to his old tricks, I see.”
“What on earth are you referring to?”
“The authors. I’m assuming it was Edgar behind this volatile lineup? Cats and water. Oil and dogs. Edgar’s stirring the pot. Inviting Kane Hamadyandthat pompous twit Fairfax the Third? A murderous combination, right there. And I don’t mean their fiction. The two men hate each other.”
“Come, now. One could hardly assemble any group of writers without at least one pre-existing feud already in place. You know how authors are. They collect vendettas the way actors collect accolades.”
“Sure, but Kane vs. Fairfax? That’s a feud of a different order.” His smile had become a grin. “Twinkle, twinkle, Killer Kane.Kane broke his fingers, one by one.”
“What?!”
“And as for ‘beloved children’s author’ Wanda Stobol... Y’ever meet her?”
“No, but I read the Compendium Cathy books when I was a girl. I loved them!”
“Hide your booze, is all I’m saying. And any firearms you may have lying around. If nothing else, this entire gong show should be entertaining. I figure there’ll be at least one drunken dustup, several brouhahas, and possibly some fisticuffs during the course of said festival. A chance for me to stand out among the riff and raff of these lesser scribes, I’d say. Liven up the festival’s blathering author panels and mind-numbing readings and painfully awkward book signings.” Lachlan cast his lean and hungry look Miranda’s way. “And what is an erstwhile TV star of your stature doing out here in the boonies? I thought you and Edgar hit the reef years ago.”
“It’s...”Don’t say complicated, don’t say complicated.“... complicated.”
“Edgar and Miranda, back together again, huh? Edgar and Miranda, the Sequel. Well, I never met a tired franchise that someone didn’t try to reboot eventually, no matter how ill-advised.”
And it hit her, like a blow to the gut. Was that what this was? Her moving to Happy Rock from LA, taking a room in the attic of a B&B, running a bookstore with her former/current husband. Was this just an attempt at rebooting a dead show, flogging a horse that had long since met its demise?
Lachlan pulled his fur-flapped hat down farther. “The Miranda Abbott I knew was harried and hounded by paparazzi. The Miranda Abbott I knew was constant fodder for gossip magazines and scandalsheets. The Miranda Abbott I knew would never be seen in public without an entourage. Where are they?”
“My entourage? Here he is now.”
Coming down the harborfront toward them, enveloped in steam, was the trim and impeccably doffed figure of Andrew Nguyen, carrying two large cups of chamomile tea from the Cozy Café. He was in his navy Stefano Ricci overcoat with a plaid scarf arranged—like Miranda’s—more for style than warmth, and he was beaming. “They have the poster up at the café, too!” he said, calling out, his breath in cumulus. “The whole town is talking about it!”
This is what passed for “buzz” in Happy Rock: being the topic of conversation at the local café.
“Andrew, darling, come and meet the man who wasn’t invited.”
“A pleasure,” Lachlan said, though his smile suggested anything but.
Miranda fluttered a smile of her own his way. “Lachlan, I present to you my entire entourage—and dear friend—young Andrew Nguyen.”
“Personal assistant,” said Andrew, juggling the sleeved takeout cups to shake the other man’s heavily mittened hand. Andrew was in calfskin gloves. The only way he would ever wear mittens would be ironically. He had clean, streamlined features and a choppy hairstyle that belied the lack of a decent salon in Happy Rock.
“I used to work with Miranda back in her Pastor Fran days,” said Lachlan.
Andrew’s eyes lit up. “On her TV show? No kidding!”
As a kid, Andrew had grown up watchingPastor Fran Investigateswith his family. His parents had learned their English from watching Miranda Abbott (aka Pastor Fran) karate-chop her way across their TV screens every week. Even now, his mom used words likedastardlyandnefarious.(Our neighbor’s nefarious cat has been up to her dastardly tricks again, Andrew.)Meeting someone who was actually on the show was always a thrill.
“That’s exciting!” said Andrew. “Were you in the cast? Which episode? A villain, right? You played one of the villains?”
