Page 23 of Killer on the First Page
“What’s to tell? Lucky coin.” And, as gruffly as he could, Ned left.
Miranda gave Andrew a dour look. “You shouldn’t pester Ned like that. Luck is two sides of the same coin,” she reminded him. And the damnedest thing was, it sort of made sense...
* * *
THE POLICE CHIEFand his officer, a former TV star, the town doctor. The only thing missing was—
“Uh-oh. Paparazzi,” Miranda warned, sotto voce. “Nine o’clock.”
Confused, Andrew checked his watch. “But it’s only...”
“Hi, Miranda! Hi, Andrew. Are the authors here yet?”
It was Jane “Scoop” Bannister, crack reporter withThe Weekly Picayune.Young and dogged, dogged and young, Scoop was, as per her beat, on assignment to confirm whether or not—this was the crucial part—a good time was had by all. This was the heartbeat of local news reporting. Be it bake sales, high-school art shows, town picnics, or the annual Snow Fest, it wasn’t enough that a reasonably good time was had. And it wouldn’t do that a good time was had bymostor by many. No, it had to be by all. Anything less would be a scandal.
Wary of the press, Miranda deflected Scoop Bannister’s question. “The authors? I have no comment on that.”
“They’re still taking a tour of the town,” said Andrew, “last I heard.”
“Loose lips,” Miranda hissed under her breath.
Her assistant could be so indiscreet when it came to journalists. True, Miranda herself had once given a forty-five-minute interview with Barbara Walters outlining in exact detail every single thing the producers ofPastor Fran Investigateswere doing wrong, which did not endear her to them and may have been a deciding factor when they chose to cancel her show as soon as the ratings faltered—but that was different!
Not that it mattered, because Scoop’s question was answered a moment later when the front door opened and a subtle waft of manure appeared. The school bus had rolled up outside.
The authors had arrived!
Melvin’s Manure Transport & Tour Company dumped them off unceremoniously at the front of the bookstore, and they filed in,dazed and nauseous from their exhaustive—and exhausting—tour of the local sites. They’d been to see the historic grandfather clock in the historic lighthouse keeper’s historic quarters, a clock that didn’t even work and had remained inside the lighthouse mainly because it was too big to move. As Melvin had pointed out, “No historical significance, but it is big. Fourth biggest grandfather clock in the Greater Tri-Rock Area,” he’d added with pride. He had then proceeded to spend forty minutes explaining the history and inner workings of the clock. But when asked about the actual light on the actual lighthouse, he said, “Not sure. Automated, I think?”
The authors entered the bookstore on a tumult of complaints: “I swear to god, he wastryingto hit every pothole.” “That smell is never coming out of my clothes.” “I’ll tell you one thing, I owe Virginia Woolf an apology. Thereissomething more tedious and mind-numbing than a hypothetical journey to a lighthouse: an actual journey to a lighthouse.” “And how the hell does a converted school bus manage to go sooo slow—and yet so fast,at the same time!”
Coming as she did from the livelier performative arts, Miranda Abbott had been expecting a star-studded gallery of literary celebrities to swan in. She was greeted instead by a disheveled, disgruntled mob of chronic complainers. Authors, in other words. Lawrence Block, meanwhile, had last been seen near Gladstone, Nebraska (pop: 8). But the rest were mostly on hand, and among the first to enter was Ray Valentine, Prince of the Police Procedural.
Studious-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses, Ray Valentine could have been a mildly engaging college professor from a mid-size city, except he also wore Under Armour tactical police boots under his Dockers. He was a Cop, with a capital C, and he greeted Ned with a brothers-in-arms salute.
“Officer,” he said.
“An honor to meet you, Mr. Valentine,” said Ned. “I’ve read quitea few of your books. I’m Chief of Police here in Happy Rock, though that doesn’t really compare with your time at the LAPD.”
“We’re both part of the same Blue Brick Wall,” Ray said, deftly referencing the title of his best-known work.
“I wondered about that. Bricks aren’t usually blue, are they?”
“Thank you for your service,” said Ray, and he moved on.
Following Ray in, and diminutive to the point of diminishment, was Fairfax Hughes DePoy III. He wore tweed and an ascot, with traditionally cuffed trousers. Only a pipe was missing, or maybe a monocle, to complete the picture. His sartorial sangfroid aside, there was something clammy and uncertain about him, Miranda felt. He had mouse-like features, with eyebrows too thick and a chin too weak, and had brushed what little remained of his hair back and upward in a (failed) attempt at appearing taller. Miranda had recognized it in his gait as soon as he entered: he was wearing lifts. She had been the right height for most of Hollywood’s leading men, meaning not tall enough to make them feel insecure. But several of them were still shorter than her, and they’d be forced to wear, ahem, “height-enhancing insoles.” Their gait when wearing them was heavy, yet tentative. Fairfax had that gait. Even in his lifts, he could barely look Miranda in the eye.
Harpreet Singh swept in as soon as Mr. DePoy entered, eyelashes fluttering from forty paces. She latched herself onto the romance writer with a beaming “Mr. DePoy, so wonderful to meet you. I am the president and CEO of the local Jack Stryker Fan Club.”
Left unsaid was the fact that there were exactly two members of the Happy Rock Jack Stryker Fan Club: Harpreet, CEO and president for life, and Bea, secretary-general in charge of snacks when the two of them had their book club meetings. Peach cobbler, chai—and romance.
“I have consumed all of your books,” Harpreet said, and then,voice dropping, “I keep them by the bedside table.” And the way she said it, it sounded naughty.
Edgar would later ask Tanvir, “Does it bother you? The way Harpreet rushed in as soon as Fairfax DePoy entered, smiling and sashaying like that?”
“Not in the least,” said Tanvir, with a cheerful equanimity. “Truly, Mr. DePoy may be famous and wealthy and pursued by fans. But I have something he doesn’t.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
