Page 28 of Killer on the First Page
“Oh, I’m aware of your work,” said Lachlan. “The Master of the Locked-Room Mystery, John Dickson Carr, described such stories as ‘very probable and real, where all they do is run around showing photographs to people.’”
Ray bristled at this. “I’m a cop. My father was a cop. His father before him. I write what I know.”
He left and Miranda sighed. She was stuck with Lachlan now, but at least the two men hadn’t come to blows.
“He’s no cop,” Lachlan muttered.
Doc Meadows snagged a handful of Brie and fig prosciutto shortbreads as they sallied past on Geri’s silver tray, much to Geri’s annoyance.
“It breaks up the pattern when you grab it from the tray,” she muttered.
Like the guest soap in a bathroom, Geri’s culinary arrangements, Busby Berkley dance numbers of fanned cold cuts and petal-cut radishes—ham origami, as it were—were meant more to be admired than consumed.
Doc tossed one of the hors d’oeuvres into his grinning mouth, gave Miranda a wink—which only melted her more—then turned to the miserable-looking fellow in the too-big jacket. “Here for the book festival, are ya?”
“You could say so.”
“One of the writers?”
“You could say that. I used to work on Miranda’s TV show.”
“No kidding!” (chomp chomp) “Bea Maracle—friend of mine, runs the B&B by the harbor?—she hosts Pastor Fran Fridays every Wednesday. Has the whole entire TV series on tape, every episode. You should come. I’ve been to a few, always good fun, though it does bother me how the doctors on that show are always evil, injecting air into IVs, eyes darting around. I mean, if you’re going to inject air intosomeone’s IV, you could at least not dart your eyes back and forth when you’re doing it. And I only ever remember one Native American character on the entire show, played by some Italian guy with high cheekbones. He never said much, just stood silently to one side, staring into the wind. Why would anyone stare into the wind? Makes your eyes water.” A thought occurred. “Hey, maybe that’s why Native Americans always have a tear rolling down their cheek in those old shows. The directors kept making them stare into the wind. I tell you one thing, if I’m ever in charge of a TV show, first thing I’d do? Tell the actors, faceawayfrom the wind.” Doc tossed the last of the shortbread into his mouth. “Anyways. What did you do on Miranda’s show? Play one of the bad guys?”
A patronizing smile from Lachlan. “Not quite. You remember the episode where Pastor Fran rode a Jet Ski with a ticking time bomb through a burning hoop of fire? That was me.”
“That was you on the Jet Ski? No way!” Doc was genuinely impressed.
“No—I mean, I did that.”
“You lit the hoop on fire?”
“No—I mean, I was the writer.”
“I thought Edgar was the writer.”
“Head writer.”
“Oh, so he was like your boss.”
A long pause. Lachlan moved away. Doc shrugged, grabbed another whack of hors d’oeuvres when they moved past.
As Miranda topped up Doc’s glass, she withheld a smile. By her count, it was Lachlan Todd: zero, Happy Rock: one.
* * *
“YES, YES,I suppose a good time is being had by all. Do you have any other questions?”
Scoop Bannister had scored an exclusive one-on-one interview with Fairfax DePoy as Harpreet listened in, hanging on every word.
Miranda, flitting past, had stopped to eavesdrop, curious what reaction Scoop would get this time. The diminutive author, unsteady on his lifts, was struggling to maintain eye contact with the young reporter, and he proved as baffled by Scoop’s queries as Kane Hamady had been aggravated.
“Mr. DePoy, in one of your earlier novels,Headboard of the Hanovers—”
“Ah yes, Book Four of my Tudor Trilogy.”
“Your hero, Jack Stryker, a master of the two-handed crossbow, saves the life of William Shakespeare.”
“He also has a passionate affair with Anne Hathaway. The romance is just as important as the action in my novels. Perhaps more so.”
