Page 3 of Killer on the First Page
Not the insult it seemed. The biggest names in network television had guest-starred as one of the killers onPastor Fran Investigates. Loni Anderson, David Hasselhoff, Jason Priestley, even Macaulay Culkin: they’d all been karate-chopped by Pastor Fran at some point.
“Not as anactor,” Lachlan said, voice dripping contempt. “I was a wordsmith, a writer, a crafter of tales, if you will. Lachlan Todd. I’m sure you’ve heard Edgar and Miranda talk about me.”
“Hmm. No, can’t say that I have. Wait—didn’t you write the first draft of Edgar’s movie of the week? The one that was supposed to be filmed in Happy Rock but, erm, fell through?”
“That was not Edgar’s script, that wasmy script. I was designated screenwriter on that project. Edgar merely ‘punched up my work,’ as they say. And anyway, as I recall, that particular MOW, like most of Edgar’s projects, never made it past production.”
Guilelessly, Andrew said, “Oh, but Edgar has retired from that. He runs a bookstore now. Says writing is for saps.”
The glee in Lachlan’s eyes was unmistakable. “So the mighty Edgar Abbott has hung up his spurs, or whatever the writerly equivalent is. Put away his thesaurus? Emptied his inkwell?”
“And you, Lachlan?” Miranda said, stepping in, crossing blades. “What brilliantly successfully TV series are you now writing for?”
“Showrunner,” he said. “Not writer. I’m overseeing the entire project, from scripting to casting to all the interlocking story arcs. It’s a big-budget, incredibly ambitious, proposed limited series on amajorstreaming platform.”
Ah. She’d caught the crucial word. “Proposed?”
In Hollywood, one couldproposeanything. You could propose casting Arnold Schwarzenegger as a leprechaun. You couldproposere-animating Walt Disney’s frozen head for a cameo. It’s the mosthypothetical place on earth. And yet... Miranda would be hard-pressed to say she didn’t miss it. The palm trees and insincere sincerity, the delusionary“Wouldn’t it be cool if!”nature of the place.
“Staying at the Duchess Hotel, I presume?” she asked.
“... No.”
The hesitation gave it away.
“At a B&B?”
“I’m at the Hideaway Motel.” His face burned.
“Ah,” she said. Only that. With a smile, she decided to exit, stage left, while she was still up a point. “It’s been lovely, Lachlan. But we must be going. There’s my ride now! Come along, Andrew, we’re off to the Murder Store! Ta!”
* * *
NEDBUCKLEY WASworried about the blood. As his patrol car crawled along the harborfront, he kept a wary eye on the brown-paper package on the passenger seat. How long before the blood would seep out? He didn’t see the regal woman in green until she stepped off the curb to raise an imperious hand at him as though hailing a cab.
Ned pulled over, rolled down his window as the lady in green approached. “Miranda,” he said with a weary sigh. “What have I told you about flagging me down like that? I’m not a taxi. I’m a police officer.”
“Chief, Ned. You are no mere functionary; you are thechiefof police. One mustn’t be modest. What have I told you about bushels?”
“Not to hide my light under them?”
“Exactly! A bushel is just a dream that’s not allowed to shine! And one must shine, Ned. Otherwise, what are bushels for?”
Andrew Nguyen searched for his notepad to jot this down. He’d been collecting Miranda Abbott aphorisms. “Hey, Ned,” he said as he scribbled this latest bon mot down. “What’s up? Working on a case?”
“Not really. I was heading over to Bea’s.” A nod to the package on the passenger seat. “Fresh chinook from the fall run on the Nestucca.”
“How lovely!” said Miranda.
Miranda lived in Bea’s attic—in what was generously referred to as the Miranda Abbott Suite—and on those occasions when Ned brought over salmon, they dined like royalty.
Miranda slid into the back seat of the patrol car, scooting over so Andrew could join her. “To the Murder Store!” she cried.
Ned turned to face them. He tried to glare but failed miserably. He was a plump man, a pleasant man, and stern didn’t suit him. “Tell you what, Miranda. I’ll flip a coin. Heads, I drive you up to the bookstore. Tails, you walk.”
He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open the way cops always do, and extracted—not his badge, but a small, clear-plastic pouch yellowed with age. Inside was a single quarter. Ned extracted the coin and flipped it in the air, slapped it down on the back of his hand to reveal: “Tails!” he cried, triumphant.
Chapter Two
