Page 31 of Killer on the First Page
“Oh,thoseropes.” Owen was thinking about his own ongoing complaint regarding the stuff that had been stolen from behind his garage. “You meansymbolicropes. Not the kind people can take. Gotcha. I’m Owen McCune, by the way. I’m the—”
“Wait!” she said. “Don’t tell me.”
She proceeded to “read” him by employing the techniques and uncanny deductive skills that come from creating a creature with the brain of Sherlock Holmes.
“Your eyes,” she said. “Gray! Haunted. You squint, but not to a distant horizon, like a sailor or a farmer, but in the manner of someone who works... indoors, in darker corners. Your sideburn whiskerssuggest focus and form, but the lack of maintenance of said whiskers suggests you are single. No partner would allow you to leave home in such a rugged state. Your shoulders are broad, but not too broad. They suggest physical labor, yet are slightly stooped, suggesting the weight of responsibility pushing down on you, the sort of pressure one might experience as the owner... of a... construction company—no!Your hands! Your hands are exquisite. Let me see them. Yes! They suggest strengthanddexterity. An automotive garage. You are the owner of a garage!”
“Wow! That’s amazing,” he said. “You could tell all that just by looking at me?”
“It’s a gift,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “And a curse.”
The fact that Owen was wearing mechanics coveralls with a logo sewed on the chest that readMcCune’s Garage, Owen McCune, sole proprietorhelped, I’m sure, thought Miranda.
“You got something on your cheek,” Owen said, licking his thumb and trying to wipe away the tiny tattoo under Inez’s left eye.
Rather than recoiling as any sensible person would, she leaned into it. “You would need to rub deeper than that to rid me of this,” she said. “’Tis the Eye of Osiris.”
“Oh, I get it! Like the All-Seeing Eye of LOJIC. We have the same sort of thing. Though we don’t tattoo it on our faces. We just have a pin.” He patted himself down. “Dang. I’ve gone and lost mine.” He grinned. “Maybe I should get a tattoo. I can’t lose that, right?”
“You can’t,” she breathed. “You can only lose your soul.”
Yikes, thought Miranda.
Now that Owen’s resplendent arrival as Grand Bricklayer was complete, all of the evening’s guests had assembled. Miranda herded everyone into the main room, locals and authors alike, for a champagne toast, raising her glass and commanding silence by her sheer presence. The chatter grew quiet.
“Hello, everyone. Yes, you are quite correct. It is I! Miranda Abbott! Welcome to I Only Read Murder. As the owner of this bookstore—”
A voice from the back: “Co-owner!”
“I welcome and embrace each and every one of you. And please give a round of applause in appreciation to Sheryl Youngblut, who has done such a splendid job arranging the authors’ travel and—” Miranda caught herself and didn’t mention the accommodations, not with Bea in attendance. “As I always say, a job done well is a well-done job indeed! If you have any questions or concerns, do let me know. Otherwise, enjoy the rest of the evening!”
She’d forgotten to thank the authors, but that was okay. Authors were used to that.
Before the guests could resume chatting among themselves, the raspy voice of Wanda Stobol rang out.
“Hey! I got a question. Is it true the bookstore received a wealth of John D. Ross books? The original editions, I mean. I didn’t see any of them on the shelves. Where are you hiding them?”
The question took Miranda by surprise. She’d been expecting something along the lines of“Ms. Abbott! Who are you wearing tonight?”or“What was Bill Shatner really like?”or even“Will you stay in Happy Rock forever? Or will you be going home to Hollywood?”But a question about those dusty old boxes of books? She wasn’t expecting that.
“Oh. You know John D. Ross?” Miranda asked. She meant knowof, but the look on Wanda’s face suggested something closer to the heart.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice dropping so low it was almost a thought. “I knew him.”
Problem is, you don’t have enough to say to fill a book, but too much for a short story. It’s the length of your mysteries that’s tripping you up. They’re too short. You can’t sell a 30,000-word novel.Unless you’re writing children’s books. Not all of the Idaho Seven can be adult authors.
Wanda snapped back at Miranda, “Did I know John D. Ross? Sure I did. We all did. Some people sleep their way to the middle, some people claw their way to the top, some of us can’t even do that. John D. Ross liked to play with people’s lives like they were characters in one of his ridiculous novels. I was glad the old fart finally died. Asleep in his bed, no less. Lucky bastard.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room.
Miranda, not sure what to do, threw a cue to her co-star, a common enough trick among actors. “Edgar, dearest? There you are, way at the back. Perchance you might be able to answer Ms. Stobol’s query regarding the works of John D. Ross?”
“We did receive a stack of first editions, yes. Hardcover and paperback. Plus a manuscript.”
A pin dropping would have echoed like a gong.
“A manuscript?” someone asked. “Acompletemanuscript?”
“Far as I know. Didn’t read it. Didn’t recognize the title, either.”
