Page 32 of Killer on the First Page
“Something about an orchid? A black orchid?”
“That’s right. You know it? Because I couldn’t find that title listed in any of his bibliographies. It may have been one that he abandoned. Was probably included with the books by mistake. I’m shipping it back to Helen tomorrow.”
“Helen?” said Ray.
“Who is this Helen?” Inez wanted to know.
“The widow.”
“Ah,” said Wanda. “So that was her name.” Then, to Ray: “Didn’t you spend your summers at Cape Cod with John?”
“I did. Don’t recall his wife’s name, though. Old Blood and Thunder mainly talked to me about police work. We exchanged tales from our days on the force. Manly tales.”
Look, Ray, you’re a writer—a good writer, maybe a great writer—but you’re soft. You need a persona. Make one up, or take it if you have to. But don’t beyou.
“Would we be able to see the books you got?” Ray asked, turning to face Edgar from across the room. “Tonight?”
“Don’t see why not. I’ll take you in after we’re done the next course. The manuscript and the books are locked up in the reading room.”
“The reading room?” said Fairfax DePoy. “Oh, right. Where you keep your rare editions. I saw it on your website.”
“We have a website?” said Miranda.
“Andrew set it up,” said Edgar. Then, in an attempt to get back to the point of the night’s event, he announced loudly to the other guests, “Don’t forget! We sell books! We have the latest works by the authors in attendance tonight. For sale. Because we’re a bookstore. So, y’know...”
A pregnant pause followed. Trying to get people to actuallybuybooks at a book event was always a hurdle.
Miranda added, “I’m sure the authors would happily sign and personalize any copies you purchase tonight.”
Books by the authors attending the festival were displayed on a separate table, and the authors, as always, had been obsessively comparing their books to the others in agonizing detail: the size and/or prestige of the publisher (the two did not always overlap), the quality of the paper, the number of blurbs vs. the value of the blurbs (one Janet Evanovich was worth three P.K. Pennington’s, for example), who was thanked in the acknowledgments and who was not. Author and guest alike had been milling about, manhandling the stock, and this too would prove fatal, for each and every book was now covered in fingerprints...
“Before we adjourn,” Miranda said, “are there any questions for the esteemed authors we have in attendance tonight?” Then, with alaugh, she added, “As long as it’s not ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’”
A cold voice in back: “I have a question for Ray Valentine: Where do you get your ideas from?”
It was the customer from earlier, and in that moment, Miranda realized where she knew him from. The Opera House.
“My ideas? What do you—Who said that?” Ray tried to locate the person who had asked the question, but the man was gone.
A gust of cold air revealed that the back door had been opened, though who had entered or slipped out was not clear.
Edgar announced, “I’ll take the authors into the reading room to see those John D. Ross first editions.”
Glances were exchanged among the authors. Dark currents were moving below the surface; as an actor, Miranda recognized subtext when she saw it. She grabbed Edgar as he passed by. “There is so much tension in this room. What is going on?”
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t invite these authors. I’m just the book guy.”
As events spun out of control, this would become something akin to a mantra from Edgar:Don’t blame me, I’m just the bookseller.An alibi worthy of a headstone:Hey, we just sell the books. We don’t actually murder anyone.
“If you didn’t choose the authors, who did?”
“Middlemist Marketing, I presume. They’re the ones who contacted me, asked if I’d be the designated bookseller and maybe host an opening night reception. That’s it. You want more answers, talk to Sheryl Youngblut, the publicist. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a room to unlock and some John D. Ross novels to present.”
But Miranda wasn’t done. “That man—the one who asked Ray Valentine that question. Who is he, and why did you invite him?”
“I assumed you invited him,” said Edgar.
“I did not.”
