Edgar joined them beside the body, reluctantly it must be said, as Doc Meadows raised his arm out straight and pointed a finger directly at Edgar’s chest.
“Bang,” he said. “I know that’s a gun, but I don’t know how to make an arrow sound. Y’see?” Doc stepped closer, keeping his arm perfectly straight. Brought his pointed finger to Edgar’s chest. “The arrow went in straight, like this, like how I’m holding my hand, not from a higher position.” Doc then tilted his hand to show them how it would have looked if it had come in through the transom. “That’s how it should have gone in. But that arrow went in parallel to the floor. Couldn’t do that from outside.”
“Which means the killer would’ve had to have beeninside this roomwith Kane,” said Ned. “Squared off, facing him directly, firing at close quarters.”
They couldn’t help it. Their eyes darted around the place. But there was nowhere in the room for someone to hide.
“When we first rushed in, could the killer have been hiding behind the door?” Miranda asked, “then sneaked out in the confusion?”
Edgar answered this one. “No. When I saw the body, I immediately veered over here, by the door. If someone was hiding behind it, I would have seen. There was no one else in the room when we came charging in. Just Kane.”
Doc said, “Could still be from the transom. Maybe the victim arched his back violently just before he was hit by the arrow. That might account for the fact it entered his chest at 90 degrees. You’d have to talk to forensics in Portland about that, Ned.”
He nodded. “I’ll get Officer Holly to photograph and tag the scene. We’ll call Portland, get them to notify the Criminal Investigation Department, though I doubt they’ll send anyone till tomorrow. We’ll have to hold the fort till then.”
Edgar was horrified. “His body is going to stay in my bookstore overnight?”
“Ourbookstore,” Miranda corrected.
“Itiscalled the Murder Store,” Doc pointed out, but Edgar found no humor in this.
“Why did I let a bunch of writers into my life?” Edgar moaned. “All they do is cause problems. They’re almost as bad as actors.”
Miranda, taking the high road, decided to let that slide.
“We’ll move the body eventually, don’t worry,” said Ned.
Doc assured Edgar that he’d have it transported to the town morgue as soon as Officer Holly was done tagging the crime scene. None of them realized that the nightmare was only beginning. When the early hours came, the body would still be there. And they would have worse things to worry about.
“Jessica,” said Miranda. “Fletcher. Remember, Edgar? The woman who handled the weapons onPastor Fran Investigates. The fletcher. Jessica Smith, I think her name was. She was always making sure the feathers—or ‘fletchings’—on the prop arrows were done correctly.” Miranda nodded to the arrow that was stuck inside Kane. “Thosefletchings look far too small. Barely there. It’s like they’ve been trimmed down. What do you think?”
But Edgar had no intention of approaching the body,
Ned had no such qualms, however.
“The fletchings?” he said, looking closer. “The feathers, you mean. They do seem disproportionately small for the size of the arrow. They could’ve been altered to fit a different type of bow, I suppose. I’m not an expert on such things.”
“And why the open book?” asked Miranda. “A gruesome souvenir? Some grim poetic justice at play? If Kane was reading the book, or even flipping through it, the pages would have been facing toward him and the arrow would have gone in through the back of the book. But it didn’t. It was speared with the pages facing outward.” She stepped closer. “We know Kane was facing his attacker, because the arrow hit him in the chest. But why would Kane be holding the book up in such a way? And why one ofhisbooks? His books weren’t even in the reading room; he’d have had to bring it in with him.”
Doc said, “Maybe he held it up like a shield, in a desperate act, instinctively, like in a panic when he saw the killer taking aim. Fear does strange things to people’s minds.”
“Or maybe he was presenting the book,” said Miranda. “Holding it up to show the killer something.”
“A panicked attempt at protecting himself makes more sense,” said Ned. “Why would he be showing the killer”—he stooped over the body to check—“Page 100 of his own book.Hey, guy with an arrow pointed directly at me, check this out! Look what I wrote!”
Miranda leaned in to read from the page that had been pierced to the author’s heart. The shaft of the arrow acted almost like a bookmark, holding it open. “‘Tough guys don’t last,’ said Mick Hardy as he regained consciousness.” Kane’s blood had soaked through the paper, was trickling between the pages, only now starting to thicken.
She stepped back. “Hmm.”
“Seems sorta random to me,” said Ned.
“Random is never quite as random as you might randomly think!” she declared.
The book was the key. It had to be. It couldn’t be mere chance that it was one of Kane’s own novels he’d died with. It had to explain how the murder had occurred. Miranda was sure of it, even if she didn’t know how.
“Four,” said a voice from the doorway. “You missed one, champ.”
It was Lachlan Todd, leaning against the side of the door with his usual snigger of a smile, smarmy as ever.
