Page 4 of Killer on the First Page
A Treasure Trove of Books
Ned dropped them off at the bookstore on Beacon Hill.
It wasn’t clear how Miranda could lose the toss and still have him drive them up there.
“It’s not that Ilosecoin tosses. It’s that I don’t not win them!”
On the way up, Miranda had said, more to herself than anyone, “I wonder if she remembers me?”
“Who?” asked Andrew.
“Penny Fenland. The author. She’s coming to the festival. She began as a script reader on my TV show, a glorified intern, really. I believe she even worked under Luckless Lachlan. She’s gone on to such great things since then. I wonder if she’ll remember me.”
“Of course she will,” Andrew said with a laugh. “You were the star of the show! How could she not?”
“I mean, will she remember me well. Will she remember me kindly. I know it’s hard to imagine, but I did have diva-like tendencies once upon a time.”
Andrew said nothing.Did?Past tense?
She looked out the window, watched the harbor fall away as the patrol car wound its way up Beacon Hill. “I rememberherfondly. I can only hope she does the same.”
“Here we are,” said Ned as he pulled up in front of the bookstore.
Miranda, rearranging her scarf as she got out, said, “Thank you, Ned! A pleasure, as always. I shall telephone later, when I need a ride back.”
“I won’t answer,” he said.
“It’s 911. You have to answer.”
“About that—”
But she was already sailing forth toward the store.
Ned drove off with a disgruntled aside about the proper use of police vehicles as Andrew hurried to catch up to Miranda. He was always hurrying to catch up. Miranda Abbott didn’t walk, she glided—and when she glided, she glided fast.
“What’s with that quarter Ned keeps in his wallet?” Andrew asked, trying to keep pace.
“I’m not sure. Lucky coin?”
The establishment they were about to enter wasn’t officially named the Murder Store. That was the way locals referred to it. A bookshop specializing in mysteries and thrillers and general mayhem, I Only Read Murder was ensconced in a haunted-house-style building (technically: nineteenth-century Italianate) with a mansard roof and a widow’s walk. It had transoms over the windows and stained glass above the front doors.
Sitting as it did atop Beacon Hill, the bookstore had a postcard view of the inner harbor below. But before Andrew and Miranda could enter I Only Read Murder, with its creaky floorboards and threadbare carpets, its maze of rooms filled floor-to-ceiling with books both new and used, ranging from leather-bound limited editions to lurid pulp-era pocketbooks, a torrent of gold poured out, tail wagging, tongue lolling, rushing over. It was Emmy, Edgar’s golden Lab.
“Who’s a good girl? Who is?” Miranda asked rhetorically, as Emmythreaded her way between them, leaping joyfully, turning figure eights, almost knocking Andrew over.
Fortunately, the peripheral glimpse of a squirrel sent Emmy galloping off in new directions, through fallen leaves, woofing mightily, and Andrew was saved a full-on mugging.
Edgar appeared in the doorway with a scowl. “The caterers are here,” he said with the enthusiasm one might announce “The plague doctor has arrived.”
Edgar was clad in his usual workaday jeans and lumberjack plaids—a look he’d never sported during their LA days but was practically dress code up here. His walk may have slowed, but his back was still straight, his eyes still strong, his smile as yet sardonic.
Still handsome, thought Miranda. Still grumpy. “The caterers?” she asked as she entered the warm embrace of the bookstore.
He followed her in. “For tonight’s reception.”
As if on cue, they appeared. He was tall, with a broad grin and a balding pate; she was stout, with a bright perma-smile and a hairstyle that wasalmosta beehive. Lotta hairspray went into that do, Miranda figured.
“Hello!” they chimed.
