Page 45 of Killer on the First Page
“No, it’s completely different!”
(Later Scoop would note that Penny Fenland’s surname was simply a variation of “Marsh,” and would receive a similar response: “No, it’s not the same. A fenland is far edgier than a marsh.”)
“And wasn’t Frankenstein the name of the doctor, not the monster?” Scoop asked.
“Can you wrap this up, maybe?” Owen asked.
“Sure thing. Finally, Ms. Fonio—and don’t feel you have to answer this if you don’t want to—but, in yourhonestopinion, would you say, before the murder happened, of course, that a good time was being had?”
“A good time?”
A dangerous question, to be sure! Owen whispered frantic advice in Inez’s ear.
“Um, yes?” she said.
“Excellent.” Scoop wrote that down. “By all?”
“I suppose.”
“Perfect!”
Scoop Bannister had got her story.
Chapter Twelve
Motives for Murder
When your mind is vexed by questions imponderable—questions such as “Should I return to Hollywood in triumph to become a celebrated TV star, working in the craft I love and longed for, to resounding acclaim and adulation, or should I run a bookstore in Happy Rock, Oregon?”—sometimes the best thing to do is to distract yourself with other, equally perplexing questions, such as “How can someone be killed by an arrow inside a locked room?”
Miranda’s thoughts returned to the shed on the far side of the yard. The transom in the reading room could have been rigged to close after the fact, some sort of time-release mechanism, no doubt. But that didn’t answer the problem of the flower bed and the lack of footprints outside the window.
Unless...
“Edgar, dear,” she said. “Andrew is busy and I need an assistant.”
Edgar, still shaken by the body in the reading room, said no, until she explained that this would involve going outside.
“I’ll clear it with Ned,” he said, grabbing his corduroy jacket.
I swear to god, thought Miranda, that man is single-handedly keeping the corduroy industry afloat.
The air outside was a balm, cooling and calm and clean.You won’t get air like this in LA!But Miranda shook the thought free, focused on the task on hand instead.
“Shed is locked,” said Edgar as they crossed the yard. “I locked it today, in fact. After Owen’s rope went missing, Ned put out an emergency alert warning of a possible serial stealer on the loose. Of course, if he knewmurder was on the menu...”
“‘The Case of the Counterfeit Chef’!” she cried. “I loved that episode. We spent five days at a culinary school shooting that one. Oh, the desserts!”Not as good as Bea’s, though!But again she shook her mind clear.
The shed was very much still locked. No ladder lying about. No sign someone had climbed onto the roof with a crossbow.
“Edgar,” said Miranda. “Look.”
There, in a muddy patch in front of the shed, was a single footprint. A man’s shoe. Size: small. A man’s shoe with a heavy, unnatural heel, the type of print made by someone wearing lifts.
“I do believe our diminutive mystery author, Mr. Fairfax Hughes DePoy III, has been creeping around our backyard,” said Miranda. “I shall need to speak with Mr. DePoy to find out why.”
“Ask Harpreet,” Edgar said. “She was mooning over him all night, barely let him out of her sight.”
Miranda hurried back inside, catching up to Harpreet just in time. Harpreet was at the front door, pulling on a quilted coat with the help of her husband, Tanvir.
