Page 7 of Killer on the First Page
“It’s nothing that fancy,” Edgar insisted. “Just some of the community supporters milling about, trying to make small talk with underpaid over-competitive loners. Authors, in other words. The main readings and book signings will be at the Opera House. I’m just the designated bookseller for the festival. Tonight’s get-together isn’t an opening night gala or anything. This isn’t LA, okay?”
But Miranda heard what she wanted to hear. “An opening night gala! Here in the store! I shall make my lemonade!” she proclaimed.
“No!” Edgar said, too quickly. “Your lemonade, it’s—it’stoogood. You don’t want to overshadow our hosts.”
Andrew agreed frantically, his head bobbing up and down in whiplash-worthy nods. “Edgar’s right! No lemonade! You don’t want to show them up.”
She frowned. “That is true. One mustn’toutshinethe stars when oneshines outwith the stars.”
Miranda’s lemonade was famous—or rather infamous—across the Greater Tri-Rock Area. She often threw in a fistful of salt at the end to counteract the many scoops of sugar she’d added to balance out the sourness of the glug-a-jug of extra lemon juice she included, which in turn was needed to counter the taste of the salt. A self-supporting Möbius strip of ingredients.
“But still...” Miranda was not entirely convinced. “People do talk about my lemonade.”
Oh, they do, thought Andrew. They do, indeed.
Saved by the bell! The one above the front door jingled, signaling the arrival of that most fickle of guests: a customer! First of the day.
Alas, it was only Owen McCune, the World’s Worst Mechanic. He let Emmy in as he entered.
“She looks pooped,” he said.
And she did. Emmy loped through to the back, where her doggy bed was laid out. Owen, meanwhile, quickly spotted the stack of boxes.
“New books come in?” he asked, wiping his hands on a rag as he approached.
One of the many unresolved mysteries of Happy Rock was how Owen McCune of McCune’s Garage could constantly be wipinghis hands yet never getting them any cleaner. It was up there with the Mystery of Miranda’s Lemonade, which was, namely,Why the salt??
Owen McCune spent most of his free time in the bookstore, browsing merrily away, never buying anything. He’d read entire series in the store, would even lick his fingers to turn a page and would fold down a corner to mark his spot before putting the book back on the shelf. He left various oil stains as he went. The man, Edgar had said, was a walking Rorschach test. Owen sported massive, some might say magnificent, sideburns and wore baggy coveralls in an indiscriminate shade of blech. Instinctively, Edgar threw himself between Owen and the John D. Ross books.
“You’re not touching any of these. Not with those oily hands.”
“Not even a peek?”
“No! These are John D. Ross originals. Your greasy paw prints would only diminish their value, both monetary and spiritual.”
“Ross? Oh, that guy. The one whose hero is an alcoholic ex-cop with the NYPD who also works as a retired ex-Navy shore patrol investigator while living on a houseboat as a burglar?”
“Trevor Lucas,” said Andrew. “That’s the name of the character. In the books, he’s six feet seven and blond, so naturally he was played by Tom Cruise in the movies. Netflix has a new series based on him coming out next spring. It’s a cash machine, the entire series.”
“Never cared for him,” said Owen. “Ross, I mean.”
Edgar was aghast. “John D. Ross, modern master of the genre? The most influential mystery writer of his generation, often copied, never bettered. You don’t—quote—‘care for him’?”
“Nope. Not a bit. In one book, the houseboat has what I assume is a Cummins X15 diesel engine in it, and in the very next book, wayit’s described, it’s clearly a GM Marine 350 V8! I mean, which is it? How the heck is that believable?”
“The part where he’s an ex-cop who is also a former Navy shore patrol, Korean War vet burglar for hire—that didn’t bother you. But the engines did?”
“Never cared for those books is all I’m saying. Thing is, Ross always puts the killer on the first page. Every dang time. It’s always one of the first characters the hero, Trevor What’s-his-face, meets. How is that a good mystery?”
“That can’t be right,” said Edgar, though his voice wavered. He did seem to recall the last John D. Ross novel he read having featured a person later revealed to be the killer who had appeared in the opening scene...
“Plus, he always goes outta his way to work the title of the book into the dialogue, so one of the characters will say something like, ‘Boy, those hollyhocks sure lay heavy on the soul.’ Or ‘Out here, the sunflowers grow on the grave.’ Or ‘It’s time for a stroll among the scarlet solidago.’ It’s annoying. Does he think we already forgot the title of the book we’re reading? He has to remind us? That, and the fact that he always puts the killer on the first page. Don’t care for him.”
Edgar took a steadying breath, a single deep inhalation, a chestful of restraint. Miranda knew that breath. It was a breath of barely contained exasperation, a sigh in lieu of a head exploding. She knew it from their days as a couple.
“Owen,” said Edgar, unnaturally calm. “Shouldn’t you be at work right now?”
The hours posted at McCune’s Garage were always more aspirational than real. “Nah, that’s the beauty of being your own boss. You get to make your own hours. You know what that’s like, Edgar.”
