Page 76 of Killer on the First Page
“That is you, though, isn’t it?” said Ned, looking closer. “Oh, and look, there’s Ray Valentine, the skinny kid in the back. And a younger, spryer Kane Hamady, with his face X-ed out. And next to him, with his face X-ed out, too, is the recently deceased Fairfax DePoy. And here in the middle, surrounded by adoration, this older gentleman, the one with the third X across his face. That would be the late John D. Ross, I presume?”
“The master himself. May he rest in hotter climes.”
Ned pushed back his police cap, whistled. “A happy gathering bythis photo. Whole gang is there. I can recognize Penny by her height, even when she’s sitting down like that, practically on the master’s lap, with Wanda Stobol clinging to his left-hand side—Wanda, or whatever her name was back then. And that mousy young woman standing off to one side, that would be Inez, yes? Before she tattooed her cheek and dyed her hair black. Hardly recognizable here, in her cardigan and cat-eye glasses.”
“Wow,” said Miranda. “She truly reinvented herself.”
“We all did,” said Cephus. “Some of us were just better at it than others.”
Seven students. One master. Six who became authors—and one who never made it: Cephus, the seventh member, the young man with the handlebar ’stache.
“Ray Valentine stole my life story,” he said. “He took my experiences, my past, my identity, changed the names around, and claimed them as his own. Those stories he wrote were based onmylife. Not his.”
“Hardly seems a killing matter,” said Ned.
“You’re absolutely right. It isn’t,” Cephus said. “Litigation, yes. But not murder. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“And when the litigation failed, as I’m assuming it did, what then?” asked Ned.
“You can’t copyright an idea,” he sneered. “That’s what they ruled. Turns out, writers can draw on real people for their stories as much as they like, so long as it’s not libelous. So ruled the judges.”
“Judges, plural? You were at it a while, then, trying to get recompense.”
“Used up the last of my savings on legal fees. Living on my pension now, and the paltry paycheck that comes with being a small-town custodian.”
“Pension, you say. You were with the force.” It wasn’t a question.
“LAPD, second lieutenant, homicide. Early retirement.”
“You showed up in Happy Rock shortly after the roster of authors was first announced. Happenstance, was it, or were you stalking someone?”
“If I wanted to kill them, I would have started with Ray, don’t you think? I didn’t kill any of them. Not Kane or Fairfax, certainly not John D. Ross. Natural causes, that last one. Unfortunately. The man deserved worse. He encouraged Ray Valentine to take my stories and steal my life while the rest of them sat back and said nothing. But like I say, I’m only keeping track, taking pleasure in watching them eat their own.”
“If you didn’t do it, who did?” Ned asked.
“Good question. Here’s a better one:cui bono?”
Ned wasn’t up on his Latin, but Miranda Abbott, who had played out many a fictional courtroom scene, understood immediately.
“Who benefits, you mean?” said Miranda.
“Exactly. Who has the most to gain? And who has the most to lose? Somebody put this whole thing together and then pushed over the first domino just to watch the rest topple.”
“Someone who wanted to pit the writers against each other?” Miranda asked.
For a moment, his eyes filled with pain. “You know, we were friends once. All of us.”
“The Idaho Seven,” said Miranda.
“John Ross said we were the most talented group of students he’d ever assembled. Those were intense times. Some of us fell in love, some became rivals. Some of us were left behind.” A thin smile surfaced. “You want to get to the bottom of this, officer? Ask his widow—I forget her name. She’ll know who set this up. It can’t be a coincidence, the boxes of John D. Ross novels arriving just before those six writers arrived. His widow will know. She’ll have the rights to the entire works of Old Blood and Thunder, including that lost manuscript.”
Old Blood and Thunder.
That nickname, thought Miranda, something about that nickname...
“She doesn’t, though,” said Ned. “The widow. She doesn’t control her husband’s work, isn’t the executor of the John D. Ross estate. Edgar called her this morning, told her about the double tragedies. She seemed unsurprised, almost satisfied. And when he asked where he should send the manuscript, she replied, ‘You keep it. I’d as soon you have it as anyone.’”
“Hard to imagine,” said Cephus, his voice full of rue. “Huh. The great John Ross. He promised us fame, promised us great careers. He promised us many things.”
