Page 92 of Killer on the First Page
“She didn’t seem like a Debbie,” Miranda said. It was sad. So many masks. So many pen names and false names and fictional heroes that were confused with their creators.
Officer Holly was crushed, even if it wasn’t the same Wanda Stobolwho’d written the Compendium Cathy novels she’d loved as a child. It was like a piece of her childhood had died with her, she said.
“Three bodies in two days,” said Doc. “I don’t like this, Ned.”
“Neither do I. Dammit, she was under our care! She was in protective custody.”
“It was a heart attack,” Andrew cut in. “There was nothing you could have done.”
“A woman dies inside a locked jail cell, alone, normally I’d say that’s a clear-cut case of death by natural causes. But with everything that’s going on, I’m not so sure.”
“What else could it be?” Andrew asked.
A steely determination came over Ned Buckley. His checked his holster, tightened his belt, straightened his cap, and headed out.
“Miranda. Andrew,” he snarled, straight-arming the front door of the station. “Come along. We are going back to Hiram Henry House. And we’re going to settle this once and for all.”
“Yes!” Andrew was about to punch the air, like the freeze-frame at the end ofThe Breakfast Club, but caught himself in time.
“Dignity,” Miranda reminded him as she sailed past. “Dignity and decorum, darling.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Formidable Woman
With a satisfied smirk, he said, “Of course she was murdered. And I can tell you exactly how.”
Lachlan Todd had draped himself over a velvet settee in the parqueted reception hall of Hiram Henry House and was looking properly pleased with himself. He’d been rounded up at the Duchess Hotel, where he’d recently rented out the entire Gerald Ford Suite on the fourth floor. (The dynamic former president had once spent a night in the Duchess, to the town’s eternal pride.) Lachlan had paid up front and in full, Ned noted, and had also cleared his outstanding account at the Hideaway Motel.
“All a misunderstanding,” he’d assured Ned.
Chief Buckley had gathered them in the furniture-laden environs of this historic inn: Lachlan Todd and the authors (those of them still alive), plus the publicist. G&G, as owners of the establishment, were present mainly by default. Geri and Gerry sat perched on matching Queen Anne chairs. The rest of them were arranged on various couches and divans in the reception hall. With varying degrees of trepidation, they faced Ned Buckley, his intrepid deputy, Andrew Nguyen, and the always indomitable Miranda Abbott. It was like the ending of every Nero Wolfe novella ever written.
Ned wanted answers. Now. And the insouciant Lachlan Todd was only too happy to elucidate.
“Chief Buckley, I’m afraid you missed the one salient factor in the death of Ms. Stobol. The human body is 97 percent water!” He waited for a gasp and, receiving none, muttered darkly, “Makes you wonder what they’re teaching at police schools these days. Ninety-seven percent water! Think about it!”
Ned did, to no avail.
Leaning forward, Lachlan said, “Electrified bars on the jail cells! A simple electromagnetized lithium battery surreptitiously wired to the metal. Water is a conductor, and she would naturally have been nervous, perspiring even. When she grasped the bars with damp palms, it would have completed the circuit. Instant death!”
“You should check her palms!” said Inez Fonio. “See if they’re scorched.”
Fortunately, Penny Fenland introduced a dollop of common sense to the proceedings. “Surely if she was locked inside a prison cell, it could only be natural causes.”
“Unless,” Inez said, “someone is planning to work their way through the remaining Idaho Seven, killing each of us in turn...”
Penny shook her head. “What a ridiculous idea—”
Inez didn’t let her finish. “It’s called a plot, Penny. And if a killer is targeting us all, well, you’re next.”
Penny had to ask, “Why me?”
Miranda had to ask “Who?” As in, whodunnit. Not that she expected a logical or coherent response from Inez. She got neither.
“If we are all being chosen for murder, it would obviously be in order of success, lowest to highest, Penny, so you’d be next.” A pause. “I’d probably be last.” She shivered. “And”—turning her attention to Miranda—“as far as who, it could only be the re-animated corpse of John D. Ross.”
This was met with silence and a consensus of blank looks, ranging from incredulous to nonplussed.
