Page 98 of Killer on the First Page
“Because they always blame the freak!” Inez screamed. “Because they always blame the tattooed vampyre goth girl!” And now her Eye of Osiris tattoo did look a teardrop. “That’s why I asked him to lie for me. Because I knew this would happen!”
Ned cleared his throat. “Ms. Fonio, based on your falsely sworn testimony and pending DNA tests on the speargun found in your room, I’m going to ask you to accompany me to the station for further questioning.”
Inez Fonio said nothing. She looked away. Far away.Memories of Idaho, of their mentor reading her work, saying, “Listen, kid, this is creepy and vile and poorly written. It’ll sell.”
As Inez was led out of the inn and down to the patrol car waiting below, a voice cried out. It was Scoop, running up, waving her tape recorder.
“Jane Bannister!Weekly Picayune!Ms. Fonio, will you speak on the record? People have the right to know!”
Dazed, Inez turned. “Yes?” She looked like an actress who had forgotten her lines.
“What are your impressions of Happy Rock? Our readers need to know!”
“Um, it’s a pretty town, I guess.”
“Pretty... not nice?”
“Nice, too, I suppose.”
With that, Chief Buckley waved aside the press and closed the car door behind Ms. Fonio.
Owen McCune roared up in his tow truck, hook swinging wildly, came to a skidding halt, jumping out just in time to see Inez being driven away. He stood, gutted, staring down the road long after the patrol car was gone.
Miranda was next to him, watching the same empty road. “You lied about her alibi, Owen. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“But I was going to marry her.”
Behind them, Helen Ross appeared, pulling her jacket in for warmth. On the front steps of Hiram Henry House, she turned to address them like a Roman senator: “Inez is gone. As for the rest of you, you deserve each other, squabbling over the literary bones of my late husband like that.”
“Nana,” Sheryl pleaded. “I had to intercept that manuscript. I had to stop it from getting out or being published. It would havedestroyed everything he’d built, would have destroyed his legacy. I couldn’t let that happen. Think of the sales we would have lost, the readers who would’ve felt betrayed and outraged.”
“You are his executor, Sheryl. He doted on you. Your role is not to protect the franchise; it is to honor the dead. A flawed man, hardly a husband, but a good father and an even better grandfather. It’s his wishes you have to serve. John D. Ross, the person, warts and all. Not Trevor Lucas, his fictional creation. Trevor Lucas doesn’t exist. Your grandfather most certainly did. I leave it in your hands, Sheryl. Whatever decision you make will be the right one.”
Before John D. Ross’s widow could depart for good, Edgar had to ask, “Why me, Helen? The first editions of your husband’s work, a collector’s dream, mint condition, an incredible collection—and his last manuscript, too. It’s a treasure trove. You could’ve chosen anyone. Why me?”
She smiled. “You were the only one who remembered my name.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Toss of a Coin
Chai tea and caramel popcorn.
“Actually, you don’t need the wordteawhen you say ‘chai,’” Harpreet explained. “Chaimeans ‘tea.’”
“Does it?” said Bea. “Oh, how interesting. I did not know that.”
Chai and caramel popcorn. It had been a long day, and that night Harpreet, Bea, and Miranda gathered on the comfy couch in Bea’s living room for a Pastor Fran Friday of their own. Ned was working late, Andrew was sorting through the original statements he’d gathered, looking for further discrepancies in Inez Fonio’s testimony, and Miranda had offered to make—
“But chai goes so much better with popcorn than lemonade does!” Bea had said, cutting off that avenue as quickly as she could. “Everyone says so. It’s practically a motto:Chai with popcorn, instead of lemonade. I believe it was Julia Child who said that.”
Miranda was too exhausted to argue. Inez was in custody, the machinations of all three murders had been resolved, and Miranda was preparing to once again watch her younger self karate-kick guns out of villains’ hands.
On her outing Inez Fonio as the killer, Bea had said, “I’m so proudof you! Pastor Fran solves another case! Sorry—I mean,Miranda Abbottsolves another case. I get the two of you confused. I’m so sorry.”
You and me both, Bea.
“How did you untie such a tangled knot?” Harpreet wanted to know. “It must have been like attempting to remove a double-stitched hem from a rayon-polyester blend without pulling the fabric.”
