Page 102 of Killer on the First Page

“And how about you, Ned? Do you worry about Bea?”

“All the time.”

He cleared his throat and gathered his cap and pulled on his jacket and said, “I’ll be stopping by later tonight. Promised her a fresh salmon to make up for the other one. Are you joining us for Pastor Fran Friday?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not this time. I think I’ll stay up in my attic suite. You can keep Bea company in my stead, just the two of you.”

“Okay, then.”

Ned threw a few bills on the table, told Myrtle to keep the change, then paused. Went into his wallet, tossed the quarter on the table as well. He left the café unencumbered.

Miranda watched him leave, then picked up the quarter, turned it over in her palm. As Pastor Fran, she’d once gone undercover as a riverboat gambler; she knew how to flick a coin and how to slap it down, just one of the many strange and eclectic skills she’d picked up over the course of her career.

Miranda took a deep breath, flipped the coin in the air, and caught it on the back of her hand.

“Heads I stay, tails I leave.”

* * *

THAT NIGHT, HARPREETSingh told her husband, “Good news! Miranda is going to teach me how to make lemonade. Turns out, I’ve been doing it wrong! We have agreed that I will show her how to make a proper chai and she will return the favor by showing me the correct way to prepare lemonade. Isn’t that splendid?”

The look of horror on Tanvir’s face gave it away. “Soniye, soniye, soniye,why would a star*of such an elevated stature as Miranda Abbott ever agree to teach you how to make lemonade?”

Harpreet was affronted by this. “She’s not a movie star.*She’s my friend.*”

* * *

ON THE OTHERside of town, as her twins lay softly sleeping, Officer Holly Hinton of the HRPD sat down at her kitchen table and wrote a letter. It was to an address in Maine:

Dear Ms. Stobol,

I know you are not the real Wanda Stobol, or the only Wanda Stobol, but you are the one whose books I read when I was growing up, and I just wanted to tell you how much they meant to me. When our dad left us and we moved to Tillamook Bay, your books got me through a very tough time. I didn’t have many friends, except for Compendium Cathy. She was smart and brave and true, and she never backed down. She will always be real to me. I hope you are doing well.

Holly

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hollywood Calling!

Miranda and the palm trees.

It’s been too long, she thought. She’d asked that they exit the freeway and take Sunset Boulevard across instead, below that honor guard of palms, with her window down, sun on her face. She’d almost forgotten the feel of California on her skin, the pastel colors and surging crowds, the slow-crawling traffic, the buskers and the billboards. Almost, but not quite. Like thehollywoodsign itself, everything seemed both far away and near at hand at the same time, like looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.

They turned in at the same Burbank studios where they’d filmed the last four seasons ofPastor Fran Investigates.

“I’m here with Miranda Abbott,” said her driver. “Eastern Township Mysteries.”

Miranda called out, “I’m in the cast.”

“Just a sec.” The security guard in the booth retrieved a clipboard. “I don’t see that name.” He flipped to the next page, and the next. Ran a finger down it. “Oh, here it is. At the very end.” He passed her lanyard across to the driver, who passed it back to Miranda.

The guard then pressed the button to raise the gate. “Lot C, general parking, at the back.”

“Not staying,” said the driver, more gruffly than necessary. “Just dropping her off.”

No preferred parking spot near the studio gate with her name attached, and no dedicated driver, either.

“Ms. Fenland is expecting you,” said the receptionist.