Page 13 of Killer on the First Page

As Edgar had often pointed out to Miranda, any author worth their salt can spy one of their own books a hundred paces away, across a crowded room.

“Flowers?” Kane said, and the distaste was evident in his voice. He was referencing the autumn centerpiece that G&G had laid out in a sheaf. He turned to Edgar. “Well-heeled joint, I see.” He held out his hand. “Kane Hamady, at yer service. You must be the goulash that runs this boneyard of books.”

“I’m the owner, if that’s what you mean.”

If Edgar expected a knuckle-crushing death grip of unadulterated manliness, he was surprised at how mild the handshake was, almost hesitant.

Kane’s expression shifted as he looked past Edgar to the hallway behind. “Say. Who’s the skirt?”

Chapter Four

A Low-Life Palooka Who Don’t Know Dollars from Donuts

Miranda Abbott had returned from the kitchen carrying scented candles for the display table, and Kane shifted the cinnamon toothpick in his mouth with a leer. Giving her the once-over, he addressed Edgar. “That’s a nice bit of calico, pal.”

Baffled, Edgar could only say, “Calico?”

“This dame with the swell chassis and the gams up to here.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Miranda.

“Don’t snap your cap, sister. I’m just saying, you’re a dish, a doll, a lulu deluxe, a beauteous broad, a real gal. A vexatious vamp, a moll, a kitten, a starlight vixen.” It was almost freestyle poetry, the way he said it. “A tomato, a dame, a canary, see?”

“So... awoman?” she said.

“If you want to get pedantic about it, sure.”

Edgar’s jaw had clenched. “Well, Mr. Hamady, this doll, this dish, this nice bit o’ calico happens to be my wife.”

Miranda tried not to grin.My wife, you say? Got ya! Deny it as much as you want Edgar, but we are still wed!

Kane whistled through his teeth. “Notthe one and onlyMiranda Abbott,” he said. “Not Pastor Fran herself. Your wife? Go climb upyour thumb! Haven’t aged a day, dollface. Still a bearcat, I see. A flame-topped firecracker. I always was partial to redheads.”

“Again, that would be my wife,” said Edgar, jaw still clenched as Miranda’s grin grew. She was enjoying this.

“And this is my husband,” she said. “Right here.”

“My least favorite kind of husband,” said Kane, ignoring Edgar and addressing Miranda. “Here.”

“Most people wouldn’t say something so rude,” said Miranda.

“I ain’t most people.”

“Too bad,” said Miranda. “I like most people.”

“Got quite the sting on you, sister. You’re like a scorpion dressed in green.”

Miranda smiled. “A gentleman would remove his hat when he meets a lady.”

“I ain’t no gentleman.”

“Are you suggesting I’m no lady?”

It felt like she was acting out a scene from her Pastor Fran days.

“Fair enough, sweet cheeks.” Kane pulled the traditional felt trilby from his head, stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. Had he kept his hat on, it would have been easier for Miranda to track his movements later—but how could she have known?

Miranda was enjoying Edgar’s discomfort. “Charmed,” she said, extending the back of her hand to Kane as though expecting him to kiss it.