Page 15 of Killer on the First Page

“Typists, word jugglers, hacks for hire. Authors. They fobbed us off at some fleabag flophouse, so I scrammed as soon as the gettin’ was good.”

“Flophouse?” said Geri, looking up. “You mean our four-star B&B? The Hiram Henry House? The boutique inn where everyone is staying?”

“Relax, sister. A turn of phrase, nothing more, like a turned ankle, meant to catch attention.”

“I don’t know if I appreciate that,” said Geri, who genuinely didn’t know.

“Upset the apple cart, did I? Shoot me through the heart with an arrow, why don’t ya? Aw, but you’re a good egg—and a foxy Frau to boot. Nice caboose. I megged that from here.”

“Thanks? I... think?”

He had a way of making compliments sound like take-downs, and take-downs sound like praise.

“Why’d I come to Sad Stone?” His clever take on Happy Rock. “No reason. My dance card was free, and I could use the lettuce.”

“Lettuce?” said Geri.

“Cabbage, hay, berries, dough, clams.”

“We... we don’t have clams on the menu. Or lettuce. Though we do have kale in the smoked salmon quiche.”

“Not food, you dizzy dame. Moolah, greenbacks, simoleons, a bit of scratch. I’m talkin’ lucre, filthy or otherwise. They promised me apayout for appearing. And I’m saying, I don’t get paid, I don’t play. Cash on the barrelhead, straight up.”

“You’re just doing thisfor the money?” Miranda had never done anything for the money. Fame, accolades, and love most of all. But money? That had never entered into her equations. It was always about the art. And the love. Mostly the love.

“Now you’re on the trolley, kiddo! Now you get it. If not for money, what else is there?” Then, as an aside to Geri, “The kale you mentioned? It’s organic and GMO-free, correct?”

“About your feud with Fairfax DePoy,” said Andrew, pressing on. “When you were breaking his fingers—”

“A drink! A drink, Mr. Hamady!” said Miranda. “Perhaps my assistant, Andrew, canleaveand get you one.”

“Sure, dollface. I’ll have a snort o’ hooch, or maybe some java instead, some joe, a cuppa mud, some jitter juice, a caffeinated mug of—”

“Yes, yes,” she said with a sigh. “A coffee. I get it. Andrew, darling, can you take Mr. Hamady to our cappuccino bar in the back. A latte, perhaps?”

“Do you have low-fat almond milk?” Kane asked as he left the room with Andrew.

“That man...” said Miranda with an exasperated shake of the head.

“Why, I ought’a paste him one right in the kisser, see?” said Edgar.

Miranda laughed. “Mr. Abbott, I do declare you are jealous. Couldn’t stand to see him flirting with me. At least, I think he was flirting. It’s hard to say with the argot he wields.”

“Jealous? Of that guy!? Gimme a break, dollface.”

“Sure thing, ya big palooka.” Then, more thoughtfully, “Does he really need the money?”

“Three ex-wives, a gambling problem, a string of bad investments, and a chain of failed artisanal potpourri shoppes? I’d say so.”

“Three wives?”

“Yup. He says they were all impossible to live with. Every one of ’em.”

“But the appearance fees authors are paid are quite small, I imagine.*Or was he referring to something else? Some other source of potential income. I wonder.” Her inner sleuth was stirring. “It’s an act. All of it. False bravado.”

Miranda recognized the Stanislavski method when she saw it, “living” the role rather than imitating it.

“Kane?” said Edgar. “Yeah, it’s exaggerated.”