Page 47 of Killer on the First Page

“But hewasnervous!” Andrew protested. “And his eyesweredarting back and forth.”

“You know full well that Atticus gets anxious in any situation that involves questioning. Plus, police witness statements don’t normally include a verdict at the end.”

Andrew’s voice dropped. “He’s hiding something. I know it. He was perspiring.”

“He’s always perspiring! It’s Atticus. Have you ever seen him in court? It’s even money whether he faints.”

Miranda pulled Ned away. “You have to come quickly. Fairfax DePoy has escaped.”

“Escaped?” said Ned.

“He has fled! Pursued by the most dogged hunter of them all.”

“Someone is hunting him? Who?”

“Guilt!” she cried. “He is being harried by his own conscience! Fleeing a veritable miasma of remorse over the murder of Kane Hamady.”

Ned looked at her blankly.

“A veritable miasma of remorse! I don’t know how I can put it any more clearly. Come, come. I will show you.”

She dragged Ned out the back door and across the yard to that single footprint in the mud.

“Whoever it was, looks like they were heading to the lane behind the shed,” said Ned. “Maybe down the hill, into town.”

“The guilty flee when none pursue!” said Miranda. “Fairfax’s flight is an admission, Ned.”

“If it was Fairfax.”

“The heavy heel, the small shoe size, the fact that Fairfax is the only author now unaccounted for. Who else would it be, Ned?”

He rubbed his neck. “You got me there. Let’s see if he went skulking anywhere else.”

They circled the bookstore slowly, entering from the front this time, having seen no other footprints on the perimeter. Not that it told them much: the yard was grass; the lane was packed gravel. If Fairfax hadn’t cut past the shed, he might have disappeared undetected.

“I could take one of our cruisers,” said Ned. “Search for him, try to flush him out. Problem is, this town of ours is a rabbit warren of lanes. And at this time of night, the headlights will tip him off. It would be like playing hide-and-seek blindfolded.”

As they entered the bookstore, Mabel Greene was departing, jacket on and accordion in hand. She growled to Ned as she passed, “Rein in yer deputy, captain. He all but accused me of covering up the screams of a dying man with—in his words—‘the unworldly wail’ of my instrument. Harrumph. Next time he stops by the Cozy Café, I’m charging him double and giving him half.”

“Andrew is just a bit keen,” Ned said as Mabel stormed past them into the night.

An interesting word,keen. It could cover up a myriad of other motives. Geri was keen; so was Gerry.

“How well do you know them?” Miranda asked. “That new couple from Portland, the ones who run the B&B at Hiram Henry House?”

“How well does anyone know anyone?”

“It’s not an existential question, Ned.” She was an actor; she knew about existential questions. Whether she was playing Irina Prozorova in Chekhov’sThree Sistersor a karate-chopping, bikini-wearing church pastor on network TV, existential questions spoke to the crux of a character’s motivation. “It would appear that the overtly gregarious Geri and Gerry have inserted themselves into this author festival rather forcefully.”

“Naw. They’re just enthusiastic.”

“Keen?”

“Exactly so. The same way Andrew is keen to help me, they’re keen to be part of the community.”

“You do know they are Bea’s competition?”

Ned turned and looked at Miranda. “Competition? No one is Bea’s competition. Bea is one of a kind. I’ve known her since—”