Page 6 of Killer on the First Page

Edgar sighed. “They made several. John D. Ross wrote one of the most successful detective series of all time, Miranda. If you’re going to pretend to run a bookstore—”

A flash of red-haired ire. “Not pretend, Edgar. I remind you, I am theownerof this establishment.” Then, hand up to stop him before he could say anything, “Co-owner.Majority co-owner.”

An error in calculations on the bank’s part had left her with 50.04 percent of the business to Edgar’s 49.96 percent, a minor technicality—a triviality, really—that Miranda rarely mentioned more than, oh, ten or twelve times a day. Want to move that sofa over there? Want tobring in a cappuccino machine? Sell scented candles? Put up paisley curtains? Perhaps we should ask the majority co-owner?

“We have twenty kinds of candles on sale,” Edgar grumbled. “You could at least know the name of one of our top sellers.”

“Pumpkin spice?”

“Not candles.Books. We are a bookstore, remember? We have an entire section dedicated to him.”

“Ah yes! Under D.”

“D?” said Edgar. He was patting his pockets, looking for something to open the boxes with.

“JohnD. Ross,” Miranda explained. “Alphabetically, of course.”

“R, you mean to say.” Edgar settled on his car keys, ran the edge along the top of the packing tape on one of the boxes.

Andrew helped him unpack them.

“Even after his death, John D. Ross’s books sell really well,” Andrew said. “His Trevor Lucas mysteries are all still in print. That’s the name of his sleuth. We carry most of the Trevor Lucas mysteries:The Deep-Blue Hydrangea. White Daffodil of Death. A Purple Lotus for Dying. The Fearful Yellow Chrysanthemum.”

“And Penzler Publishers has just announced it will be relaunching the entire series,” said Edgar. “With new introductions by current masters in the field. Several of whom are coming to this mystery festival, in fact.”

This brought up a delicate matter.

“Edgar, dear, will the authors who are coming to this festival be staying at Bea’s B&B?” One of the posters was on display beside the cash register, and Miranda pointed to the line at the bottom:accommodations provided by BB&B.“Might get crowded if she tries to fit everyone in.”

With Miranda in the attic and Andrew in the pantry, Bea would only have four rooms available for visiting authors.

“They’re not staying at Bea’s,” said Edgar. “They’re staying at the new place. TheotherB&B.”

“That’s us!” said Geri, as she passed by carrying a plastic-wrapped tray. “G&G from BB&B!”

As Geri disappeared down the hall, Miranda whispered to Edgar, “Does she have a stutter?”

“That’s the name of their bed-and-breakfast. The BB&B.”

Edgar pried open the next box, took out the top book, a hardcover original ofHeavy Lay the Hollyhocks.He whistled. “Wow. These are in mint condition.”

“There’s a new B&B in town?”

“Out by the lighthouse. The old historic Hiram Henry House. Geri and Gerry—the ones banging about in our kitchen—they bought it.”

Miranda’s opinion of them instantly soured now that she knew they were Bea’s competition.

“They cater as well?”

Edgar and Andrew were stacking the hardcovers on a display table. “They do indeed,” said Edgar.

“I’ll say!” said Andrew. “I took a peek at the menu for tonight. Trout croquette and goat cheese parfait.” He thought a moment. “Or maybe it was trout parfait and goat cheese croquette.”

“A gala!” Miranda exclaimed.

“A reception,” Edgar amended. “Amodestreception.”

“A gala!” Miranda enjoyed nothing more than making a reluctant appearance at a grand soiree. “I shall have to ransack my wardrobe.”