Page 78 of Killer on the First Page

“I just came from the police station,” Sheryl said, stomping past. “I have nothing more to say.” With a glare in Ned’s direction, she added, “I already gave a statement to your local deputy last night, but had to go through it all over again this morning with those annoying detectives from Portland.”

Scoop stopped her anyway. “The Weekly Picayune. I only need a moment.”

“No time,” Sheryl snapped, pushing past.

As the publicist blew by, Scoop called out to her, “Just one question! Please, Ms. Ross!”

Sheryl froze. Turned slowly. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“You are Sheryl Ross, yes? Youngblut is your professional name, derived from the German, ‘young blood,’ to distinguish you from—”

“Enough!”

Ah! Miranda thought. Young Blood vs. Old Blood.

Sheryl’s eyes were blazing with ire. “What do you want from me?”

“You are John D. Ross’s granddaughter, yes?”

“How did you...?”

“Nothing fancy. I just ran a basic reverse image search on your LinkedIn photo. You’re not exactly in witness protection or anything.”

With a distinct chill in her voice, Sheryl Ross/Youngblut said, “One question, that’s it. I will answer exactly one question and no more. And if it’s about the death of Kane Hamady or Fairfax DePoy, this interview is over.”

“Oh, nothing like that. You’re a successful entrepreneurial young woman. Our readers will want to know: What are your impressions of Happy Rock?”

“Happy Rock? It’s... it’s a nice town.”

Gold!

Scoop thanked her and let her pass. A moment later, Andrew arrived. Seeing the reporter, he asked, “What’s up?”

Ned shrugged, but Scoop, giddy with excitement, said, “Got an exclusive!”

Before Scoop could run off to file her story, Miranda, suddenly inspired, stopped her. “Ms. Bannister, you work for the paper. You must have microfiche files. There was a record for largest cutthroattrout set a few years ago when Kane Hamady was on the river. I think he said 38 pounds, or maybe it was 138.”

Ned chuckled. “Would hardly beone hundredand thirty-eight.”

Whatever. Men and their fish. Sheesh.

“Sure,” said Scoop. “I can find that for you, text you the link.”

Andrew interceded. “Maybe text it to me instead.”

Miranda was not known for her technological savvy. The fact that she’d referenced microfiche files underlined this.

“Do you have my number?” Andrew asked.

“I do, under—” She caught herself. She had jokingly listed Andrew as “future boyfriend,” only to find out later that he was playing for the other team. “Um, sure, I can send that.” And she left, more flustered than when she’d arrived.

On Scoop’s departure, Miranda pivoted. “Ned, Andrew! To the Murder Store! We have a fallen toothpick and an open transom to explain!”

To which Ned replied, “Miranda, how many times have we gone over this? I’m not your personal chauffeur. I’ve got to get to the station, type up my notes from my talk with the janitor, confer with my colleagues from Portland. I’m not running you up to the bookstore.Capiche?”

Having once again lost a coin toss to himself, Ned Buckley drove them to the bookstore. Miranda insisted he accompany them inside.

“You will want to be present for this!” she declaimed in full performance mode. Employing the finely honed deductive skills she’d developed as TV’s Pastor Fran, Miranda Abbott had solved the first impossible crime. “A locked room above, a single toothpick below. It fits together!”