Page 84 of Killer on the First Page

The detective had become increasingly animated as he listened to what Miranda was suggesting. “A spring?” he asked.

“A heavy industrial-style spring. Something strong and slow enough to gradually push the bolt into place.”

Fumbling with his phone, the detective brought up a gallery of images. “We cataloged everything,” he said, and began scrolling through them at a blur until he came to various images of clock parts, as tagged and numbered and photographed on the floor of the lighthouse. He stopped at one of the items. “Like this?”

It was a thin copper rod with a long but delicate spring running down it.

“Too small.”

He scrolled through to an image of a grooved pendulum weight. “Or this?”

“Too thick—and not springy enough.”

“How about this?”

There it was: a heavy-duty metal spring.

“Taken from Owen’s pile of industrial parts, no doubt,” she said. “Along with the rope and can of grease.”

They crowded in around the detective’s phone. “It certainly looks like it could fit into the barrel of the door’s bolt,” said the detective.

Ned and Andrew agreed.

“You place the springbehindthe bolt,” said Miranda, “then pull back on the bolt to open the door, squeezing the spring in. When you close the door behind you, the spring slowly decompresses, pushing the bolt into place and then falling away, onto the floor.”

“Where it would have immediately been spotted when we pried open the door,” said Ned, “except for the other loose pieces scattered about to cover it up, the cogs and gears and gewgaws and various oddments of a clockwork mechanism. The spring among them. It would be assumed to have come from the clock as well, not that it had been used to lock the door behind the killer after the killer escaped. Ingenious!”

“Thank you!” said Miranda.

“So, not suicide?” said the detective,

“Of course not!” said Miranda. “This wasn’t improvised. This wasn’t something thrown together at the last moment. Our killer was planning to kill both men from the start, first Kane and then DePoy.”

Two locked rooms, two impossible murders. Both solved with a decisive Gordian blow by Miranda Abbott. The only thing the detective from Portland could think to say was “Wow.”

“You are so truly welcome!” She swept toward the front door.

“Wait!” said the detective. “Who are you? Really?”

She stopped, flung her scarf over shoulder. “I’m Pastor Fran!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hiding in Plain Sight

Ned Buckley finally got his salmon. Bea had had to reheat it three times over the past two days, and Doc Meadows had warned Ned about this when he’d heard what she’d be serving for lunch, but Ned pronounced it the most delicious meal he ever had.

He’d stopped by Geri and Gerry’s earlier to speak with Penny Fenland, to let her know about the X the janitor had drawn on the photo of her face, claiming she and Kane and Fairfax had been, as he put it, “thick as thieves.”

“But why?” she’d said. “We weren’t friends. No one could stand Kane, and Fairfax was living a lie.”

Ned had asked if she wanted to be put into protective custody, meaning locked up in a local cell, and she’d declined, more confused than upset. It was a wise choice, as the holding cell of Happy Rock would prove more permeable than people realized.

And now Ned was at Bea’s B&B, where he belonged, ready and eager to dine. Bea had added lemon slices as garnish, though Miranda had offered to douse the entire slab of salmon with lemon juice.

“I have loads of the stuff,” she’d assured Bea. “For when anyone asks for my patented lemonade.” Not that they did.

Bea had politely declined and stuck with herbs, sea salt, and sliced lemon instead. And butter. Lots and lots of butter. (Bea’s hero was Julia Child.)