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Chapter One

The Uninvited Mr. Todd

M iranda Abbott, star * of stage and screen, stepped back to admire the poster that the janitor had pinned up in the community events board outside the Opera House:

Middlemist Marketing & SR Promotions Present

THE FIRST ANNUAL HAPPY ROCK MYSTERY FESTIVAL!

featuring:

K ANE H AMADY : two-fisted master of the hard-boiled detective story

F AIRFAX H UGHES D EPOY III: romantic historical mystery maestro

I NEZ F ONIO : Maven of Malice

P ENELOPE “P ENNY ” F ENLAND : Queen of the Cozies

R AY V ALENTINE : Prince of the Police Procedural

W ANDA S TOBOL : beloved children’s author, creator of Compendium Cathy

L AWRENCE B LOCK : an up-and-comer with a lot of promise

hosted by “I Only Read Murder” bookstore

accommodations provided by BB&B (thanks G&G!)

From behind her came a strangely familiar voice. “Well, well, if it isn’t the movie star herself.” Enter: Lachlan Todd.

She didn’t recognize him when she first turned—pirouetted, really—with an insouciant fling of her scarf and breathy “Yes! It is I” on hearing those three magic words: the movie star!

Though really, Miranda Abbott was a star of TV, * not movies, her foray into film having never captured the public imagination the way her TV detective character had.

For better or worse, Miranda was still fixed, firmly, in the public eye as—

“Pastor Fran. It’s been a while.”

The miserable Lachlan Todd was wearing a ridiculous fur-lined cap with flaps pulled down over his ears, looking sallow-faced in a bulky coat three times too large.

It was the sort of cold weather get-up LA types inevitably don when venturing north of San Fernando, not understanding that seasons, like life, come in gradations.

Miranda Abbott, in contrast, clad in layers of her trademark green—the better to set off her famous red hair, which came from a bottle these days, admittedly—had fully embraced autumn.

A loose cashmere sweater and skinny jeans (not quite age-appropriate, but it worked) with a fling-able scarf designed for moments such as these, topped off with a classic wool overcoat.

If only it had been a real fan stopping her in the street, not this contemptible blast from her distant past. Miranda knew she disliked Lachlan, though she couldn’t exactly remember why.

Early November and the leaves were falling, revealing towering evergreens behind, the Douglas firs and dark cedar that formed a backdrop to the community. Pearly skies and damp mist. Autumns in the Pacific Northwest were always so moist.

“It’s a long way from the Hollywood Hills,” said Lachlan with a disdainful backhanded wave to the harbor.

It is, she thought. It is, indeed.

“And your beau?” he asked. “Ol’ Edgar? He still hiding out here? Like a fugitive?”

Miranda straightened her shoulders. “Edgar loves this town. He loves Oregon. Loves Happy Rock. He even loves the weather.” What else he might love was up for debate.

The town of Happy Rock, Oregon, lay cradled in a saltwater bay.

Its inner harbor boasted both the historic Duchess Hotel and the elegant alabaster presence of the Opera House, landmarks from the town’s days as a Victorian-era tourist destination.

The morning sun had just broken over the hills, and a seaplane lifted off on a slowly spreading wake.

Beyond the inner harbor, stretching out its rocky arm, was Laurel Point, with its candy-striped lighthouse.

A shrug from Lachlan. “Pretty enough, I suppose.” Everything he said sounded sarcastic. He had a sarcastic soul. “If you like that sort of thing.”

Miranda remembered Lachlan in the writers’ room at NBC pitching the most outlandish plots for her show Pastor Fran Investigates , plots that often employed trip wires, artfully placed mirrors, hidden magnets, and poisoned lariats.

Whenever Miranda’s husband, Edgar, head writer at the time, balked at this, Lachlan Todd would snidely reply, Of course, I’m presuming a degree of intelligence in our viewers.

What would bring this sallow, sour figure to Happy Rock?

The answer lay in the very poster that the janitor had put up outside of the Opera House in the community notice board, behind a plexiglass sheet, the better to protect it from the sodden rains and sudden winds of Tillamook Bay.

Lachlan rummaged in his voluminous coat pocket and retrieved a single paper clip, which he untwisted and then used to turn the lock in the display case.

Who carries paper clips with him? Miranda mused.

The plexiglass front swung open, and from his other pocket Lachlan produced a Sharpie.

On the poster, at the bottom of the list of authors that were coming for the mystery fest, he added a new name, replete with a superfluous flurry of exclamation marks: With surprise guest LACHLAN TODD! King of the Locked-Room Mystery!!!

He stood back to admire his handiwork. Even his smile was a sneer.

“There. Fixed it.” Lachlan closed the display case, twisted the lock back into place.

“You have a master, a maestro, a maven, a queen, and a so-called prince. A king completes the set, wouldn’t you say? Outranks a prince, certainly.”

He was referring to Ray Valentine, the Prince of the Police Procedural.

“Ray Valentine traffics in realism,” Miranda pointed out. She’d been introduced to his work at the bookstore: granular examinations of the plodding yet compelling nature of police work. “You, in contrast, create elaborate Rube Goldberg machinery.”

“The episodes of Pastor Fran Investigates I wrote were always among the most highly rated,” he reminded her. “You didn’t have any problem starring in those stories at the time. Bought you a house, as I recall.”

Ah yes. A house in the Hollywood Hills... So long ago as to be a dream.

Lachlan chuckled at the other names on the poster. “Edgar is up to his old tricks, I see.”

“What on earth are you referring to?”

“The authors. I’m assuming it was Edgar behind this volatile lineup? Cats and water. Oil and dogs. Edgar’s stirring the pot. Inviting Kane Hamady and that pompous twit Fairfax the Third? A murderous combination, right there. And I don’t mean their fiction. The two men hate each other.”

“Come, now. One could hardly assemble any group of writers without at least one pre-existing feud already in place. You know how authors are. They collect vendettas the way actors collect accolades.”

“Sure, but Kane vs. Fairfax? That’s a feud of a different order.” His smile had become a grin. “ Twinkle, twinkle, Killer Kane. Kane broke his fingers, one by one.”

“What?!”

“And as for ‘beloved children’s author’ Wanda Stobol... Y’ever meet her?”

“No, but I read the Compendium Cathy books when I was a girl. I loved them!”

“Hide your booze, is all I’m saying. And any firearms you may have lying around.

If nothing else, this entire gong show should be entertaining.

I figure there’ll be at least one drunken dustup, several brouhahas, and possibly some fisticuffs during the course of said festival.

A chance for me to stand out among the riff and raff of these lesser scribes, I’d say.

Liven up the festival’s blathering author panels and mind-numbing readings and painfully awkward book signings.

” Lachlan cast his lean and hungry look Miranda’s way.

“And what is an erstwhile TV star of your stature doing out here in the boonies? I thought you and Edgar hit the reef years ago.”

“It’s...” Don’t say complicated, don’t say complicated. “... complicated.”

“Edgar and Miranda, back together again, huh? Edgar and Miranda, the Sequel. Well, I never met a tired franchise that someone didn’t try to reboot eventually, no matter how ill-advised.”

And it hit her, like a blow to the gut. Was that what this was? Her moving to Happy Rock from LA, taking a room in the attic of a B&B, running a bookstore with her former/current husband. Was this just an attempt at rebooting a dead show, flogging a horse that had long since met its demise?

Lachlan pulled his fur-flapped hat down farther. “The Miranda Abbott I knew was harried and hounded by paparazzi. The Miranda Abbott I knew was constant fodder for gossip magazines and scandal sheets. The Miranda Abbott I knew would never be seen in public without an entourage. Where are they?”

“My entourage? Here he is now.”

Coming down the harborfront toward them, enveloped in steam, was the trim and impeccably doffed figure of Andrew Nguyen, carrying two large cups of chamomile tea from the Cozy Café.

He was in his navy Stefano Ricci overcoat with a plaid scarf arranged—like Miranda’s—more for style than warmth, and he was beaming.

“They have the poster up at the café, too!” he said, calling out, his breath in cumulus. “The whole town is talking about it!”

This is what passed for “buzz” in Happy Rock: being the topic of conversation at the local café.

“Andrew, darling, come and meet the man who wasn’t invited.”

“A pleasure,” Lachlan said, though his smile suggested anything but.

Miranda fluttered a smile of her own his way. “Lachlan, I present to you my entire entourage—and dear friend—young Andrew Nguyen.”

“Personal assistant,” said Andrew, juggling the sleeved takeout cups to shake the other man’s heavily mittened hand.

Andrew was in calfskin gloves. The only way he would ever wear mittens would be ironically.

He had clean, streamlined features and a choppy hairstyle that belied the lack of a decent salon in Happy Rock.

“I used to work with Miranda back in her Pastor Fran days,” said Lachlan.

Andrew’s eyes lit up. “On her TV show? No kidding!”