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“That’s what I said when I went to investigate.

I said, ‘Owen, how would anyone ever know?’ and he said, ‘I know every spare part and every tool on my lot and where I threw them, and I’m telling you, Ned, some son-of-a-gun—though he used saltier language, naturally—has walked off with a coil of my best rope.

’ Says he’s going to put an insurance claim in for it.

Says he bought it second-hand on a handshake deal for twenty-six dollars, and I said, ‘Heck, the legal fees alone are gonna cost you more than that.’ But you know Owen: once he gets a notion into his head, you can’t shake him off it. ”

Andrew was thoroughly charmed. “The Case of the Missing Rope,” he said. Small-town crime! You couldn’t beat it.

“Some grease went missing, too,” said Ned. “Which is to say, we may have a serial thief on our hands.”

“Oh! Or it could be an orangutan.” Bea had a way stopping conversations in their tracks.

“An... orangutan?” said Ned.

“I read a locked-room mystery where the culprit was an orangutan. With a razor.”

“Um, sure, Bea. Could be a primate on the prowl, I suppose. Though I would think poor inventory management would be the more likely solution.”

Miranda remembered a similar twist in a Pastor Fran Investigates episode.

One of Lachlan Todd’s screenplays, where the murder happened inside an orangutan cage and the killer was a human dressed as an ape, who was in turn dressed up as a human.

What was he doing lurking about Happy Rock anyway, our Luckless Lachlan?

“Before I forget,” said Ned. “Don’t fill up on food at the bookstore tonight, okay? I brought salmon over earlier. Isn’t that right, Bea? We’ll have a late supper after the hobnobbing is complete. So go easy on the cheese cubes!”

How to tell him? Miranda thought. How to tell her ? There would be no boxed wine and cheese cubes at I Only Read Murder tonight. The magnificent spread that Geri and Gerry were preparing was a feast in everything but name. It would be a challenge to leave any room for salmon.

“I’ll swing by tonight,” Ned said to Bea, “pick you up. We can run the cobbler in.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be going,” said Bea. “I’ll send it with Miranda.”

“You’re not coming?” said Ned.

The hurt was evident in Bea’s eyes. “I’m just so busy with everything.”

She had no guests checked in. She wasn’t busy. She just wanted to avoid G&G from BB&B. Not a single author had been placed at her B&B. How could she face the town, knowing that?

“Do come,” said Miranda. “It will be fun! I promise.”

But the former Pastor Fran failed on both fronts. Bea stayed home and the reception was not fun—it was murderous.

* * *

D RIVING THE J EEP back up that evening—in heels, no less!

—Miranda wore a flowing satin evening gown with a tasteful V-neck under her fall coat.

(She had to hike up the gown to reach the clutch.) Andrew, meanwhile, had caught a ride to the bookstore with Ned Buckley, who admonished him, “Don’t touch the siren this time, okay?

” The last time Ned had let Andrew sit up front in the patrol car, he’d regretted it.

“What does that button do?” Whoop-whoop!

Ned pulled in behind the Jeep as Miranda was parking, and they entered the bookstore through the back door, where they were greeted by a “Hiya!” from Geri so loud Miranda thought for a moment a karate chop was coming.

“Hello, dear,” said Miranda.

Even more than before, the kitchen was a welter of activity.

Geri was whisking something manically as Gerry ran trays of food out, along with even grander floral arrangements—or were those appetizers?

The artistry of the food trays and the florals were equally striking, and Miranda wouldn’t have put it past the hospitality juggernaut of G&G to have come up with edible bouquets.

“You can drive,” said Ned, voice flat, the accusation evident.

“Of course I can drive,” said Miranda, leading them down the hall to the main room, which had been transformed into a reception area. “I drove all the time on my TV show. I even drove a tank at one point.”

Edgar was sulking to one side like a spectator at his own party, muttering darkly about his store being taken over.

“ Our store,” Miranda corrected.

“We had to move more of the books to one side,” said Gerry as he put another tray down. Stage whisper: “They were sorta in the way, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, it is a bookstore,” Edgar grumbled.

Emmy had been locked upstairs to avoid having her wolf anything down when no one was looking, and Edgar could hear the occasional pitiful whine, which didn’t add to his mood. Grumble, mutter, moan. Such a lump, thought Miranda. We’ll have to address staff morale at our next meeting, she decided.

“You know how to drive a car,” said Ned, not letting it go.

“Yes, yes. We’ve gone over that already. Edgar, dear, maybe straighten out the aperitifs a tad before Geri comes back. Perfect!”

“Can’t help but wonder, then, why you keep getting me to run you places,” said Ned. “In my police vehicle.”

“Not a mystery, Ned. I can drive—but I do not have a license to do so. It lapsed long ago. Edgar, darling, maybe move the flowers just a touch to the left... The other left. Stage left. Thank you!”

“You drove the Jeep without a license?” said Ned.

“Poor Andrew was having such trouble with the stick shift, I thought it best.”

“That’s against the law, Miranda.”

“Law! Which law?”

“The law that says you have to have a license.”

“Oh, that law. We’ll just have to agree to disagree, I’m afraid. Remember, a dis- agreement is just another form of agreement.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Exactly! You disagree, and I agree with you on that. Therefore, we agree to disagree.” Through the window, she spotted another vehicle pulling in. “Oh look! Tanvir and Harpreet are here. Do you think she brought jalebi? I hope she brought jalebi.”

“Miranda, you do realize I am an officer of the law, and operating a motorized vehicle without a license is a flagrant—”

“Let’s put a pin in that for now, shall we? Harpreet!”

Miranda’s friend came in carrying a Tupperware container filled with her famously sticky sweets.

Harpreet Singh, proprietor and tireless promotor of Singh’s Things, Happy Rock’s finest fabric store, was renowned for her fashion sense, and she did not disappoint.

Clad in deep-orange hues, layered in stylish sophistication, she wore a headscarf, artfully draped, and a flowing tunic.

Ornate, but never ostentatious. Accompanying Harpreet was her husband, Tanvir, his beard streaked with gray and head adorned in a rich blue dastār —as the turbans were properly known—with a matching necktie and breast-pocket handkerchief.

Harpreet had clearly chosen Tanvir’s outfit for tonight.

“Left to his own devices, who knows what he would wear!” Harpreet had once confided.

Tanvir Singh owned the town’s hardware and bait store, and he was attending the reception in an official capacity as head of the local Chamber of Commerce. He too had a large Tupperware container, filled with various packets and what looked like a small chemistry set.

“I’m going to make chai,” Harpreet said. “Where is Bea? She asked me to show her the next time I prepared it.”

“Bea’s not coming.”

Harpreet instantly understood. “The new bed-and-breakfast? I saw they were providing both the lodging and cuisine for the writers. Poor Bea.”

Miranda nodded and, as though conjured forth, Gerry arrived in shining tracksuit and matching fanny pack, beaming at Tanvir.

“Mr. Singh!”

“Please. Just Tanvir.”

“Thank you again for the welcome baskets you sent from the Chamber of Commerce when we first opened our doors. The cheese cubes were nice. Rubbery, but nice.”

Tanvir brushed this aside with the largess befitting his station. “Welcome to Happy Rock. We were just pleased someone fixed up the old Hiram Henry House. It stood vacant for far too long.”

They returned to the kitchen, where Tanvir began to unpack Harpreet’s ingredients and copper pan onto the crowded counter.

“Hiya!” said Geri.

Miranda, proud of her friend, said, “Harpreet is going to prepare chai!”

Geri’s smile faltered. “But we already have a selection of Lipton teas on offer.”

“That?” said Harpreet, with a gentle bobble of her head. “That is not tea.”

Miranda explained, “Harpreet makes the best chai.”

Only modesty prevented Harpreet from acknowledging this self-evident truth.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Truly, it is a very simple recipe,” she said, as she arranged the items. “Just some fennel, ajwain, jaggery sugar for desired sweetness, crushed cardamom, a star anise, also crushed, and a clove— not crushed.” This last item was a bone of contention in the Singh household.

“Our daughter, Karendeep, who is studying medicine in Portland—”

“Medi cines ,” Tanvir said, using the plural. “She’s in pharmacy.”

Harpreet gave Tanvir a disapproving look.

“Medicines, medicine, it’s the same. Karendeep agrees that the clove should not be crushed, but she does crack it, which is wrong.

Likewise, she will sometimes swap molasses for the jaggery.

” The way Harpreet said this, it was clearly a venial, if not mortal, sin.

“She also uses coffee cream, not milk, which makes the chai too heavy or, in Tanvir’s words, ‘delicious,’ to drink. ”

Working like a magician, Harpreet boiled the milk and spices, added a tea bag—hey, presto!

—then boiled it up again, removed the head, and brought it back to a boil.

In Harpreet’s words, “It should be as red as a rambutan, but not as dark as an eggplant.” She moved through the steps so quickly Miranda had trouble keeping up.

The foam-up-and-cool-down process alone was repeated three more times. “Like I said, it’s very simple.”

The final drink was heavenly.

“This is so good!” said Miranda. “Maybe we can swap. You can teach me how to make chai, and I’ll teach you how to make my famous lemonade, a secret recipe, mainly intuitive.”

“An excellent suggestion!” said Harpreet. “How lovely!”

Tanvir, panic-stricken, tried to throw desperate hints Harpreet’s way, but his wife either missed them or chose to ignore his wide-eyed look.

“It is a deal!” she said, and they shook hands on it, to Tanvir’s dismay.