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Chapter Eight

The Shriek of a Thousand Banshees

“D oc,” said Miranda, “do I belong here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you are co-owner.”

“I mean, in Happy Rock. Do you think I belong here, on this bay, in this town?”

“Sure you do. For better or worse, this is your home.”

But was it? She couldn’t help noticing that Doc had inadvertently referenced a wedding vow. For richer or poorer, for better or worse. If home was where the heart was, where did Miranda’s heart lie?

Talking to Penny had brought it all back: the table reads and last-minute rewrites, the stunt doubles and walk-throughs, the energy and excitement of throwing together a show, week after week.

They were so much younger back then. Penny, suggesting in her awkward way that perhaps they should take better advantage of Miranda’s talents.

“She is a classically trained actress.” But no, it was all speedboats and bikinis, with the occasional pious reflections on the homilies of St. John thrown in for good measure, right before she karate-chopped another celebrity guest star into oblivion.

The memories were flooding in. Hollywood was calling, softly, softly.

.. Maybe Miranda could try again? Un-fire the agent she’d un-rehired in a spate of anger, look for small roles, try to get a foot in the door?

It’s not like Edgar would miss her. And she could always summer back in Happy Rock once she’d made it big again.

Didn’t Clooney have a cabin on Lake Como?

A twenty-four-bedroom cabin with its own helipad, true, but still.

Maybe one didn’t have to choose between Happy Rock and LA. Maybe one could have both?

But Miranda knew that once she went back to LA, she would stay.

If only there was a sign, something—anything—to tell her what to do, to solve this dilemma, to help her decide once and for all whether to stay or to go.

Hollywood beckoned, with its glamor and pizzazz, but if she left Happy Rock, Miranda knew she would miss the calm, relaxing nature of—

The door at the end of the hallway blew open on a blast of cold air, and the most horrendous shriek imaginable filled the air like the wailing of a thousand banshees unleashed upon the world.

It was Mabel and her accordion.

Whenever an honored guest happened to grace Happy Rock with their presence, it was important to present the town in its full pomp and splendor.

Thus, the Great Imperial Master of the Tillamook Loyal Order of Joyous Igneous desserts (assorted) to be served at 8:16 p.m. Bea’s cobbler would be included under the catchall “assorted.” At precisely 8:16 p.m.

Miranda didn’t know it at the time, but G&G’s tightly scheduled timeline would prove fatally important to at least one guest later on! *

Speaking of which...

* * *

P ERHAPS IT WAS the silk sash with its fancy tassels, perhaps it was the lofty title of Grand Bricklayer, or maybe it was Owen McCune’s naturally dignified air, but Inez Fonio of the black lipstick zeroed in on him immediately.

“Your aura!” she exclaimed, rushing to his side. “It’s as pure as crystal. As warm as wool.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Do you have an interest in bondage?”

Miranda, passing by at that exact moment, almost tripped. She caught a surprised look from Penny, who shook her head and moved to the other side of the room.

“The bondage that holds souls to their bodies,” Inez explained to Owen. “The pulleys and ropes that bind and befuddle us. Socially.”

“Oh, those ropes.” Owen was thinking about his own ongoing complaint regarding the stuff that had been stolen from behind his garage. “You mean symbolic ropes. Not the kind people can take. Gotcha. I’m Owen McCune, by the way. I’m the—”

“Wait!” she said. “Don’t tell me.”

She proceeded to “read” him by employing the techniques and uncanny deductive skills that come from creating a creature with the brain of Sherlock Holmes.

“Your eyes,” she said. “Gray! Haunted. You squint, but not to a distant horizon, like a sailor or a farmer, but in the manner of someone who works... indoors, in darker corners. Your sideburn whiskers suggest focus and form, but the lack of maintenance of said whiskers suggests you are single. No partner would allow you to leave home in such a rugged state. Your shoulders are broad, but not too broad. They suggest physical labor, yet are slightly stooped, suggesting the weight of responsibility pushing down on you, the sort of pressure one might experience as the owner... of a... construction company— no! Your hands! Your hands are exquisite. Let me see them. Yes! They suggest strength and dexterity. An automotive garage. You are the owner of a garage!”

“Wow! That’s amazing,” he said. “You could tell all that just by looking at me?”

“It’s a gift,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “And a curse.”

The fact that Owen was wearing mechanics coveralls with a logo sewed on the chest that read McCune’s Garage, Owen McCune, sole proprietor helped, I’m sure, thought Miranda.

“You got something on your cheek,” Owen said, licking his thumb and trying to wipe away the tiny tattoo under Inez’s left eye.

Rather than recoiling as any sensible person would, she leaned into it. “You would need to rub deeper than that to rid me of this,” she said. “’Tis the Eye of Osiris.”

“Oh, I get it! Like the All-Seeing Eye of LOJIC. We have the same sort of thing. Though we don’t tattoo it on our faces. We just have a pin.” He patted himself down. “Dang. I’ve gone and lost mine.” He grinned. “Maybe I should get a tattoo. I can’t lose that, right?”

“You can’t,” she breathed. “You can only lose your soul.”

Yikes, thought Miranda.