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Now that Owen’s resplendent arrival as Grand Bricklayer was complete, all of the evening’s guests had assembled. Miranda herded everyone into the main room, locals and authors alike, for a champagne toast, raising her glass and commanding silence by her sheer presence. The chatter grew quiet.

“Hello, everyone. Yes, you are quite correct. It is I! Miranda Abbott! Welcome to I Only Read Murder. As the owner of this bookstore—”

A voice from the back: “Co-owner!”

“I welcome and embrace each and every one of you. And please give a round of applause in appreciation to Sheryl Youngblut, who has done such a splendid job arranging the authors’ travel and—” Miranda caught herself and didn’t mention the accommodations, not with Bea in attendance.

“As I always say, a job done well is a well-done job indeed! If you have any questions or concerns, do let me know. Otherwise, enjoy the rest of the evening!”

She’d forgotten to thank the authors, but that was okay. Authors were used to that.

Before the guests could resume chatting among themselves, the raspy voice of Wanda Stobol rang out.

“Hey! I got a question. Is it true the bookstore received a wealth of John D. Ross books? The original editions, I mean. I didn’t see any of them on the shelves. Where are you hiding them?”

The question took Miranda by surprise. She’d been expecting something along the lines of “Ms. Abbott! Who are you wearing tonight?” or “What was Bill Shatner really like?” or even “Will you stay in Happy Rock forever? Or will you be going home to Hollywood?” But a question about those dusty old boxes of books? She wasn’t expecting that.

“Oh. You know John D. Ross?” Miranda asked. She meant know of , but the look on Wanda’s face suggested something closer to the heart.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice dropping so low it was almost a thought. “I knew him.”

Problem is, you don’t have enough to say to fill a book, but too much for a short story. It’s the length of your mysteries that’s tripping you up. They’re too short. You can’t sell a 30,000-word novel. Unless you’re writing children’s books. Not all of the Idaho Seven can be adult authors.

Wanda snapped back at Miranda, “Did I know John D. Ross? Sure I did. We all did. Some people sleep their way to the middle, some people claw their way to the top, some of us can’t even do that.

John D. Ross liked to play with people’s lives like they were characters in one of his ridiculous novels.

I was glad the old fart finally died. Asleep in his bed, no less. Lucky bastard.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Miranda, not sure what to do, threw a cue to her co-star, a common enough trick among actors. “Edgar, dearest? There you are, way at the back. Perchance you might be able to answer Ms. Stobol’s query regarding the works of John D. Ross?”

“We did receive a stack of first editions, yes. Hardcover and paperback. Plus a manuscript.”

A pin dropping would have echoed like a gong.

“A manuscript?” someone asked. “A complete manuscript?”

“Far as I know. Didn’t read it. Didn’t recognize the title, either.”

“Something about an orchid? A black orchid?”

“That’s right. You know it? Because I couldn’t find that title listed in any of his bibliographies. It may have been one that he abandoned. Was probably included with the books by mistake. I’m shipping it back to Helen tomorrow.”

“Helen?” said Ray.

“Who is this Helen?” Inez wanted to know.

“The widow.”

“Ah,” said Wanda. “So that was her name.” Then, to Ray: “Didn’t you spend your summers at Cape Cod with John?”

“I did. Don’t recall his wife’s name, though. Old Blood and Thunder mainly talked to me about police work. We exchanged tales from our days on the force. Manly tales.”

Look, Ray, you’re a writer—a good writer, maybe a great writer—but you’re soft. You need a persona. Make one up, or take it if you have to. But don’t be you.

“Would we be able to see the books you got?” Ray asked, turning to face Edgar from across the room. “Tonight?”

“Don’t see why not. I’ll take you in after we’re done the next course. The manuscript and the books are locked up in the reading room.”

“The reading room?” said Fairfax DePoy. “Oh, right. Where you keep your rare editions. I saw it on your website.”

“We have a website?” said Miranda.

“Andrew set it up,” said Edgar. Then, in an attempt to get back to the point of the night’s event, he announced loudly to the other guests, “Don’t forget! We sell books! We have the latest works by the authors in attendance tonight. For sale. Because we’re a bookstore. So, y’know...”

A pregnant pause followed. Trying to get people to actually buy books at a book event was always a hurdle.

Miranda added, “I’m sure the authors would happily sign and personalize any copies you purchase tonight.”

Books by the authors attending the festival were displayed on a separate table, and the authors, as always, had been obsessively comparing their books to the others in agonizing detail: the size and/or prestige of the publisher (the two did not always overlap), the quality of the paper, the number of blurbs vs.

the value of the blurbs (one Janet Evanovich was worth three P.K.

Pennington’s, for example), who was thanked in the acknowledgments and who was not.

Author and guest alike had been milling about, manhandling the stock, and this too would prove fatal, for each and every book was now covered in fingerprints. ..

“Before we adjourn,” Miranda said, “are there any questions for the esteemed authors we have in attendance tonight?” Then, with a laugh, she added, “As long as it’s not ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’”

A cold voice in back: “I have a question for Ray Valentine: Where do you get your ideas from?”

It was the customer from earlier, and in that moment, Miranda realized where she knew him from. The Opera House.

“My ideas? What do you—Who said that?” Ray tried to locate the person who had asked the question, but the man was gone.

A gust of cold air revealed that the back door had been opened, though who had entered or slipped out was not clear.

Edgar announced, “I’ll take the authors into the reading room to see those John D. Ross first editions.”

Glances were exchanged among the authors. Dark currents were moving below the surface; as an actor, Miranda recognized subtext when she saw it. She grabbed Edgar as he passed by. “There is so much tension in this room. What is going on?”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t invite these authors. I’m just the book guy.”

As events spun out of control, this would become something akin to a mantra from Edgar: Don’t blame me, I’m just the bookseller. An alibi worthy of a headstone: Hey, we just sell the books. We don’t actually murder anyone.

“If you didn’t choose the authors, who did?”

“Middlemist Marketing, I presume. They’re the ones who contacted me, asked if I’d be the designated bookseller and maybe host an opening night reception.

That’s it. You want more answers, talk to Sheryl Youngblut, the publicist. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a room to unlock and some John D. Ross novels to present.”

But Miranda wasn’t done. “That man—the one who asked Ray Valentine that question. Who is he, and why did you invite him?”

“I assumed you invited him,” said Edgar.

“I did not.”

“Well, maybe he’s someone’s plus one.”

“He was alone. He came alone, left alone. I don’t know his name, but I recognized his face. He works at the Opera House. He was the one who put up our poster.”

“The janitor? Nah, I’ve seen that guy. He has a huge handlebar mustache.”

Miranda gave Edgar an arched-eyebrow Really? look.

“Oh, right. People can shave their mustaches. That would explain the pale upper lip...”

“Whoever he is, he certainly seems to have unnerved Mr. Valentine with his question.”

A raspy voice, as abrasive as it was insistent, returned. Beloved children’s author Wanda Stobol was growling at Edgar. “What’s the goddamn holdup? Are we going to see those goddamn books or not?”

The other authors had practically queued up behind her, eager to get in, and Edgar called across to Andrew: “Can you grab the key to the reading room? It should be hanging on the wall in the kitchen.”

Andrew let the authors in. They shoved past him, into the narrow confines of the reading room, and immediately started going through the stacks of John D.

Ross novels as though it were a Black Friday event.

The excitement grew with each volume. “The first Trevor Lucas story! Mint condition, too. You know how hard that is to find?” “Look! The one where they misspelled his name on the cover page.” “That’s right!

John D. Rose . A rarity!” “Appropriate, given his relentless flower-themed titles, I’d say.

” “Here’s the one with the cover Joan Collins modeled for before she became famous, Green is the Geranium of Envy .

” “Are germaniums even green?” “Creative license, give it a rest.”

But what they really wanted to see was—

“The manuscript,” Kane Hamady demanded. “Where is it?”

The hard-boiled author had been unnaturally quiet throughout the evening, had barely swaggered or thrown an intimidating look Fairfax’s way.

He seemed almost to be holding back, waiting to see what Fairfax would do.

If it was a feud, it struck Miranda as very much performative, the way celebrity marriages often were.

“The manuscript?” said Edgar. “Oh, that’s locked in the cabinet.”

And immediately they were pressed up against the glass like urchins at a shop window.

“Can we—can we look at it?” asked Wanda.

“Ponder its mysteries?” said Inez.

“Enjoy its prose?” said Penny.

From the doorway, Miranda called out. “Edgar, it’s cold in here. Close the transom. You’re letting the heat out.”

Grumbling, Edgar picked his way past the knot of writers. The transom above the window was indeed open a crack, letting in a thin slice of cold air. Reaching up, he pulled it in, closing the latch with a firm, loud click . He checked the radiator below the window as well, since he was there.

“No heat,” he complained. “What are we paying Melvin for?”

Melvin Jacobson, he of the guided tours and manure emporium, was also the local furnace cleaner and serviceperson.

“I mean, we signed up for his elite package, right? Furnace is still groaning and the heat just dribbles in.”

Edgar fiddled with the radiator setting, cranking the knob one way, then the other, then giving up.

When he turned around, he caught Inez trying to turn the cabinet key to access the manuscript while several of the other authors apparently ran interference.

Ray Valentine, for one, seemed to be trying to block Edgar’s view.

Annoyed, Edgar went over to them. “That’s enough. Out we go.”

As he shooed the urchins from the shop window, the publicist, Sheryl Youngblut, hung back. She waited in the hallway outside the reading room while Edgar locked the door behind them.

“Mr. Abbott, I understand why you wouldn’t want writers going through an unpublished John D. Ross manuscript,” she said. “Plagiarism pitfalls abound. But as a marketing tool, that manuscript would be a godsend.”

“You’d have to talk to Helen Ross.”

“I have talked to her—I mean, I tried to. She’s sweet, but you know how she is once she gets an idea in her head.”

“I don’t, actually,” said Edgar. “I only met her the one time.”

A tight smile from the publicist. “Well, you must have made quite an impression on her.”

Miranda would remember that smile, one of sadness more than ire, of envy more than anger. A smile of someone neglected.

* * *

M IRANDA MADE HER way back to the reception. Writers! So exhausting! she thought. Geri was serving the mini crepes with Castelvetrano olives, meaning Bea’s peach cobbler would be next in line. Finally!

Kane Hamady passed by, sidestepping the tray of crepes like a toreador. “Watch it, sister.”

Edgar had left to return the key to its hook and check in with Andrew, who was minding the book table. When Edgar returned ten minutes later, he had a sour look on his face.

“Andrew said we didn’t sell any books,” he told Miranda. “People do know this is a book event, right? Not just a chance to scarf down free food.”

“Scarfing down free food? I think that is the definition of a ‘book event,’” Miranda said.

Sheryl Youngblut again sidled up to Edgar. “The door to the reading room. It’s locked.”

“I know it is. I just locked it.”

“I know. But the key to the room—it’s missing,” she said.

“I hung it on the hook, just now.”

The young woman’s voice grew strained. “The hook is empty. The key is gone.”

Miranda, instantly on guard, wanted to know how the publicist would know this. “What reason would you have for going to the kitchen to look for that key?”

“I just wanted to make sure it was still there. The manuscript. You wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands! Who knows what it contains. I wanted to check on it, make sure it was safe, but when I went to the kitchen, the key was missing.”

“Did you try the junk drawer?” asked Edgar. “Maybe I threw it in there by mistake.” He was apparently unperturbed by what Ms. Youngblut had just confessed.

“You were going to break into a room in our house?” Miranda asked, aghast.

Edgar, more conciliatory, said, “If you want a look at that manuscript so badly, I’ll take you back in. I must have stuffed the key in the drawer.”

“It wasn’t there, either!” Sheryl said, alarm creeping in. “I checked the drawer. It’s not in any of the drawers. And”—her voice dropped to a conspiratorial level—“I think someone is inside .”

“Inside the reading room? With the door locked?”

“Yes! Hurry—we have to stop them.”

“Stop them? From what?” Miranda wanted to know.

“From reading that manuscript!”

How odd, thought Miranda. Sheryl wasn’t afraid of someone destroying the manuscript, or stealing it, or setting it on fire. No. She was worried they might read it. There was something in the manuscript that the frazzled young publicist didn’t want people to see. Something she feared.