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“If only Ned had given me a badge when he deputized me! And a baton. Maybe some pepper spray. It’s like they don’t take my authority seriously,” Andrew hissed.

“You can’t hold us against our will!” Ray shouted. “I’m a cop. I know my rights.”

“A cop. Sure you are,” Wanda scoffed. “And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

In response, Ray flashed his badge. “Retired, but still a cop. An active consultant with the LAPD,” he said, to major badge envy from Andrew.

“How come he gets to carry one?” Andrew asked Miranda. “He’s not even an active member of the force anymore.”

Nor was Ray the only angry author there.

“They whisked away the last of the booze before we could even drink it,” Wanda complained, firing an accusatory look Geri’s way. “What’s the point of sticking around now? I’m going back to our B&B. Call me a cab, preferably one that doesn’t smell of horseshit.”

“You can’t leave!” said Andrew. “Not till we get authorization from Chief Buckley and Officer Holly.”

Atticus, stammering, stepped forward to challenge the legalities of it. “Unlawful confinement. That’s—that’s unacceptable.”

“What are you still doing here, Atticus?” Edgar asked. “You can go anytime you want. You don’t have to stay.”

He blushed. “The authors have retained me as their legal representative in this matter.”

“Don’t you usually do real estate?”

“The law is the law is the law,” he insisted.

“But it’s not, it’s not, it’s not,” Edgar countered. “I hope they at least agreed to pay you a retainer.”

Atticus, chest out, said, “I have agreed to handle the case on a contingency basis. My fees shall be—shall be de-deducted from the final settlement as a percent of the award.”

“And what is 10 percent of zero?” Edgar asked. Facing the throng of authors, he said, “Be patient, everyone. Relax. Look around. Maybe buy a book . Or two. You are in a bookstore—one would think you’d be happy to be here.”

“A bookstore with a body in it,” Wanda pointed out.

“A dead body,” Lachlan added (redundantly).

“A dead body of a dear colleague and friend,” Ray Valentine noted.

But was he? Miranda wondered. A friend? Everyone seemed antsy over Kane’s death, but no one seemed particularly upset by it.

Penny Fenland had something else on her mind.

She kept trying to make eye contact with Miranda, who knew what the question was: Are you coming to LA?

And Why aren’t you more excited about it?

We’re talking a starring role in your own series!

The murder had taken Miranda’s mind off Penny’s incredibly gracious offer, but the offer was always there, nonetheless, in the background: To go or not to go . That was the question.

Ray Valentine’s professional demeanor, meanwhile, had given way to ire. “For the last time, you can’t hold us here!” he told Andrew. “We’re not under arrest.”

“Material witnesses,” said Edgar, cutting in.

Edgar had written enough crime stories to know the law, or at least bluff his way through it.

“You know full well, Ray, that a person can be detained without arrest for”—he made up a number—“Twenty-six hours. Atticus will back me up on that. Right, Atticus?”

Atticus, thrown for a loop, could only say, “That—that never really comes up on a real estate agreement.”

From the back of the room, Scoop said, “Can I quote you on that, Edgar?”

“Do whatever you like. Just make sure you add that I Only Read Murder will be having a sale on all Kane Hamady novels this weekend. Two for the price of one if you sign up for our loyalty program.”

Andrew: “We have a loyalty program?”

“We do now,” Edgar said from the side of his mouth.

In a sweep of satiny green, arms wide in full theatrical embrace, Miranda declaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen! Your attention, please. In the interest of harmony and work-togetherness, allow me to intercede on young Andrew’s behalf.

I shall telephone our Chief of Police for an update on this matter, and I’m sure an equitable arrangement can be made.

” These were the words Miranda’s agent often used when they were fighting with the network over residuals.

Miranda held out her palm with a regal confidence. “Andrew, darling, your phone.”

Andrew dialed, handed it to Miranda, but then snatched it back as soon as Ned answered.

“Chief Buckley? It’s me. Deputy Nguyen. Listen. There’s a revolt on hand!”

Miranda could hear Ned’s response: “Stall.”

Cupping his hand over the receiver, Andrew turned his back to the others and whispered frantically, “I can’t. It’s way past that. Can I go to the station, get the riot gear?”

In the background, Officer Holly’s voice could be heard shouting “Clear!”

“We’re at the B&B,” said Ned. “No sign of Fairfax. You can release everyone as long as they promise to come directly back to their rooms. I don’t want them wandering around town, crossing paths with Fairfax before Officer Holly and I can flush him out.”

Miranda, leaning in next to Andrew, shouted, “Any sign of the crossbow?”

“Is that Miranda?”

“Bea said she would keep your salmon in tinfoil in case you get hungry tonight,” Miranda added.

“Salmon and crossbows?”

She took the phone from Andrew. “Unrelated, Ned. Do keep up, darling. Am I correct in assuming that we have yet to locate the murder weapon?”

“We? There is no we.”

“Hello? Hello?” She handed the phone back to Andrew.

“I think he hung up.” Then, to her herself: “A crossbow is most unwieldy. Very bulky. Kane could have hidden one in his voluminous overcoat, but Mr. DePoy was dressed much more snugly and, it must be said, more fashionably than the late Mr. Hamady. If he did kill Hamady, how did Fairfax DePoy transport the crossbow to the bookstore without being spotted?”

“Maybe he planted it ahead of time?” said Andrew.

“He was on the lighthouse tour today. But the authors arrived yesterday. Hmm.”

“Can I tell the authors they’re free to go now?” Andrew asked, eyeing the mob as though expecting a full-blown mutiny at any moment.

But Miranda’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Andrew, do you recall Laurén Morocco—or was it L?uren Morocco?—the Gumshoe Debutante?”

“Your character’s recurring foe on the TV show.”

“Yes, Pastor Fran’s rival investigator. I can’t remember which actress was playing her at the time, but in one episode the Gumshoe Debutante had to fire a message across a parade ground using a crossbow, to alert the authorities before I could get to them, thereby pre-empting my victory and stealing my thunder. ”

“I remember that episode! You caught the arrow in midair, foiling her plans. My mom was so upset with the Gumshoe Debutante, saying, ‘Why is she always one-upping Pastor Fran? She is a nefarious person!’ Quite impressed with your arrow-catching skills, though.”

“It was a prop, of course, with foam-tipped arrows, but even then it was very bulky and difficult to aim. So where is Fairfax’s crossbow, Andrew?”

“He threw it away as he ran, I would imagine.”

Scoop Bannister was interviewing the peeved authors while their legal advisor Atticus Lawson tried frantically to stop her. “No comment! No comment! Don’t talk to the press.” And Penny Fenland was still waiting for an answer from Miranda.

On Andrew’s announcement that he’d received an “all clear” from Ned to let them return to the B&B, Geri and Gerry immediately began ferrying trays and food containers to their Econoline van, while the publicist Sheryl arranged a taxi for the authors.

“We’ll see you back at BB&B!” said Gerry as his wife slid the van door closed.

As for the “taxi,” the smell arrived before the vehicle.

“God, no,” said Ray. “Not again.”

They piled back into the converted school bus of the Manure Transport & Tour Company and were trundled off down the hill toward Laurel Point. This left only Scoop Bannister and Atticus Lawson, and they departed soon after.

“I thought they’d never leave,” said Edgar. “What a night! I hope Doc gets here soon to collect the body. I won’t be able to sleep knowing there is a dead man in the bookstore.”

Miranda balked at this. “You slept through the LA earthquake, remember? Our house almost slid down the hill.”

“Your house,” he said quietly.

“It was our house, Edgar.”

“You paid for it. I just lived there.”

Years later, when the money and Edgar were gone, Miranda had rented a room in a run-down apartment building below the Hollywood Hills, where she could just see their former house cantilevered above.

At night sometimes, the sound of parties would drift down.

.. And now, here she was in Happy Rock.

She shook off the feeling of the past tapping on her shoulder.

The night had ended on an off note, muted and melancholy.

“I think it’s time we went home, back to Bea’s,” Miranda said to Andrew.

“If Ned asks for them, I’ll leave the statements I collected here on the table,” Andrew said, and he went to gather Miranda’s jacket and his own from the front closet.

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” said Edgar. “The comment about the house. That was uncalled-for.”

Uncalled-for, but true. Had Edgar ever felt at home in LA, even at the height of their success?

“May we borrow the Jeep?” she asked.

A vague wave of the hand gave his assent. He was lost in memories of his own.

Outside, the stars shimmered—faint and trembling, barely there. The tall stands of Douglas fir beyond the town were frosted with ice, ineffably beautiful and ghostly in the dark. The evergreens of Oregon vs. the palm trees of LA. Two trees, two worlds, one heart caught between them.

“Are you okay?” Andrew asked, hugging himself for warmth.

“I’m not sure,” said Miranda.

“You’ll drive, right?” said Andrew, still shaken from his earlier adventures with a stick shift.

“I shall!” said Miranda, hiking her jacket and gown as she slid into the driver’s seat. “But we aren’t going to Bea’s.”

“We aren’t?”

“Of course not! We have a killer to catch.”