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Chapter Fourteen

What Will Become of Us?

Having imported a printing press from the British colony in Victoria (the unpaid bill of sale and angry letters demanding payment are on display at the Tillamook Museum to this day), he first took up residence above his newsroom in the historic building that now houses the S.J.

Fertilizer Supply Company, as owned by Melvin’s clan, the most pungent family in Happy Rock.

(The standard joke being: from journalism to fertilizers, the building had been involved in shoveling manure for well over a century.)

Hiram would later build a handsome Edwardian home on the road to Laurel Point.

Staid and symmetrical, elegant but not overly ornate, Hiram Henry House became a local landmark and point of civic pride, on par with the hotel and the Opera House.

Two floors high, built of slate roofs and gray fieldstone, it was the last building on the road to the lighthouse, and tourist postcards often featured the two of them in the same frame: Hiram Henry House in the foreground, with the candy-striped lighthouse at Laurel Point in the background, or vice versa.

The two seemed linked in the public eye, both by their proximity and by their appeal.

It was a proximity that would soon turn fatal, though Miranda Abbott didn’t know this as she roared down the hill and along the curve of the bay in Edgar’s Jeep.

A partial moon shone on the water, the light at Laurel Point was turning, turning, and the road to Hiram Henry House was coming up quickly on the left.

Officer Holly’s patrol car, lights flashing on silent, was blocking the driveway, so Miranda was forced to pull onto the side of the road behind Gerry’s Econoline van, which had been parked under one of the few streetlights out here.

If the owners of the B an author with a crossbow was out there somewhere.

“Hello, darlings!” said Miranda as she entered to a rousing round of indifference.

The authors had gathered amid the overstuffed leather chairs and superfluous lamps of the reception hall, and they went silent as soon as Miranda and Andrew entered.

Miranda could recognize a cabal when she saw one.

As an actor trying to make the transition from TV detective to serious film star, Miranda had been met by similar silence and strained smiles when she was being introduced to her fellow thespians.

Publicist Sheryl Youngblut had already retired for the night, which was understandable given the long day she’d endured.

The Maven of Malice, meanwhile, having gotten her fill of Owen McCune, was stretched out in her anemic glory on a Victorian-era fainting couch, her pale presence not unlike a character in an Oscar Wilde play, ennui personified, in the theatrical sense, the performative sense.

Inez Fonio was, Miranda realized, acting .

“What will become of us?” she moaned. “Kane has perished. Who among us shall be next?”

Why would Inez say that? Who among us shall be next? But before Miranda could ask, Ned came into the room and said, “Miranda, what are you doing here? Go home.”

“And a fine good evening to you, too, Ned.” Even Miranda wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. “Have we found the murder weapon, perchance?”

Ned pulled her away, out of earshot of the others. “Look. Andrew has been deputized. But you haven’t. Okay?”

“I recall helping you solve a previous murder—or two,” she pointed out.

“You’re an amateur sleuth, Miranda. I’m a professional. And I need you to step back. Okay?”

Andrew interjected, “If not Miranda, can you at least tell me? I mean, I am a fellow officer of the law.”

A sigh from Ned. “You’re not a police officer, Andrew. You’re a civilian deputy temporarily tasked with some paperwork.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” said Miranda. “Andrew, darling— Deputy Andrew, darling—would you please inquire whether our stalwart Chief of Police has been able to locate the murder weapon yet?”

Andrew nodded, turned to Ned, and in his best Sergeant Friday voice said, “Chief Buckley, have we been able to ascertain the whereabouts of the alleged instrument employed by a certain person or persons as yet unknown, aka the perp, in regards to the alleged homicide of—”

“I heard the question, Andrew. And no, we haven’t located the crossbow.

Nothing in Fairfax DePoy’s room, just the usual clothes and toiletries.

His suitcase was still there. But maybe you can help me with this, Miranda.

On the desk in Fairfax’s room there was a small pewter spoon—what looked like a spoon, but more decorative.

Kinda like a tiny ladle. Next to it was a shallow candle.

I thought”—he cleared his throat uncomfortably—“it might be some sort of drug paraphernalia. But inside this miniature ladle was what looked to be dried wax. I asked Gerry, the fella who runs this place with his wife, and he said, ‘Oh, that’ll be for sealing envelopes.’ Apparently, you melt the wax in the ladle by holding it over the candle, then drip it on the flap of the envelope and press a stamp into the wax before it cools.

Seems an unnecessarily complicated way to seal an envelope, seeing how most already have glue, but I imagine that’s the idea, to be extra fancy about it.

Why would he be sealing envelopes in his room? I saw no envelopes.”

“It’s not for sealing envelopes but signing books,” Miranda explained.

“In lieu of an autograph, Fairfax would tip a dollop of the melted wax onto the first page and press his ring into it. His readers loved it. They would line up for hours to get one of those ‘signed’ books, apparently. Not something one could use on a red carpet, of course, when one’s fans are clamoring for one’s autograph. ”

She had considered adopting this system herself but had discarded the idea as impractical.

Were she ever to write her autobiography, though (she already had the title picked out: I Am NOT Pastor Fran!

The True Confessions of TV’s Pastor Fran ), she would use a similar system to personalize each book.

“Why not use a regular candle?” Ned asked. “He could let the wax drip onto the page directly, instead of adding those extra steps.” He clearly didn’t approve of this rigmarole.

“Regular paraffin wax would be too stiff when it dried. Would break off. The wax he uses will be softer, more pliable, will melt more easily and more smoothly. Beeswax, probably, with some colored emulsifying wax added for effect. Fairfax writes historical romances. It’s an affectation.”

“I see,” said Ned, giving a hesitant nod that suggested anything but. He didn’t see, not the point of it, certainly. “An affectation?”

“Like the vial of blood Inez Fonio carries around her neck.”

“Blood?” said Ned, taking notice. “Whose?”

“Hers.” Though, come to think of it, Inez hadn’t been wearing it when she came downstairs with Owen, back in the bookstore. Had she tucked it inside her shapeless dress? “What color was the wax?” Miranda asked. “In the pouring device?”

“Red.”

“And no stick of red wax nearby?”

Ned pushed back his police cap and chewed on this a while. “There wasn’t. Not that I could see. I’ll check again, but nope, I didn’t see any stick of wax on the desk. The only wax was in that little pewter ladle.”

Missing wax, missing blood...

“And Kane Hamady’s room?” Miranda asked.

“It’s next door to Fairfax’s. Nothing suspicious, far as I could see.”

“Except for the fact that the rooms were next to each other,” said Miranda, “with them being sworn enemies.”

“I don’t know about sworn ,” said Ned. “Near as I could tell, they were frosty but civil. Ignored each other, for the most part. And anyway, I don’t figure they got to pick their rooms. Would’ve been assigned.”

“You describe their interactions as frosty but essentially civil. And yet Fairfax DePoy, by all evidence, killed Kane Hamady. It would seem their literary feud took a deadly turn. Is that still your working hypothesis, Ned, that Fairfax DePoy murdered Kane and then disappeared, leaving a single footprint on the other side of the yard?”

“You’re getting as bad as Scoop, pushing me to answer questions.

I already sent her home. She came around here, saying ‘Freedom of the press,’ to which I said, ‘Obstruction of justice,’ and she said, ‘Okay, but if you do find something you can share, I’ll get an exclusive, right?

’ and I said, ‘Seeing as how you’re the only press in Happy Rock, I imagine anything I give you will be an exclusive,’ and she said, ‘I’m holding you to it, Ned,’ so I said, ‘When did you get so tough? It’s usually just bake sales and walk-a-thons with you,’ and she said, ‘Exactly!’ Meaning, I suppose, she’s looking for something meatier.

Long story short, anything comes up, she gets an exclusive. ”

“That was most considerate of you,” said Miranda. “Now. A follow-up question...”