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“I’m not answering any more questions, not from you, not from Scoop. This is an active police investigation and”—he pulled up his belt in an assertive gesture—“I will not be commenting further.”

“My question is unrelated to the investigation,” Miranda assured him.

Ned was dubious. “Really?”

“Yes. A question about fishing, nothing more.”

His shoulders relaxed. He smiled. “Hey, I didn’t know you were interested in fishing. Sure thing, ask away.”

“When one goes out and about on the Nestucca River, does one typically employ a harpoon gun?”

Ned’s gaze hardened. “Harpoon gun? Why do I feel this is related to the investigation?”

“I’m curious. Does one fish for trout with a harpoon gun? Mr. Hamady mentioned he had been to the Nestucca before, had fished for trout, and I imagine a harpoon gun could be converted readily enough so that it shoots an arrow. As I recall from a certain episode of Pastor Fran Investigates —”

“‘The Scuba of Suspense’!” Andrew shouted. “I remember that episode. You shot a harpoon through the villain’s oxygen tank! That was really smart of you. My mom cheered.”

“We filmed that in Lake Tahoe; the water was freezing cold. My lips were so blue by the end of it, they had to add extra waterproof lipstick to bring back the color. Mild hypothermia , the doctor on set concluded. Mild, the producers noted, and we kept on filming. I ended up in the hospital with not-so-mild pneumonia, but that’s beside the point.

The harpoon gun we used for that episode was quite small.

And light. Aluminum, I believe. It was, in fact, a real harpoon gun with the trigger removed.

I recall the prop man arriving with foam-tipped arrows for it, and they had the feather fletchings trimmed down to fit inside the barrel.

Viewers complained, of course. ‘You don’t use feathers underwater.

It’s not aerodynamic.’ The fact that I wrestled an enormous rubber octopus in the same episode didn’t bother them, but the fletchings on the arrows did. ”

Ned stopped her with a raised hand. “Are you suggesting that Kane Hamady was killed by a converted harpoon gun?”

“Kane Hamady had been fishing on the Nestucca River,” said Miranda. “Fairfax DePoy has also been fishing on the Nestucca. They were both there when the cutthroat record was set. A strange sort of coincidence, don’t you think, the two of them on the same river at the same time?”

“Coincidences are always strange, Miranda. That’s sort of the point of coincidences.

And, to answer your question, nobody fishes on the Nestucca River with harpoon guns.

I mean, it’s probably against some sort of bylaw.

As much as I would like to continue discussing local fishing regulations, I need to confer with my officer about this little matter of a murder that we are investigating, so if you’ll excuse me.

..” He left to speak with Officer Holly on an under-the-breath “ Sheesh .”

Miranda now sought out the ever-poised Penny Fenland. “Penny, dear. You mentioned the name of the company behind this writers festival—Middlemist. Why?”

“The name of a flower, isn’t it?” said Penny, smiling down at Miranda (she was a head taller at least). “The Middlemist’s red camellia is the rarest flower in the world. Only two in existence.”

“And?”

“Every John D. Ross novel features the name of a flower in the title. A treasure trove of first editions shows up, and Middlemist arranges an author event where one of the authors is killed—in a room full of John D. Ross novels. Coincidence? Possibly. But don’t you think it strange?”

Coincidences are always strange. “Perhaps.”

“You’re right. It’s probably nothing.” Speaking quietly so no one other than Andrew would overhear, Penny said, “Before I go to bed, I wanted to ask you if you’d had a chance to think over my offer. I would love to have you on board.”

There was definitely a “queenly quality” to Penny Fenland, in deportment and stature both. A long way from her days on Pastor Fran Investigates .

“I have a call with the producers tomorrow,” Penny told Miranda. “May I tell them that you’re at least considering it?”

“You may,” said Miranda.

“Wonderful!” Penny leaned in to give Miranda a hug. “Good night!”

As soon as she’d taken her leave, Miranda finally shared the news with Andrew.

He had only one question: “Considering it? Considering it? What is there to consider?” He continued, frantically, “It’s a starring role in your own series. Why would you even— Oh, wait. Is this a tactic? Are you playing hard to get?”

Miranda didn’t answer because even Miranda didn’t know.

“That’s brilliant!” said Andrew, assuming Miranda was being clever and canny, not conflicted and torn. “Make ’em come to you. I mean, they did come to you—but make them even more determined to have you sign. Everyone else is playing checkers, but you’re playing three-dimensional chess. I love it!”

Alas, not checkers, not chess, not even tic-tac-toe.

She was caught in a game of solitaire with two mutually exclusive cards to play.

Diamonds or hearts? LA or Happy Rock? And as for Edgar, her non-husband, her ex-husband, her still-as-yet-husband, was he the harlequin-esque joker, the wild card in the deck?

Deflecting the issue, Miranda refocused her mind on the matter at hand. “Darling, I think it is time we conversed with the other authors about their possible connections to the departed Mr. Hamady.”

On that, she pivoted, arms out in a perfect “It is I!” gesture... to a largely empty room. It was like coming onstage for another ovation after the audience had left the theater.