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Chapter Fifteen

Luckless Lachlan Says Good Night

P erhaps worried that Deputy Andrew might force them to sit back down and expand on their previous statements, the remaining authors—Inez, Ray, and Wanda—had decorously slipped away to their separate rooms on the second floor, leaving only Luckless Lachlan behind.

“I thought you were staying at the Hideaway Motel,” Miranda said.

“What, I can’t hang out with my colleagues?”

“They’ve all gone to bed, apparently.”

He ignored her, pretended to be fascinated by a large, dour portrait of Hiram Henry that hung over the mantel.

“You’ve done a lovely job with this place,” said Miranda when Geri of the pink tracksuit appeared.

“Thanks! It took a lot of work just getting it up to code. It was a pretty big undertaking. It’s been very—” She waited for her other half to step in, finish the sentence, then realized that Gerry wasn’t there.

“Expensive?” Miranda offered.

“Yes! Beautiful, but expensive. Like owning a Pekingese. We even had to install outdoor stairs running along the back of the building past each room as a fire route, because—” She paused, again expecting her hubby to finish her sentence; when he didn’t, she pushed on.

“—every room needs to have its own exit if you have more than five bedrooms in a commercial property. That’s the law!

We tried to explain that the original Hiram Henry House didn’t have a fire escape, which might explain the Great Tragedy of 1892, and that by adding a back platform, although constructed with rustic wood and aesthetically pleasing, the building would be rendered historically—” She waited.

“Inaccurate?” said Miranda, filling it in for her.

“Exactly! But that’s the law! And the law is the law.”

Hard to argue with that.

Miranda thought about the attic she stayed in at Bea’s.

No fire escape. Narrow stairs. One window that stuck when you tried to open it.

A single blue spruce in the backyard. Worst case, Miranda could leap across to that, shimmy down.

She’d jumped from enough windows as Pastor Fran that she figured she’d be up for it, even without a stunt double or a safety harness to save her.

“This entire arrangement is as lovely as a movie set,” said Miranda. “It’s like the location for a costume drama or an ensemble murder mystery.”

“Gee, thanks!” said Geri. “You should be our ‘celebrity in residence.’ Wouldn’t that be something? Gerry and I are big fans of your show about that crime-fighting lady priest. Would be a thrill to have you here. You could have your own suite! We wouldn’t even charge you for it.”

Get thee behind me, Geri...

The Better B&B was aptly named. It was so much nicer than Bea’s on every front, except one: it wasn’t Bea’s. A suite of her own at Hiram Henry House? The temptation dissolved as soon as it arose. Miranda Abbott was nothing if not loyal, and she would never betray her dear friend.

She gave Geri a tight smile instead. “Thank you for the invitation to live here amid these elegant surroundings. But I already have a suite—named in my honor, no less.” (The attic at Bea’s B&B had indeed been dubbed the Miranda Abbott Suite, even if it didn’t feature parquet floors, cut-glass chandeliers, and Tiffany table lamps. Or a proper fire escape.)

“I’m gonna run out of police tape at this rate,” Officer Holly muttered to herself when Ned sent her up to seal off Fairfax DePoy’s room on the BB&B’s second floor.

“Make sure everyone locks their windows,” he called as Holly trudged up the stairs, roll of yellow tape in hand. “Don’t want Fairfax attempting to re-enter via the fire escape.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant Bosch,” she grumbled.

“Bosch is not a sergeant! He’s a detective, third class.

” Ned knew his fictional police officers.

He turned to his deputy. “I’ll have Officer Holly stay here tonight in case our suspect tries to return.

Her mom has the twins tonight, so that should be okay.

Meanwhile, I’ll prowl the streets of Happy Rock in my patrol car, see if I can’t catch Fairfax darting about, though I imagine he’s already left town. ”

“Fleeing? Or afraid?” Miranda asked.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re assuming he’s running from the law and not away from the murderer.”

“By odds, he is the murderer. A feud reaching its bloody climax. You said so yourself, Miranda. If nothing else, Fairfax is certainly a person of interest, and the sooner we track him down, the better. Now. Deputy Andrew, do have your report? The statements you took?”

“I, uh, left those at the bookstore with Edgar.”

“You didn’t think to bring them with you?”

Andrew gave Miranda a sour look. “I didn’t know we were coming here. She tricked me.”

“That’s on you, darling,” she said. “It takes two to be tricked: the trick- er and the trick- ee .”

As Geri puttered about, adjusting throw pillows and straightening frames that didn’t need straightening, Officer Holly came back downstairs and Ned headed out.

Andrew yawned as a hint, but Miranda didn’t notice—or chose not to.

“A pen and paper, please,” she said, taking up a spot at the petite Queen Anne Revival escritoire near the front door. “A ballpoint will do, though at a decorative desk such as this, one feels quill and ink should be employed.”

“We have quill and ink,” said Geri, beaming, “if you’d like me to get it. We use it for invitations and handwritten calling cards.”

“Martha Stewart comes to Happy Rock!” said Miranda, but Andrew had already handed her a basic pen.

Officer Holly had taken up position on one of the B&B’s many sofas, was thumb-texting her mom. Lachlan Todd stood up and stretched. He’d made himself at home here, having hung his oversized jacket and ear-flap hat on the coat rack with an almost proprietorial air.

“I’m beat. Time for me to hit the sack,” he said. “Guess I’ll take Kane’s room, seeing as how he won’t be needing it. Key, Geri?”

“Um...”

Holly’s eyes had locked onto him. “Nice try, bozo. Kane’s room has also been sealed off. No one goes in.”

“But it’s not a crime scene,” he huffed. “And it’s a waste to let it sit empty.”

“Why are you even here?” Officer Holly wanted to know. “You’re staying at the Hideaway, right? Go back there, straighten things out with the owner. She called earlier, said your check bounced. I was meaning to talk to you about that, but, well, the murder got in the way.”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Sure thing, Lustig.”

An obscure reference, but one Miranda caught: a reference to Victor Lustig, famed conman.

Officer Holly glared at Lachlan. “But if you haven’t paid your motel bill by tomorrow, you will be evicted and held.”

“Lachlan, dear, if you need money...” said Miranda.

His eyes flashed with anger. “A handout? From Pastor Fran? Forget it. I made you! I’m not going to come to you, hat in hand, asking for scraps from your table. Look, if I’m not welcome here—”

“Stay or go,” said Officer Holly. “Doesn’t matter to me. But don’t even think about entering Kane’s room or Fairfax DePoy’s. They’re sealed. We have investigators coming in from Portland tomorrow to help, and I’m not going to have them rouse you from the deceased’s bed.”

Complaining that Holly was “tape happy,” Lachlan stormed off—or attempted to. The effect was lost as he struggled into his too-big jacket and pulled on his too-big fur-lined cap.

Geri, distraught, said, “Would you like me to run you down there, Mr. Todd?”

Head held high, he said, “I’m fine! I don’t need your charity.”

“But it’s a forty-minute walk, at least, to the other side of town,” Geri fretted. “And there are bears.”

Lachlan’s bravado faltered, but having committed himself, he said, “Bears? Ha. I fear nothing except the betrayal of others!” It was a line from Pastor Fran Investigates , Miranda was sure.

With that, he left. A billow of cold air accompanied his departure.

“Are there really bears in Happy Rock?” Miranda asked.

Officer Holly was dubious. “I’ve never seen any in town.

There’s plenty up the Nestucca, especially during the salmon run.

But here in Tillamook Bay? Chances are slim he’ll get eaten.

Mind you, if his nickname really is ‘Luckless,’ I imagine anyone runs into a bear, it’ll be him.

With that jacket and hat, they’ll probably let him pass, though, figuring he’s one of theirs. ”

Miranda slid the paper she’d been writing on across to Andrew. It looked like the fight card for a boxing tournament.

“It’s a list of the various feuds at play,” she explained. “Kane vs. Fairfax was far from the only one.”

Andrew read it out loud:

Inez Fonio vs. Penny Fenland

Ray Valentine vs. Lachlan Todd

Wanda Stobol vs. the world

“Penny and Inez? Really?” said Andrew.

“The macabre vs. the cozy. Granted, it’s one-sided, but Inez has contempt for Penny, and I’ve witnessed Wanda snap at everyone at some point.

As for Ray Valentine of the police procedural, he exhibited immense disdain for Lachlan’s outlandish plots, insisting that his own writing was grounded in ‘the real world,’ whatever that is. ”

From across the room, Officer Holly snorted. “Ray Valentine? That guy? I can tell you one thing: he’s no cop. At least, not the way he claims.”

This raised an eyebrow from Miranda. “Do tell.”

“I was fingerprinting everyone. Usual procedure, have them clean the end of their fingers with an alcohol wipe, make sure there’s no grit or obstructions.

You’d be surprised. Once, on a vandalism charge, I had a guy try to give his prints with a bandage covering his fingers.

Sort of defeats the purpose, I told him. ”

“Vandalism!” said Miranda. “Here in Happy Rock??” The double question mark of disbelief was evident in her voice.

“A pair of rival fly fishers. One of ’em was convinced the other guy had loaded his trout with weights to win the Spring Fling Fishing Jamboree.

A scuffle ensued. The guy later removed the trophy from the case when no one was looking, wrote CHEAT across it in marker, and put it back in the club display.

He cut himself on the edge while doing it, hence the bandages.

This was before your time, Miranda. It made the papers.

Or rather, paper. The Weekly Picayune ran a front-page exposé, laying the blame squarely on the local fishing commissioner.

The fact that the local fishing commissioner is the ex-wife of The Picayune ’s editor did not enter into it, I’m sure. ”

“Scandalous!” said Miranda.

“It was. As for Mr. Valentine, when I was taking his prints, he tried to press down on the card, like he was stamping it, rather than rolling his thumb and fingers over it. I hadn’t explained it to him, ’cause I figured anyone who’s ever done any sort of criminal work knows how to take prints.”

“But he flashed his badge.”

“Yeah, flashed it. Didn’t show it. You get a good look at it?”

Miranda admitted she hadn’t. Her thoughts went back to the Q&A earlier in the evening, when the clammy-lipped man who worked at the Opera House had unnerved Ray Valentine.

“Have you read Mr. Valentine’s books?” Miranda asked.

“A couple of them. Not my cup of chamomile. I spend my days doing police paperwork, why would I want to spend my off-hours reading the same? His hero—big, burly Bill with a big, burly mustache—is no match for Compendium Cathy, if you ask me. Now that’s a sleuth!”

“Mustache?” said Miranda.

“Yeah, his LAPD lieutenant character has a handlebar mustache. The character was drummed out of the force for shooting a Boy Scout in the knee, repeatedly, while he was drunk and on duty, and has been trying to redeem himself since. Spends half his time in seedy bars, the other half in seedy nightclubs. Compare that to Compendium Cathy, who can solve anything with just an almanac, a bit of string, and some basic trigonometry. She’s amazing! ”

The mustache. That was the key.

First thing tomorrow, Miranda would pay a visit to the Opera House, speak to the mysterious inquisitor firsthand.

Geri, meanwhile, was demurely hiding a yawn of her own behind the back of her hand. It was well past midnight. Time for Miranda and Andrew to finally head back to Bea’s.

The night might have ended there, but the horror was only starting. And it began with the single creak of a single step on the stairway in Hiram Henry House...