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Chapter Two

A Treasure Trove of Books

N ed dropped them off at the bookstore on Beacon Hill.

It wasn’t clear how Miranda could lose the toss and still have him drive them up there.

“It’s not that I lose coin tosses. It’s that I don’t not win them!”

On the way up, Miranda had said, more to herself than anyone, “I wonder if she remembers me?”

“Who?” asked Andrew.

“Penny Fenland. The author. She’s coming to the festival. She began as a script reader on my TV show, a glorified intern, really. I believe she even worked under Luckless Lachlan. She’s gone on to such great things since then. I wonder if she’ll remember me.”

“Of course she will,” Andrew said with a laugh. “You were the star of the show! How could she not?”

“I mean, will she remember me well. Will she remember me kindly. I know it’s hard to imagine, but I did have diva-like tendencies once upon a time.”

Andrew said nothing. Did? Past tense?

She looked out the window, watched the harbor fall away as the patrol car wound its way up Beacon Hill. “I remember her fondly. I can only hope she does the same.”

“Here we are,” said Ned as he pulled up in front of the bookstore.

Miranda, rearranging her scarf as she got out, said, “Thank you, Ned! A pleasure, as always. I shall telephone later, when I need a ride back.”

“I won’t answer,” he said.

“It’s 911. You have to answer.”

“About that—”

But she was already sailing forth toward the store.

Ned drove off with a disgruntled aside about the proper use of police vehicles as Andrew hurried to catch up to Miranda. He was always hurrying to catch up. Miranda Abbott didn’t walk, she glided—and when she glided, she glided fast.

“What’s with that quarter Ned keeps in his wallet?” Andrew asked, trying to keep pace.

“I’m not sure. Lucky coin?”

The establishment they were about to enter wasn’t officially named the Murder Store.

That was the way locals referred to it. A bookshop specializing in mysteries and thrillers and general mayhem, I Only Read Murder was ensconced in a haunted-house-style building (technically: nineteenth-century Italianate) with a mansard roof and a widow’s walk.

It had transoms over the windows and stained glass above the front doors.

Sitting as it did atop Beacon Hill, the bookstore had a postcard view of the inner harbor below.

But before Andrew and Miranda could enter I Only Read Murder, with its creaky floorboards and threadbare carpets, its maze of rooms filled floor-to-ceiling with books both new and used, ranging from leather-bound limited editions to lurid pulp-era pocketbooks, a torrent of gold poured out, tail wagging, tongue lolling, rushing over. It was Emmy, Edgar’s golden Lab.

“Who’s a good girl? Who is?” Miranda asked rhetorically, as Emmy threaded her way between them, leaping joyfully, turning figure eights, almost knocking Andrew over.

Fortunately, the peripheral glimpse of a squirrel sent Emmy galloping off in new directions, through fallen leaves, woofing mightily, and Andrew was saved a full-on mugging.

Edgar appeared in the doorway with a scowl. “The caterers are here,” he said with the enthusiasm one might announce “The plague doctor has arrived.”

Edgar was clad in his usual workaday jeans and lumberjack plaids—a look he’d never sported during their LA days but was practically dress code up here. His walk may have slowed, but his back was still straight, his eyes still strong, his smile as yet sardonic.

Still handsome, thought Miranda. Still grumpy. “The caterers?” she asked as she entered the warm embrace of the bookstore.

He followed her in. “For tonight’s reception.”

As if on cue, they appeared. He was tall, with a broad grin and a balding pate; she was stout, with a bright perma-smile and a hairstyle that was almost a beehive. Lotta hairspray went into that do, Miranda figured.

“Hello!” they chimed.

Physically, quite different. But clad in matching jogging suits and fanny packs: his a shiny metallic blue and hers an even shinier metallic pink.

“I’m Geri—”

“That’s short for Geraldine. And I’m Gerry—”

“Not short for Gerald—”

“Everybody thinks that, but—”

“He’s just plain old Gerry!”

“Not short for anything. That’s me!”

Edgar looked like he wanted to stab himself in the eye with a salad fork. Andrew slipped away before he could be sucked into the vortex of Geri and Gerry.

“Miranda Abbott. A pleasure.” She extended her hand like a favor.

A squeal—from Gerry, oddly enough. Geri, in contrast, was rendered mute, but only momentarily. Only ever momentarily, it seemed.

“Oh my gosh!” she cried. “What an honor. We are such fans, aren’t we, honey?”

“We sure are! Loved you on T.J. Hooker. ”

Miranda’s smile faltered. “That was Heather Locklear, darling. I was never on T.J. Hooker . I did briefly date Bill Shatner, though—in my youth.” Her voice dropped. “He’s quite a bit older than me. Smelled of maple syrup.”

Edgar turned to the caterers and asked with as much civility as he could muster, “And why are you here?”

“The reception, of course!”

“That would be the reception for the authors. The one that begins”—he checked his watch—“Seven hours from now?”

“You bet! No time to lose!” They disappeared down the hall to the kitchen at the back of the bookstore.

“Cute couple,” said Miranda.

“Define cute.”

“Well, sort of the opposite of us, I suppose.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Edgar. “I’m plenty cute.”

Cardboard boxes were stacked in the main room of the bookstore. Miranda counted eight of them, and when she checked the return labels, she noted they hadn’t been shipped from a publishing company or a book distributor or a discount wholesaler. They’d been sent from a private address.

“Who is Helen Ross?”

“She’s the recently widowed wife of the late great John D. Ross. Donated these to the bookstore, said her husband’s works should be out in the world to be read and enjoyed, to be bought and sold and given as gifts, not gathering dust in a private library or hidden away in storage.”

“A friend of yours?” Andrew asked, having rematerialized once G&G had gone.

“Not really,” said Edgar. “I only ever met her once. Had no idea she was going to bequeath me these books. I first read about it in the trades like everyone else: Helen Ross to donate a complete collection of her husband’s works to bookstore owned by former head writer on ... etcetera .”

Etcetera meaning Pastor Fran Investigates , the TV show that Miranda had starred in and he had written, back when they were married. They were still married, true, but not in any real sense, and it made her heart ache to hear Edgar refer to that part of their lives as an addendum.

John D. Ross. The name was familiar. “We carry his books, don’t we?” said Miranda.

“Of course we do. He was a legend. They called him ‘Old Blood and Thunder.’”

“Didn’t they make a TV show?” Miranda asked.

Edgar sighed. “They made several. John D. Ross wrote one of the most successful detective series of all time, Miranda. If you’re going to pretend to run a bookstore—”

A flash of red-haired ire. “Not pretend, Edgar. I remind you, I am the owner of this establishment.” Then, hand up to stop him before he could say anything, “Co-owner. Majority co -owner.”

An error in calculations on the bank’s part had left her with 50.

04 percent of the business to Edgar’s 49.

96 percent, a minor technicality—a triviality, really—that Miranda rarely mentioned more than, oh, ten or twelve times a day.

Want to move that sofa over there? Want to bring in a cappuccino machine?

Sell scented candles? Put up paisley curtains?

Perhaps we should ask the majority co-owner?

“We have twenty kinds of candles on sale,” Edgar grumbled. “You could at least know the name of one of our top sellers.”

“Pumpkin spice?”

“Not candles. Books . We are a bookstore, remember? We have an entire section dedicated to him.”

“Ah yes! Under D.”

“D?” said Edgar. He was patting his pockets, looking for something to open the boxes with.

“John D . Ross,” Miranda explained. “Alphabetically, of course.”

“R, you mean to say.” Edgar settled on his car keys, ran the edge along the top of the packing tape on one of the boxes.

Andrew helped him unpack them.

“Even after his death, John D. Ross’s books sell really well,” Andrew said.

“His Trevor Lucas mysteries are all still in print. That’s the name of his sleuth.

We carry most of the Trevor Lucas mysteries: The Deep-Blue Hydrangea.

White Daffodil of Death. A Purple Lotus for Dying. The Fearful Yellow Chrysanthemum .”

“And Penzler Publishers has just announced it will be relaunching the entire series,” said Edgar. “With new introductions by current masters in the field. Several of whom are coming to this mystery festival, in fact.”

This brought up a delicate matter.

“Edgar, dear, will the authors who are coming to this festival be staying at Bea’s B&B?” One of the posters was on display beside the cash register, and Miranda pointed to the line at the bottom: accommodations provided by BB&B. “Might get crowded if she tries to fit everyone in.”

With Miranda in the attic and Andrew in the pantry, Bea would only have four rooms available for visiting authors.

“They’re not staying at Bea’s,” said Edgar. “They’re staying at the new place. The other B&B.”

“That’s us!” said Geri, as she passed by carrying a plastic-wrapped tray. “G&G from BB&B!”

As Geri disappeared down the hall, Miranda whispered to Edgar, “Does she have a stutter?”

“That’s the name of their bed-and-breakfast. The BB&B.”

Edgar pried open the next box, took out the top book, a hardcover original of Heavy Lay the Hollyhocks. He whistled. “Wow. These are in mint condition.”

“There’s a new B&B in town?”

“Out by the lighthouse. The old historic Hiram Henry House. Geri and Gerry—the ones banging about in our kitchen—they bought it.”

Miranda’s opinion of them instantly soured now that she knew they were Bea’s competition.