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Chapter Twenty-Two

Hiding in Plain Sight

N ed Buckley finally got his salmon. Bea had had to reheat it three times over the past two days, and Doc Meadows had warned Ned about this when he’d heard what she’d be serving for lunch, but Ned pronounced it the most delicious meal he ever had.

He’d stopped by Geri and Gerry’s earlier to speak with Penny Fenland, to let her know about the X the janitor had drawn on the photo of her face, claiming she and Kane and Fairfax had been, as he put it, “thick as thieves.”

“But why?” she’d said. “We weren’t friends. No one could stand Kane, and Fairfax was living a lie.”

Ned had asked if she wanted to be put into protective custody, meaning locked up in a local cell, and she’d declined, more confused than upset. It was a wise choice, as the holding cell of Happy Rock would prove more permeable than people realized.

And now Ned was at Bea’s B&B, where he belonged, ready and eager to dine. Bea had added lemon slices as garnish, though Miranda had offered to douse the entire slab of salmon with lemon juice.

“I have loads of the stuff,” she’d assured Bea. “For when anyone asks for my patented lemonade.” Not that they did.

Bea had politely declined and stuck with herbs, sea salt, and sliced lemon instead. And butter. Lots and lots of butter. (Bea’s hero was Julia Child.)

“I was worried about you,” she said, as Ned tucked in.

“No need,” he assured her between mouthfuls. “Andrew here had my back.”

Ned was updating them on the murders. “The team from Portland is scrambling just to keep up with you, Miranda. They’re calling people back in to reinterview them specifically about access to the furnace room under the bookstore.

Until now, the focus of the investigation had been on the window and the yard behind. ”

“Any luck?” asked Miranda.

“Several people saw Fairfax going in and out, but the door leading to the basement is tucked in around the corner, past the kitchen. Geri and Gerry were busy preparing food for the reception and didn’t see anyone go down to the furnace room. Would be easy to slip by without being noticed.”

“And the lighthouse?”

“You were right again, Miranda. The heavy spring was hidden in plain sight on the floor, in among the pieces of the broken clock, and it did indeed fit snugly into the barrel of the bolt. When squeezed back, it would have slowly expanded, moving the bolt into place just like you said, locking the body inside and making it appear to be a suicide.”

Miranda Abbott had solved the mechanism of these impossible murders, but the identity of the killer still eluded her.

“That’s what worries me,” said Bea. “Knowing someone is still out there, lying in wait. You’ll be careful, won’t you, Ned? Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“How long have we known each other, Bea? Have I ever done anything rash in my entire life?”

His phone vibrated on the table and, like a fool, he put it on speaker, freeing up his hands for the utensils but allowing Officer Holly’s droll take on matters to be heard by everyone in the kitchen.

“Ned, it’s Holly here. I’m assuming you’re at the Widder Maracle’s homestead?”

“Salmon,” he said, as though that both explained and justified everything.

“Sure thing, Romeo. Anyway, you need to get down to the station pronto! Or as close to pronto as you can move. We have a confession.”

“A confession? That’s terrific news! He ’fessed up?” Like Miranda, Ned was assuming it was the janitor.

“It’s not a him, it’s a her . Just get down here, okay, Casanova?”

He grabbed his hat and headed for door, apologizing for not finishing.

“Don’t you worry,” said Bea, relieved that the killer was in custody. “I can warm up the leftovers for you again later. You go and get the bad guy—or gal, I should say.”

Miranda and Andrew followed him out to his car as a matter of course.

“Why would she call me Romeo?” Ned asked, addled by what Holly had said. He unlocked the doors. “I just came by for the salmon. Didn’t want to waste it.”

Andrew jumped in up front. He was always so excited to ride in the patrol car.

Miranda, sliding into the back seat, remarked, to no one in particular, “With acting, if we tell ourselves the same thing enough times, we start to believe it.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s not really about the salmon, is it?”

He climbed in, started the engine. “You’re as bad as Holly,” he muttered. “Commenting on things that don’t concern you.”

“Bea matters to me, Ned. And you matter to Bea. Ipso facto, you matter to me, too.” It was a straightforward syllogism of friendship.

“Can I put on the siren?” Andrew asked. “Please? Can I? Since we’re in a hurry. You know, to clear the traffic.”

“This is Happy Rock,” Ned growled. “We don’t have traffic.”

* * *

L IKE THE BOOKSTORE , the Happy Rock police station was busy with out-of-town investigators coming and going, carrying folders and barking orders to each other.

Fortunately, Officer Holly had managed to hold them back—possibly on threat of a good old-fashioned tasering—from the holding cell, where the suspect was waiting.

“I reminded the Portland crowd that they are here on the invitation of the HRPD, and that this was still our case until they were notified otherwise.”

“Good work, officer,” said Ned, sweeping in past the front desk. “We’ll take it from here. You stand guard. Andrew, come with me. You can take notes.”

And before he could tell Miranda to wait. right. here. , Officer Holly had waved her through, too. “You too, Nancy Drew.”

Ned was as surprised as she was.

With a wry smile, Holly explained, “She asked for you specifically, Miranda. Said, ‘If someone is going to play me in a shitty movie of the week, I want it to be her.’”

Flattered, Miranda joined Ned and Andrew. They walked down the hall past Ned’s office to the station’s single holding cell at the rear of the building.

Sitting behind bars was Wanda Stobol. She looked up, gave them a weary smile as they approached. “Here I was hoping it might finally be Compendium Cathy on the case,” she said. “Kid never shows up when I need her to.”

Before he could unlock the cell door, Miranda pulled Ned to one side and whispered, “Ned, this makes no sense. She masterminds a pair of devious murders, and then just strolls in and confesses?”

Ned squirmed. “Not confesses, not exactly.” He turned his back to Wanda so she couldn’t hear. “Officer Holly said her actual words were ‘Lock me up and I’ll tell you everything.’”

On a clang of the door, they entered the cell. Andrew dragged in some chairs as the police chief joined Wanda on the cot.

Not without sympathy, Ned said, “Somethin’ weighing on your mind, Ms. Stobol? We can talk in the interview room, would be more comfortable. But Officer Holly informs me that you want to stay right here.”

Her smile tightened. “Safest place for me,” she said.

“Tell me about the Idaho Seven,” Ned said, throwing a glance to Andrew, who sat, notebook poised and ready.

And now the smile turned wistful. Wanda Stobol, such a stout and imposing physical figure, seemed so vulnerable, so very much alone.

“We were young and nervous, full of panic and joy. Personally selected by the great John D. Ross to be his acolytes. Love and money are the two greatest motives for murder, with the love of money stronger still.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“Love, money, and glory . He promised his franchise to the one of us who could work out the ending to his final book. He’d already written the last novel in the series, to be held in estate until his death, by his widow, I presume.

We were to gather at his summer home on Cape Cod a year after he died, where we would be allowed to read his final manuscript, A Black Orchid to End With —but not the last page.

Whoever among us could predict the final twist would get to take over the entire series. An iconic and lucrative series.”

“Helen doesn’t control the estate.”

“Who?

“Helen. His wife.”

“Ah.” Wanda nodded. “That would explain why she shuffled it off to you, Miranda. Decided to wash her hands of the matter.”

“Not to me, to my husband. Helen Ross sent the books and the manuscript to the bookstore, care of Edgar.”

“If not the widow, who does manage the Ross literary estate?” Wanda wanted to know.

“Sheryl Youngblut.”

“The overworked publicist?” She was not expecting that.

“From what I gather, she has a strained relationship with her grandmother,” said Ned.

“The publicist is John D. Ross’s grandkid?” said Wanda. “Go figure.”

“And Helen Ross is her grandmother.” Miranda remembered the look on Sheryl’s face when Edgar told her he’d only met Helen one time. “Well, you must have made quite an impression on her.” A look of sadness, of envy.

“She was alienated from her grandmother’s affections,” Miranda realized.

“Most likely over her grandfather’s estate, over what to do with John D.

Ross’s legacy, that final manuscript. Instead of gifting those first editions to her granddaughter, Helen Ross packs them up and ships them off to Edgar Abbott.

That must have hurt Sheryl’s feelings immensely. ”

“Not that it mattered,” said Wanda. “It was a poisoned chalice, his final act of cruelty. It dies with him.”

“What dies with him?” Miranda’s voice grew quiet. “Oh my god, you know. You know the ending of his final novel.”

But how? Then it hit her: John D. Ross’s handwritten note on the page extracted from Fairfax’s throat. The answer lies at the end of the book that matters most .

“That strange novel, the one tucked in amongst the John D. Ross hardcovers and paperbacks. It was taken from the reading room in the confusion following Kane’s murder. You took it! You took it and you read the solution. You know how the series ends.”