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“He’s working on a memoir, did you know that?” Helen said. “Cephus is. Not fiction, but true crime. A moral transgression, not a mortal one. The memoir of a crime committed—a theft. I’ve recommended he bring it to my husband’s publisher. Ray, the truth comes out in the end. It always does.”

“If he libels me...”

“You’ll do what?” Helen asked, amused. “Sue him? How droll. Or will you silence him like you did Kane? Like you did Fairfax?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

It could have been Ray, thought Miranda.

It might have been Cephus. In fact, it could have been anyone— except Inez .

That’s what Ned had said, and he was right.

Or was he? Those two handprints on her buttocks certainly seemed like a time stamp, placing her upstairs when the murder occurred below.

Miranda looked to the paper book bag that Geri was now holding, the one with the saucer and fork inside, and in that moment everything fell into place.

Oh no, thought Miranda. Oh no. What did you do, Owen? What did you do? The meaning of that misplaced saucer and fork was now eminently, irretrievably clear...

In an Ellery Queen novel, this would be the moment where the story would stop, the fourth wall would be broken, and the reader would be challenged to solve the case. But, of course, this wasn’t an Ellery Queen novel, this was a Miranda Abbott mystery.

C HALLENGE TO THE R EADER

All the information required to solve the mystery has now been presented. You already know where and when and how each murder was committed. All clues have been revealed, and everything you need to know has now been supplied to help you deduce who the killer is.

With a heavy heart, Miranda interrupted Helen. “I apologize, Ms. Ross, but I have a question for someone here. A single question.”

The room grew tense.

“The floor is yours,” said Helen Ross, stepping back.

“Geri,” said Miranda. “Last night at the reception, you stuck to your serving schedule?”

“Always!”

“Like clockwork!” said Gerry.

That’s what I was afraid of, thought Miranda. “Andrew, the reports you wrote up will be most illuminating in this matter.”

“They will? Cool!” He couldn’t believe that the work he’d done was finally going to be of use. “How so?”

“I’m sure Ned will confirm this later, but as I recall, Owen provided an alibi for Inez, signing a statement that he was upstairs with her when the murder occurred, that they’d gone up before eight.

Yet he left behind the saucer and fork from Bea’s peach cobbler, which was served at 8:16 p.m. Was Owen mistaken? Or was he lying?”

Andrew said, “I asked him, Where were you from eight o’clock on? We were trying to place everyone’s whereabouts at the moment Kane was killed. Owen swore he’d gone upstairs with Inez.”

“No one move,” said Ned. He pulled out his phone, speed-dialed mechanic .

“Owen? Hi. Ned here, got a question for you. No, not about my oil change. I know, I know, you’re very busy.

Where are you now? Bookstore, you say? Changing oil at the bookstore, are you?

Nope? Didn’t think so. Anyhoo.” (He always said “anyhoo” when he was exasperated.) “Bea’s peach cobbler last night, you had some?

You did? Upstairs, you say? You went up there with Inez after the cobbler was served?

Nope, that’s not what you told my deputy.

Why would you lie about that? Don’t cry, Owen, it’s okay. No, no, we’re still friends.”

Ned hung up. “Owen says when they came downstairs after their, ahem, make-out session, Inez pulled him aside and said, ‘Remember, anyone asks, we went up there before dessert was served. ’”

“Because they always blame the freak!” Inez screamed. “Because they always blame the tattooed vampyre goth girl!” And now her Eye of Osiris tattoo did look a teardrop. “That’s why I asked him to lie for me. Because I knew this would happen!”

Ned cleared his throat. “Ms. Fonio, based on your falsely sworn testimony and pending DNA tests on the speargun found in your room, I’m going to ask you to accompany me to the station for further questioning.”

Inez Fonio said nothing. She looked away. Far away. Memories of Idaho, of their mentor reading her work, saying, “Listen, kid, this is creepy and vile and poorly written. It’ll sell.”

As Inez was led out of the inn and down to the patrol car waiting below, a voice cried out. It was Scoop, running up, waving her tape recorder.

“Jane Bannister! Weekly Picayune! Ms. Fonio, will you speak on the record? People have the right to know!”

Dazed, Inez turned. “Yes?” She looked like an actress who had forgotten her lines.

“What are your impressions of Happy Rock? Our readers need to know!”

“Um, it’s a pretty town, I guess.”

“Pretty... not nice?”

“Nice, too, I suppose.”

With that, Chief Buckley waved aside the press and closed the car door behind Ms. Fonio.

Owen McCune roared up in his tow truck, hook swinging wildly, came to a skidding halt, jumping out just in time to see Inez being driven away. He stood, gutted, staring down the road long after the patrol car was gone.

Miranda was next to him, watching the same empty road. “You lied about her alibi, Owen. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“But I was going to marry her.”

Behind them, Helen Ross appeared, pulling her jacket in for warmth. On the front steps of Hiram Henry House, she turned to address them like a Roman senator: “Inez is gone. As for the rest of you, you deserve each other, squabbling over the literary bones of my late husband like that.”

“Nana,” Sheryl pleaded. “I had to intercept that manuscript. I had to stop it from getting out or being published. It would have destroyed everything he’d built, would have destroyed his legacy.

I couldn’t let that happen. Think of the sales we would have lost, the readers who would’ve felt betrayed and outraged. ”

“You are his executor, Sheryl. He doted on you. Your role is not to protect the franchise; it is to honor the dead. A flawed man, hardly a husband, but a good father and an even better grandfather. It’s his wishes you have to serve.

John D. Ross, the person, warts and all.

Not Trevor Lucas, his fictional creation.

Trevor Lucas doesn’t exist. Your grandfather most certainly did.

I leave it in your hands, Sheryl. Whatever decision you make will be the right one. ”

Before John D. Ross’s widow could depart for good, Edgar had to ask, “Why me, Helen? The first editions of your husband’s work, a collector’s dream, mint condition, an incredible collection—and his last manuscript, too. It’s a treasure trove. You could’ve chosen anyone. Why me?”

She smiled. “You were the only one who remembered my name.”