Page 6

“Oh my, that’s quite the facial twitch you’re developing,” said Miranda. “You should have Doc Meadows take a look at that.”

Trying to remain calm, Edgar began running his finger along the spines. “Miranda, why is Sherlock Holmes now located next to Miss Marple?”

“Alphabetical, my dear Watson! Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle. Both are C’s.”

“I see. So that’s why Mary Higgins Clark’s novels are no longer in close proximity to John Dickson Carr’s. Or why Dorothy Salisbury Davis is no longer next to Carol Anne Davis, despite them both having, oh, I don’t know— the same last name!” That last bit came out louder than he’d intended.

“Well, Salisbury is S and Anne is A, so no, not together.”

“Which would also explain why James Lee Burke and Elmore Leonard are suddenly cuddled up next to each other—under L for Lee and Leonard—and, and, and...” He was starting to sputter. “... why P.D. James and J.A. Jance are not next to each other—with neither of them listed under J.”

“Exactly! P. D . James and J. A . Jance. Why on earth would their books be next to each other? Do you think Catherine Zeta-Jones is listed under J in the movie guides? Of course not! You will find her where she belongs, under Z.”

Edgar took another long, steadying breath. “I know what I will do. I will track down the clerk at the bank who forgot to carry the two, thereby granting you a controlling interest in this bookstore— my bookstore—and I shall beat him to death with his abacus.”

Miranda was spared further murderous scenarios, as imagined by Edgar, when the bell above the front door jingled. She turned to see a reedy man with an eager smile enter the store.

“Hullo?” he hazarded.

“Yes!” she said, arms wide, answering a question he hadn’t yet asked. “It is I!”

“It is! Pastor Fran. I mean, Miranda Abbott . Sorry, it’s just, I’m a bit tongue-tied. I heard you worked here, but I couldn’t believe it was true! Miranda Abbott, Hollywood superstar, * right here in Happy Rock, workin’ at a bookstore, no less. Who’d have thought!”

Her smile became strained. “Not working. Owning .” And before Edgar could say anything, “Welcome!”

“Jeez. That’s terrific. You got any of those Pastor Fran Investigates novelizations? From your TV show?” His face was flushed, but his upper lip was pale and beaded.

Miranda threw a triumphant look Edgar’s way.

In his typically obstinate way, her husband-in-name-only had long refused to carry any of those cheap pocketbook Pastor Fran novelizations, partly because they were so cheesy, partly because they reminded him of those horrible days in network TV, but mainly because he was the one who had written them. Under a pseudonym, of course.

“Ah yes,” said Miranda. “ The Pastor Fran Casebooks by Stone Rockwell. I know the ones of which you speak. We do carry them.”

When Edgar and Miranda had hit an impasse over whether to stock these books, she’d suggested they put it to a vote. Miranda had won by 0.04 percent. Since then, the novelizations had been selling regularly, much to Miranda’s delight and Edgar’s chagrin.

“The Stone Rockwells are housed in our second-hand section in the next room,” she said. “Beside H.R.F. Keating, naturally.”

Off he scurried.

Edgar glowered. Miranda gloated. And the customer reappeared soon after with a stack of used paperbacks, their creased covers featuring that familiar 3D-style lettering from the TV show— Pastor Fran Investigates —with airbrushed and highly idealized depictions of Miranda Abbott as Pastor Fran in her trademark and wholly inaccurate clerical collar, peering into darkened doorways, peering into darkened alleyways, peering into darkened laboratories, hands poised, karate-chop-ready, or racing a speedboat in a red bikini (clerical collar still inexplicably in place), or climbing the Alps in unduly snug lederhosen, or parachuting from the Concorde (dubious that last one, to say the least).

The paperbacks had titles like The Case of the Hidden Blow Dart or The Case of the Secret Guillotine (which sort of gave away the ending) or The Case of the Cyanide Cigarette (ditto) or the one with the dental floss coated in poison, titled The Case of The Poisoned Dental Floss (most assuredly ditto).

“You are in for a treat,” Miranda assured the blushing fan. “For the author of those books is with us today!”

Edgar’s glower was now a glare. He hated having attention, good or bad, called his way. In this, he was the exact opposite of the woman he’d married.

“I present to you, Mr. Stone Rockwell himself!” Miranda made a ta-da gesture, stepping aside to graciously let the (metaphorical) spotlight shine on Edgar instead.

“Do you think...” said the man, with a shy glance Miranda’s way. “Do you think I could maybe get them signed?”

With a sigh, Edgar reached into his pocket for a pen, but no—the fellow didn’t mean Edgar, and he didn’t mean Stone Rockwell, he meant...

“Would you? I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind?” He held out a pen of his own to Miranda.

“Of course,” Miranda said, taking the copy of The Case of the Twins Who Were Actually Secretly Triplets. She clicked the pen decisively several times. “And to whom shall I sign it? And how?”

“Maybe as Pastor Fran?”

The role of the karate-chopping church sleuth had defined her to such an extent that even her fans had trouble separating the two.

“Let’s make it Best wishes, from Miranda ‘Pastor Fran’ Abbott ,” she said, signing with a flourish. As Miranda always said, an alter ego is not an ego altered.

* * *

A FTER THE CUSTOMER had exited the store, on a flurry of thank-yous and awkward farewells, Miranda tilted her head and said to Edgar, “I’ve met him before.”

“John D. Ross?”

“Not the author. That customer. The one who had me sign your books. The one with the weird upper lip.”

“You noticed his lip?” said Edgar.

“I’m an actress, darling. I am attuned to the traits and tics of others. I’ve seen that fellow before. I know it.”

“You have a lot of fans,” said Andrew. “Maybe on some red carpet, way back when?”

“Not in LA. More recently, and closer at hand.”

As Edgar struggled to rearrange the shelves to make space for the newly arrived John D. Ross paperbacks, a creak was heard in the floor above them. A loud and meaningful creak.

Edgar’s expression soured. He looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, for god’s sake.”

Another creak, then a thump, and a moment later, the pipes rattled and the rush of a flushing toilet could be heard.

Edgar, muttering: “I’m gonna kill him.”

The clumping of work boots coming down the stairs followed, loosey-goosey, and the clattering toenails of a dog on the hardwood halls.

“Well, Emmy likes him,” Miranda said.

“Emmy also likes rolling around in squirrel excrement and rabbit poop.”

Owen sauntered in. “Good haul?” he asked, referring to the books Edgar was now pulling and re-pulling from various places on the shelf.

“Owen, what have I told you about going upstairs?” Edgar asked.

“Not to do it?”

“I live up there, Owen. That is my home. The second floor is off-limits. The bookstore is located here , on the ground floor. I don’t want you going upstairs to use my bathroom. We have a small restroom for customers down here. There is no reason for you to go tromping through my place.”

Owen had the latest issue of the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine digest rolled up in one of his hands. “Yeah, but the toilet down here is so cramped. You can’t really stretch out and enjoy yourself.”

“Upstairs is off-limits,” Edgar repeated.

“But Miranda goes up there all the time.”

“That’s different, she’s my...”

Say it, say it...

“Co-owner,” he said. He turned his gaze to the rolled-up mystery magazine Owen was holding with a proprietorial lack of care. “Shall I have Andrew ring that up for you?”

“Naw, there’s no need. I finished it upstairs.”

Edgar, teeth gritted: “And how are we supposed to sell that now? Would you buy a magazine that has been taken into the can?”

Owen was confused. “Of course not. Like I said, I already finished it. Why would I buy it now? Anyways. I should probably skedaddle. I got a big to-do to go to. Later tonight.”

“A what?”

“A to-do to go to.”

With that, he ambled himself out of the room and down the hall. The bell jingled again as he left.

“Good riddance,” said Edgar. “At least he won’t be at our reception, scarfing down free food and wiping his hands on the tablecloth like the reverse Midas he is.”

A giant floral arrangement squeezed past them, self-ambulatory it seemed; only the shiny track-suited legs of one of the G’s could be seen.

An autumn selection with golden reds and russets, tiger lilies and orange gerberas, acorns and pinecones and huckleberry clusters.

Something Martha Stewart could only dream of.

“This will definitely be the fanciest in-store event we’ve had!” said Andrew.

At past book signings, Edgar would put out a selection of soon-to-be-expired discounted cheese cubes from TB Foods and various wines-in-a-box with plastic cups. Never mind a floral centerpiece. Or tablecloths. Or linen napkins.

“Can I lend a hand?” Andrew asked, and Geri (or was it Gerry? They even sounded the same) said they would be delighted.

Andrew practically danced his way to the kitchen to assist. Finally, something that didn’t involve cheese cubes!

Miranda joined him—in a supervisory capacity—leaving Edgar alone to face the conundrum of the scrambled bookshelves. How to reshelve them in proper order while a reception was being prepared?

Before he could tackle the problem, a shadow fell across the room and the world went black-and-white. Apt, because Kane Hamady had now entered the story—and nothing would ever be the same.

Kane stood, backlit in the hallway, broad of shoulder, large of stomach. Ill of temper. Twinkle, twinkle, Killer Kane...

With a terse nod thrown to Edgar, he stepped into the room.

A full head of thick gray hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow.

A man’s man, much like his fictional hero, Mick Hardy.

As a hard-boiled detective—or “private dick”—Mick Hardy was constantly chugging from a bottle of cheap scotch he kept stashed in his desk drawer amid the riffraff of a sin-drenched city.

Kane had no bottle of cheap scotch in hand, but like his alter ego, he could strut standing still.

A two-fisted author known for holding grudges, not to mention vendettas, Kane swaggered his way into the main room, overcoat hanging loose, a red-tinted toothpick in his teeth, a trilby hat pulled down.

The toothpicks were cinnamon, the hat was felt.

And Kane, as authors are wont to do, immediately spotted his own books on the shelf.

With no middle initial to gum things up, Kane Hamady’s were still filed under H.

H for hard-boiled . H for homicide .

Without a word to Edgar, he unabashedly began turning his novels face-out on the shelf.

As Edgar had often pointed out to Miranda, any author worth their salt can spy one of their own books a hundred paces away, across a crowded room.

“Flowers?” Kane said, and the distaste was evident in his voice. He was referencing the autumn centerpiece that G&G had laid out in a sheaf. He turned to Edgar. “Well-heeled joint, I see.” He held out his hand. “Kane Hamady, at yer service. You must be the goulash that runs this boneyard of books.”

“I’m the owner, if that’s what you mean.”

If Edgar expected a knuckle-crushing death grip of unadulterated manliness, he was surprised at how mild the handshake was, almost hesitant.

Kane’s expression shifted as he looked past Edgar to the hallway behind. “Say. Who’s the skirt?”