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Chapter Four

A Low-Life Palooka Who Don’t Know Dollars from Donuts

M iranda Abbott had returned from the kitchen carrying scented candles for the display table, and Kane shifted the cinnamon toothpick in his mouth with a leer. Giving her the once-over, he addressed Edgar. “That’s a nice bit of calico, pal.”

Baffled, Edgar could only say, “Calico?”

“This dame with the swell chassis and the gams up to here.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Miranda.

“Don’t snap your cap, sister. I’m just saying, you’re a dish, a doll, a lulu deluxe, a beauteous broad, a real gal. A vexatious vamp, a moll, a kitten, a starlight vixen.” It was almost freestyle poetry, the way he said it. “A tomato, a dame, a canary, see?”

“So... a woman ?” she said.

“If you want to get pedantic about it, sure.”

Edgar’s jaw had clenched. “Well, Mr. Hamady, this doll, this dish, this nice bit o’ calico happens to be my wife.”

Miranda tried not to grin. My wife, you say? Got ya! Deny it as much as you want Edgar, but we are still wed!

Kane whistled through his teeth. “Not the one and only Miranda Abbott,” he said. “Not Pastor Fran herself. Your wife? Go climb up your thumb! Haven’t aged a day, dollface. Still a bearcat, I see. A flame-topped firecracker. I always was partial to redheads.”

“Again, that would be my wife,” said Edgar, jaw still clenched as Miranda’s grin grew. She was enjoying this.

“And this is my husband,” she said. “Right here.”

“My least favorite kind of husband,” said Kane, ignoring Edgar and addressing Miranda. “Here.”

“Most people wouldn’t say something so rude,” said Miranda.

“I ain’t most people.”

“Too bad,” said Miranda. “I like most people.”

“Got quite the sting on you, sister. You’re like a scorpion dressed in green.”

Miranda smiled. “A gentleman would remove his hat when he meets a lady.”

“I ain’t no gentleman.”

“Are you suggesting I’m no lady?”

It felt like she was acting out a scene from her Pastor Fran days.

“Fair enough, sweet cheeks.” Kane pulled the traditional felt trilby from his head, stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. Had he kept his hat on, it would have been easier for Miranda to track his movements later—but how could she have known?

Miranda was enjoying Edgar’s discomfort. “Charmed,” she said, extending the back of her hand to Kane as though expecting him to kiss it.

He obliged.

Never let it be said that Edgar Abbott ever saw a pot he didn’t stir. “Kane, I couldn’t help but notice you turned Fairfax DePoy’s books inward while you were turning your own face-out. Still at daggers drawn with our English friend?”

“Fairfax? English? Don’t make me laugh. He’s about as English as French toast—and about as French as English muffins.”

“Meaning?”

“American cheese.”

Egged on by Edgar, Kane unpacked the story of the Great Feud of Fairfax DePoy vs. Kane Hamady. A battle of genres as well: fey historical romance vs. hard-boiled wonderlands.

“I hear you threatened to hurt him,” said Edgar.

“Hurt him? That fop? Don’t be a bunny. Entire tale is a bunch ’a bunk. Pure hooey, Louie. I never threatened to hurt him. Never.”

“You didn’t?”

“Naw. Threatened to kill him. Hurtin’ wasn’t good enough for the likes of him.”

Miranda remembered what Lachlan had said: Kane broke his fingers, one by one. Why on earth would Edgar allow these two men to attend the same event? What was Edgar possibly thinking? Was he even thinking?

Kane flicked the cinnamon toothpick onto the carpet, leveled his gaze at Edgar while still somehow eyeing Miranda.

“Your pal Fairfax is a crumb, a chump, a dope, see? A low-life palooka who don’t know dollars from donuts.

I ran into him in the Windy City. I was comin’ outta a gin mill on the south side.

Sure, I was drinkin’. I admit it. Was ossified at the time.

What’s it to ya? I was on a bender, see?

Bar-hoppin’ like a cricket on a tambourine, was sauced and sozzled, to say nothin’ of soused, and who do I run into?

That fink, Fairfax. We had words. ‘Yer all wet,’ says I.

‘Best you take a powder, get outta my way.’ I tells Fairfax to button his lip, see?

But he keeps yappin’. So I give him a bit of the ol’ chin music. ”

“Chin music?” said Miranda, trying to keep up.

“I think that means a punch to the jaw,” said Edgar.

“Fairfax’s mouthpiece calls me on the horn later, threatenin’ hellfire and lawsuits, really puts the screws on me. It’s a bum rap, but I ain’t no stool pigeon. I ain’t no rat. What Fancy Boy Fairfax and myself get up to is between him, God, and my two fists.”

Andrew came in carrying a silverware serving tray and spotted Kane. “Mr. Hamady!” he cried, putting the tray down. “I just read your interview in Tough Guys Monthly .”

Miranda shot Andrew a look, one that said, Don’t get him started! We’ll be here all day, and we still have a reception to host and a wardrobe for me to select and a grand entrance to plan before the paparazzi descend upon us, so please, please, for the love of god, do NOT mention the feud!

“Quite the feud!” said Andrew, to an audible groan from Miranda.

Fortunately, Edgar was able to intervene before Kane could reel off on another tangent.

“First time in Tillamook Bay?” he asked.

“You kiddin’, pal? I’m like Hank Snow. I’ve been everywhere. Was up the Nestucca River when they hauled in that 38-pound trout.”

This immediately got Edgar’s interest. Miranda’s eyes glazed over. What was it about men and fish?

Geri of the shiny pink tracksuit and matching fanny pack reappeared, perturbed by Andrew’s lackadaisical approach to setting the slotted spoons and baroque flatware in anticipation of the banquet to come.

“Here, let me do that,” she said under her breath, relieving Andrew of his duties. Not that Andrew noticed. He was too fascinated by the presence and sheer legend of Kane Hamady.

“Did you really break the fingers of—”

“Fishing!” Miranda exclaimed. “Tell us more about fishing! I can’t get enough stories about fishing.”

She sent yet another sidelong look Andrew’s way, one that said, I thought I made it clear that we were not to mention the feud to Mr. Hamady under any circumstances whatsoever, so why, oh why, would you fail to realize this? (Miranda could say a lot with a single look.)

“Some young dolly bird pestered me into comin’ back to this backwater burg, and I thought maybe fishin’ was in store. Nothin’ doin’. Place is lousy with finger peckers.”

“Pardon?” said Miranda.

“Typists, word jugglers, hacks for hire. Authors. They fobbed us off at some fleabag flophouse, so I scrammed as soon as the gettin’ was good.”

“Flophouse?” said Geri, looking up. “You mean our four-star B&B? The Hiram Henry House? The boutique inn where everyone is staying?”

“Relax, sister. A turn of phrase, nothing more, like a turned ankle, meant to catch attention.”

“I don’t know if I appreciate that,” said Geri, who genuinely didn’t know.

“Upset the apple cart, did I? Shoot me through the heart with an arrow, why don’t ya? Aw, but you’re a good egg—and a foxy Frau to boot. Nice caboose. I megged that from here.”

“Thanks? I... think?”

He had a way of making compliments sound like take-downs, and take-downs sound like praise.

“Why’d I come to Sad Stone?” His clever take on Happy Rock. “No reason. My dance card was free, and I could use the lettuce.”

“Lettuce?” said Geri.

“Cabbage, hay, berries, dough, clams.”

“We... we don’t have clams on the menu. Or lettuce. Though we do have kale in the smoked salmon quiche.”

“Not food, you dizzy dame. Moolah, greenbacks, simoleons, a bit of scratch. I’m talkin’ lucre, filthy or otherwise. They promised me a payout for appearing. And I’m saying, I don’t get paid, I don’t play. Cash on the barrelhead, straight up.”

“You’re just doing this for the money ?” Miranda had never done anything for the money. Fame, accolades, and love most of all. But money? That had never entered into her equations. It was always about the art. And the love. Mostly the love.

“Now you’re on the trolley, kiddo! Now you get it. If not for money, what else is there?” Then, as an aside to Geri, “The kale you mentioned? It’s organic and GMO-free, correct?”

“About your feud with Fairfax DePoy,” said Andrew, pressing on. “When you were breaking his fingers—”

“A drink! A drink, Mr. Hamady!” said Miranda. “Perhaps my assistant, Andrew, can leave and get you one.”

“Sure, dollface. I’ll have a snort o’ hooch, or maybe some java instead, some joe, a cuppa mud, some jitter juice, a caffeinated mug of—”

“Yes, yes,” she said with a sigh. “A coffee. I get it. Andrew, darling, can you take Mr. Hamady to our cappuccino bar in the back. A latte, perhaps?”

“Do you have low-fat almond milk?” Kane asked as he left the room with Andrew.

“That man...” said Miranda with an exasperated shake of the head.

“Why, I ought’a paste him one right in the kisser, see?” said Edgar.

Miranda laughed. “Mr. Abbott, I do declare you are jealous. Couldn’t stand to see him flirting with me. At least, I think he was flirting. It’s hard to say with the argot he wields.”

“Jealous? Of that guy!? Gimme a break, dollface.”

“Sure thing, ya big palooka.” Then, more thoughtfully, “Does he really need the money?”

“Three ex-wives, a gambling problem, a string of bad investments, and a chain of failed artisanal potpourri shoppes? I’d say so.”

“Three wives?”

“Yup. He says they were all impossible to live with. Every one of ’em.”

“But the appearance fees authors are paid are quite small, I imagine. * Or was he referring to something else? Some other source of potential income. I wonder.” Her inner sleuth was stirring. “It’s an act. All of it. False bravado.”

Miranda recognized the Stanislavski method when she saw it, “living” the role rather than imitating it.

“Kane?” said Edgar. “Yeah, it’s exaggerated.”

“Not exaggerated. False. He’s not an actor, but he is acting a role—or rather, inhabiting it.”