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Geri looked at them with that same pained expression.

They’d almost forgotten she was there. “Do you really think it’s a flophouse?

Our B Kane with his tough-guy private dick; and Fairfax with the swashbuckling Jack Stryker.

How utterly incomprehensible to confuse a character with one’s true self, thought Pastor Fran—er, Miranda Abbott.

“So, a literary feud,” she said. “Not a real feud.”

“Nothing writers do is real ,” said Edgar, speaking as a reformed writer himself. “C’mon. It’s not a healthy way to make a living, huddled in a room all alone, making up conversations between imaginary people. Affects one’s noggin’, as Kane would say.”

An angry jangle above the front door brought a woman into the bookstore.

A tall woman with blond bangs, Germanic or perhaps Icelandic in her features, she had a large bucket bag thrown over one shoulder and a smartphone in hand, with a peacoat and canvas pants that were halfway between gaucho and cargo.

A striking woman, unduly attractive but existentially tired.

She looked frazzled and overwrought. Having to deal with authors all day will do that to a person, for she was—

“Sheryl Youngblut, publicist at large,” she said, hoisting the bag back into place on her shoulder. “I’m with SR Promotions. I’m overseeing the authors.”

“The writer wrangler!” said Edgar. “We’ve been emailing back and forth. Nice to finally meet you in person. I’m Edgar Abbott, owner— co-owner —of I Only Read Murder.”

Miranda stepped forward with a smile. “And I’m Miranda, majority co-owner.”

Edgar, under his breath: “By 0.04 percent.”

“Still a majority, my dear.”

Sheryl was barely aware of the banter—or was it a bicker?

Miranda was never sure. Thumb-texting in a flurry, the stressed-out young woman looked up and said, “I’ve lost one of my authors.

The others arrived yesterday morning. I checked them in at the B&B, but Lawrence Block never showed up.

He got lost changing planes in Minneapolis, apparently.

Called me from Gladstone, saying he couldn’t find the place, and I had to explain we’re in Happy Rock , not Glad stone, and I asked, ‘Are you at least in Gladstone, Oregon ?’ and he goes, ‘No, Gladstone, Missouri. Why, is that a problem?’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, a little.’ Last I heard, he was hitchhiking west on the I-70.

As for the other writers, I booked a tour of the lighthouse for them today.

I just sent them off, but a couple of them skipped out beforehand.

Just as well.” She sighed. “The tour seemed, how shall I say, a wee bit aromatic. Not the lighthouse, the vehicle.”

“Oh no. Those poor people,” said Miranda. “You didn’t— Tell me you didn’t. You didn’t book a local tour guide to take them, did you, dear?”

“I did. Melvin something-or-other.”

Edgar made a “yikes” face, and Miranda put a hand on Sheryl’s arm in sympathy. “Not Melvin Jacobson of S.J. Fertilizer Supply Company?”

“Fertilizer?” said Sheryl, as though that both explained everything—and muddied the matter further.

Edgar cleared his throat. “Melvin runs a manure transport company and Tillamook Bay Tours—out of the same vehicle. A former school bus with wire mesh in the back separating the passenger seats from the cargo area. What it lacks in suspension, it makes up for in lingering odor.”

“I believe he does hose it down now and then,” Miranda said, trying to put a positive spin on it.

Sheryl Youngblut sloughed her bag onto the table, almost upsetting the floral arrangements, and closed her eyes for a moment. “A manure tour? They’re going to kill me.”

“Who? The authors?” said Miranda. “Not to worry. Authors just write, write, write. They never do .”

“Is it true?” asked Sheryl, snapping her eyes open, her voice suddenly, unnaturally calm. “Did the bookstore really receive a collection of John D. Ross first editions? I read about it in the trades.”

“We did,” said Edgar. “And one of his earlier unknown manuscripts.”

“Which is locked away in a secure room,” Miranda quickly added. Edgar was always so lax about these things. What if it was a lost work? Shouldn’t it be better protected than in a cabinet with a glass front and a key that was left in the lock .

“What’s this about a manuscript?” said a hard-boiled voice from behind.

He’d snuck up behind them like a gorilla in soft-shoe (to use his sort of phrasing). Kane Hamady, freshly toothpicked, was considering Ms. Youngblut with a sardonic gaze. “Hello, dollface.”

“You!” said Sheryl, not even attempting to disguise her hostility. “You were supposed to be on the lighthouse tour with the others. What are you doing here?”

“Avoiding my fellow scribes, mainly,” he said. “What’s it to ya, dollface?”

“You call me ‘dollface’ one more time...” she said, a flare of anger behind her ice-blue eyes. “I’m your publicist, not your moll.”

“Not my publicist,” he said, shifting his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He looked at Edgar. “A manuscript, you say? An unpublished John D. Ross, is it? What’s the lowdown, the inside track?”

“I’m returning it to Helen.”

A pause. “Helen?” Kane said. “Who’s Helen?”

“His widow,” said Edgar. “I thought you knew John D. Ross.”

“Oh, right. His wife. Helen, was it? Yeah. We knew each other, John D. Ross and I, back in the day.”

Kane Hamady looked away. Far away.

You’ve got to toughen up your prose, Kane. You’re too sensitive. Try writing from your gut, not your heart.

“Yeah, we knew each other. Back in the day.” He shot a stabbing glance Sheryl Youngblut’s way. “This book festival of yours is practically a class reunion, I see.”

A class reunion from hell, as it turned out.