I Only Read Murder, page 2
Not now.
“Miss Miranda,” he said, taking a seat next to her for a final glass of the world’s worst lemonade. Even the bees in the wisteria gave it a pass. “You were always so kind to my parents. You knew how much your show meant to them, and I appreciate that and, well, I just wanted to say . . .”
“You see that house? The red one, halfway up. That used to be my house. Did you know that?”
He did. She pointed it out every time they were on the balcony, or driving by, or looking through her photo albums.
“Sometimes, the sounds of the parties will drift down at night, when I’m trying to sleep.” She took a deep drink from her glass. “They say they will remember you, but they forget. They forget.” Eyes shining, trying to smile away the pain, she asked, “What was it you wanted to say, Andrew?”
“Just that. Thank you.”
She laid her hand on his. “And your boyfriend? He’s well?”
“My fiancé, yes.”
“Such bright young men, both of you.”
“Hey. A postcard,” said Andrew, trying to stem the overwhelming melancholy of this day. “Maybe it’s from a fan!”
He handed it across to her. It was a forested harbor scene with mountains cloaked in mist, and when she turned it over, the message read:
It’s been fifteen years, Miranda.
I think it’s time.
“Hmm,” said Andrew. “A bit cryptic. What do you think it means?”
But Miranda knew exactly what it meant. And for the first time in a long, long while, a smile burst across her face. She looked happy. She looked relieved. She looked . . . beautiful.
“Andrew,” she cried. “Pack the valise! I have been summoned.”
An actor dies.
The audience reacts.
Chapter Two
The Bus to Happy Rock
The overnight coach from Los Angeles to Portland, Oregon, took sixteen hours and thirty-seven minutes.
“That seems oddly specific,” Miranda said when Andrew told her.
“It costs $156 one way.”
“But what about the express option?” she asked.
“That is the express option. The regular bus takes even longer.”
“Sixteen hours?” she said, aghast at the thought of it.
“And thirty-seven minutes,” said Andrew.
They were at the San Fernando bus depot, across the freeway from Holy Cross, Miranda having insisted they cab it all the way out here in the heat to avoid boarding a Greyhound anywhere near the Hollywood Hills, lest someone see her and call those vultures at TMZ.
With her scarf pulled over her head and oversized sunglasses in place, she looked exactly like a celebrity who was trying not to draw attention to herself. She had already decided, if anyone should ask or, god forbid, a fan spotted her on the bus, she would tell them she was “researching a role.”
“Sixteen hours and thirty-seven minutes,” she moaned. “I could fly to Cannes and back in that time.”
“Yes, but we can’t afford Cannes,” said Andrew. “And we can’t afford a last-minute flight to Portland, either.”
He said “we,” but he meant “I.” The cost of the bus ticket, like the cost of the cab, was coming out of his hypothetical and most likely nonexistent future wages. The same imaginary wages that would pay to have his car rescued from the impound lot. Miranda had assured Andrew that since his Prius had already been booted, it was like having a “free parking spot.” But when Andrew had returned to retrieve the car, it had been towed. Of course it had been towed. Miranda described the world how she thought it ought to be, not how it really was. And in the world of Miranda Abbott, cars never got towed and TV stars never took an overnight bus, unless it was “for a role.”
After purchasing a ticket for her, Andrew walked Miranda to the loading bay, where he handed her a final bottle of Aquafina. The coach doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, and the other passengers began to file on.
“I shall return in triumph,” she assured him.
“I know you will,” he said, and he almost believed it. Almost, but not quite. He wasn’t entirely sure why she was going or what was waiting for her, but he was sure he wouldn’t be here when she got back. If she got back. He tried to let her know that this was goodbye, but the words once again got caught in his throat.
“When they take everything from me, can you save at least one Pastor Fran action figure? As a memento. Will you do that for me?”
He promised he would, and with that, Miranda Abbott picked up her valise, squared her shoulders, and marched up the steps—into the Greyhound and away from him. Andrew waved, but the windows were tinted and he didn’t know where she was. Not anymore.
As the bus rolled out of the bay and onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard, Andrew stood on the sidewalk, still waving. He was surprised by a sudden wash of emotion; he should have been relieved, happy even, to see her go. He touched his fingers to his eyes and thought, What is this? Am I crying?
No. Not crying. Weeping.
Inside the bus, Miranda clutched the postcard in her hand and watched as the city fell away. Onto the interstate, picking up speed, in and out of scrubland forests and arid hills, they cannonballed past the Santa Clara studios where they’d filmed the first two seasons of Pastor Fran.
Our Lady, who arts on the mean streets of Crime City! Hallowed be her fists. Crackin’ wise and solvin’ crimes. It was an iconic opening, up there with The Six Million Dollar Man or Hawaii Five-0.
The highway rolled on. The sun went down, and as the darkness gathered outside, the bus windows slowly became a mirror. Miranda stared through herself at the fading landscape beyond.
When a character died on Pastor Fran, it was always at the midpoint, just before the commercial break. In the first half of the episode, viewers were trying to guess who would be murdered; in the second half, they would be wondering why. They never wondered whether Pastor Fran would solve the case, though. That was a given.
If only life followed such a comforting pattern, thought Miranda. If only I could say with certainty, in the second half everything will be resolved. But this wasn’t an episode of Pastor Fran, this was her, alone on a Greyhound, heading toward a postcard—and a promise of better days to come.
Night had fallen by the time they pulled into Sacramento, the only stop on the express route, and she ate, huddled over a cup of herbal tea (lukewarm and weak) and a croissant (dry and flavorless) at the bus depot cafeteria. She really should complain to the chef, she thought, but was mortified at the possibility someone might recognize her.
Instead, she rehearsed her alibi.
Why am I dining alone in a bus depot? Research, darling. Research. Why, yes! It is the return of Pastor Fran. Thank you for asking. All hush hush, of course, so don’t say a word; the studios want to make a splash when they announce it. And yes, I would be delighted to take a photo with you. Always happy to meet my fans.
But no one recognized her or, if they did, they were too intimidated to approach. Miranda finished her tea and then pulled the scarf tighter as she reboarded the coach, keeping the sunglasses on even though it was now night. More passengers had joined them, but no one sat next to Miranda in the dark, and she fell into a deep slumber, forehead resting against the glass.
She dreamed of red carpets and a golden Lab . . .
Woke up feeling fuzzy-headed and cotton-mouthed as the bus pulled into Portland. The sun was softer up here.
She knew she had to change coaches when she got to Portland, and there was a moment of panic and confusion as she searched the timetable posted out front. Gladstone? Was that the name of the town?
Sunglasses still firmly in place, she approached the young man at the ticket counter with a haughty air, saying, “The town of Gladstone. That’s on the ocean, yes? With forested hills and sailboats?”
“Not really. Gladstone’s a suburb of Portland. You’re probably thinking of Happy Rock, out on Tillamook Bay.”
Glad-stone. Happy Rock. “Why on earth would there be two towns with such names?”
“They translated it from the same Native American word, is what I heard. But used different dictionaries. Probably for the best. Wouldn’t want there to be two Happy Rocks.” He grinned. “One is plenty.”
“And how do I get there?”
“Just keep going till you run out of road. It’s the last bit of land before you reach open water. If your feet get wet, you’ve gone too far.”
It was another hour and a half to Tillamook Bay inside a glorified school bus with broken suspension. Miranda was tossed about like a die in a cup, the driver hitting every pothole along the way—intentionally, it seemed to her. Bounced her scarf clean off, in fact, as she gripped the seat in front of her, trying her best to remain insouciant. Fortunately, Miranda’s death-wish driver seemed too intent on charting his slalom course along narrow, twisting roads to notice who he had on board.
There was only one other passenger that day: a green-haired, nose-pierced goblin of a girl in ratty jeans who sat across and up from Miranda. The girl had slung a camera onto the seat next to her and opened a heavy ring-bound manual of some sort, and had then almost immediately fallen asleep, head back, snoring. That someone so petite could snore so loudly! Feeling curious—a camera always made her curious—Miranda peered across at what the girl had been reading. Could just see the title on the bound pages: Toxicology Report: Portland Coroner’s Office. Strange reading, thought Miranda. Maybe she’s researching a role? Miranda felt that most people spent their lives researching a role, practicing the parts they hoped to someday play. And she wasn’t entirely wrong.
The road to Tillamook Bay wound its way through forests of pine and Douglas fir, across rivers running clean and clear. She remembered this road. Remembered the harbor that eventually opened up, the protective peninsula that curved around it, the mist-infused hills beyond, and the cluster of sailboats below. The candy-striped lighthouse at the end of the bay. And that grand dame of a hotel out front, ivy-clad and facing the water.
She was back.
It had taken fifteen years, but she was back. Miranda Abbott had returned to Happy Rock.
She climbed out of the bus, bruised but undefeated, alighting in front of the staid glory that was the Royal Duchess Imperial Hotel. The Duchess, for short.
Crisp air and cold water.
“I’m here!” she said. She wanted to twirl like Mary Tyler Moore, throw her scarf in the air, but it was an expensive scarf, and she was still in disguise.
Now. Where was it?
She remembered a narrow lane, up a hill, a mansard roof and a widow’s walk. Victorian twee, the best kind.
She walked along the harbor in the sunlight, dragging her rattling valise behind her, past the expansive lawn of the hotel, looking for lanes leading uphill. Everyone moved slower out here, more leisurely, as though time were less pressing. It was a watercolor come to life. A doily of a town, with marigolds and flowering begonias spilling out of streetlamp baskets. Happy Rock hadn’t been built; it had been crocheted into existence. Miranda was sure of that.
But still she couldn’t find the lane she was searching for.
Past the Duchess Hotel was the stately Opera House with its marquee out front, and Miranda crossed the street to read the poster:
The Happy Rock Amalgamated & Consolidated Little Theater Society
PRESENTS
for the 10th consecutive year in a row!!
“Death Is the Dickens”
a whodunit for the ages!
Miranda ignored the 8 x 10 glossies that were posted of last year’s cast, zeroed in on the name of the playwright instead. It was listed at the very bottom of the poster: Doug Dirks.
Whew.
She had never heard of Doug Dirks. With this reassuring piece of information, she turned, still not sure which way to go.
“Aha!”
Miranda had spotted a patrol car coming along the harbor toward her, and she stepped out, directly in front of it, flagging it down the way one might a valet driver. Startled, the vehicle swerved to the side of the road with a single whoop of the sirens.
“Happy Rock PD! Ma’am, are you all right?”
The officer who’d clamored out of the police car was a rounded fellow with a worried look on his face. Everything about him was slightly overinflated, from his ample belly to his smooth, plump cheeks. A kindly soul, she could tell. And Miranda Abbott was a good judge of character!
She folded her scarf and tucked her sunglasses into her voluminous carry-all bag. No need for such a ruse now that she was under police protection.
“I am lost,” she declared in the same way one might announce that they had conquered Everest.
“Um, sure. I can help you with that. I’m Ned. Ned Buckley, like the cough syrup.” He gave her a smile, which was returned, unopened.
“Well, Officer Buckley—”
“Chief,” he said, almost embarrassed to admit it. “I’m actually the, ah, Chief of Police here in Happy Rock. Truth be told, there’s just the three of us, and Carl, he’s part-time, and Holly, well, she’s got a little one on the way, so when the old chief retired, that pretty much left me.”
“Not a lot of crime in Happy Rock, then?”
“Well, no, not that you could speak of.” He chuckled. “Most recent was the Case of the Missing Pocketbook. A lady called in, convinced someone had stolen her pocketbook. Strange thing was, no one had tried to use her credit cards or ID while it was missing. So I asked her, ‘Are you sure it was stolen?’”
There was a long pause.
“And?” said Miranda. “Did you solve it?”
“The missing pocketbook? I suppose. Closed the case, anyway. It turned up a few days later, right where she’d left it.”
“So . . . not stolen. Misplaced.”
His chuckle turned into a chortle. “Oh, that’s not how she tells it. She’s still convinced someone took it. That’s Happy Rock for you, I suppose.”
“Well, Chief, I have another case for you to crack. I am looking for a certain building on a certain street.”
“Could you narrow that down a bit?”
“A beautiful building with soft light across the front, a gentle breeze and a soothing glow in the early afternoons.”
“Um.”
“Victorian latticework. A garden.”
“That’s half the homes in Happy Rock.”
“It would have been a bookstore.”
He frowned. “There’s no bookstore in town. Except, the murder one.”
“Murder?”
“Thrillers and killers and such. A specialty shop. Only sells mysteries. It’s behind the Duchess, up on Beacon Hill.”
“That’s the one!”
Leaving the Chief of Police to fetch her valise, she climbed into the back seat of his patrol car as though he were indeed her personal chauffeur.
“Um, okay,” he said.
He followed with her luggage. Put it in the trunk and came around to the driver’s side.
“Won’t take long,” he said, pulling on his seatbelt. “It’s just up the hill.” He angled the rearview mirror to study her. “First time?”
“In a police car?”
“In Happy Rock.”
Miranda looked out the window to the sailboats in the harbor. The curve of the bay, the rising steam. A floatplane coming in had left a spreading V of waves in its wake. It was as beautiful as she remembered. Maybe more so. Beautiful—and suffocating.
“I was here,” she said. “Once. Many years ago.”
“Just the once? Well then, welcome back, I guess.” He signaled and pulled out, shoulder-checking the lack of traffic behind him.
It was all coming back to her now: the lane behind the hotel, angling upward to the top of the hill. A view of the harbor below, like a postcard. And there it was: the same gingerbread trim and stained-glass transom over the front door, the same widow’s walk up top. A front garden lush with peonies.
Above the front door, in classic Garamond font, was a sign that read: I ONLY READ MURDER.
“Strange name for a bookstore, right?” said Chief Buckley as he brought his police car to a slow stop out front. “Was originally called Tillamook Books—that’s the name of the bay—but the new owner changed it after a comment from one of the customers, a sweet little granny who pooh-poohed the suggestions the staff kept making. ‘I only read murder!’ is what she said. From that came the idea of specializing in mysteries and mayhem.”
“Well,” said Miranda, “I thank you for the ride. It is very much appreciated.”
But the chief didn’t respond. He was watching her from the rearview mirror more closely than before, and when she tried to open the door, she couldn’t. No handles on the inside, bars on the back window, and eyes in the mirror.
“Excuse me, Officer. I mean, Chief. Can you let me out?”
But still he said nothing. Stared at her in the mirror.
“I’d like to get out now.”
The doors remained locked. She was trapped in the back of a cruiser with the engine still running.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. “Maybe I should just arrest you now, get it over with.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He turned, leveled his steady gaze upon her. “I mean, everywhere you go, bodies do seem to pile up, don’t they?”
She fumbled in her bag for her can of mace. Never would she have imagined she would need to use it in Happy Rock. Hollywood, perhaps. The De-Lux Arms, certainly. But not Happy Rock. She would wait until he opened the door, whenever that might be, and . . .
But then the most remarkable thing happened. He smiled. A warm smile. Very warm. You could roast marshmallows on that smile.
“I mean, you are Pastor Fran, right?”
She relaxed her grip on the mace, let it fall back into the uncharted depths of her bag.
“Indeed,” she said. “It is I.”
“I knew it!” His smile grew even bigger, if such a thing were possible.
Miranda Abbott felt a wave of relief wash over her. Not a psycho. A fan. Though even she had to admit, the two categories often overlapped.
