I Only Read Murder by Ian Ferguson EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Ian Ferguson
- Language: English
- Genre: Mystery Romance
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A Postcard from the Past
An actor dies. The audience reacts.
Not with applause, but confusion. Fear and bewilderment take hold.
Death is stalking the stage, hovering in the footlights. The rest of the cast
look to each other, not knowing what to do, trapped in their uncertainty.
They are waiting for their cue. But the cue never comes.
An actor dies onstage. Two hundred witnesses and no one saw a thing.
SIX WEEKS EARLIER . . .
Name the worst day in history. The Fall of Rome? The eruption of
Mount Vesuvius? The ill-advised launch of New Coke? For Miranda
Abbott, actress extraordinaire, star of stage and screen, the worst day began
with her agent, Marty Sharpe. Of course it did. She always knew Hell
would be an agent’s office.
Miranda had swept in with a fling of her scarf—green satin to set off her
red hair and celebrated cheekbones—and a breathy “Hello, darling. It is I.”
Marty looked up from his needlepoint and sighed. Not her. Not this. Not
now.
He was working on one of his Movie Stars of the Golden Age portraits
—Marilyn Monroe or maybe John Wayne, it was hard to say; most of them
ended up resembling some sort of amphibious creature. A frog or a
salamander.
Round-bellied with necktie permanently loosened, Marty had
represented Miranda since before she was famous—and long after she no
longer was. He seemed decidedly unthrilled at seeing his longtime client
waltz in unannounced, as was her habit.
“What have I told you about making appointments, Miranda?”
“I don’t make appointments, darling, I keep them.”
She had a way of speaking in aphorisms that sounded profound but
rarely made sense—except, perhaps, in the emotional realm. Miranda was
all about emotional intelligence. Trivialities such as making appointments
or paying bills or filing her income tax on time didn’t enter into it. Nothing
she did was ever about the money. Which is probably why she had lost all
of hers, several times.
Moments later, her long-suffering assistant Andrew Nguyen appeared,
trim and tailored, looking frazzled even if impeccably dressed.
“Sorry. I was putting money in the meter. They still have meters down
here, can you believe it?”
They had driven in Andrew’s Prius, Miranda’s BMW having been
recently repossessed, or, as she described it, “taken into the shop.”
Andrew’s parents had fled Vietnam in an overcrowded leaky boat, had
struggled and scrimped and saved so that he could pursue the American
dream. Which, in his case, meant managing the affairs of the mercurial
Miranda Abbott. On LinkedIn, under “current position,” he’d been tempted
to enter “babysitter to the stars.”
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