Murder among the hack-ocracy

Killer on the First Page
by Ian Ferguson and Will Ferguson

Toronto: Harper Collins Canada, 2025
$24.99 / 9781443475099

Reviewed by Jessica Poon

*

Whether for sport or by law, writers love to grouse about other writers. Possibly as an overcorrection for being chronically under-appreciated and oversupplied, writers often behave as though they are the most unique, evolved, and misunderstood creatures ever, as though they invented financial precarity or drug addictions. At the same time, any writer with half a milligram of self-awareness—which is not to be taken for granted—knows all too well that little, if anything, they do is actually special and it is this crushing knowledge, perhaps, that leads them to eviscerate their fellow writers. After all, it’s much easier to call someone else a contrived hack than to confront their own underwhelming, unremarkable output. 

Killer on the First Page by Ian and Will Ferguson (residents of Victoria and Calgary, respectively) gleefully evokes this commonplace internalized careerist self-loathing. Miranda Abbott, former TV star of Pastor Fran, remains legally wed to Edgar, former TV writer and the owner of I Only Read Murder, a mystery bookstore in the small town of Happy Rock. What could possibly go wrong when the bookstore hosts mystery authors for a festival? Well, if the descriptively apropos title is anything to go by, murder, of course! As one might expect, when a flock of egotistical mystery writers congregates, barely—if that—concealed animosity prevails over supportive camaraderie.

If you’re looking for dour, deeply depressing escapism, go fish. But if you’re in the mood for humour and meta-humour—there is a lawyer whose name is Atticus Lawson, for instance—and unrepentant silliness from a wide cast of simultaneously charming and irritating characters, Killer on the First Page is more than up to the task. I’m hard-pressed to think of a book that’s more flippant about death, which, frankly, we could all use more of.

I have a regrettable weakness for jokes about Tom Cruise’s height, which I’m pretty sure make me a terrible person (though if anything, as a fellow vertically challenged person, the jokes come from a place of shared insecurity and commiseration), but if you share this affliction, here’s one from the book that made me chuckle: “In the books, he’s six feet seven and blond, so naturally he was played by Tom Cruise in the movies.”

The Fergusons (I Only Read Murder) never shy from meta-commentary, as exemplified in this passage:

Plus, he always goes outta his way to work the title of the book into the dialogue, so one of the characters will say something like, “Boy, those hollyhocks sure lay heavy on the soul.” Or “Out here, the sunflowers grow on the grave.” Or “It’s time for a stroll among the scarlet solidago.” It’s annoying. Does he think we already forget the title of the book we’re reading? He has to remind us? That, and the fact that he always puts the killer on the first page. Don’t care for him.

Continuously, the authors want you to know, they are in on the joke and they don’t care about being on the nose—in fact, they aim for it.

As a protagonist, Miranda can be exhaustingly entitled—for instance, treating Ned Buckley, a police officer, as her personal cab driver—but this is also precisely what makes her so wonderful. 

Miranda was delulu before that was a colloquial term for “utterly detached from reality”—her consistent belief that her famous lemonade is tasty, being one arguably benign example.

Her entourage has been reduced to her re-hired personal assistant, Andrew Nguyen, and her marriage is more a matter of legalities than remotely romantic. The possibility of returning to acting in Los Angeles, the ambivalence of whether her marriage to Edgar will ever be romantically reprised, the stability that an ostensibly dull place like Happy Rock might give her, are all important things for Miranda to carefully ponder—thankfully, there’s nothing like the deaths of mystery authors to distract her from the complexity of such consequential decisions.

The dialogue is often marvellously snippy. For instance:

“Does anyone know if Fairfax had a twin—preferably evil?”
“Hack,” Wanda mumbled under her alcohol-soaked breath.
This was the single greatest insult one could hurl at an author and Lachlan was instantly upset. “A hack? Me? You write books for children.”
“Better than novels written by children,” Wanda snorted.
“Take that back!” said Lachlan. “Take that back or I’ll … I’ll … ”
“What? Kill me? Gonna lure me into a locked room, are ya, Lachlan? Murder me with poison, a single drop of running down a thread as I’m sleeping on my back with my mouth conveniently open, or maybe an anvil suspended by a rope lit by a candle?”
“Enough,” said Ray.
Edgar agreed. “I’ve had all I can take of this,” he said. “I’m going upstairs to pat my dog.”

As for Edgar himself, in his former TV writing days, he’d devise “a secret panel” whenever he had written an unsolvable mystery. Lord knows every writer has their own deus ex machina.

For a book that doesn’t take itself seriously, the diction is often reminiscent of a British sitcom. For instance:

“Inveigling access? Miranda Abbott, I do declare. Are you worried that I wouldn’t be able to resist the blandishments of a slightly younger woman?”

Although not a love story, per se, there is a charmingly sentimental explanation for why Ned Buckley always has a quarter. There’s the long-time married couple, Harpreet and Tanvir Singh. There’s the love Edgar has for his dog. There’s the lingering awkward affection between Miranda and Edgar, which, if not particularly erotic, still has an element of nostalgic yearning. 

When it comes to Killer on the First Page, I’m reminded of a sentiment oft uttered by those who admirably practice peacefully contorting their bodies like pretzels—it’s about the journey, not the outcome. Turn the page not to find out who the killer is, but to see what kind of shenanigans take place among the self-involved inhabitants of Happy Rock.

Originally from East Vancouver, Jessica Poon is a writer, former line cook, and pianist of dubious merit who recently returned to BC after completing a MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Guelph. [Editor’s note: Jessica interviewed Sheung-King, and recently reviewed books by Christine Stringer, Faye Arcand, Liann Zhang, Sarah Leavitt, Jeff Dupuis and A.G. Pasquella, Angela Douglas, Zazie Todd, Holly Brickley, Alastair McAlpine, and Jack Wang for BCR.]

*

The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors, 2023-26: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

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