Tonight my daughter was reading the superb Three Times Lucky when I rudely interrupted her. It was time for sleep. “There is a murder in this book, Mommy.” I had been in a hurry until she said that. I half sat down. I knew if I fully sat down it would scare her, make her think that the murder in Tupelo Landing was deadly serious and maybe not fictional. And at this moment it was more important to emphasize the fake in fiction.

“Nothing interesting usually happens in Tupelo Landing,” she insist...