Read on Arrival

by Nora Page

  “Everything okay in there?” Jefferson’s voice.

  Cleo froze. She recalled young Jefferson reading to kids at the library. She thought of current Jefferson, a man who wanted to mime and perform poetry. Was she being silly? Foolish? Foolhardy? Gabby was on her way, and Pat was just outside. Cleo steeled herself. She took several deep breaths and swung the bathroom door open.

  “Jefferson, this is wonderful!” she exclaimed brightly, pointing to the cabinet and borrowing the chief’s presenting-a-theory technique. “You’ve found your mother’s prescription! The police have been looking all over for it. They’ll be delighted!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “It’s like our mothers always said: Trouble comes to those who go looking for it.” Mary-Rose adjusted her rosy-red shawl and grinned, suggesting she approved of seeking out trouble. She and Cleo stood at the corner of Main and Catalpa, the park at their backs and a bright new day ahead.

  Cleo might have protested, except Mary-Rose and their mothers were right. Cleo had gone poking at trouble, and now it had spotted them. She watched with unease as a rusty Toyota jerked into reverse.

  “Oh dear,” Cleo said, her sparkly sense of a fresh new day dimming. She’d woken with such hope. Yesterday, when Gabby and the chief arrived, pounding at his door, Jefferson had dutifully turned over his mother’s prescription, as well as himself for questioning. Cleo had stayed up late, hoping to see Gabby and get an update. When her deputy neighbor didn’t return, Cleo assumed police were busy solving the case, which meant she could get back to her business. Library business. She’d been heading over to check on the renovations when she ran into Mary-Rose. And now Jacquelyn.

  “Maybe Jacquelyn just wants to give us an update,” Cleo said.

  “Uh-huh,” Mary-Rose said, watching the sedan buck backwards. “If you’re lucky, she’ll chew you out silently, in mime. That would be pretty elaborate, though. How do you act out, ‘You went to my house bearing Trojan pie, rifled through my medicine cabinet, and got my husband arrested’?”

  “Jefferson was only taken in for questioning,” Cleo clarified. “Unless he’s been arrested since.”

  Another driver—going forward in the correct lane—beeped at the careening Toyota. He was rewarded with a series of rude hand gestures, flung out the open window.

  “Look, she’s miming already,” Mary-Rose said mildly.

  Cleo groaned. She’d made unfortunate eye contact with Jacquelyn as the Toyota passed. The drama professor hadn’t looked happy then. Cleo didn’t expect a pleasant greeting now. “You should go, Mary-Rose. Go enjoy your errands.”

  “No way I’m leaving you alone with her. She could be a killer, for all we know.” Mary-Rose firmed her stance in red rubber boots speckled with mud.

  The Toyota jerked to a stop, a back wheel bumping up over the curb. Cleo and Mary-Rose stepped off the sidewalk into soft grass.

  “You!” Jacquelyn sputtered. Dark hair frizzed around her face, like a gathering tornado. “You caused me a lot of trouble.”

  “Jacquelyn,” Cleo said. “I’m …” She almost said she was sorry, but was she? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, not really. The medicine cabinet had been ajar, and there were extenuating circumstances to good manners. “How is Jefferson?” she asked instead.

  “How is he? Like you care! He spent the night with the police, the fool!” Jacquelyn released the steering wheel long enough to slap it with both palms. “I had to leave my conference, catch a red-eye flight, and drive all the way back down from Atlanta after I learned—hours too late—that my husband was ‘helping the police with their inquiries.’ Like I don’t know what that means. They’re trying to pin it on him. On us!” She puffed in exasperation. “I missed my conference talk to get here. Now I have to track down a decent lawyer in this Podunk town.”

  Mary-Rose huffed indignantly. A couple with a poodle strolled by, all glancing back nervously at the Toyota, parked halfway over the curb, and its sputtering driver.

  “It’s good of you both to help the police,” Cleo said, careful to stress that they were helping. “They’ve been looking for his mother’s medicine. I suppose they asked you previously? Maybe you forgot? It’s such a stressful time.”

  Jacquelyn’s knuckles whitened over the steering wheel. A messy pile of papers and books filled her passenger seat. Boxes obscured the backseat, and to-go coffee cups littered the floor and console. “Yes, it must have slipped our minds,” Jacquelyn said tightly.

  Cleo realized that presenting a sympathetic theory could backfire on an interrogator. She’d just provided Jacquelyn with an explanation.

  “These small-town police,” Jacquelyn sputtered on. “Why would we tell them anything? They’re out of their depths and grasping to place the blame on the easiest target: Jefferson. My husband is an innocent.”

  Cleo noted that Jacquelyn hadn’t said he was innocent.

  “You took advantage of him,” Jacquelyn continued. “Tricking him into letting you in, pretending like you cared, letting him think you were nice little senior ladies coming by to visit. You’re a meddler, you and that friend of Dixie’s.”

  Cleo stepped back. The words stung worse than a slap. She didn’t like to think that she tricked anyone. “We brought by a blueberry pie. We do care,” she said. “We wanted to see how you all were doing.”

  Jacquelyn glared back. “Jefferson’s mother let him share her epinephrine prescription because we didn’t have insurance to pay for it until I got my college job. It was the one kind, maternal thing that woman did for her son. You made it into something bad.”

  “I didn’t …” Cleo started to say. “I’m sorry,” she said truthfully. She did feel bad for Jefferson, at least for the sweet, sensitive boy she’d once known. Jacquelyn said nothing, prompting Cleo to fill the silence with perky chatter. “All facts are good,” Cleo said. “The more information the police have, the quicker they can identify the perpetrator. If they can eliminate Jefferson, they’re that much closer to the truth, and we’ll all be safer. My goodness, Jacquelyn, a murder happened a few steps from your home. You must be nervous.”

  Jacquelyn maintained her stony glare. “I’m busy and irritated,” she snapped. “I don’t have time for any of this. I certainly didn’t have time to go around terrorizing my mother-in-law, like that foolish police chief suggested. Why isn’t Amy-Ray being hauled in for questioning? You know, I found her prowling around the property this morning when I got back to town. I bet she was the one sneaking around before too. I told the police, a few days before her death, Dixie railed at Jefferson and me, accusing us of tromping on her violets under the kitchen window. I had no reason to go over there. Jefferson wouldn’t dare step on his mother’s precious flowers. Someone was prowling around before her death, and it wasn’t either of us.”

  “So you think it was Amy-Ray? Did you see this prowler?” Cleo asked, ignoring Mary-Rose’s nudge and whisper of “Looking for trouble.”

  “I am too busy to keep to anything but my own business,” Jacquelyn snapped. She revved the gas. The car bucked backwards. With a huff, Jacquelyn wrenched it into drive. “You’d be wise to mind your own business too.” Her left hand moved from the steering wheel, the index finger uncurling in a slow, ominous point. Just as slowly, as if each word was its own command, Jacquelyn said, “Stay. Away. From. Us!”

  Mary-Rose backed up, tugging Cleo’s jacket. Cleo stood firm, eyes fixed on the pointing finger, which was now curling back. The window rose, tires squealed, and Jacquelyn Ames peeled out, cutting off the sole car peaceably rolling down Main Street. The other driver tooted his horn. The responding blare curled around the corner.

  Mary-Rose inhaled deeply. “Well! If you ask me, she’s a more likely suspect than her husband. She has … what shall we call it? Verve? Determination?”

  She had verve, all right, and anger. Cleo had no doubt that Jacquelyn was good at research—and planning too. However, that didn’t make her a killer. “I hope I didn’t put the police onto the wr
ong direction,” Cleo said, her sunny feeling now clouded over.

  “All you did was go visiting, with a pie,” Mary-Rose said. She winked at Cleo. “And go looking for trouble.”

  * * *

  Mary-Rose set off on her errands. Cleo continued across the park alone, dwelling on Jacquelyn’s words and Amy-Ray’s prowling around the property. She intended to ask Gabby about Amy-Ray. She’d like to visit Dixie’s daughter too. Cleo wondered if Amy-Ray liked pie.

  When she reached her destination, however, thoughts of murder and suspects drifted away. Cleo stood in front of the Catalpa Springs Public Library, transfixed by the beautiful sight. The blue tarps patching the roof were long gone, replaced by sturdy metal panels. Where the toppled oak once stood, a graceful redbud now grew. The wraparound porch curved unbroken, and painters had freshened up the exterior with a pale palm-frond green that set off the thick ivory trim.

  Cleo patted the porch railing affectionately, thinking about all the building had seen. It had begun life in the late 1800s, built as the fine home of a family named Tipple. Alfred and Emmaline Tipple had made and lost a succession of fortunes growing peaches and raising ten children here. Cleo sometimes imagined all those little feet running the halls. She pushed open the heavy front door, wondering what Emmaline Tipple would make of the renovations.

  Surely the original owner would approve. A local woodworker had replicated two decorative corner pieces around the doorframe to the reference room, peaches carved in bas relief. Inside, he’d mended and replaced the built-in bookshelves. The wood glowed in rich mahogany tones, awaiting a final coat and seal. Paint-test splotches dotted the walls. Best of all, no tree limbs poked through the ceiling, which boasted plaster in elegant swirls and an antique chandelier donated by the Historical Society. The cast-iron lamp had once hung in this very space, then the Tipples’ dining room. It had come home.

  Cleo felt she was returning home too. Her entire life, she’d been coming to this library, since the day her mother carried her in as an infant. She’s spent her entire working life here too. Wonderful decades had flown by. Five decades. That was Cleo’s not-so-little secret.

  The grand reopening coincided with Cleo’s fifty-year service anniversary at the Catalpa Springs Public Library. By coincidence, the contractor had picked the day as his sure-to-be-done date. Cleo hadn’t mentioned her work anniversary to anyone. She didn’t want others making a fuss about it. However, it was a huge deal to her, marking a massive milestone and an even bigger decision.

  The library would reopen, but Cleo Watkins wouldn’t be returning full-time to the circulation desk. She’d continue captaining Words on Wheels, making way for Leanna to eventually take over main library operations.

  Cleo ran her hand along a dusty shelf, thinking the temporary closure had been a blessing in disguise. With Words on Wheels as their sole library, Cleo had discovered how many people benefitted from the bookmobile. She’d always taken getting to the library for granted, but a lot of folks couldn’t visit easily. Kids whose parents juggled multiple jobs. Neighbors, young and old, who lived far out in the rural reaches, without transportation. Lonely souls who might otherwise be forgotten in nursing homes or hospices. Plus, it was just plain fun. People lit up when they saw Words on Wheels approaching. It was like driving an ice-cream truck in a heat wave, only better because books were a thrill in any weather.

  Cleo spun slowly, standing in the hallway, breathing in sawdust, paint, plaster, and varnish as sweet as perfume. The sawdust got to her, and she sneezed.

  “Bless you!” came from somewhere on the other side of the building. Moments later, Leanna followed. “Pretty snazzy, isn’t it?” Leanna smoothed her pale denim overalls, the knees sporting patches decorated with embroidered flowers. Her long, honey-colored hair was tied up in a polka-dot scarf. Cleo thought of Rosie-the-Riveter in cat-eye rhinestone glasses.

  “Gorgeous!” Cleo allowed herself to gush. “Did you see the carved peaches on the doorframe? Mr. Hernandez did a lovely job.”

  Leanna had seen the peaches, of course, but they both gazed up to admire again. Strips of paint samples poked out of Leanna’s pockets. She’d been researching late-nineteenth-century colors and a palette that would appeal to the Tipples and modern designers. She favored a porcelain white for the hallway, a blue-sage green in nonfiction, and a surprisingly bold blue for the kid’s room. The Reference and Reading rooms would get coats of peachy cream. “Concord ivory,” Leanna’s paint chip called it, although Cleo didn’t get “ivory” or anything “Concord” about it.

  Cleo and Leanna stepped over wrinkled dust cloths. “The painter is coming back next week, after the sawdust settles down,” Leanna said. “Then we can let everything dry and air out well before opening night.” She ticked off her fingers in a silent calculus of days. Cleo had found herself doing the same.

  Leanna began listing the handyman roundup for their new tech center, her voice swelling with pride. The library would serve as a community hub again, with computers for kids and job seekers, genealogists, and even “cybrarians.” Cleo smiled at the last term. A cyber-librarian linked into libraries and archives across the globe, like an astronaut, an information explorer. Information flew fast through Leanna’s systems too. Cleo liked fast. Zooming through the Library of Congress or surfing NASA’s space photos was as thrilling as speeding down the highways in Words on Wheels.

  The phone rang at the main desk, and Leanna jogged over to answer it.

  Cleo smiled at the sound. The library was truly coming back to life. She listened to Leanna saying agreeable things. However, when her young colleague returned, Leanna looked as sour as a lemon in vinegar.

  “We’re getting a visitor,” Leanna said through a groan. When she said the name, Cleo let out a groan of her own.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Mr. Whitty said he has thrilling news,” Leanna said. She frowned. “Do you think he means it?”

  Before Cleo could express doubt about good news from Mercer Whitty, Leanna swung toward sweet optimism.

  “Ooh …” Leanna said, eyes brightening. “Maybe he finally read that proposal I wrote up about the summer reading program. Do you think he’s going to fund it? It’s a perfect match for the Whitty Family Foundation. I know it seems early to start thinking about summer, but it’s not really. Those kids will go through a lot of books. We’ll need to make sure we have enough for every age group and different subjects and …”

  Leanna burbled on. The summer reading program did match the stated purpose of Mercer’s family founding. Cleo, however, doubted that a kids’ reading program thrilled Mercer. She’d witnessed Mercer fall head over smitten heels for Belle Beauchamp and the bookless BOOK IT!

  “I should warn you,” Cleo started to say.

  Leanna was distracted, busily shaking out a paint-speckled drop cloth. Dust plumed. Cleo’s nose twitched as footsteps thumped across the front porch.

  The front door creaked, and Belle Beauchamp stepped in with a sunny smile. Mercer Whitty sidled up next to her, the library board secretary nervously slipping in behind him. The secretary avoided Cleo’s eye and skittered into the reference room.

  Leanna put down the drop cloth. “Warn me?” she whispered.

  Cleo didn’t have time to answer.

  Belle strode their way, little clouds of dust puffing up under her heels. “Hey, Cleo,” she trilled, coming to a stop by the circulation desk. “Mercer told me I simply had to come by and visit. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, would you, Merc?”

  A sly grin rose under Mercer’s turtle-beak nose. “I can be convincing.”

  Belle gave him a twinkling laugh before turning to Leanna. “I’ve heard all about you, Cleo’s li’l mini-me librarian. Why you’re as cute as a button and so is this old place. How quaint!”

  Mercer ran a finger over a dusty shelf, nose crinkling. “It’s filthy in here.”

  “Excuse our dust!” Cleo said brightly. “We’re in the final flourish of renovating, as you know.”r />
  Mercer sniffed and turned to Belle as if Cleo hadn’t spoken. “Quaint is perhaps the kindest word. Even after all this mess is cleaned up, what are we left with? Stuffy. Trite. Dull. We are mired, stuck in the smothering quicksand of the old, I am sorry to say.” He didn’t look sorry.

  He gazed at Belle like a puppy in love, wide-eyed and bouncy in his snakeskin loafers. “In contrast, BOOK IT! is the very height of modern,” Mercer simpered. “You see why I feel you’re the perfect person to help us out. We are in desperate need of your innovation and branding skills.”

  “You’re too kind!” Belle said, touching his arm and making him quiver. “Let me take a look and see what we’re dealing with.” Belle strode through the library, Mercer loping behind, Cleo and Leanna dragging their heels.

  Leanna tugged at Cleo’s sleeve, holding her back as Belle and Mercer headed into the kids’ room. “Miss Cleo, what’s going on?”

  Cleo whispered back. “It’s like we saw the other day. The man is infatuated with Belle and her bookmobile. I didn’t want to worry you at the time, but he talked about Belle applying for our part-time opening. I tried to discourage them both, saying it didn’t sound like a job she’d be interested in.” Mercer seemed to have found a way around that.

  Leanna groaned.

  Belle strode back to the main hallway. “Yes, I can help! I’ll be your consultant. It’s good y’all are still in the construction phase. You’re poised for success. Once I’m done, you’ll be so brand new, you won’t even recognize this place.”

  “No!” Leanna sputtered.

  Cleo patted Leanna’s elbow. “What Leanna means is, we’re just fine, thanks so much anyway. We’re in no need of fixing or consulting. Now, thank you all for coming. We won’t keep you.” The final phrase was her mother’s polite version of “Shove off.” Any gracious southern lady would recognize it as such. Cleo waved an open palm toward the exit, her version of kicking unwanted visitors to the curb.