by Nora Page
“A deceased frog?” Cleo fanned faster. She liked frogs and didn’t like to see them dried up and smooshed.
Gabby sighed. “Yep. A lady found it behind her car. She considered it a message from either the killer or the underworld—she couldn’t decide. I didn’t want to be rude, but here’s a death I can solve right away. I mean, you can see the tire tracks on this poor creature! Then there’s this. Can you guess what it is?” She held up a bag filled with twigs.
“Camellia branches?” Cleo guessed.
“The devil’s pitchforks,” Gabby said with a sigh. “See how they’re all three pronged and pointy? A man found them on his sidewalk and got worried. Nerves are spreading. They’re contagious, like a bad flu. I’m afraid we’re about to have a pandemic. People are seeing the bad and scary where it doesn’t exist. Mailboxes left open, damaged medicine boxes at the pharmacy, a perfectly natural wasp nest.” As she vented, she sealed Cleo’s coffins in individual evidence bags and efficiently labeled them.
Cleo noted Gabby’s neat printing. Gabby would make a good librarian. She was methodical and detail-oriented, and even in the age of automated everything, good handwriting was a plus.
Gabby placed the coffin bags in a pile of similar items made of paper and wood. “I don’t get it,” she said. “The person doing this is angry. Or flat out mad. Why target everyone and anyone?” Gabby stretched her arms over her head, locking her fingers, her gaze far away out the tall windows.
The police station occupied a downtown building. The staff desks were upstairs, and from Gabby’s corner nook, Cleo could see out over Main Street and the leafy fringe of Fontaine Park. It was a pretty view, which Cleo found herself scanning for evil omens.
Gabby yawned again and listed everything she wished she could make happen all at once: stakeouts, surveillance, fingerprint analysis of all the notes, a sniffer dog … “Or I could do all this paperwork,” she groaned, dismally eyeing her desk.
“You won’t do anyone any good if you wear yourself out,” Cleo said in her best grandmotherly tones. “You’ll think more clearly after a full night’s sleep and a good meal. Have you eaten today?”
Gabby nodded to a box that once held granola bars and was now stuffed with their empty plastic wrappers and a banana peel.
Cleo tsked. “Come over to my place after work. I promise, we won’t talk about murder if you don’t want to. I have chicken and dumplings to reheat. It’s nothing special, but—”
“It sounds wonderful,” Gabby said. She squinted toward the wall clock. “I can leave at six, and if you have more ideas about this murder, Miss Cleo, I want to hear them.” She grinned. “Even if you are, technically, still a suspect.”
Cleo smoothed her curls and said primly, “All the more reason for you to come to dinner, dear. I might just confess.”
Gabby was still chuckling as Cleo left.
* * *
“Shh …” Cleo held a finger to her lips and pointed to the sleeping deputy. Gabby slumped in Cleo’s most comfortable porch chair, socked feet resting on a stool, head nodding to her shoulder, a sleepy Persian stretched across her chest. Rhett raised an eyelid and frowned, as if reiterating what Cleo had said: Don’t wake the slumbering human bed.
Mary-Rose gave a mime-worthy performance of tiptoeing in and silently easing shut the screen door.
It was nearly eight. The chicken and dumplings had been devoured, the dishes done. Gabby and Cleo had talked about their families and holiday plans and suspects over their meal. They’d been sitting on the porch enjoying coffee—decaf for Cleo, full-throttle for Gabby—when Gabby’s eyelids began to droop. Cleo had let her sleep, fearing that if she woke her, Gabby would run back to work.
The night was pleasant for sitting out on the porch. Thick clouds blanketed in the day’s heat and a still silence. Occasional whispers of rasping branches and rustling leaves made Cleo glad for police company, even if that company was ever so delicately snoring. Cleo felt a little silly admitting it to herself, but she was waiting for another guest to arrive. Henry. He hadn’t called. Cleo wondered if he’d forgotten. Or if he was still out with Belle Beauchamp …
“I came by to check on you,” Mary-Rose whispered. “I heard that book club of yours was getting death threats.” Mary-Rose eased herself into a wicker chair beside Cleo. “That club attracts ire. I’ve said it before.”
“You’ve said they’re prone to food fights,” Cleo corrected. She assured her friend it wasn’t the entire book club. “Only Pat, Iris, and Myron, the tall man. The only man.”
Mary-Rose took that as good news. “Well that’s less than half of them then, and not you, thank heaven.”
Gabby groaned and fluttered an eyelid open. “How long have I been sleeping?” She slowly pulled herself more upright. Rhett remained stubbornly reclining. Gabby gave him a kiss on his head and ruffled his fur. “Oh, hi, Mary-Rose! Sorry, I’m being awful company.”
“I’m glad you’re here watching out for Cleo,” Mary-Rose said. “There’s a strange atmosphere around town. People are acting paranoid. Can y’all believe, I couldn’t sell one slice of honey pie to a local today? They were all associating honey with bees—which is logical, of course—but then they moved on to calling bees killers. The florist accused me of hawking murder pie. So rude! I’m going to have to change up the pie special for the month. What do you all think? Caramel or s’mores?”
Cleo was momentarily made speechless, both by the extent of the fear and the stunning idea of s’mores pie.
Mary-Rose was describing the pie to Gabby: graham cracker crust filled with creamy chocolate and topped with marshmallow meringue. “The marshmallow gets torched so it tastes like a campfire,” Mary-Rose said. “It’s a thing of beauty.”
“S’mores,” Gabby said decisively. She sounded less sure when Mary-Rose asked if the police were closing in on a killer. “You didn’t hear me say this—and don’t go spreading it around—but no, not really.”
“Have you at least cleared Cleo off your list?” Mary-Rose asked.
“Not officially,” Gabby mumbled.
Mary-Rose pursed her lips. “Cleo, until you’re cleared, I’ll relent on enforcing your sugar ban. If you’d like a honey pie, you’re welcome to come out to the Pancake Mill and get yourself one, on me.”
Cleo turned to Gabby. “She’s only saying that because she has leftover pies she can’t sell.”
“Not entirely true,” Mary-Rose said. “Gabby, you’re welcome to one too if you clear Cleo’s good name.”
“Now that’s incentive.” Gabby grinned. She stretched her legs and tried to ease Rhett off her chest. The big Persian stuck tight. “I need to get going, Rhett,” Gabby said. “Otherwise, I’ll sleep on your porch all night.” Rhett escalated his purrs.
A real motor added to the rumble, a belching diesel. Tires crunched on Cleo’s gravel driveway. A branch scraped metal, a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard to Cleo. She needed to prune that branch! A horn blew, and Cleo winced. Her grouchy neighbor to the north would not be happy.
Cleo wasn’t happy either when a singsong drawl cut through the darkness.
“Yoo-hoo, Cleo!” Belle Beauchamp called out. “It’s us!”
Two figures came up the pathway, Belle light on her clicking heels, Henry trudging and lugging two oversized canvas shopping bags.
“I brought you some books and your honey!” Belle trilled.
Mary-Rose gasped and leaned forward in her seat. Cleo got up to greet the new visitors, secretly pleased by Belle’s acknowledgment of Henry as her “honey.” And books? She always liked gifts of books, although she wouldn’t have expected them from Belle Beauchamp.
Henry set down the bags, which bulged with the edgy outlines of hardcovers. He looked about to give Cleo a hug before Belle swooped between them, affectionately patting Henry’s shoulder. “I had to twist this one’s arm to accompany lonely me out to a business dinner. We should all go out soon, seeing as how you and I are work sisters now, Cleo.” She flashed a br
illiant smile, tugging Henry closer.
Cleo took heart in Henry’s expression. The sweet man looked as miserable as Rhett on a trip to the groomers. “I saved … er … volunteered to take some of the Claymore Library’s older books,” he said, eyes aimed at the bags at his feet. “These are handwritten genealogies and county censuses from the 1800s. Some valuable history in these.”
Belle grumbled that they were old and musty and would attract moths. “Cleo, we’ll have to check your library for moth bait too.”
Cleo shuddered and not because she worried about insects. “My manners!” she said, changing the subject. She belatedly introduced her porch companions. “Gabby Honeywell, my favorite neighbor. Mary-Rose Garland, my favorite friend,” Cleo said brightly.
Gabby managed to rise, Rhett still stuck to her with clawed determination. She shook Belle’s hand. Mary-Rose gave a little wave, keeping her distance.
“Garland, you said?” Belle asked. “When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp run by a Garland.” She described a Mrs. Malva Garland, who turned out to be Mary-Rose’s aunt in-law.
“Mary-Rose, you worked at that camp, didn’t you?” Cleo said.
Mary-Rose rather grudgingly acknowledged she had. “For a few summers, before William and I married.
“Small world!” Belle exclaimed. “I wonder if we met back then? I can’t recall, and I do pride myself on my memory. But I shouldn’t keep you ladies. Mr. Henry, shall I drop you off at home for a nightcap?”
“I, uh …” his blush flared above his beard. “I can’t. I need to speak with Cleo.”
Belle left with perfumed kisses all around, her cheek smacks landing most loudly on Henry. Only Rhett avoided a kiss. He flattened his ears as she approached and flapped his tail. “You’re a feisty fellow, aren’t you? Like my little horse, Lilliput,” Belle said. “I’ll have to get y’all together someday. Mascot playdate!”
Rhett’s eyes went wide, although Cleo thought he might actually enjoy playing stalk-and-pounce with a mini-horse.
Belle left to the bang of the screen door and clicking of heels. The diesel engine spluttered to a roar and eventually rumbled off. In the garden, the silence settled back in.
Henry sank into a chair. “I don’t want to sound rude, but is she really going to be working with you, Cleo? She has no respect for books—or boundaries. She practically kidnapped me. I finally insisted that I needed to get back to walk my dog. I said I was intending to see you too, but she’s like an interrogator. She got me to admit that we didn’t have any set plan.” He rubbed his beard, which looked as frazzled as he sounded. His hair puffed out over his ears in mad-scientist style.
Cleo knew all too well how persuasive Belle could be. She murmured comforting sounds.
Henry yawned, sparking a chain reaction in Gabby and Rhett too. “If there’s any good outcome,” he said, “I rescued those books, and I can warn you too. Her library practices are, well … you saw her bookmobile. The library over in Claymore is faring no better.”
Cleo didn’t want to ask for details. It was too near bedtime, and she already had enough troubling thoughts to fuel nightmares.
Mary-Rose had been silent, nose to the screen. From down the street, Belle honked, a blare through the quiet night.
“I recognize her,” Mary-Rose said, turning to face them.
“From camp?” Cleo said. Mary-Rose had a good memory for people.
But her friend was shaking her head no. “From last week! The voice at the farmers’ market. Cleo, Gabby, remember how I told you about the slap I overheard when I was, uh, indisposed?”
Cleo might have smiled at Mary-Rose’s porta-potty eavesdropping, except the words sent a chill up her neck. “Belle? You think that was Belle Beauchamp yelling at Dixie?”
“I know it was her. I recognize that voice.”
Mary-Rose slowly repeated what she’d heard. Goosebumps rose up Cleo’s arm with every word.
“ ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you. You’ll be sorry.’ And then …” Mary-Rose slapped the side table, hard. They all jumped. Rhett’s tail puffed. “Then she slapped Dixie smack on the cheek. I saw the mark left after.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rain dove down the gutters and flew over the awning. The weatherman had predicted a chance sprinkle, convincing Cleo to leave her umbrella at home.
“It’s a gully washer,” Cleo said, huddling with Henry under the awning of the Spoonbread Bakery. Two nights had passed, with more threats discovered each of the following mornings, coffin notes left in the park, on the street, on doorsteps, and in mailboxes. Cleo’s tiny town was on edge. Cleo felt it too.
To lift her spirits, she’d met up with Henry at the bakery for a Friday breakfast treat of warm scones and too many coffee refills. Cleo buzzed from caffeine and plans for a busy morning ahead. She’d added a break to her bookmobile schedule and planned to use it at the library. She wanted to get as many renovations finalized as possible before Belle could wedge her way in. Cleo mentally ticked off the to-do list, from final touches to party planning. Anxiety pinged through her core. Who would want to celebrate if a murderer was still among them?
“For once, I’m glad I’m not driving,” Cleo said, looking out on the soaked scenery. “The road is a river.”
“Mr. Chaucer will be feeling smug he stayed home.” Henry zipped up his oilskin raincoat. He adjusted his hat, felt and brimmed. “Ready to make a run for it?”
Cleo assumed they wouldn’t be actually running. Chivalrous Henry had offered an umbrella escort to the library. They dodged little rivers in the street and massive puddles in the park. Raindrops gathered force high in the trees and landed like water balloons on the umbrella.
“Still think rainy weather is nice?” Henry asked, as they sidestepped a night crawler the size of a snake. Spanish moss hung like bedraggled Rapunzel locks.
“I do,” Cleo said. She’d confessed over breakfast about how she enjoyed a rainy day. Rain saturated the colors in the garden. Rainy days were also the best for staying inside and reading, not that she had time for that. They pushed on, the wind puffing spritz at their cheeks. Henry held the umbrella low and tilted, blocking their view until they nearly reached their destination.
Cleo, being shorter, spotted the trouble first. She stopped abruptly. Henry kept going a few steps. When he realized he’d lost Cleo, he backed up in a hurry. A raindrop rolled down the umbrella and onto Cleo’s nose. She took no notice. She stood at the walkway to the Catalpa Springs Public Library, where two things were definitely not right.
One was Lilliput. Belle’s mini-horse mascot wore a red slicker. The coat had slipped upside down and billowed under his dappled belly, brushing the grass. A long, thick lead tethered him to the garden’s new planting, the slender redbud, now bent to reclining. Although standing in lush grass, the little horse strained at his lead, grasping for the blades just beyond his reach.
Then there were the lights. The library glowed. It would be an inviting scene on a wet autumn day, except no one was supposed to be there. Leanna was at class. The handymen weren’t scheduled until later. Cleo had counted on a few hours alone with her work.
“Belle,” Cleo said in a tone Rhett might use for a hiss. Cleo took off without waiting for her umbrella escort. Henry caught up on the porch, where he shook out the umbrella and his jacket and murmured words surely meant to soothe, if Cleo had heard them. She pushed open the door to bright light and a chipper trill.
“Cleo! Henry! Why, how wonderful of y’all to join us!” Belle breezed across the drop cloths in a wave of lilac perfume. She wore a tweed jacket, beige leggings, and riding boots, and grasped Cleo’s shoulders, swiveling her about in a series of head-jostling air kisses. Belle did the same to Henry, except the kisses smacked on skin.
“Ah, Cleo.” Mercer Whitty sidled up behind Belle, dapper in his pinstripe suit, pumpkin-orange bow tie, and suede loafers that wouldn’t survive a puddle. “We didn’t think you’d be here so early,” he drawled.
&nb
sp; Clearly not. Cleo looked around, counting heads. It wasn’t just Mercer and Belle. It was practically the entire board, five members plus Mercer, the president. The only person missing was the often-absent Tipple granddaughter, a descendant of the original owners of the building.
“We were, uh … hoping you would show up Miss Cleo,” chirped the secretary, her blush betraying a clear case of nerves and fibbing. Two members Cleo had counted as book-loving allies avoided her glance. The remaining two, the money members, as Cleo thought of them, made blustery protests about this being a “private” board meeting.
“Private?” Cleo demanded. “I’m the head librarian. Our board constitution says I must be informed of any meetings, as must the public, with minutes kept for the public record.”
The secretary held up a notebook. “I posted a photo of us on Facebook! I’ve been taking notes. Here!” She thrust the notebook at Cleo and stepped back as if Cleo might bite.
Cleo frowned at the woman’s shaky handwriting but most of all the odd words: Tiger Team Work. Blast branding. Extreme organization + streamlining = profit/patrons. Her temples thumped as she read text underlined and highlighted in little stars.
“ ‘Long-term outlook: Full-time innobrarian = profit’?” she said, reading the words out loud.
“That’s me!” Belle chirped. “Remember? Innovation plus librarian equals …” She waved open palms encouragingly, and the board members chorused “innobrarian.”
Cleo hadn’t been questioning the made-up term. “Full-time?” she repeated. “I understood Mr. Whitty wanted to hire a temporary consultant, although I see no need since we’re doing just fine. There’s no full-time position open right now, or a need for one.” Her hands twitched, yearning to shoo everyone but Henry out into the rain. Leanna would be adding on hours when she finished her studies. Cleo was holding the position for her. She had it all planned.
