by Nora Page
“That’s what any guilty person would say,” Leanna countered. “I know enough about criminals to know that.” She went to the front door and locked it. “Miss Cleo, remember what happened last time you went sleuthing around? You almost got killed.”
Behind the sparkly cat-eye glasses, Leanna’s eyes were pleading. Cleo’s sleuthing hadn’t only threatened her own safety. She’d put Leanna in grave danger too.
“I don’t want to have to worry about you again,” Leanna said, reversing their roles and sounding like the sensible elder facing a reckless youngster. “If you stick your neck out, the killer’s going to take notice. You could be a target!”
Cleo didn’t know what to say. She felt bad enough already. Her sleuthing hadn’t achieved much yet, other than accidentally finding the second note at Dixie’s. She hadn’t narrowed down the suspects. She hadn’t even managed to clear herself. Perhaps she should tell Pat their sleuthing was off. It was too risky, too distracting … too fruitless. Pat would be disappointed, but that was preferable to attracting the attention of a killer, as Leanna said.
“I wouldn’t know what to do in the library without you, Miss Cleo,” Leanna said with a twist of a smile and a mock chastising finger waggle.
Cleo smiled back. “Oh yes, you would,” she said without hesitation.
Chapter Twenty
Gabby predicted it. Nerves spread like flu. Cleo touched her forehead, worrying she’d caught the bug. Last night, walking home from the library in the misty dark, she’d felt as if someone was watching. It was, like Jefferson said, the neck-prickling sense of a presence nearby and not a nice one.
Cleo had walked faster, head swiveling, jumping when raindrop-heavy branches reached out and touched her. At her door, she’d fumbled with her keys, her heart thudding when the lock stuck, as it often did in damp weather. Even safely inside, with the doors locked and Rhett purring on her lap after dinner, she listened suspiciously to every scraping branch and rustle in the shrubs.
In the sunny Saturday light of the following morning, she felt silly. Looking out over her pretty back garden, Cleo found it easy to explain away the sounds. She’d surely heard only the wind or raindrops or four-legged visitors.
“Maybe it was your friend the armadillo,” she said to Rhett. Her cat twined around her ankles, angling for a second breakfast. Cleo poured herself a second cup of coffee.
“Or your girlfriend across the street,” Cleo suggested. Rhett flopped on the floor, feigning disinterest in a neighbor’s pretty petite calico.
Cleo peeked out the backdoor, telling herself it wouldn’t hurt to look around outside. She pulled yellow rubber boots on under her bathrobe and headed out the front. The air sagged with cool moisture. Rhett followed as far as the steps, where he stopped, sat, and eyed the drippy landscape with frowny-faced disgust.
Coffee cup in hand, fluffy hemline gathering dew, Cleo trekked around her yard. Over the years, she’d expanded her flower beds so that the lawn remained only as a carpet of pathways and oval accents. No footprints other than hers showed in the wet grass. However, a nighttime visitor could have kept to the thick mulch bordering the beds. Cleo retraced her route, scanning the shrubs and flowers that fringed her foundation. Here and there, a stalk was bent, another broken. She told herself the storm was to blame, but she couldn’t help thinking about the broken stalks outside Dixie’s window.
“Stop being silly,” she said aloud.
“Silly?” Gabby’s voice floated over their shared fence. Her face popped up a second later, ringed in a headband that matched her pink exercise top. “What was that, Miss Cleo?”
Cleo definitely felt silly now. “I was giving myself a talking to, and you caught me,” she confessed.
Gabby grinned. “You’d be the only person I’ve caught then.” She rolled her neck and said she’d been doing some yoga. “Trying to do yoga. This case has me all knotted up in my muscles and my mind.”
Cleo could sympathize. “You didn’t hear anything in our gardens last night, did you?” she asked, quickly adding, “Wildlife? The cat next door? The wind?”
Gabby narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be right over.”
Gabby traced Cleo’s path around the house, stopping to pet Rhett, who got up only so he could flop back down at her feet.
“I’m imagining things,” Cleo said. “Jefferson came to the library last night and—”
“Jefferson?” Gabby had been sniffing a sweet olive, a shrub with tiny, unassuming flowers that emitted a knock-your-socks-off perfume. “Was he bothering you? Is that who you think was prowling around?”
Cleo hadn’t pictured Jefferson as the prowler. She tried to now but imagined him leaving big footprints or waxy white nose paint on the windows. “He only put the idea in my head,” Cleo said, telling Gabby about his feeling of being watched.
“He told us about that,” Gabby said in a skeptical tone. “Did he show you the supposed threat he found? Come on! The writing’s all different. So’s the paper. We wonder if he didn’t write it himself.”
Cleo sighed. “Poor Jefferson. I think he’s desperately frightened, of the killer and being accused.” Cleo bent to deadhead some violets. She kept her eyes on the flowers as she acknowledged, “Unless he is the killer. In that case he’s a much better actor than he seems.”
“He does have motive, means, opportunity, and theatrical training,” Gabby said. “We don’t have enough firm evidence to arrest him yet, but he’s a better suspect than you. He and Jacquelyn both are.”
Cleo plucked another spent flower. “I should be happy I’m no longer at the top of the list.”
“You never were for me,” Gabby said, her nose back at the sweet olive. “We’ve gotten a few other reports of prowlers. One call turned out to be kids dressed up like Grim Reapers. Little ghouls! The others weren’t caught or even seen. They were more feelings, like you’re describing. People are worked up, that’s for certain. They hear the wind and think it’s a ghost.”
“That’s probably what I heard,” Cleo said, but she felt vexed. She tugged out a weed by its roots and took aim at another. “Someone is leaving those notes around during the night. What about Amy-Ray? Have you spoken with her? Jacquelyn told me that she saw Amy-Ray snooping around Dixie’s home.”
Gabby had heard all about that too, from Jacquelyn, from their lawyer, and from Amy-Ray herself. “Amy-Ray admitted she dropped by a few times, but she claims she was nowhere near Catalpa Springs on the morning of the murder. We’ve been asking around. No one reports seeing her here. Her roommate says she was probably home, and her coworkers say she was her normal, grouchy self that day. She works at a naturopathic clinic in Claymore, a place called Healing Hands.” Gabby ran her fingers over dewy fern fronds. “I can’t see why she’d kill Dixie now. She has a job and no financial troubles, seemingly.”
Cleo thought about Dixie’s lovely home. Jefferson and Jacquelyn wanted it for their mime school. “The house?” Cleo speculated. “Amy-Ray was awfully keen on claiming it as her own.” She immediately rebutted herself. “But like you say, why now? And why go to such elaborate lengths to terrify Dixie? Creating fear seems like a main motive, maybe more than material items or money.”
Gabby shrugged, turning it into an elbow-bending stretch. “You’re right, whoever did this wanted Dixie afraid.” A beep sounded, and Gabby glanced down at her watch. She’d once told Cleo that the watch did everything from tracking her steps and heartbeat to taking calls and sending emails. Cleo didn’t think she’d want that much monitoring and office work on her wrist. “Sorry,” Gabby said. “I have to run. Run to work, not the fun kind of running. Promise me you’ll call me anytime—night or day—if you think someone’s creeping over here, Miss Cleo.” She patted her hip. “I’ll come armed in more than Spandex.”
Cleo watched her neighbor jog around their fence. She’d intended to visit Amy-Ray, but between the library and other suspects, she hadn’t had time.
“No time like the present,” she said to Rhett,
who still sulked on the stoop, glaring at the damp grass. He perked up in the kitchen when she offered him an extra helping of Tuna Delight, a bribe that let her sneak out the door without facing the special grumpy look Rhett Butler reserved for getting left at home.
* * *
Cleo called to invite Henry along. She did so from her driveway, sitting in her vintage convertible, letting the engine warm to a purr. She hadn’t had her car out recently. It would be good to take it for a drive. The 1967 cherry-red Ford Galaxie convertible had previously belonged to her father, who’d kept it meticulously waxed and cooped up in the garage most of the year. Cleo never could understand the latter. The little car handled like the wind and demanded to be driven. She planned to zip over to Claymore and be back before eleven for her scheduled bookmobile stop in the park.
Henry waited outside his shop. He got in and greeted Cleo with a lingering peck on the cheek. His beard smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon. Cleo deduced that he’d had a treat from the bakery. She revved the engine to cover her rumbling tummy. In her hurry to hunt down Amy-Ray’s work address, she’d forgotten to eat, a practically unheard-of problem. She touched her forehead again, wondering if she really did have a bug.
Henry buckled up. “I brought supplies,” he said. He drew a paper sack from his jacket pocket. “Cinnamon scones.”
Cleo could have kissed him.
“And hot pepper.”
Cleo had been checking her mirrors. “Hot pepper? Tabasco?” Henry liked hot sauce on pretty much everything savory and sometimes tucked a peanut-sized bottle in his jacket pocket.
“Pepper spray,” Henry said darkly. “In case this turns into a visit with a killer.”
Cleo hesitated, hand on the stick shift. Just yesterday she’d questioned the wisdom of her sleuthing, and rightfully so. On the other hand, they intended to visit a business that boasted calming Saturday morning healing services from a full staff. “I don’t think anything bad will happen to us at the Healing Hands Clinic,” Cleo said, shifting firmly into first. Still, she was glad for Henry’s company and for his thoughtful supplies.
Catalpa Springs soon passed behind them. They crossed the low, slow Tallgrass River, through tall pines and marshy meadows. Then the landscape changed for the uglier. Cleo didn’t like to label anything homely, but if Claymore could know her thoughts, she felt it wouldn’t mind. The biggest town in Catalpa County was always expanding, and rarely for the nicer. Billboards spouted like hives on the outskirts. Shopping centers and parking lots mushroomed outward, deserting their abandoned predecessors. Neighborhoods fell into shabbiness, and new versions popped up. The roads always seemed to change.
Cleo found herself in a turn lane she didn’t recognize. “I swear,” she complained, “every time I’m over here, I feel like they’ve moved entire buildings. Wasn’t that supercenter on the other side of the road before?” She managed a James-Bond-worthy lane maneuver and added, “We’re looking for Hilldale Court and Healing Hands. Amy-Ray is listed as a ‘healing professional.’ ”
Henry saw the street as they were about to pass it. Cleo swerved again. Her heart had just returned to a normal beat when she spotted Healing Hands. The dull cement building resembled Pat’s cleaning company except for its odd flare. Shiny sculptures of upturned hands, red and taller than Cleo, flanked the door. Music greeted them as they approached, soothing sounds of pan flutes, rushing water, and crickets. A real cricket chirped back.
“What’s our strategy?” Henry asked. His right hand was in his pocket, along with the pepper spray.
Cleo hadn’t decided yet. “I just want to have a little chat, see what sort of person she is.”
“See if she confesses to killing her mother and terrorizing Catalpa Springs?” Henry asked as the music melded into birdsong.
“That would certainly make this a worthwhile trip,” Cleo replied.
Henry chuckled and held the door. Cleo entered to the startling likeness of Dixie reborn. Amy-Ray stood in the lobby, wearing lavender surgical scrubs and an unwelcoming expression. Stiff-looking armchairs ringed the walls, nearly obscured by a wild array of plants. Cleo reached out to touch an orchid and discovered it was plastic.
“We’re not open yet,” Amy-Ray said curtly. She pointed to the door, implying they could go out the way they came. She aimed her next words beyond the pass-through to the back of the office. “Who unlocked the front early?” No one responded.
Amy-Ray turned an unwelcoming frown to Cleo and Henry. “Who are you here to see?”
“You!” Cleo exclaimed, as bright and fake as the plastic orchid. “Do you remember me? Cleo Watkins. The librarian in Catalpa Springs. I was a …” Cleo hesitated. Claiming false friendship was a fib she couldn’t stomach. “I knew your mother very well,” she said truthfully. “My friend Henry and I were driving by and had heard you worked here. We wanted to pop in and make sure you’re doing all right. Such a difficult time …”
“Watkins?” Amy-Ray said, her left lip curling up in what Cleo decided was a grin. “You’re that librarian who was forever chasing after Dixie. Good effort! Forty years? Ha!”
Dixie, Cleo noted. Not mother, mama, mommy, or mom. “You reunited with your mother recently,” she said, keeping up her bright tone. “That’s lovely.”
Amy-Ray gave a bored sigh. “Yeah, sure. A lot of good it did me. Can I help you? Do you need an appointment? If so, our receptionist is in the back and can be with you in four minutes.”
Cleo wished she’d brought a backup plan. Usually folks liked a friendly visit or at least pretended to tolerate it. Amy-Ray was turning, heading for the employees-only door. “Wait!” Cleo blurted out. “I need your help. The police think I murdered your mother.”
Amy-Ray turned, eyebrow raised in interest.
“I didn’t,” Cleo said, feeling Henry hover protectively closer. “I need to clear my name. Can we talk somewhere for a minute? Four minutes, before you have to start work?”
Amy-Ray heaved with a sigh. “Fine. We can go in my office.” She pushed through the employees-only door, letting it swing back for Cleo to catch.
“Is anyone else actually here?” Henry whispered, looking around warily, his hand tucked in the pepper-spray pocket. The back corridors branched off like a maze. Cleo wished she’d brought the scones, for comfort and to leave a trail of crumbs.
“Here,” Amy-Ray said, opening an office.
Cleo stepped inside and smiled. Books! Packed shelves filled every wall. “What a lovely office,” she exclaimed, earning a genuine smile from Amy-Ray.
“What can I say,” Amy-Ray said. “I guess I take after Dixie in this. I hoard books.”
“Books don’t count as hoarding,” Cleo said, to which Henry agreed. Since Amy-Ray remained standing behind her desk and hadn’t offered them seats, Cleo moved to the shelves and inspected titles. The collection ranged from natural medicine to music, with a few novels mixed in. Cleo spotted a new bestseller she’d recently stocked in Words on Wheels. The two available copies flew off the shelf. She said so to Amy-Ray, hoping to show their common interests. “I drive the bookmobile,” she said. “This book is very popular with patrons.”
“You have a moving library and you still couldn’t pin down Dixie and that book?” Amy-Ray said, missing the bonding point. “Bet that drove you crazy. No wonder you’re a suspect. I am too, you know.” She shrugged. “I didn’t do it either, if that’s what you’re really here to find out. Like I told the cops, why would I? I already won.”
Cleo recalled Amy-Ray yelling just that at the wake. “What do you mean, you won?”
Smugness rounded Amy-Ray’s face. She ran her fingers through her spiky hair. “By holding out all those years. I didn’t go running home and begging Dixie to take me back. Nope. I never called, never wrote, never asked for money even when I needed it. It worked. Dixie came crawling to me when she decided she was dying. She needed me to forgive her.”
“Did you forgive her?” Henry asked softly.
Amy-Ray shrugge
d. “Sure. It didn’t matter to me. We made a deal.”
Cleo wouldn’t usually be so forthright, but she thought Amy-Ray wouldn’t mind. “What did you get out of your deal?”
Amy-Ray grinned. “I said I’d take away all that bad luck she’d gathered by shunning her only daughter on one condition: that she let me move back home.”
Cleo drew a sharp breath. How tragic! Going home was Amy-Ray’s sole condition? Could it be that behind Amy-Ray’s blustery exterior, she’d missed her home so much that all she wanted was to return?
Amy-Ray snorted laughter. “Oh, you are precious! The look on your face! You feel awful for me, don’t you? That’s exactly what I wanted. Everyone would know that Mother came begging to me, that she was in the wrong all along. That’s how I won, and I was going to rub it in every single day. I was supposed to move in next week. It won’t be as fun now, but I still get the house. Jefferson will know I won.”
Finally, a mother had slipped out. Cleo felt Henry shift closer to her. Chills crept up her arm. Amy-Ray’s desire for home wasn’t tragic, sad, or sweet. It was selfish and manipulative. “Just like Dixie,” Cleo murmured.
Amy-Ray chuckled. “I suppose I am, aren’t I?” She pointed to a row of books behind her, resting on the windowsill. The point narrowed to a single volume, a maroon cover with gold lettering.
Cleo gasped. She pushed back her bifocals and blinked. If Henry hadn’t caught her arm, she might have lunged. “Luck and Lore!” she cried. She was about to push on, despite Henry’s hold, when a terrible thought made her snap back, pulling Henry with her. She recalled their earlier logic. If Dixie had been waiting with Luck and Lore and it was now missing, then her killer likely took it.
Amy-Ray was chuckling so hard a tear slid down her cheek. “Y’all have made my morning. This makes working the weekend worth it.”
Footsteps hurried down the hallway. A colleague in penguin-print scrubs poked her head in, looking alarmed. “Amy, are you okay? I heard … laughing.” The woman frowned in confusion. “Your acupuncture appointment is here too.”
