by Nora Page
Iris gave a pointed snort.
Cleo pitched her tone to perky and positive. “The library renovation is coming along beautifully. We’ll be all ready. Everything will be back in place.”
“What about that overdue book you were chasing after? Did you get that back?” Iris asked, a twitch of her lip suggesting she knew the answer.
Cleo’s perkiness faltered. “Well, no …” Her gaze turned to the mound and the marble building where Dixie’s ashes would rest. “Dixie won that one,” she murmured.
She was saved from further uncomfortable conversation by a gong, this time from a real instrument, with the mallet wielded by Jacquelyn. Jefferson launched into a poem that might have come from a rhyme dictionary. “Dust. Must. Nonplussed. Stardust. Star seeker. Weaker …”
Cleo looked around, assessing the reaction and the attendance. Chief Culpepper was off to one side, talking into his radio. Gabby had a good view of Jefferson and Jacquelyn and the crowd. A group of realtors stood to one side, all except one engrossed by their phones. Who was absent was as interesting as who was here. Cleo looked around for a sleek blonde bob. She didn’t see Belle. Mercer didn’t seem to be here either. She asked Henry if he’d seen them. He hadn’t.
“What about Amy-Ray?” Cleo asked.
They both looked around for Dixie’s daughter, trying to be discreet in their head swiveling. Discretion, however, wasn’t necessary. Up on the hill, Jefferson was raising a jade-colored urn in both hands, offering Dixie’s ashes to the heavens. He pointed his face up too, his poem continuing. “Ashes. Flashes, Fake eyelashes …” A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Amy-Ray Huddleston sprinted up the mound. Dixie’s daughter wore bright pink scrubs and white sneakers. Jacquelyn saw her before Jefferson did, and banged her gong in warning, but it was too late. Amy-Ray grabbed the urn from her brother and started to run back down the hill.
“I won!” Amy-Ray yelled, hugging the urn tight.
Jacquelyn, quicker than her husband, leapt at Amy-Ray. The tackle left them tumbling. Jefferson tripped behind. The trio rolled down the hill in a writhing bundle. The urn bounced after them, followed by the flailing funeral director.
Pat moaned. Iris touched her bandaged head and smiled. “That didn’t take long to go bad, did it?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
In Cleo’s experience, pie was a salve for many problems, including the bad aftertaste of a bitter funeral. At the gates of Eternal Rest, Cleo and her carpool companions turned away from town and sped for Mary-Rose’s Pancake Mill. The pancake destination closed in the afternoon, which made the visit all the more relaxing. Cleo, Mary-Rose, Leanna, Henry, and a kitchen helper polished off half an apple pie and made good headway into a coconut cream. They walked it off by strolling around the natural spring, the resident peacocks trailing behind them.
No one wanted to be the first to make motions to go home, but after a second lap around the water, daylight was dimming, and there was little excuse left to linger. They’d already hashed and rehashed the funeral, from the fight to the police-supervised internment of Dixie’s urn in the marble columbarium. A cemetery official had closed the ceremonies by looping a thick chain across the iron-gated doors to the final resting place, bolted with a padlock the size of a grapefruit.
Cleo dropped her riders off one by one, Mary-Rose to her house first, followed by Leanna. Then it was down to Henry.
“Home? Your shop, I mean,” Cleo asked.
His smile lines flared. “Would Rhett forgive me if I asked you in for a nightcap? I have wine, port, decaf coffee …”
“I think Rhett will find it in his heart,” Cleo said, smiling back. She drove the long way around the park, which would allow her to park right in front of Henry’s shop. The scenic route, she thought, since it also took them past the library.
Cleo drove slowly, admiring the blinking orange lights in the florist’s window. The bakery had replaced its Halloween jack-o-lanterns with pumpkins of all colors, decorated in paper turkey feathers. A few stores had gone straight to Christmas décor, which Cleo both loved and slightly resented. She wanted to enjoy all the holidays in their turn, to their fullest. She was remarking on an early Santa, when her foot jabbed the brakes.
“I agree,” Henry said. “Way too early for Santa.”
Santa hadn’t led to Cleo’s abrupt breaking. The library was to their right. A silver Cadillac stood out front, shining under the streetlamp.
“Mercer Whitty! That’s his car,” Cleo said. There was no mistaking the personalized plates, “1WHITT.” Cleo eased her convertible forward. Inside the library, the chandelier blazed in the restored reference room. “What is he up to? He has no business being in the library after hours.” Cleo feared he wouldn’t be alone. Belle hadn’t attended the funeral. Had she spent the afternoon doing heaven knows what to the library? Cleo’s worries were confirmed when she spotted Lilliput, trotting out from the backyard. The little horse reared and whinnied before disappearing back into the darkness.
Cleo swung her car in front of Mercer’s. She peered across Henry, already anticipating the worst. What would it be? A rogue contractor, removing their bookshelves? A disco light in place of the antique chandelier?
“I’ll go in with you,” Henry said, anticipating her intent to storm the building.
She hoped he couldn’t read all her thoughts. Mercer! After their “bonding” retreat, he’d promised to speak with Belle about toning down her most radical ideas, like the pay-to-lounge first-class reading room. He’d fielded complaints from patrons all week, he admitted. Cleo suspected Mercer would forget all about those complaints if Belle started sweet-talking him.
Lilliput blew an equine raspberry from somewhere in the dark as they passed. Cleo didn’t have time to greet the little horse. She swung the front door open as if it weighed nothing at all. She stopped short in the hallway, hands on her hips. Darkness filled the hallway, broken by a light slicing under the reference room door and a slight sound. Cleo cocked her ear. What was that? Scuffling? Heavy breathing?
A fresh worry bubbled up. What if she and Henry were about to burst in on a romantic moment? Cleo almost turned around, but thoughts of inappropriate behavior in a library propelled her on. Still, she wanted to give fair warning.
“Hello? Mercer? Belle?” she called out.
Cleo knocked on the reference room door. When no one answered, she pushed the door open. Henry pressed to her shoulder, grabbing hold when she nearly fell back.
Under the warm light of the chandelier, Belle stood, breathing in raspy bursts. Her platinum hair shimmered. In her hand hung a pair of scissors, the oversized pair Cleo had bought for the ceremonial ribbon cutting.
Belle dropped them. The scissors landed softly on the antique carpet.
Cleo’s hand shot to her mouth, covering her gasp.
Mercer was indeed with Belle. He lay at her feet, a dark stain at his side blurring into the carpet’s busy floral pattern.
Henry backed up, trying to pull Cleo with him.
“Wait,” Cleo said softly.
“I found him,” Belle said, taking a step toward Cleo. “He was here.”
Henry moved to Cleo’s side and thrust a protective arm in front of her. “We’ll call an ambulance. Let’s go, Cleo.”
“You found him?” Cleo asked. “What do you mean, you found him? You met here? Was it an accident? Mercer could be … vexing.” She caught herself about to slip into Chief Culpepper’s I-understand routine. She did understand. Not about killing a man, of course, but about how infuriating Mercer Whitty could be.
“No!” Belle cried. “No, this wasn’t me! I didn’t hurt him!” She took another step in their direction. “Why would I hurt Merc?”
Cleo could think of some reasons. Had Mercer nixed Belle’s plans? He was prone to mocking and had a biting tongue. He could be cruel. He was also infatuated. What if his adoration had taken a nasty turn to unwanted attention? Cleo didn’t want to put either of these possibilities to a woman
who’d just been holding bloody scissors.
“I understand,” Cleo said, grasping for something to say.
Belle shook her head so vigorously her bob became a blonde blur. “Understand what? Cleo, I know you and I don’t see eye to eye on libraries, but how can you think I did this? No!” She moved to the oak desk, her hand grasping the edge.
Henry lowered his arm and took Cleo’s hand. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “We need to call the police.”
He was right, but Cleo couldn’t go. Her eye had caught on the book resting near Belle’s hand. It was maroon with gold embossing and art deco designs. Her breath caught in her throat, and despite her shock—or maybe because of it—she took a step forward. Luck and Lore: Good luck, death lore, and deadly omens of the Deep South.
Was this the one? Cleo took another step. She spotted a library call number on the book’s spine. Dixie’s overdue book! She fought the urge to grab it, her stomach twisting as she again remembered their theory that Dixie’s killer swiped this book. She retreated back to the doorway, nudging her purse toward Henry, whispering for him to find her phone. He took the bag. She could hear rummaging, contents dropping, and then Henry’s voice, soft but urgent in the hallway.
“Luck and Lore,” Cleo said to Belle. “This is the book I’ve been looking for, the one Dixie Huddleston kept out all those years.”
“Dixie again!” Belle huffed. “You are obsessed with that awful woman and this book too!”
“Were you obsessed with Dixie?” Cleo asked. “She was cruel to you at that camp, wasn’t she? Did she try to apologize recently and make it worse?”
Cleo heard sirens. Help would be here soon, maybe too quickly. She wanted answers, and in Belle’s stunned state, she might provide them. “Help me understand,” Cleo said. “I can help you.”
Belle replied with a sigh and a dull monotone. “I hated that camp almost as much as I hated Dixie.” She turned to the nearest bookshelf, filled with thick leather-bound tomes recording the early years of Catalpa Springs. There were family trees and simple ledgers and records of times good and terrible, none of which should be forgotten. Belle drew out a county record, nose wrinkling. “This book is in wretched condition. I bet it has bugs. Dust mites. Silverfish. I tell you, Cleo, we need to freshen this place up.”
Cleo wasn’t going to argue about dust mites with a probable killer. She tried to return Belle to her own past. “What happened between you and Dixie at that camp?”
Belle shoved the county record back in place. “She was mean, that’s all. Cruel. I wasn’t the only kid picked on for having frumpy clothes and being shy and plain, although it seemed like it at the time.” Belle turned back to Cleo, her beaming smile sending a chill up Cleo’s spine. “And you know what? As much as I detested her, I wanted to be just like her. Isn’t that pathetic? I realized how much she’d twisted up my life when I saw her again after moving back here. I’d spent so much time trying to be like her and her popular friends. What a waste! Where’d it get me? Back here, driving around in a cute-as-can-be camper, trying to impress people, and all I get is gripes. You know, those retirees out at Happy Trails did nothing but fuss when I showed up instead of you and your bookmobile the other day.” Her pitch rose in mock complaint. “Where are all our books? I want an audiobook, I want large print, where’s my interlibrary loan?”
Outside, car doors slammed. Henry touched Cleo’s shoulder, whispering that the police were here.
Cleo talked fast. “What happened when you saw Dixie at the farmers’ market? What did she say to upset you?”
Belle’s snort might have come straight from Lilliput’s lips. “I went up and said, ‘Hey, Dixie,’ and reintroduced myself. I thought I’d show her what I’d become, and she’d be impressed. All she remembered was the other me. The old me. She said, ‘Oh, you’re that dumpy girl from camp? I’m doing apologies and clean forgot about you!’ She forgot! I hadn’t forgotten about her.”
“It doesn’t matter what she thought,” Cleo said. “You were very successful in your career. Are successful. Why, you have your bookmobile and innovating and …” Cleo trailed off, worried she’d just taken a wrong turn. “And your lovely little horse!” she exclaimed. Everyone, even killers, loved their pets. “He’s a doll. A real cutie.”
Belle exhaled and seemed to calm down. “He’s a little spunk, isn’t he? I always wanted a horse and my own bit of land. I need to start looking into that.” She turned to the window. Cleo caught Belle’s reflection in the wavy antique glass. Her gaze looked distant, pensive. Was she thinking of green pastures? If so, Belle didn’t realize her next home would likely be prison.
“Cleo, Henry?” Gabby’s voice sounded hollow in the foyer. “I need you to back out slowly.”
Henry gently tugged. Cleo had one more question. “Why bring back Luck and Lore?”
Belle turned, her voice flat. “Cleo, don’t you know me better than that? I have no interest in old books, and I have no idea how that old moth-bitten thing got here.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Good cooking required an essential ingredient: a hefty helping of heart. Cleo’s heart wasn’t in breakfast, even to whip up a batch of Sunday biscuits. She searched her pantry, fridge, and freezer and came up with only deep-frozen waffles. Ice crystals grew from the crevices. They were hardly appetizing, especially for a guest.
Pug and Persian claws clicked down the stairs. Cleo put on the coffee, thinking she could invite Henry to Spoonbread’s, her treat.
Rhett and Mr. Chaucer trotted into the kitchen. The pug looked as off-balance as Cleo felt. His human companion followed, his hair ruffled and tufted, like Albert Einstein’s after an electricity experiment.
“I have dog biscuits,” Cleo announced, “a large supply of Tuna Delight, and coffee. I thought we might go to Spoonbread’s after a boost of caffeine.”
They both said, “My treat” in unison.
Cleo felt better with the coffee and especially the companionship. It had been awfully nice of Henry to stay again. They’d been awake until late, buzzing from the murder and the long wait afterward to give their statements. She’d slept fitfully, waking to thoughts of Mercer and questions about Belle and the mysteriously returned book.
Henry claimed he’d slept like a baby in the guest bed. He stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes. Cleo recalled the sleepless nights she’d spent with her infants and suspected he had slept like a baby.
When they finished their first round of coffee, they left Rhett sunning in a window. They planned to stop by Henry’s first so he could change into something less rumpled and drop off Mr. Chaucer.
The day was sunny and bright, with dewy jewels on the grass and birdsong in the air. They strolled past pretty picket fences and autumn planters, and Cleo could almost—almost—talk herself out of last night’s doubts. Of course the case was closed, she told herself. They’d caught Belle red-handed.
“The book bothers me,” she murmured to Henry at a cross street as they waited for a car to pass. Mr. Chaucer took the opportunity to sniff-inspect the signpost.
Henry reached over and squeezed her hand. “That book has bothered you for a long time. Now it’s back. It’s good.”
“But Belle said she didn’t have anything to do with it,” Cleo said.
Henry clicked his tongue at his dog. When Mr. Chaucer failed to respond, he reached down and turned the pug in the direction of crossing. Like a windup toy freed from a barrier, the pug wobbled forward. “She said she had nothing to do with killing Mercer Whitty too,” Henry pointed out. “Now I’m not a criminal expert like some people I know, but I’ve heard that criminals tend to lie about their guilt.”
“But why would she bother?” Cleo persisted. “Belle doesn’t care about books, especially old books.”
“Maybe someone else returned it earlier in the day?” Henry said. “You and Leanna were out at the funeral and then the Pancake Mill. Maybe Mercer found it outside and brought it in?”
They’d reached the par
k. A group of early-morning walkers in velour tracksuits passed them, arms churning. “Good job, Cleo!” one of the ladies called back. “Hip, hip, hooray for our hometown detective!” another yelled, arm waving, not breaking stride.
Cleo felt heartened, not for the praise—although that was, admittedly, very nice—but because the fear seemed to have lifted. People were out enjoying themselves. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and a warm breakfast was on the way.
“I think I’ll keep the ‘CLOSED’ sign up today,” Henry said as they approached his door. He jingled through his keys, locating the proper one. Cleo admired the golden rays lighting up the Spanish moss in the park across the street. She never tired of such beauty. When she turned back, she realized Henry wasn’t unlocking the door. He crouched low, a handkerchief in his hand. When he stood, his hand moved toward his jacket pocket before hesitating.
“What is it?” Cleo asked.
“I don’t want to show you this,” he said. Grim-faced, he held out his palm. Through the folds of the handkerchief, Cleo recognized the corner of a black paper coffin.
“No!” she exclaimed. “How can this be?”
“A leftover threat, that’s all,” Henry said, key skittering across the lock.
Cleo wanted to agree, but she couldn’t. “But we were here last night to pick up Mr. Chaucer, after Belle was arrested. We would have noticed.”
Henry unlocked the door. Inside, Mr. Chaucer trotted straight to the back book surgery and his breakfast bowl. Henry put the note on his workbench. He doled out dog kibble and opened the back curtains and generally delayed approaching the bench.
Cleo read it for them both: “Henry Lafayette. I’m not done, but you are. Welcome to your future home.” A shiver crawled up her spine. “Who would do this?”
“It’s nothing,” Henry said with stiff joviality. “In fact, it’s good news. It proves that this coffin business is nothing but a prankster. We misinterpreted. We thought that because Dixie had a note with her when she died, her killer had left it. This will pass. No one will take these silly things seriously now, and the prankster will tire of them. Let’s go to breakfast. It’s a lovely sunny day.”
