Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  Read or Alive

  A BOOKMOBILE MYSTERY

  Nora Page

  To Eric, with love

  Acknowledgments

  I owe more than I can ever express to my family for their love and support. Thank you to the inspiring writers of Sisters in Crime and to generous readers of early drafts, especially Cynthia for your kind encouragement and critiques. To Eric most of all, thank you for our time together and for listening to way too much talk of murder.

  Many thanks to my wonderful agent, Christina Hogrebe, for inspiring this series and finding it a perfect home at Crooked Lane Books. To my fabulous editor, Jenny Chen, thank you for all your support and insights and for making Cleo a better sleuth. Thanks to Jesse Reisch for the gorgeous cover illustration, Jennifer Canzone for the lovely book design, Ashley Di Dio for publicity and marketing prowess, and Rachel Keith for meticulous copyediting.

  Most of all, heartfelt thanks to library lovers and readers for joining Cleo on her bookmobile adventures.

  Chapter One

  Librarian Cleo Watkins prided herself on living a modest life. In all her seventy-six years, Cleo had never craved designer shoes, flashy jewels, or a new-model car. She was judicious in her use of air conditioning, although a tad flagrant with the furnace. Cleo canned peaches and put up her own pickles. She still darned socks.

  However, everyone has a weakness, some little luxury they can’t resist. An obsession?

  Obsession sounded extreme.

  But then, so was Cleo’s love for books.

  “Hold tight to your wallet, Cleo Jane.” Mary-Rose Garland, Cleo’s best friend since infancy, clapped a protective hand over her purse, so slender Cleo doubted it could hold sunglasses, let alone important purchases.

  Like books! Armloads and bags of books!

  They paused at a crosswalk, allowing Cleo to take in a sight that made her heart go pitter-patter. Sunlight glittered off the emerald-tile cap of the historic Catalpa Springs Railway Depot. The last train had departed decades ago, but the long brick building lived on, now hosting special events. There were weddings and expos and a recent gathering of pedigree-rabbit enthusiasts. Then there was the present event, which was very special to Cleo.

  “The Georgia Antiquarian Book Society Fair,” Cleo said, blissfully reading the banner stretched over the entry. She mentally replayed the fair’s promise: a one-week extravaganza of rare books, old books, used books, maps, manuscripts, and bookish ephemera beyond imagination.

  Cleo felt as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning, Halloween, and her birthday combined. It was opening day, and Cleo had taken the morning off from her bookmobile duties to attend. Taking time off wasn’t something Cleo did lightly. She adored captaining Words on Wheels, her retrofitted school-bus bookmobile. She knew how much her patrons depended on the mobile library too.

  Cleo again rationalized that it was her professional duty. Cleo was a librarian, and thus books were her business. She and her young protégé, Leanna, had made up special displays of collectible library books and ephemera in honor of the fair. Cleo would be driving hers around in Words on Wheels, while Leanna had hers on prominent display in the main library.

  Cleo was also supporting her “gentleman friend,” antiquarian bookdealer Henry Lafayette. Henry had the honor and anxiety of hosting the fair. Each year, the society selected a location with an esteemed book business. Henry’s shop, the Gilded Page Antiquarian and Rare Books, was certainly that. In the handful of years Henry had lived in Catalpa Springs, he’d established a sterling reputation as a book restorer and dealer. His shop brimmed with literary treasures, and Cleo considered it as dignified, handsome, and filled with wisdom and wit as its owner.

  “Henry’s been running every which way,” Cleo said, as she and Mary-Rose waited for a slow-moving sedan to pass. “Antiquarian bookdealers seem to be a high-maintenance bunch.”

  Their demands could fill a card catalog, from frigid air conditioning for their books to stall positions optimized for visibility, fêng shui, and flow. One bookdealer had even lobbied to ban all ink pens and children under eighteen from the Depot.

  Cleo could understand the pens. Page-marring implements had no place around precious books. She’d go further, adding gum and neon highlighters and anyone who’d ever dog-eared a page.

  “Henry feels his reputation rides on everything going smoothly,” Cleo continued. “I keep reminding him to have fun too. Did I tell you, we’ve been taking dance lessons for the final soiree?”

  Cleo stepped into the crosswalk, eager to get inside.

  An arm whipped across her chest, halting her. “Proceed with caution, Cleo,” said Mary-Rose, more firmly than the sparse Monday-morning traffic on Main and Elberta streets warranted. “Let’s agree right here and now. We’ll do a full scoping lap around the booths first, remembering that we’re sensible, mature women on budgets.”

  Cleo shelved the words under recommendation. Subcategory: well-intentioned but unrealistic, like the proper serving size of french fries being six pieces. Who could possibly hold to such a tiny number? Who would want to? Not Cleo, but she wouldn’t argue with a friend on such a fine, sparkly day.

  “Of course,” Cleo said, twining fibbing fingers behind a purse the size of carry-on luggage. The purse was empty except for her wallet and several expandable shopping bags.

  Mary-Rose snorted and allowed them to proceed. “The look in your eye, Cleo Jane Watkins. You’re like a kid about to dive into a chocolate swimming pool. All I ask is that you don’t go drowning in temptation. No falling in love with a book you can’t afford and getting your heart broken.”

  It was Cleo’s turn to scoff. “How could I ever get my heart broken among books and booklovers?”

  Cleo picked up her pace. “It’s the atmosphere I’m after. Can you feel it? It’s like the very air is quivering.”

  “That’s heat waves,” Mary-Rose said, determined to be unromantically realistic. She tugged her floppy hat lower. Her patterned sundress flapped gently over red sandals. “It feels more like August than the first week of May. I’m just saying, Cleo. We’re both susceptible to book temptation, but did you see the price list for the showcase items? Good gracious, you could buy a yacht for the cost of the same stories you and I have gathering dust on our shelves.”

  “I have no desire for a yacht,” Cleo said primly. She politely refrained from mentioning that dust wasn’t gathering on her bookshelves. “Pricy collectibles won’t tempt me. If I buy a book, I want to read it on my porch with a cold drink and my cat.”

  “Good to hear,” Mary-Rose said. “These are salespeople. They smell weakness and desire. Remember the time you and I went shopping for that oven? Those salesmen were like piranhas fighting for prey. These booksellers are no different.”

  Cleo remembered. Mary-Rose had needed an industrial-sized oven for the Pancake Mill, her family restaurant, famous for serving up pies and flip-it-yourself pancakes.

  A mosquito floated by. Cleo waved it off, along with her friend’s concerns. “That was different. Those were appliance salesman. In Florida!”

  Cleo held a certain leeriness of the state a mere few miles to their south. Florida was lovely, no doubt. However, it had an unsavory association with something Cleo feared more than piranhas. Retirement.

  “These are book people,” Cleo said, head held high. “Book people are nice and honest.” Cleo spotted just such a nice, honest person now. Henry stood at his demonstration table under the broad eaves of the Depot. A small crowd watched as he aimed a sharp tool at a hunk of leather. Cleo didn’t want to interrupt. She’d stop by on her way out, she decided. Then she could show him her purchases—all her new, old books!

  Hurrying on, Cleo pushed through arched doors wide enough for a carriage. Inside, the long,
open space brimmed with bookstalls and browsers. Iron trusses crisscrossed the ceiling and stained-glass rainbows spilled across the space. A cathedral of books, Cleo thought, savoring her favorite incense: the vanilla aroma of ink and paper.

  Mary-Rose caught up and continued her warnings. “Not all book people are trustworthy, Cleo. Not from what I’ve been hearing.”

  But Cleo didn’t want to hear anything to dull the shine of her day. She barely heard anyway. Her eye had alighted on a cover, and her mind soared to another place and time.

  * * *

  “Gone With the Wind,” Cleo said dreamily. “Remember that summer at the coast, when we about drove my father mad, noses stuck in our copies? He said we were ‘wasting’ our vacation. I loved this book as a teenager.”

  “Then, now, and forever,” Mary-Rose said, her tone softening. “What a lovely edition. I’ve never seen it before.”

  She and Cleo stood with heads lobbed left as if they could make the page tip and turn too. The book remained unmoved in its glass case, open to a whimsical watercolor of Scarlett O’Hara in a red ruffled dress. Watery purple flowers and a horse-drawn carriage formed the backdrop.

  Cleo recalled her earlier statement about craving only books she could hold and enjoy. That surely wouldn’t be this book, locked in a case. Still … she wouldn’t mind looking through it. Her cousin Dot would love a look too. If possible, Dot was an even bigger Gone With the Wind fan than Cleo and Mary-Rose, although it was close to a three-way tie.

  Dot wouldn’t need a warning about pricey books. Cleo’s cousin was firmly frugal and a wise businesswoman. She had to be. Dot ran one of the few remaining general stores in the area—or anywhere, for that matter. The Drop By made her rich in happiness, Dot always said, suggesting that the monetary profits weren’t as generous.

  “It’s in French,” said Mary-Rose, tapping a small card bearing a typed description. “No wonder we’ve never seen it. Just as well too. Look at that price! This is not a book for librarians or pancake makers, Cleo.”

  A platinum blonde had been tidying up boxes and books at the back of the stall. She turned and thrust a manicured hand at them. “Kitty Peavey, proprietress of Southern Delights.” Her breathy voice matched her Marilyn Monroe appearance, from the round fifties-style curls in her stiff-set hair to the red wrap dress highlighting her curves. “You ladies have fine taste.” She waved an open palm over the glass case.

  “Just looking,” Mary-Rose said firmly. She elbowed Cleo for emphasis.

  Looking to look inside this lovely book. Cleo kept the thought to herself. Some folks suffered from a devil on their shoulder, urging wicked deeds. Cleo lugged about the burden of good manners, instilled by her mother and grandmothers and generations of proper southern ladies before her. It wouldn’t be right to get Kitty’s hopes up or paw through a book she had no intention of buying. Cleo grudgingly echoed Mary-Rose’s sentiment. She introduced them both and praised Kitty’s shop.

  “You do have delights here,” Cleo said. “We’re huge fans of southern settings and authors. So is my cousin. She absolutely adores Gone With the Wind. I’ll send her over to your shop.”

  Kitty beamed, her lips as red as her dress. “Your cousin is a GWTW fan? Then I’m her woman. GWTW delights are my specialty!”

  Cleo decoded the acronym and smiled, picturing Dot amid a pack of Margaret Mitchell lovers, all dropping the insider lingo. MM. GWTW. Was there one for Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a … ? FMDIDGAD?

  Kitty leaned over the glass case, her voice dropping to husky. “Let your cousin know, I just picked myself up some gems. Some are such treasures, they’re for special eyes only. My personal book scout came to town early and made some amazing discoveries that I—exclusively—will be offering for sale here at the fair. I was skeptical about meeting here, I’ll admit. But this little town is a treasure!”

  Cleo glowed, pleased with the praise and eager to pass it on to Henry. She’d assured him that his fellow antiquarians would be charmed by Catalpa Springs.

  “So, imagine …” Kitty was saying, or rather, exhaling. “Imagine a first edition of GWTW, signed by Margaret Mitchell herself. Her hands opening the cover, caressing the pages. Her pen, pressing down … Woman to woman, I’ll tell you, I get a tingle in my fingers when I touch books like that. Can you imagine the thrill?”

  Cleo didn’t have to imagine. She knew. So did Dot, who owned just such a rare copy. She’d discovered it in a box of “throwaway” books from an estate sale. Cleo would always remember the moment she and Dot opened that cover for the first time. They hadn’t swooned, but they’d come close.

  “So how much are you selling that for?” Mary-Rose asked, with businesswoman brusqueness.

  Kitty straightened and fluttered ruby-red fingernails over her heart. “I’m not sure I could bear to part with such a gem. But … then … I am sharing the proceeds with my book scout. Since y’all are my first customers, I could do a special deal. Say, twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five dollars?” Cleo said, as Mary-Rose simultaneously said, “Twenty-five hundred?”

  Kitty’s giggles had sharp edges. “So precious! This town is ripe for the picking, isn’t it? Twenty-five thousand. That’s cutting you ladies a sweet deal.”

  Cleo gasped.

  Mary-Rose grabbed Cleo’s elbow and tugged. “How nice,” she said stiffly. To Cleo, she whispered, “Moving on. We’re moving along.”

  Cleo remained rooted, boggling at the price. Good gracious! Could Dot’s copy be worth that much? She almost didn’t want to tell her cousin. Dot would worry. She’d need to buy expensive insurance and keep it somewhere safe. Cleo pictured them visiting the book behind bars, locked away in a cold safe-deposit vault deep inside the bank.

  Kitty’s smile twitched. “Now, if y’all are looking for more affordable fun, I have other delights too. First-customer discount applies. Come this way.”

  Cleo obediently followed Kitty to the end of the table, making sure to praise books that were just as lovely without trios of zeros in their price tags.

  “Then there are these beauties,” Kitty said, sailing her hand over photographs in individual cellophane sleeves. “Photos from the 1939 film of GWTW, ready for framing. Picture Clark Gable on your wall, say, in your powder room.” She fanned them out. “Here he is with stuff burning in the background. Look at those smoldering eyes. I’d recommend getting five for a nice gallery-wall arrangement. I’ll give you a package deal.”

  Cleo’s head had lobbed again, this time in confusion. “But these are all single pages …” Pages that belonged to a book she knew well, the 1940 motion-picture edition of Gone With the Wind. Dot kept a copy in her sitting room, with pride of place on her coffee table.

  “I don’t think you want to know, Cleo,” Mary-Rose muttered.

  Kitty beamed. “I extracted the pretty pages from a book that was in fair condition, at best. It’d suffered too much use. Some crayon damage too.”

  Cleo and Kitty shuddered as one, in shared crayon revulsion. Cleo forgave children for their artistic urges. However, she couldn’t forgive crayons, the waxy ruiners of far too many library books.

  Kitty said brightly, “That’s the problem with people loving their books too much! The pictures are more useful this way.”

  More useful and profitable for her, Cleo translated. Each photo bore a price that was probably more than the whole book. Cleo reminded herself that not all books could be saved. Even at the library, they had to periodically thin the collection to make room for new items. Someone would enjoy these photos, and that was a good thing, wasn’t it? That someone wouldn’t be Dot Moore or Cleo Watkins, though. They preferred their books intact!

  Cleo inched away, glad now for her promise to Mary-Rose. “We’re just starting out,” Cleo said, a little shakily. “We’re doing a full lap of the fair before making any decisions.”

  “Send your cousin round,” Kitty trilled. She thrust a business card at Cleo. The paper was thick and scarlet with embossed gold sc
ript.

  Cleo slid the card in her bag out of politeness. She turned to go, taking one last look at Clark Gable. As she did, her heart flipped again. Not in a pleasant pitter-patter but a thud.

  Chapter Two

  Cleo tugged Mary-Rose down the narrow aisle between Kitty’s stand and a cheery table with a picnic-worthy red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Kitty was busy charming new customers.

  A brimming trash basket stood inside the rectangular table corral of Kitty’s stall. Cleo pointed to it. “Look! Look at the bookplate!”

  Atop the trash, a cover lay open, bare but for a fringe of ripped pages and a bookplate. The plate featured two live oaks arching over the words Ex libris. From the library of. The signature beneath was in pencil too pale to read.

  Mary-Rose inhaled sharply. “Is that Dot’s bookplate?”

  Years ago, Mary-Rose had hosted a foreign-exchange student with a mastery of wood-block printing and a love of books. The student had made personalized bookplates for Cleo, Mary-Rose, Dot, and the Catalpa Springs Public Library too.

  The library’s design featured the Victorian cottage that was the library’s home, with the name forming a blocky border. On Cleo’s bookplate, a cat sat atop a stack of books in a moonlit window. A lady in a sundress read beside a sparkling spring on Mary-Rose’s plate.

  Then there was Dot’s plate, framed in lovely arching oaks. Just like the plate on the dismembered cover, Cleo thought with a sinking dread. A cover matching the size and color of the motion-picture edition of Gone With the Wind that should be sitting on Dot’s coffee table.

  Cleo immediately talked herself down. Dot would never sell that book. Certainly not to someone who’d hack it apart!

  “No, this has to be some kind of mistake,” Cleo said to Mary-Rose.

  But Mary-Rose had turned away. She nodded toward the entry. “We can ask her. Look.”

  Dot stood in the entry. A slice of red light flared on her silver hair, cut in the short bangs and bob she’d sported since childhood. Tall and stretched to slender, Dot wore a ruffled apron, her preferred uniform for work, dining, gardening, and even driving.