Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  Cleo frowned through her bifocals. The view was perfectly clear but all wrong. Dot looked … angry. Enraged. Neither the words nor the look fit Dot. Her usually serene face was pinched. Her hands balled in fists at her apron-covered hips. Before Cleo and Mary-Rose could react, Dot stormed off into the crowd.

  * * *

  “Where are my books? I want my books back!” Dot’s voice cut across the milling din.

  Cleo wedged through bodies and knee-bumping totes to find Dot pointing at a dark-haired man. Cleo didn’t recognize him. He looked like a cover model for a cruise ship, tall and tanned and a touch too good-looking for Cleo’s taste. Dark hair waved rakishly at the collar of his light linen jacket. Expensively weathered jeans skimmed canvas boat shoes and bare ankles. Cleo guessed he was in his fifties and denying it with the help of hair dye.

  “Do I know you, ma’am?” he was saying in deep tones stretched in a haughty drawl.

  “Do you know me?” Dot gripped her apron ties. “You came to my home. We had tea and cake. You took my books! I changed my mind. I want them back. You must have gotten my many messages. I’ve been trying to contact you.”

  Bookdealers and browsers glanced their way. Gawkers inched closer.

  Cleo reached Dot’s side. Her cousin jumped at her touch.

  Dot spun around wide-eyed, taking in Cleo and the gathering crowd. Red splotches blossomed on Dot’s cheeks, and she withered toward Cleo.

  The man smiled. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “I remember now. You served a lovely cake, but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to purchase any of your used books. Remember, ma’am? You must be confused.”

  “Dot? What’s happening?” Cleo put her arm around Dot’s thin shoulders, feeling a burst of big-cousin protectiveness. Dot might have just turned sixty-nine, but she’d always be Cleo’s little cousin.

  Dot opened her mouth but then slapped her hand over it.

  A crowd was coalescing, inching toward the spectacle of conflict. Sideward glances turned to outright staring and titillated murmurs.

  “Hunter Fox,” Mary-Rose declared. She stepped up, arms akimbo, her fighting stance. “I know you. Remember me? I kicked you out of my pancake shop the other day for buttering up my customers with your sweet-talking schemes. Did you try that with this good woman?”

  Dot’s head whipped side to side in denial.

  Sweet-talking? Cleo worried. Could that account for something as incomprehensible as this man getting his hands on Dot’s books? It would explain Dot’s mortification.

  Mary-Rose raised her voice. “This is what I was trying to warn you about, Cleo. This man is a snake-oil salesman with a sugary tongue. From what I hear, he’s been going around town, targeting ladies, talking them out of valuable items.” She lowered her tone to ominous. “Talking them out of books.”

  Cleo gasped. How had she not heard of this? She’d been busy with the bookmobile and library, with Henry and dance lessons and the loveliness of springtime. Busy was no excuse if books and booklovers were in danger.

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Garland,” said the now-named Hunter Fox. “I do recall you and your equally beautiful pancake establishment. I was merely offering my assistance and expertise, helping folks find profit in the old books cluttering up their homes.” He flashed dimples at the audience. “I offer exclusive, personal, in-home consultations and special incentives for the ladies.”

  Titters and giggles erupted. Hands reached out for his card.

  Mary-Rose scoffed. “Right. That’s what you were doing. Helping. Is that what happened to you, Dot?”

  “No …” Dot stammered. “No!”

  “See?” Hunter said. “This woman is awfully confused. Can someone bring her some water?”

  “Dot?” Cleo said carefully. “Did you sell this man books? We saw—” She didn’t want to upset Dot further by mentioning the maimed volume. “We noticed your bookplate at another stall.”

  Dot grabbed Cleo’s hand. “Where? I just want my books back, that’s all. This man misled me. I thought we had a deal, but he tricked me. I see that now. I’ve been trying to contact him. I was at the Drop By and I saw him, coming this way, and followed him and …”

  Hunter shook his head in exaggerated pity. “Following me? You must be under a misimpression. I have no records of any deal. Do you, ma’am? No?”

  Dot held her forehead as if in pain. Her silver hair fell forward, covering her face. From underneath, she whispered, “I’m an old fool …”

  Cleo squared her shoulders. “My cousin might not have a contract, but we can identify one of her books right now. The dealer who has it can surely help us trace it back to you, Mr. Fox. Follow me!” With Dot, Mary-Rose, and the crowd at her heels, Cleo led the way to Southern Delights.

  Kitty stood behind her table, flouncing a puffy pink feather duster at nothing in particular. When she saw them coming, she trilled, “Hey, ladies. Y’all are back soon. Oh, and you’ve brought friends! Is this your cousin the GWTW fan?”

  Cleo kept going, scooting around Kitty’s booth to the view of the wastebasket, the wounded book, and evidence of misdeeds.

  She stopped short. The basket was empty.

  “What did you do with the discarded cover that was here?” Cleo asked.

  Kitty’s laugh twinkled to the high rafters. “I deal in delights, darling, not discards. I don’t know what you mean.” She looked beyond Cleo, her face brightening, her manicured fingers waggling in a wave. “Hey, Hunter.”

  His eyelids dipped seductively. His voice did too. “Kitty, what a lovely display.”

  Kitty’s cheeks turned as rosy red as her lipstick.

  Cleo’s stomach sunk. Was Kitty among the women under Hunter Fox’s spell? “Miss Peavey,” Cleo said sharply, aiming to cut through any romantic trance. “Did this man sell you a movie edition of Gone With the Wind with a bookplate depicting live oaks?”

  Dot gasped. She stared down at the photos, sliced and sealed in their clear cases.

  Kitty grinned and bopped Hunter teasingly with the fluffy duster. “You hound, you. What are you up to?”

  “That book was mine,” Dot stammered. “He had no right to sell it. You had no right to …” She turned away from the photos.

  “Oh, honey,” Kitty cooed with syrupy sympathy. “Did you fall for that old show-me-your-books line? Can’t you see this man is slippery? I mean, just look at him! The tip-off’s right in his name too. Hunter: always on the hunt. Fox: wily like a fox. Or is it sly?”

  Hunter flashed sharp white canines. “I do like to hunt,” he said suggestively. “I trust you have no complaints about our business arrangements, Miss Peavey?”

  She giggled but stifled her laugh as a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped up beside her. He wore a stiff dark suit and an even stiffer expression.

  Kitty trotted out from behind her stall and latched on to his arm. Cleo noticed a hefty diamond ring glittering on her finger.

  He patted her hand and introduced himself. “Dr. Dean Weber, president of the society.”

  “And my pre-fiancé honey,” Kitty tittered, gazing up at his rigid jawline.

  He continued on, his stony gaze landing on Hunter Fox. “What’s the problem over here?”

  Book theft and butchery, Cleo thought.

  Hunter Fox issued a smooth smile and an oily answer. “I’m afraid there’s been some confusion, Professor. These ladies are getting overly emotional. Books can have that effect on the fairer types.”

  Mary-Rose huffed.

  Cleo concurred, but she partially agreed with Hunter Fox too. Books could arouse passionate emotions like righteous indignation.

  “I’m afraid,” Cleo said, rephrasing his insincere words, “That this man stole from my cousin.”

  Dear Dot murmured apologies. She was sorry for bothering his fair, she said, and for causing a fuss and—

  Mary-Rose drew in air until she looked ready to burst.

  Cleo knew what was happening. Challenged to shush up, Mary-Rose would do just
the opposite. Dot, on the other hand, dreaded causing trouble or putting anyone out, even when the situation called for it.

  Cleo put a placating hand on Mary-Rose’s elbow and a soothing one on Dot’s. If she explained the situation, surely the society’s president would act on Dot’s behalf. Cleo laid out the facts as she understood them, checking for jerky head bobs of affirmation from Dot. Through it all, Professor Weber exhibited the emotional range of granite.

  “Mr. Fox?” the professor said after Cleo finished with a rousing demand for the return of Dot’s books. “Did you buy books from this woman?”

  “I can honestly say I did not buy her books,” Hunter said with a devilish twitch of a grin.

  “You fox.” Kitty whapped him with her duster.

  “He, he …” Dot stuttered. “He said he’d take the books and give me eighty percent of the profits when they sold. When I couldn’t reach him, I got worried. It didn’t seem right, and I changed my mind and …” Her words withered. “I just want my books back.”

  The professor remained unmoved. “What kind of books? Valuable or sentimental?”

  “Both,” Dot said. “There was my book of Georgia birds and a boxed set of Mark Twain, various classics by southern authors, and a diary, and … oh, I can’t say the others, not here.” She avoided Cleo’s eye.

  Cleo thought of Kitty’s newest “delight,” the signed copy of Gone With the Wind. No, surely not, she told herself. Dot would never, ever let go of that book.

  Professor Weber, in the tone of a disappointed principal, said, “A private transaction—without documentation—is not the purview of the Georgia Antiquarian Book Society. Mr. Hunter is an affiliate member and thus not subject to our rules of ethics, although I will remind every one of you to set a good example. Provenance. Authenticity. Integrity. Those are our cornerstones.”

  He turned to Kitty. “If he sold you this French translation of Gone With the Wind, he’s taking advantage of you too, my dear. You’ll never get that price.”

  A flush returned to Kitty’s cheeks, whether embarrassment or anger, Cleo couldn’t tell. Professor Weber didn’t notice. He was already striding off through the stalls.

  Hunter gave a scoffing snort. “No offense, Kitty, my dear, but I wouldn’t trust your pre-fiancé to understand the value of such a gorgeous treasure.” His hand rested on the glass case, but his eyes lingered on Kitty.

  “Thanks for the cake,” he said, flashing an alligator smile, flashy and treacherous, at Dot. “Let me know if you find that book you’re looking for. Sounds like something I’d be interested in selling.”

  Dot’s knuckles were white on her apron ties. “You are a wicked and deceitful man!” she cried. “You’ll be sorry. Awfully sorry!”

  A chill swept over Cleo, and not from the air conditioning puffing from industrial vents far above.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” she said, but her cousin was already rushing for the door.

  Chapter Three

  In heart and mind, Cleo Watkins felt forever young. However, certain things could prompt Cleo to acknowledge her true age. Wisdom was one. Young folks’ bafflement around such items as card catalogs and rotary telephones was another. Then there was running.

  As a child, Cleo had galloped whenever her mother, with her polite-little-girl rules, wasn’t looking. Cleo bounded up staircases and dashed across fields, arms outstretched, flying to wherever she was going, even if that was nowhere in particular.

  Nowadays, Cleo valued the slow life. She kept her speeding to vehicles, although she’d curtailed that as well, having a few too many traffic tickets to her name. When she did run, her knees protested in creaks and a nagging arthritic ache.

  Cleo feared she’d lose Dot. Her cousin had a tricky hip, but Dot was still younger and speedier on her long legs. What Cleo hadn’t factored in was cuteness.

  Cleo and Mary-Rose burst out into muggy brightness to find Dot diverted. She’d stopped at Henry’s table, not for the bookbinding demo, which appeared to have ended, but for his dog. Mr. Chaucer, an elderly fawn pug, lay on his back, an upside-down grin stretched across his wrinkly muzzle. Dot rubbed his belly. A front paw twitched, and his googly eyes closed in bliss.

  Henry was tidying his table. Leather, canvas, and parchment stood in neat stacks. He wedged tools into a wooden carrying box that reminded Cleo of a picnic basket. The tools themselves looked too lethal for a picnic, and definitely too dangerous to keep around books. There were hammers with sharklike heads and fins, metal piercers and sharp incisors, and implements resembling miniaturized hybrids of pizza cutters and medieval weapons.

  Cleo hesitated. She wanted to comfort Dot, but Mr. Chaucer had that job covered, and Mary-Rose was joining in the therapeutic pug pampering too. Catching Henry’s eye, Cleo sent a silent message, bobbing her head for emphasis. He understood and followed her a few yards down the shaded portico. She wished she had happy news to share. Her earlier joy at Kitty’s praise of Catalpa Springs had soured. What had Kitty really been cheering? Small-town gullibility? The ease of pilfering residents’ books?

  “Dot seems upset,” Henry said in a low voice. “Is everyone okay? I asked when she came running out, but she said she and the family were fine.”

  His concern put the situation into perspective. Books were hurt. So were Dot’s feelings, but there hadn’t been a death or accident or dire disease, at least not that Cleo knew of, thank goodness. As briefly as possible, she explained.

  Henry rubbed his temples. “Hunter Fox has been around for several of our recent fairs. There have been rumors that his scouting methods aren’t entirely ethical, but some dealers do business with him anyway. He has a knack for discovering amazing books. He’s like a magician, a true treasure finder.”

  Cleo put it bluntly. “I think his knack comes from conning folks. Mary-Rose heard he was targeting ladies around town. Like Dot.”

  Poor Henry looked devastated. Cleo hurried to say, “It’s not your fault. He’s one bad apple.”

  “That could give the whole society a rotten reputation,” Henry said. “We can’t have any more of that. Last year’s host got wrapped up in a forgery scandal. There was a rare-book theft the year before and rumors about a problematic antiquarian map the year before that.” He gave her a pained smile. “The ‘fair curse,’ we call it, but please don’t let that get around. We old bookdealers have nothing if it’s not our reputation.”

  Henry rubbed his beard, which was neatly trimmed for spring. His white hair tufted over prominent ears and his wire-rim glasses tilted slightly askew, as did the lavender pocket square in his light-gray linen blazer. He always looked adorable, Cleo thought, although she hated to see him so worried. She reached out and patted his elbow. “No one can blame you or the other bookdealers for that man’s actions.”

  “I know,” he said, not sounding fully convinced. “I am sorry about this, especially for Dot’s sake. I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll talk to Hunter Fox and Professor Weber too. If neither will rectify the situation, then maybe the police can.”

  Police. Cleo liked that idea. She imagined her favorite neighbor, Deputy Gabby Honeywell, snapping cuffs on Hunter Fox. He might be sly and slippery, but he couldn’t slither out of those.

  Dot was coming their way. Cleo intercepted her.

  “We can have that awful man charged with theft,” Cleo declared, stepping into Dot’s path. “Fraud. Breach of verbal contract.” Book-slaughter?

  Dot nimbly sidestepped Cleo and kept going, speaking rapidly over her shoulder. “Please don’t worry, Cleo. I’m sorry I bothered everyone. Go back inside, both of you, and enjoy the fair.” She moved at a scurrying speed-walking pace, with Henry and Cleo trailing behind.

  “Wait, Dot, please,” Cleo pleaded. They neared the crosswalk. Just up a gentle rise lay downtown, the quaint brick buildings, Dot’s store, leafy Fontaine Park, and the library, with Cleo’s bookmobile resting out front, a bright spot of school-bus yellow.

  Cleo assumed that Dot would stop to lo
ok for traffic. Dot, however, stepped into the crosswalk with barely a glance. Cleo was about to follow when a man’s voice halted them both.

  “Hey, hello? Ma’ams?”

  They turned to see a bald-topped man approaching at a lumbering jog. He was around Dot’s age, Cleo guessed. Young to middle sixties. Faded denim overalls rose over a round belly. A red paisley bandana fluttered from his front pocket, and an official book-fair tote bag bounced at his side.

  He was panting, and as he caught his breath, he drew a manila folder from the bag. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I was at my stall—the table beside Miss Peavey’s … you probably didn’t notice.”

  “The checkered tablecloth,” Cleo said. She assured him that his display was eye-catching and tantalizing.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “The shop, I mean. I’m not tantalizing. I’m Buddy Boone.” He shifted the folder to his left hand and offered vigorous if sweaty-palmed handshakes. “Mr. Lafayette, we’ve met online and in your shop. I don’t know if you remember.”

  Henry issued pleasantries: of course he remembered; how nice to see Buddy again. Bookish small talk ensued, and Cleo’s nerves settled. She hoped Dot’s would too. At least Dot had stepped out of the crosswalk and was making polite murmurs in mostly the right conversational places.

  Buddy said he’d come to town a day early to do some sightseeing, but most of all to visit the Gilded Page, the bookshop of honor.

  “First thing, first day in town, I stopped by this man’s store,” he said to Cleo and Dot. “I’m still debating on whether to buy that photo history of the Okefenokee you have, Mr. Lafayette. It called to me again last night. Sure would look fine on my side table.” He chuckled. “I’m supposed to be here to sell books, not buy more! I can’t seem to stop, if you know that problem.”

  Cleo assumed she could safely speak for all of them. “We certainly do!”