Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  Henry blushed when Buddy gushed about the social Henry had hosted for society members at the Gilded Page the previous evening. “Sure was awesome to see those old manuscripts and whatnots you work on,” Buddy said. “Those folks who collect medieval stuff were drooling over your pages. Not literally, I hope.”

  Cleo shot Henry a happy told-you-so smile. She’d stopped by the social briefly and assured him later that everyone had been having a lovely time. He’d worried that he hadn’t spoken with everyone individually. The dear, silly man had even thought he’d bored his guests by showing off some medieval illustrated texts he was restoring for a museum.

  Henry flushed. “I’m afraid I got carried away when you asked me about gilding. I can go on forever on questions of rebinding too.”

  Buddy laughed. “Just shows what a bunch of book nerds we are that folks get riled up about glue and stitching.” He turned to Cleo and Dot. “We all have a little book … ah, problem.”

  “I empathize with that,” Cleo said.

  “Cleo’s a librarian,” Dot piped up. “She’s fortunate. She gets to work around books all day.”

  “That’d only make the problem worse for me, I expect,” Buddy said. “I’d probably wanna take ’em all home at night.”

  “I do just that,” Cleo said. “I drive a bookmobile and often park it in my driveway. If I get an urge in the middle of the night, I go out and browse.”

  Dot politely asked what Buddy collected.

  Cleo thought one of her cousin’s superpowers—along with kindness and making the best chocolate-chip cookies in Georgia—was her gift of listening. Folks stopped by the Drop By not only for groceries and Dot’s delicious deli items but also for talk therapy. Dot’s sound advice often came with a free cookie.

  Dot was listening intently to Buddy.

  “I collect simple stuff,” he was saying modestly. “Georgia-themed and southern books are my big thing. I go for things I like, like book jackets and even bookmarks and bookplates. Of course, I do the actual books too, which makes me eligible for the society. That and I’m a natural gabber! Get it? Georgia Antiquarian Book Society, GABS?”

  Cleo guessed the gag was as well-worn as his boots. As a librarian, she heard more than her share of repeated, corny jokes. Some of her patrons had been uttering the same puns for decades. Cleo never tired of them. They were a comforting constant like the sun rising and setting.

  Dot said seriously, “That sounds wonderful. You offer items that bring people joy. That’s as important—no, more important—than money.”

  “It is!” Buddy said, as if Dot had hit on the key to life. “Collect and read what you love!” He quickly turned hesitant, scratching behind an ear. “That’s why, well, I hate to be a bearer of bad news. Like I said, I overheard your troubles about your books. You love ’em, right, and want ’em back? Well, it occurred to me that I might be part of the problem.”

  Dot’s smile sank.

  Buddy hurried on. “I bought this here bird picture last night from that Hunter Fox dude.” He opened the folder to reveal a painting of cardinals on a branch of flowering dogwood. “He’s staying at the same bed-and-breakfast as most of us bookdealers. After the social, he offered up deals. I liked this picture and it seemed like an okay price, so I snapped it up.”

  Dot’s mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

  “It’s a watercolor,” Buddy said, gabbing on faster. “George M. Sutton’s the artist, but y’all probably know that.”

  Cleo’s heart sank. Oh no … had another one of Dot’s books been butchered? Cleo knew the book and artist. She knew Dot owned a copy too. She glanced at her cousin. Dot yanked at her apron ties, loosening them only to cinch them tighter.

  “Is it yours, Dot?” Cleo asked.

  “Maybe you can tell by this little spot.” Buddy pointed to minor discoloration at a corner. “That’s what made it affordable for the likes of me.”

  “My book was intact,” Dot said in a small voice. “Cleo, you know the book. It was perfect except for some age spots. My movie book is—was—fine too.”

  “I just have this one page here,” Buddy said, flipping the folder shut and biting his lip. “I’m happy to get it back to you. May I call you Dot? Miss Dot?”

  Irritation bubbled up in Cleo. Another fine book, chopped up for pieces? It wasn’t right. It was book murder! Deliberate and malicious book butchery! And now this man wanted to rip Dot off again by selling it back to her?

  “For what price?” Cleo said, unable to keep a snap from her voice.

  Buddy looked wounded. “No price, ma’am.” He extended the folder toward Dot. “Here. Please. Take it. I wish I had the complete book, but a page is better than nothing. Better than a kick in the behind with a frozen boot, as my granddaddy used to say.”

  Dot clutched her middle as if she’d been kicked. She swung around and took off at a shuffling run, heading toward downtown. In the middle of the intersection, Dot turned to Cleo and the two worried men following after her.

  “Please, let me handle this,” Dot said. “I got myself in this mess. I’ll fix it.”

  Chapter Four

  “I’m sure Dot will call today,” said Henry, ever the optimist. He and Cleo sat at her kitchen table. A fine, sunny Tuesday and the second day of the antiquarian book fair stretched out before them. Henry was finishing off the final crumbs of a morning-glory muffin, a treat Cleo considered exempt from her doctor’s joy-stifling prescription of a low-sugar diet. Morning glories contained pineapple, coconut, raisins, whole wheat, and even carrots. Anything involving carrots and whole wheat had to be healthy. They’d each enjoyed two.

  Henry collected their plates and carried them to the sink. He offered Cleo a refill on coffee and a concerned smile.

  “Thanks,” she said, glad for his company and that she’d convinced him to keep pajamas, toiletries, and a few changes of clothes at her house. For too many nights, the dear man had slept curled up on her sofa or trudged home alone in the dark.

  Cleo cupped her warm mug and a warm feeling. Until meeting Henry, she’d assumed her senior years would be spent solo. Her husband had passed away some ten years ago. She’d always miss Richard, but she’d gradually discovered some new joys too.

  On her own, Cleo could read in bed at all hours and cook whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She slept in on Sundays and let visiting grandkids sail down the banister and make outrageous noise, messy art, and pancakes in deliriously abstract shapes. Then there was a joy that Cleo hadn’t even known she was missing: driving. In her version of a swinging single, Cleo had dusted off her father’s classic convertible, kept cooped up in the garage far too long. Best of all, she’d learned how to captain a school bus full of books.

  However, it was awfully nice to have company for breakfast, Cleo thought, watching Henry rinse the dishes. Drifting off to a dimming e-reader was surprisingly pleasant too, especially if it included a fellow booklover at her side. Even if his pug did snore and her gossipy neighbor to the north, Wanda Boxer, delighted in disapproving.

  Outside, the sunrise lit up the powdery peach blossoms in the old orchard behind Cleo’s back fence. Soon the warm rays would burn off the dew and morning mist. Not soon enough for Rhett Butler, Cleo’s cat. Cleo watched out the window as her fluffy orange Persian attempted to extricate himself from trouble of his own making.

  After gobbling his breakfast, Rhett had meowed demands to go outside. He’d then barreled straight into a patch of damp grass. Rhett detested water in any form except in his bowl and clearly considered himself stranded. He held up a front paw and flicked it, before putting it down and flicking the other. In between, he shot accusatory glares toward the house.

  They could both take this as a lesson, Cleo thought. Yesterday, she’d barreled into Dot’s business. She’d bullied her cousin with loving concern, leaving phone messages and dropping by Dot’s home and store. Dot hadn’t answered the phone or the doors.

  Cleo would have been beyond worried if she hadn’t
heard from Dot’s niece, April, who’d reached Dot by phone. April reported what Cleo had suspected: Dot was mortified and didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Something about making a scene?” April had said, incredulous. “She said she got caught up in the excitement of some big book festival and made a silly, spontaneous mistake?” Dot and April were as close as mother and daughter. Dot had raised April since she was seven, after April’s mother passed away and Dot’s older brother—April’s father—failed to cope.

  “Auntie Dotty will be fine,” April had said, adding with less confidence, “Won’t she?”

  April lived on the West Coast, with a busy job and busier family life. Cleo knew she’d fly home in an instant if she thought Dot was in trouble.

  “Of course! Everything will be fine!” Cleo hoped the false enthusiasm covered her concerns. She’d promised April that she’d keep in touch. She’d promised herself that she’d give Dot some space.

  Cleo spoke the vow aloud as a reminder. “I will not push. I will not rush in …”

  “Wise,” Henry said, setting dishes in the drainer. “Meanwhile, I’ll ask around about Hunter Fox’s transactions.”

  Cleo smiled at him. “I will too.” She was taking Words on Wheels out this morning. She hoped she wouldn’t find swindling victims among her patrons, although she feared she might. Cleo sipped more coffee, fueling up on caffeine and indignation.

  Henry checked his watch. “I should get going. The fair opens at ten. I’m giving some of the antiquarians a tour of my workshop beforehand. I need to tidy it up.”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Cleo offered. “I need to stop by the library and pick up some holds for Words on Wheels. Let me get Rhett inside and dry his paws.” Cleo forbade food, drink, gum, and dewy cat feet in her bookmobile.

  “Chauffeured in a bookmobile? I accept,” Henry said, gazing out the window. “It’s a sunny, fresh day. I predict problems will fizzle away like the fog.”

  Cleo hoped he was right, but she didn’t quite feel as sunny. She believed April’s report of Dot suffering a painful case of chagrin. What she didn’t buy was that Dot had gotten caught up in a spurt of book-fair excitement.

  As a child, Dot hadn’t taken off running like Cleo. Dot wasn’t spontaneous. She didn’t pretend to fly or even wish she could. Dot was solid, rooted, and cautious.

  Something had to be wrong. Something deeper and possibly even more important than books.

  * * *

  Stepping off her porch, Cleo’s ears picked up faint sounds of butchery. She cringed inwardly. Outwardly, she waved brightly to Wanda Boxer, looming at their shared side fence, clippers aimed at a wounded gardenia. Cleo’s neighbor to the north was on spring break this week and using her free time to garden, an unfortunate situation for the plants. In gardening—and life in general—Wanda derived her greatest joy from hacking at the happy and exuberant.

  Rhett, already grumpy from damp grass, toweled toes, and being clipped into his cat harness, shot Wanda the frown she deserved. Wanda had once chased Rhett with a broom for sunning on her porch. He’d never forgiven her.

  Henry and Mr. Chaucer wisely kept moving toward Words on Wheels, parked in Cleo’s driveway.

  Wanda smirked at their departing backs. “Shacking up with your boyfriend again? No wonder you’re getting lax at work, Cleo,” she said. “I needed a book yesterday. I walked all the way to the park to find your bookmobile closed.”

  “I took the morning off to attend the book fair,” Cleo said, letting Rhett tug her down the path.

  Wanda’s laugh demonstrated the distinction between a happy chuckle and a malicious cackle. Reinforcing the latter, Wanda beheaded a gardenia bloom. It fell, like so many others, at her rubber-booted feet.

  “I heard all about that book fair,” Wanda declared. “Sounds overpriced and boring, except for your cousin making a silly fool of herself. Did she really fall for some hot man and give away her books? Let that be a lesson, Cleo. Fawning is unseemly at her age and even more so at yours, if you ask me.”

  Cleo hadn’t asked. Besides, Wanda was only a few years younger than Dot and had been unseemly in her rudeness for decades.

  Wanda took aim at another bloom and gave it a snip. Then she eyed Cleo, waiting for a rise, a rightful reproach of her unnecessarily cruel words and pruning practices.

  Cleo bit her tongue. She wouldn’t give Wanda the pleasure. Instead, she employed her mother’s go-to polite brush-off. “I shouldn’t keep you,” Cleo trilled, adding a cheery wave. “I’m off to work. ’Bye!”

  “You’re actually working? I’ll come over right now, so I don’t waste my time later if you decide to close without notice.”

  Manners wrestled in Cleo’s mind. Good manners for both neighbors and librarians dictated that she welcome Wanda and wait patiently while the woman griped and grumbled and likely rejected all of the many fine books on offer.

  On the other hand, manners required that Cleo get Henry to his shop as she’d promised. She needed to prepare for her appointment at a nursing home this morning too. It would be rude to keep the residents waiting for their books and audiobooks. She planned to show off her special display of library collectibles too. Cleo was sure the residents would be appreciative and happy, unlike Wanda.

  Wanda smeared muddy handprints down her beige windbreaker. Clippers swinging, she started toward her gate. Cleo pictured mud on her floor and her pages.

  Wanda could have said please, Cleo reasoned. She could wait until regular opening hours. Most of all, she could refrain from insulting Cleo’s kind and virtuous cousin!

  Cleo made a show of checking her watch. “Oh, so sorry, Wanda. Look at the time! I really do have to run. Words on Wheels will be parked down at the Depot all afternoon. As you know, the main library opens at nine.” Cleo pitched her words as bright and sunny as her buttercup-yellow cardigan.

  “You want me to walk all the way to the main library when you have a busload of books parked right here?”

  “It’s lovely weather for a stroll,” Cleo trilled. To avoid Wanda’s glare, she bent to scoop up Rhett. His claws dug into her shoulder as she hurried for the bus, assuring herself she had nothing to feel guilty about. It was a gorgeous morning, and visiting the main library was always a treat, even more so since its extensive renovations.

  Last year, a toppled tree and town turmoil had nearly felled Cleo’s beloved library, where she’d worked for over five decades. Thanks to an unexpected benefactor and Cleo’s efforts to uncover criminal activities, the building was back. Cleo was still the head librarian, but she no longer spent her days at the circulation desk. She’d entrusted main-library operations to her young protégé, Leanna. That didn’t mean Cleo was retiring or resting on her library laurels, though. Heavens, no! Cleo was as busy as ever, crisscrossing the county in Words on Wheels.

  When the main building was out of commission, Cleo had enlisted the bookmobile as the full-time library. The experience had been eye-opening in many ways. Personally, Cleo had come to realize how much she loved the open road, the wind in her hair, and visiting patrons where they lived and worked. Professionally, Cleo had seen how much joy and benefit the mobile library delivered. Folks lit up when they saw the bookmobile coming. Some even flagged her down at red lights, hoping to hop on board. Everyone loved a bookmobile.

  Well, almost everyone, Cleo qualified, as Wanda’s complaints chased her down the walkway.

  Henry stepped aside. “It’s locked,” he said with an urgent glance back toward Wanda.

  Cleo unlocked the bookmobile and hustled Henry and Mr. Chaucer up the steps. She followed with Rhett’s tail swishing at her chest. Once inside, she lowered her cat into his traveling box, a padded peach crate bolted to the floor by her captain’s seat. Henry buckled up on the front bench seat, clutching Mr. Chaucer on his lap. The big bus roared to life.

  When they were clear, Cleo glanced in her rearview mirror, happy to be free of Wanda and always delighted to be in Words on Wheels, the prettiest bookmob
ile in Georgia, if not far beyond.

  Cleo’s clever grandson Sam had retrofitted the retired school bus as his Eagle Scout project. Sam and his friends had crafted handmade bookshelves to replace most of the bench seats. The back bench remained to provide a kids’ nook, along with soft seating. Squishy rainbow floor tiles ran the length of the aisle.

  The exterior was just as fun. Words on Wheels looped across each side in opalescent green cursive. Airbrushed flames fanned the grille, and cartoon text spelled out READ above the front and back windshields.

  Cleo adored the newest feature too. For a Christmas present, Sam had surprised her with a Plexiglas display case with handy clips for securing it to a bookmobile shelf and a leather handle for easy carrying. Cleo had given the case pride of place on the New Reads shelf directly behind her captain’s seat.

  “Whew,” Henry said, exhaling as they drove on. “Good job escaping Wanda. She scares Mr. Chaucer. And me …”

  The pug affirmed with a whimper.

  “Wanda’s worse in springtime,” Cleo said. “I think it’s all the new life, the baby birds and fresh flowers and oak pollen. It turns her meaner. I never can understand why she takes a spring break. Maybe her coworkers insist.” Wanda worked in human resources, an ill-fitted position given her dislike of most humans.

  Henry asked, “Was she gossiping about Dot? How’d she know? I didn’t see Wanda at the fair, although there was quite a big crowd.”

  “Tentacles,” Cleo said darkly. “She has a long reach for gossip.” If there was something bad to hear, Wanda knew of it, faster than the dark webs of the Internet. For a second Cleo almost regretted rushing off. Wanda knew about Hunter Fox. Maybe she’d heard of other victims. If so, she’d be happy to mock them, as she had Dot, and Cleo could collect some names.

  The bus lumped over a speed bump, and Cleo affirmed her Wanda-avoidance instincts. There were nicer and more trustworthy ways to get information.

  “Maybe it’s good that Dot is lying low,” Cleo said. “At least until Wanda moves on to other gossip.”