by Nora Page
Professor Weber ignored her and turned to Henry. “We can’t have this sordid event or wild rumors sullying our fair. The Georgia Antiquarian Book Society selected this out-of-the-way town based on your proposal, Mr. Lafayette. You assured us that it was a quality location worthy and befitting of our reputation. Now I hear that it’s not as safe as you made it out to be. I hear there have been serious crimes. Murders. Recently too.”
Cleo patted her hair, half expecting it to be bristling with her irritation. The pompous man had no right to chide Henry or Catalpa Springs.
“Every place has crime, unfortunately,” she said briskly. She realized the tourism bureau wouldn’t appreciate that argument. She pictured a new glossy brochure, Mary-Rose’s scenic Pancake Mill embellished with the slogan Catalpa Springs: Flip your own pancakes, solve your own crime! A burst of inappropriate giddiness struck, along with an alternate motto. Catalpa Springs: Not many more murders than most!
Cleo pushed back her bifocals, thinking Dot wasn’t the only one in the aftereffects of shock.
“This is horrifying to us all,” Henry said. He reached for Cleo’s hand. “We all need to cooperate with the police and help them identify the culprit quickly.”
The other bookdealers seemed to be losing interest. Several were browsing the shelves. Buddy drifted to the Okefenokee book. Others checked their watches and slipped out the door. A few grumbled pointedly about how their choice of venue would have been better.
Atlanta, a woman declared in a carrying whisper. Atlanta would have been much preferable. More Ubers, better Thai food, fewer murdered members.
Henry rubbed his temples.
“There are murders in Atlanta too,” Cleo said indignantly. “Catalpa Springs may have no connection to this crime other than being the unlucky setting. You all know each other. You’re associates and business rivals. The killer might be one of you. You might have brought crime to our town.”
The response was momentarily gratifying. The book browsers glanced up, startled. The Atlanta proponent clamped her mouth shut.
Cleo raised her voice so the chief would be sure to hear too. “The police will want to know about Mr. Fox’s activities last night, when he was last seen, who he was with.” She looked pointedly at Kitty. “They’ll need to know who he was close to and any enemies and—”
Kitty interrupted. “I told you who his enemies were. Your cousin and any other desperate old ladies who misinterpreted his attention. As for us antiquarians, we’re all good friends, isn’t that right, y’all? Friendly competitors?”
Mild murmurs of agreement and noncommittal grunts filled the air.
“Right,” said Henry, clasping his hands as if they’d settled something. “So I’ll reschedule the workshop tour for later this week when hopefully this is all wrapped up.”
His intent was as clear as large-print font. Henry was trying to hustle them out. No one made a move for the door, except the chief, and he returned too soon. When he did, he had Gabby at his side. The young deputy held up a clear evidence bag in her hand.
“I need your attention,” Gabby said. “Does anyone recognize this item?”
“That must be the murder weapon,” Cleo whispered. She glanced over at Henry, expecting he’d be interested. She didn’t expect his ashen-faced shock.
* * *
“Obviously, that’s an awl,” Professor Weber said. “As anyone in the book world would know, this particular tool is used in bindings, especially Japanese stab bindings.”
Cleo cringed at the word. Stab. Had he used the word on purpose?
The professor droned on about other bindings: stitches and skewers, secret Belgian, Coptic, and slingbacks. As he pontificated, Gabby slipped behind him. She stepped over to Henry and Cleo.
“Do you know this tool?” she asked softly, holding the bag up for Henry to see.
Henry’s hand trembled as he took it.
“I think it’s mine,” he said, and Cleo’s heart jolted. “That mark, there, on the handle, it’s a forger’s mark. It’s unique. Yes, it’s mine.” His voice was soft. Cleo was sure only she and Gabby, standing inches away, could hear. But the professor had stopped talking. All eyes were turned their way.
The antiquarian bookdealers stared. For a moment no one said a word. Then voices erupted, filling the room with outrage and accusations.
“See! I told you! He did it!” Kitty cried, seeming to forget that she’d been just as sure about Dot.
The chief roused himself and started toward Cleo and Henry. Cleo read arrest on his mind.
“No,” Dot said, finally speaking up. “He didn’t do it!”
“No,” Cleo repeated, louder. “Please, listen, all of you. Mr. Lafayette had no motive to hurt Mr. Fox, and besides—”
“He did too have a motive!” Kitty crowed. “He confronted Hunter yesterday too, later in the afternoon, outside the fair. He threatened to get Hunt banned from Georgia antiquarian events if he didn’t stop wooing ladies. Jealousy, that’s a motive. Mr. Lafayette here was jealous of Hunt scooping up all the book treasures in his town and wooing all the ladies too.”
Henry reddened. “That’s not what I said—”
Cleo was sure he hadn’t. She finished her sentence in a booming voice. “Mr. Lafayette couldn’t have done it. He has an alibi. He was with me.”
The chattering hushed. The chief raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Cleo put a protective hand on her gentleman friend’s elbow. “Henry Lafayette was with me all night long and this morning until we arrived here,” she said firmly, eyeing the crowd, daring anyone to question her.
“Well, I … ah …” Henry stammered. “I didn’t stay at my apartment upstairs last night …”
“I can vouch for that!” exclaimed a gruff voice from the doorway. “I live next door to Cleo Watkins, heaven help me. That man’s over there all the time. All night long!” Wanda Boxer stood in the doorway, cackling happily.
For once, Cleo could have hugged her.
Chapter Nine
Gabby Honeywell was a wonder of swift efficiency. Cleo watched her young neighbor usher the bookdealers and onlookers from Henry’s shop. As each person filed by, Gabby collected their name and contact information and arranged for interviews.
“You know full well where I live,” Wanda griped, running a hand through pink-gold hair as choppy as her gardenia. “You wake me all the time, driving that police cruiser up and down our street on your odd shifts. It’s not right to park a police car on a nice, residential street. It makes it look like a crime scene.” She jabbed a finger in the air. “That encourages crime!”
Gabby politely nodded. Wanda had long held the mind-boggling theory that police cars attracted criminals.
Wanda shot Cleo a wickedly triumphant grin. “Of course, with Cleo as our neighbor, it’s likely to be a crime scene any day of the week. You’re a magnet for trouble, Cleo Watkins, you and your bus. Now your bad habits have rubbed off on your cousin.” She surveyed the bookshop. “Where is Dot? Did she run off and hide?”
Dot had wisely retreated to the peace of Henry’s workshop. Mr. Chaucer and Rhett had followed her. Pets, Cleo thought, could always tell when someone needed furry, four-legged therapy.
Wanda departed in a trail of muddy boot prints, off to muck up the town with gossip, Cleo was sure.
The chief puffed his chest and pushed out his suspenders. “I’ll escort Miss Peavey someplace nicer to give her statement. She’s had a most distressing morning.”
Kitty sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. She’d fled to the restroom earlier, claiming to feel faint and needing to “recover her composure.” Her pre-fiancé hadn’t waited for her or her composure. Professor Weber was among the first to leave. Someone, he’d said pompously, had to be in charge and keep the fair on schedule.
“Why, thank you, Chief,” Kitty crooned now. She leaned against Culpepper’s arm. “I’d be so scared without you here.”
“I’m here to serve and protect,” the chief said, glowing.
She’s a suspect, Cleo yearned to yell. She saved the thought for practical Gabby.
After everyone else had left, Gabby took statements from Cleo, Dot, and Henry. Cleo had hoped they’d all talk together, sitting around the coffee table, maybe with the extra comfort of treats from Spoonbread Bakery down the street. Most of all, Cleo wanted to be present when Gabby asked the key question: why had Dot ever thought of selling her books to begin with?
But Gabby interviewed them separately, using Henry’s workshop for privacy.
“Procedure,” Gabby said, explaining the one-by-one statements. Dot went first and fled right after, saying she was going home to rest. Cleo couldn’t argue with that. She couldn’t follow Dot either.
“You’re up,” Henry said, after his interview. He tried for an upbeat look, but the smile lines fanning his eyes drooped and he looked as worried as his pug.
Still, Cleo had to smile when she entered the workshop. Rhett Butler lay on the workbench, stretched from paws and claws to the tip of his plumed tail. Gabby had claimed a few feet of the soft soapstone tabletop. Rhett faced her, front paws flexing in what Cleo thought of as his “air biscuits.”
Cleo took a seat across from Gabby, on a stool that felt both too high for her legs and too short for the tabletop. As Cleo got settled, she breathed in a perfume of leather and paper, glue, paint, and ink.
On a pegboard panel, white-paint outlines marked where each tool should go. About a dozen outlines were empty. Tools lay scattered at the end of the workbench and crowded in the wooden carrying case. Shelves and boxes bulged with items of the book-repair trade. There were inks, paints, glues, and tissue-thin tape, parchment, vellum, and paper. Here was Henry’s indulgence on full display, Cleo thought. His joyful obsession.
Gabby smiled at her. “Deputy Honeywell and Deputy Rhett Butler, commencing the interview of Miss Cleo,” she joked, flipping to a fresh sheet on the legal pad in front of her.
“Who’s the good cop?” Cleo asked.
“Me,” Gabby said. “Most definitely. Deputy Rhett here tried to lure me into touching his belly. I know that trick.” She addressed Rhett, who stared back with wild round eyes. “I’d be in for an all-paw attack if I touched that belly, wouldn’t I?”
Rhett purred and rolled, flexing his claws.
Cleo reached out and rubbed her cat’s fluffy shoulders, a safe zone in his playful mood. She told herself to be careful with Gabby too. Gabby was a friend and neighbor, but she was also a deputy investigating a murder.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what Dot said?” Cleo asked, getting in the first question.
Gabby apologized, citing procedure. “I would like to show you this, though.”
She turned back in her notepad and pushed it over to Cleo, avoiding Rhett’s reach.
Cleo stared at a list of favorite books. For a second, she was lost in their stories. Then her mind registered the handwriting. Dot’s careful cursive. This was a list of some of Dot’s favorites too.
“Oh no,” Cleo said, tugging the list closer. “Are these all books that man stole from Dot?” A lurch of her stomach reminded Cleo where “that man” was. A few yards beyond the back wall, where voices filtered in from the alley.
“Allegedly stole,” Gabby said, before confirming Cleo’s guess. “Dot said some are very precious to her,” she added, watching Cleo intently.
Cleo’s gaze fixed on one title in particular. Gone With the Wind, after which Dot had noted in parentheses, signed, first first, and purple crayon mark on back inner cover. The crayon was from Dot’s niece. The double first wasn’t a typo—not on Dot’s part, at least. Unlike the crayon marking, this typo made the book more valuable.
The very first printed copies of Gone With the Wind gave the publishing date as May 1936 instead of the actual month of June. At the time, some unfortunate typesetter likely got a berating or a pink slip. But now—inconceivably to Cleo—collectors paid top dollar for the slipup. Collecting was a different world, Cleo realized, suddenly wondering how well she understood the antiquarians. They loved books, surely, but not necessarily for their reading value.
She slid the list back to Gabby. “May I have a copy of this? Henry and I can keep our eyes out at the fair.”
Gabby said she’d be typing up the list. “I’m going to give it to Professor Weber too. Dot may be able to take legal action to get the books back if we locate them.”
If … Cleo mentally corrected the word to when. Aloud she said, “We suggested legal measures to Dot yesterday. But you know Dot. She doesn’t like to bother anyone. She’d certainly never kill someone. I hope you’re not taking Kitty’s outburst seriously. She’s upset. Understandably.”
Gabby tapped her pen, bouncing the end on the notepad. After a few beats, she said, “I know Miss Dot, but not as well as you do. Let me ask you. Your cousin said something I don’t believe.”
Cleo tensed until Gabby said, “Would you believe that Dot let some stranger take her books because she got caught up in fair excitement? No other reason? Not for love or money or …?”
Cleo could only shake her head. “Dot told her niece that too. I’ll admit, I didn’t believe it either. I’ll talk to her. I think she’s embarrassed.”
“About that public outburst?” Gabby turned to a fresh page of her notebook, pen poised. “Kitty Peavey made sure we all heard about that.”
Cleo swiveled in her stool, considering her words carefully. She didn’t want to be on the record spreading conjecture. On the other hand, Cleo believed compiling and organizing facts was always helpful. “I wouldn’t want to gossip about Miss Peavey,” Cleo said, as a polite prelude to doing just that.
“It’s not gossip if it’s the truth,” Gabby replied. “None of us know these booksellers except Henry, and he only knows them from conferences and online interactions.”
“Well, then,” Cleo said. “You should ask Kitty about last night. From what I gather, Kitty was in Hunter Fox’s room. That’s why she wasn’t in her room when it was robbed. Obviously, Mr. Hunter left at some point.”
A metallic squeak crept in from the alley. Wheels, Cleo thought. A cart or trolley. Or a stretcher …
“Obviously,” Gabby said darkly.
Cleo spoke louder to block out the backdrop. She told Gabby about Madame Romanov revealing the murder. “Kitty did seem truly shocked. Of course, it could have been an act.”
Cleo replayed Kitty’s behavior, but couldn’t decide. Kitty seemed to wear her outward image like a costume. Was she someone else on the inside?
Gabby bounced her pen again, attracting Rhett’s wild-eyed attention. “Madame Romanov … she offered us her psychic services,” Gabby said, rolling her eyes. She consulted her notes. “She said she could facilitate ‘talking to the recently deceased,’ ‘spirit translation,’ and ‘bridging the bardo.’ Bardo … do you know what that means?”
“The bardo is a state between life and death,” Cleo said, happy to be helpful as a librarian and a reader. “It’s Buddhist. I recently read about it in a novel about President Lincoln.” Cleo wondered if Madame Romanov had checked out the same book. Cleo had featured it on Words on Wheels’ Recommended Reads shelf for a while.
Gabby took a note. “Good. I can cross that off my lookup list, at least. We already have enough to do. Murder. Burglary …”
Rhett purred loudly.
Sometimes Cleo thought her cat liked a bit of chaos. “Speaking of burglary,” Cleo said. “What do you think of Kitty’s robbery? Doesn’t it seem unlikely to have two separate, serious incidents on the same morning?”
“I can’t say,” Gabby said, “and not just because of procedure.” She allowed a wry smile to slip across the workbench to Cleo. “The chief’s handling that. He seems to be taking a personal interest.”
“Oh, I noticed his interest,” Cleo said.
Gabby bravely risked a rub of Rhett’s belly. He got in a double-paw kick before Gabby whisked her hand away to ruffle his head. Gabby said, “Off the reco
rd, the chief has a thing for Marilyn Monroe. I’ve seen his garage. She’s his calendar girl.”
“Well, this Marilyn could be a suspect,” Cleo said.
“Because she saw Hunter last night?” Gabby mused. She made more notes in her palm-sized notebook. Cleo waited as Gabby wrote, appreciating Gabby’s neat handwriting and knack for cataloging information. Gabby was a good reader too, especially of people. She’d have made a fine librarian if she hadn’t found her calling in crime. Cleo had told Gabby this once.
Gabby had countered that the reverse was true for Cleo: Cleo Watkins might have been chief of police or a CIA operative if she hadn’t been so attached to the world of books.
Gabby turned over a fresh page and said abruptly, “What else should I know, Miss Cleo? I suspect you’re ahead of us already on whatever book stuff’s going on.”
Cleo swiveled uncomfortably in her stool. She didn’t want to get Dot in trouble, but she didn’t want to withhold valuable information either. “Kitty may have been in possession of a rare, signed first edition of Gone With the Wind. I gather she was selling it in collaboration with Hunter.”
Gabby raised an eyebrow and flipped back to Dot’s list.
“Yes,” Cleo said with a sigh. “I think it’s Dot’s book. It has more than sentimental value.” Cleo named the price Kitty had suggested.
“Whoa!” Gabby gripped the table. “Over twenty grand? Wish I had one of those lying around. But you didn’t see this gold nugget in Kitty’s possession? You can’t confirm it’s Dot’s?”
Cleo couldn’t. “I asked Kitty before you came into the shop earlier. The chief was here, but I’m not sure he understood the importance. Kitty said she’d been describing a hypothetical book. Imagine a page touched by Margaret Mitchell.”
“Interesting …” Gabby jotted more. “I can imagine cashing a twenty-thousand-dollar check. Imagining’s the closest I’ll be getting.”
Dot must have been imagining the payoff too. But what did she need so much money for? Guilt stabbed at Cleo. What had she failed to see or ask? What was wrong?
