by Nora Page
“Dot’s probably not the only local who lost books,” Cleo said. “Hunter Fox was going around conning booklovers, particularly women, out of books. I heard so from Mary-Rose and planned to make inquiries on my bookmobile route today.”
“So they’d all have motives too.” Before Cleo could protest, Gabby raised a palm. “I know. You don’t want local booklovers involved. I don’t either. I’m only saying who could be connected so we can narrow down on means and motives. I’d like to know who else Hunter visited.”
Cleo would too. She wondered something else as well. “Hunter wasn’t from here. How did he know where to go?”
Gabby ran her pen just beyond Rhett’s claws as she mused. “So we have conned local booklovers. Any other suspects, Miss Cleo?”
“Professor Weber,” Cleo said, glad to move on to someone who wasn’t a friend, family member, or patron. “He’s Kitty’s ‘pre-fiancé.’ Did you notice that diamond on her finger?”
“I noticed. Pre-fiancés and overpriced rocks aren’t my things, but that ring is hard to miss. So she’s been dating—or seeing or whatever—both Hunter and Dr. Weber? Do you think the professor knew?”
It was Cleo’s turn to use the phrase “I can’t say.” She added, “But I suspect he did. He seemed chilly—chillier—yesterday when he suggested that Hunter had sold Kitty an overpriced book.”
“I can’t quite see him as the fiery passionate type,” Gabby said, “but I do see him as my next interviewee. I hope he doesn’t lecture me more about tools.” She slid off her stool and patted Rhett, who rumbled back a purr. “You’ve been a great help,” she said. “You too, Miss Cleo. Will you listen if I ask you to let us handle it from here?”
Cleo smiled at her neighbor. “I’ll listen,” she said agreeably.
Gabby shook her head. “I know what that means. You’ll listen and then do what you want. Just promise me you’ll be careful around these book people, okay?”
Cleo remembered Mary-Rose’s similar warning. To think, all Mary-Rose had worried about was Cleo’s wallet if she became overly enamored with a book. “I’m already on guard,” Cleo said. And on the case.
Chapter Ten
Later that afternoon, Cleo’s mind spun as fast as her wheels, rolling with facts, theories, and unanswered questions. She and Rhett were back in Words on Wheels, cruising out of town through lush forests painted in every shade of green. An egret soared across a cloudless sky. Warm air ruffled Cleo’s hair, and she thought again that among the most shocking aftereffects of murder—or any death—was how the world carried on. Birds sang, rivers flowed, and folks went about their mundane business. Appointments remained too, even if she was hours late.
After giving their statements, Henry had gone to the fair. He needed to surround himself with books, he said. Cleo understood that. She’d driven straight to the library. Her colleague Leanna had been reshelving and happily oblivious to the awful events just across the park. Leanna, at twenty-three, was Cleo’s protégé in all ways but one. Thankfully, Leanna showed no propensity for getting wrapped up in crimes.
Leanna, however, had known of the slippery book scout. To Cleo’s surprise, Leanna thought she’d met him.
“Dyed hair? Too tanned? Shiny teeth?” Leanna said. “Good-looking in a slick kind of way, like he’d try to sell you low land in a swamp?”
“That sounds like him,” Cleo said.
Such a man had dropped by the library about a week ago, Leanna reported. He’d just gotten to town and was inquiring whether she—clearly a beautiful and astute young woman—knew of anyone “looking to get rid of some old, useless books cluttering up their attics.”
“That was the tipoff,” Leanna said, scowling through retro cat-eye glasses. “Not the cheap flattery. That’s too common. But ‘useless books’? That’s no way to butter up a librarian! I do know of folks interested in book assessments with the fair in town, but no way was I going to let that guy near them.”
Leanna was wise beyond her years, and Cleo had thanked her for fending him off. The problem was that Cleo had no idea who Hunter Fox had visited other than Dot.
“We’ll put the word out,” Cleo said to Rhett, who snoozed in his padded peach crate. Cleo inched her window open wider and let the warm wind bat her cheeks.
At a crossroads, Cleo turned toward Golden Acres, a nursing home built on a former farm with pretty views of meadows and a feathery backdrop of cypress. The home itself resembled a squished-down, stretched-out White House. There were ornate columns and two symmetrical wings, with a rose garden to one side, and a curving drive with a space designated for Buses and Bookmobile Parking Only.
“Remember, Rhett, no talk of murder,” Cleo said, rattling Rhett’s canister of tuna treats. He hopped from his crate. While he was happily munching, Cleo slipped on his harness. Rhett stopped crunching and fell to the floor.
“Oh, stop,” Cleo chided. “You’re acting. You don’t do this when Henry puts on your harness.” Rhett’s tail slapped at the floor tiles. “I can’t carry you and the display,” Cleo informed him.
She unlatched the Plexiglas case, which was light and had a handy leather handle, but was still the size of carry-on luggage and filled with books and other library ephemera.
While Rhett played stricken, Cleo thought of the case’s designer, her grandson Sam. He was studying architecture at college, and she couldn’t have been prouder, as she felt about all her grandkids and her two sons too.
“You’re going to miss out on the fun,” Cleo told Rhett as she hefted the case and started down the steps. Rhett moped, sending her a sulky, wounded stare.
“You’re going to miss out on the fun,” Cleo said in a singsong voice. Halfway down the steps, a blur of orange fur passed her, and Cleo was glad his leash extended more than a bus length so she could keep up.
* * *
“The bibliophile group is in the sunroom already. Here, let me take that.” Franklin, Cleo’s favorite nurse, reached for the display case. Rhett adored Franklin too and trotted with doglike devotion at his heels.
“I hope they haven’t been waiting in there for hours,” Cleo said, chagrined at her extreme tardiness.
Franklin’s chuckle rumbled in baritone. He towered over Cleo by a good foot, with his cloudlike hair adding a few inches.
“No worries, Miss Cleo. We occupied ourselves with audiobooks.”
He pushed through swinging doors, holding them open for Cleo and Rhett.
They entered to a cheer. “She’s here!”
Cleo beamed. Attendance was large today, at least two dozen people. Thank goodness she hadn’t canceled.
“I have books from your holds lists,” Cleo said, “and more in Words on Wheels. I can go retrieve books too.” She smiled all around, saving the best for last. “I brought my special display. I’d love to show it off. You’d be the first to see it.”
“First!” came a triumphant cry from the back. The residents gathered around. Walkers made rubbery squeaks. Wheelchairs bumped. Some knees crooked and creaked. Eyes had dimmed and ears required a boost, but the library could still offer materials for everyone.
Cleo took in the touches of hominess as her hosts assembled. The remains of afternoon cookies, coffee, and milk lay stacked on a cart. Geraniums bloomed in the picture windows. Best of all, there was a pet, albeit not as cuddly as Rhett Butler. An orange-and-blue parrot perched on a plastic palm tree.
Rhett Butler feigned disinterest in the bird, which had a pirate’s vocabulary and a defensive beak. Tail held high, Rhett milled among the residents, soaking up ear scratches and treats.
Cleo set her display case on a coffee table. “I did this up in honor of the antiquarian book fair that’s come to town.” She described the fair and the various exhibits. The price tags of special items drew shocked gasps and comparisons to first mortgages. The money talk led perfectly to Cleo’s main point: bookish collections didn’t have to cost a fortune. They didn’t even have to include books.
The residents oohe
d and aahed as Cleo showed off dust covers and bookplates. They had a hoot shuffling through stacks of card-catalog slips and a handful of due-date cards.
When deaccessioning books from the library, Leanna had collected the due-date cards that used to rest in little sleeves glued to back covers. It just didn’t seem right to throw them away, Leanna said. They held too much history, of books and patrons. Leanna was sure something useful could be done with them.
Cleo was glad they’d found a “something.” When planning her route for the week, Cleo had asked Leanna to help her choose cards that might interest bookmobile patrons.
Cleo handed one to a lady in a baby-blue tracksuit. “Now, you don’t have to share this,” Cleo said with a zipping-her-lips gesture. She had a strict librarian’s vow of silence when it came to patrons’ reading tastes.
“Oh, my gracious,” the woman cried. She held the card up. “Look what Cleo found. August through September 1965, I checked out The Lusty Lord three times in a row. Then again for all of December. This brings back memories. I had such a stressful family Christmas that year. I needed this book. Scotland, men in kilts, steamy romance … If my husband had found out …”
Girlish giggling ensued, followed by an explanation. Her husband Elijah had been a preacher. “He wouldn’t have approved of this sort of lord,” she laughed.
She passed around the card and fell more serious. “That was a bit of a risk, wasn’t it? I read that book in secret. If Elijah came in the room, I’d hide it under the covers, the carpet, in the freezer, anywhere. But there was my signature right in the back for anyone to see. I guess I just prayed Elijah wouldn’t dare touch such a book. Do patrons still sign a card like this, Cleo?”
Cleo explained the new privacy measures and checkout system. “You’d think you’re at the supermarket,” Cleo said. “Patrons hand over their cards—like you all have—and the digital number goes right into the computer. It spits out a receipt with the due date.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” a man asked. Cleo knew him as a retired dentist and lover of biographies. “I liked spying on what everyone else was reading. You could start up book conversations that way.”
A small, bald-topped man chuckled. “I used to look at the due-dates cards to see if I’d read the book. How are you supposed to remember what you’ve read if it’s all anonymous?”
Cleo had a good memory for books. However, even she occasionally opened to a first page to realize she’d read it before. There were parts of the former system she missed too.
“I liked the stamps,” she said. “I’d check the ink pads and change the due dates every morning as part of my routine. I aimed to get a good, firm stamp right on the line. It seems so old-fashioned now. Like card catalogs. Young people now have no idea what a card catalog is, other than for decoration.”
“Nothing wrong with old-fashioned!” proclaimed the dentist, to hearty affirmations.
As the group reminisced about favorite books, Rhett went from lap to lap. Every so often, Cleo caught him eyeing the parrot, making sure the bird noticed him ignoring it. While the patrons chatted, Cleo indulged in a cookie.
“This has been so much fun,” she said, as the hour slipped by. “I needed to relax. I had an … interesting … morning.”
Cleo’s mother had two uses of the word interesting. The first came straight from the dictionary: arousing curiosity, capturing attention. The second implied utterly awful. In her mother’s world, the latter might mean inedible recipes or painfully bad amateur theater. In Cleo’s experience, interesting included mornings beginning with murder.
“We know,” the bald-topped man said. They looked around at one another, prompting someone to go first.
“So, can we bring it up now? Can we ask her?” a lady with bright-blue hair demanded.
Franklin chuckled. “I’d say it’s due time. Overdue, in fact. Y’all have been very patient.”
“We most certainly have,” said the preacher’s wife. “This book talk has been fabulous, but I’m about to burst. Miss Cleo, we all want to know. Tell us about the murder!”
“And the case!” said another. “We know you’re on the case.”
* * *
Cleo accepted another cookie from Franklin. They were small and made with oatmeal and raisins and provided by a registered nurse at a nursing facility. They were justifiable. Cleo assured herself that even her sugar-banning doctor couldn’t complain. Besides, Cleo had had an interesting morning.
“I didn’t want to drag down your afternoon with ugly news,” Cleo said.
“Pshaw,” said the preacher’s wife. “Tell us everything.”
Cleo was mildly shocked. The residents demanded details from cause of death to the extent of “splatter.” The parrot joined in with a squawk of “Murder!”
Franklin drifted by and murmured to Cleo, “We watch a lot of Law and Order here. We just got HBO too.”
“Your cousin Dot, we heard she was involved,” said the blue-haired lady. “Every time my daughter takes me into town, we go to the Drop By for cookies and root beer. I hope Dot’s not arrested. If she is, she’ll have to shut the Drop By. That would be a tragedy. A travesty!”
The others agreed, the parrot screamed for “law and order,” and voices rose to be heard.
“I heard it was Cleo’s boyfriend,” a man in the back proclaimed. “The boyfriend’s always who done it on the TV. Sorry, Cleo.”
Sympathetic sounds swelled, with Henry’s and Dot’s names riding the waves of words.
Cleo realized she’d been lulled by the book talk and cookies. Of course the residents would know about the murder. News traveled fast in small towns, and unlike young folks, seniors still used their telephones for talking. Everyone for miles around and beyond would be swapping theories, many of which would be wrong.
Cleo stood. “My cousin and my gentleman friend are completely innocent,” she declared.
The voices hushed, although skeptical looks remained.
“But I am worried that they’ll be falsely accused,” Cleo admitted, to mutters of agreement. “If I tell you what I know, will you keep your ears and eyes open for me?”
Two dozen faces nodded solemnly. To a rapt audience and one murder-happy bird, Cleo stressed Dot’s Good Samaritan innocence and Henry’s alibi. She elaborated most on Hunter Fox’s questionable scouting activities.
“Not to speak ill of the dead,” Cleo said as a polite preamble. “But I heard he was conning local booklovers.” Indignant grumbles rumbled around the room. “He may have cheated his fellow bookdealers too.”
Cleo debated for a moment. She took her audience’s age and wisdom into consideration, as well as their HBO subscription. Then, as delicately as possible, Cleo outlined the likely love triangle of Kitty, Professor Weber, and Hunter Fox.
“Ooooo,” crooned the preacher’s wife. “That’s what happened in The Lusty Lord. Except there wasn’t a murder, and it doesn’t sound like this bookseller lady ended up with the lusty guy, either.”
Her statement drew titters, but it made Cleo think. “We shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” she murmured, thinking of Kitty and the professor too.
The preacher’s wife elaborated. “You mean, that stodgy professor guy could be lusty on the inside? That’s very possible. He’d have to be some kind of enamored with that woman, or he wouldn’t hang around being a pre-fiancé while she flirts up some other guy, don’t you think?”
Theories flew, and the parrot learned some unfortunate new words.
Later, Franklin helped Cleo pack up. He lifted the display case, making it seem as light as air. Cleo hefted Rhett Butler, who felt like he’d added a pound of treats. Rhett clamored up to drape his front half over Cleo’s shoulder. He purred in her ear with fishy breath.
Back at the bus, Cleo pulled down the windows, releasing built-up heat. Franklin clipped the display case back in place, praising the system and Cleo’s visit.
“You and Rhett Butler made everyone’s day,” he said. “I
don’t know how you’ll top it next week unless you come back with that Lusty Lord book—or news that you caught the killer.”
“Both will be difficult,” Cleo said, playing along but serious too. “The library deaccessioned The Lusty Lord. That’s why I had that checkout card. And a killer, well …”
Cleo let Rhett down on her captain’s seat, and said with both earnestness and modesty, “I hope the police will catch the killer this time, and quickly too. I’m only trying to help Dot and track down the missing books.”
The big nurse turned grave. “About those books,” he said. “I don’t think it’s anything, but you got me thinking. My grandmother—my G-mom—she had a visitor the other day. Called him ‘Aquaman.’ Said he was chatting her up. G-mom’s an awful flirt. But now I wonder …”
“Aquaman?” Cleo said.
“Yeah, G-mom mixes up words. At ninety-seven, that’s her prerogative. So’s the flirting. We guessed it was the pool guy. But when you started describing that ‘antiquarian’ festival, I got wondering. She said they talked about books. She was a school librarian for years. She has more books than you could stuff inside this bus.”
“Did she give him any? Sell any on commission?” Cleo couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her tone.
“Nah, not G-mom. She wouldn’t do that. It breaks my heart—she loves those books, even though her eyes aren’t that great anymore. She says she keeps them for the grandkids. You ask me, those books are like her kids.”
Franklin wrote down his grandmother’s address. Cleo knew Bernice Abernathy from her bookmobile route of home deliveries. Bernice didn’t drive anymore because of her eyesight, so Cleo brought the library to her.
“I call G-mom every night before bed,” Franklin said. “I’ll let her know you’ll be coming by.” His smile was back. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing, but she’ll love to talk books in any case. You can bet she’ll spread the word too.”
