by Nora Page
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—for Ollie, Mr. Chaucer was distracting Gabby with his puggy cuteness. He lay on his back, snuffling and snorting as she rubbed his belly.
“Oh, right,” Gabby said, making funny faces back at the dog. “My friend Sam and I bought tickets already. Sounds fun.”
Ollie’s shoulders slumped. He brushed back the hair that forever lopped across his eyes. It fell back again.
Cleo gave him her most supportive grandmotherly smile. “Sam?” she said to Gabby. “I forget, have I met him?”
“Her.” Gabby grinned at Mr. Chaucer. “Sammy Emerson. She runs the new Pilates studio downtown. The one with the juice bar.”
“Awesome!” Ollie blurted. “I mean, awesome that you’re supporting the cranes. The new juice bar is great too. I love juice. I guess, well … I’ll see you there. Later.” He managed to leave without tripping over Mr. Chaucer, Gabby, or his own feet.
Cleo watched him go. The motion-detector light in the side garden flicked on, then off, and silence settled back down.
Gabby looked up at Henry, her voice as quiet as the night. “You have something to tell me?”
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Cleo had strawberry shortcake for breakfast. She topped it with a mountain of whipped cream and dolloped cream on her coffee too. “A midweek treat,” she told Rhett, serving up a hefty helping of his favorite fishy food.
“We’re on our own,” Cleo continued. “We can do what we like.” She pitched their indulgences as fun. It worked for Rhett, not so much for Cleo.
Strawberry shortcake hadn’t worked its magic last night either when Henry confessed his troubles. Gabby had listened patiently over dessert and decaf.
“It was chaotic at the bookstore,” Gabby had said, kindly shouldering some of Henry’s weighty guilt. “I should have whisked you all away to the station immediately. And finding a body is always upsetting. You were all in shock. In any case, Henry, it’s good of you to come forward to clarify the timeline. That’s what an investigation is all about. Putting together the pieces.”
Henry’s midnight stroll had been as wobbly as a jigsaw piece or a pug’s sniffing whims. He and Mr. Chaucer had zigzagged across Fontaine Park, stopping at Chaucy’s favorite trees and lingering at the fountain. Since they were so close, Henry had decided to stop at his shop. He hadn’t stayed long, he said. He didn’t talk to anyone, and as far as he could recall, only a few cars and maybe a white van had passed by.
Gabby muttered that there was “always a white van.”
Cleo pictured man and dog in the moonlight and shadows. She shivered, thinking of the killer, who could have been feet away, watching the light in Henry’s workshop flick on. While in his workshop, Henry had heard a noise.
“A trash can tipping,” he said, rubbing his beard, eyes closed in memory. “My neighbor the psychic, Madame Romanov, has had trouble with raccoons and kids messing with her cans.” His eyes popped open. “I did look out, but I didn’t see anything. The alley was dark. There was a light on at Madame Romanov’s. I remember thinking she was up late. You might talk to her.”
Gabby already had. The psychic had said she hadn’t seen, heard, or felt anything. “The spirits were silent,” Gabby reported, eyes rolling.
If only he’d gone outside, Henry kept saying. Maybe he could have run off the killer.
“Or gotten hurt yourself,” Cleo had countered. Or killed. Even now, sipping her morning coffee, the chill stayed with her. Gabby had seconded Cleo’s thoughts. The medical examiner placed time of death around midnight, give or take a few hours to either side. Right when Henry was there.
After the desultory dessert, Henry and Mr. Chaucer left with Gabby to sign a revised statement at the police station. Gabby said the timing offered two perks. One, it was still the same day as the crime. Two, Chief Culpepper wouldn’t be in.
“I’ll have to tell the chief tomorrow,” Gabby said. “He might … well … want to chat with you both again. Especially Henry.”
They’d be lucky if a lecture was all they got, Cleo feared. Henry had given a false statement. Cleo had too, unwittingly.
Henry had squeezed Cleo’s hand good-night and said he’d go to his apartment afterward. It would be late, and he was sure he wouldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to keep Cleo awake.
Long into the night, Cleo wished he’d stayed. They could have been awake together. Her mind spun with troubles but no obvious solutions. She must have fallen asleep briefly, because she dreamed she was in Words on Wheels, chasing after a white van with books and loose pages sailing out the back. When the dream hurtled around a roller coaster, she jerked awake and stayed that way until seeking a solution in Words on Wheels. Around midnight, she went out to her bookmobile, flashlight in hand, and scoured the shelves for the dullest book in the bus.
Finding a boring book turned out to be a challenge. Cleo considered a text on auto repair, but that wouldn’t do. Words on Wheels had been wheezing lately, and Cleo would love to be able to diagnose the cause herself. Gardening, tax returns, horse jumping, and sign language for toddlers all seemed slightly too interesting too. Finally, Cleo checked out Anna Karenina, hoping her patron who swore by it for insomnia relief was right. A chapter in, Cleo did drift off, only to have eight hundred pages fall on her nose and wake her right back up.
After that, Cleo went downstairs, turned on the TV, and dozed on the sofa, with Rhett on her chest and an infomercial droning in the background. She woke with a stiff neck and the oddest urge to order a two-for-one Eggstatic shell-less hard-boiled egg maker.
“Two for one,” she said now to Rhett. She rubbed her eyes. Suddenly two-for-one sounded like a good idea. She’d take out Words on Wheels today and combine work with sleuthing: a two-for-one trip delivering books and hopefully tracking down leads.
* * *
Bernice Abernathy, known to her nurse grandson Franklin as G-mom, lived with her daughter on a cul-de-sac resembling a caterpillar, with a twisty spine, round head, and little streets sticking out like stumpy legs. Cleo turned down a leg, parked, and left Rhett snoozing in his crate. The air was cool and gushing through the open windows, and she didn’t plan to stay long.
Bernice, ninety-seven years young, answered the door wearing a skirted full-piece bathing suit, wraparound sunglasses, and a shower cap.
“Cleo Watkins, the sleuthing librarian,” Bernice said with a big smile. “Come in! I just got back from my aquarium aerobics class.”
Aqua aerobics, Cleo interpreted, an exercise she’d never tried and likely never would. Cleo preferred her encounters with water to be poolside, preferably with a book in one hand, sweet tea in the other, and a sunshade overhead.
Bernice removed her shower cap to reveal a cute gray pixie cut. The glasses stayed on.
“I like to start the day off with exercise,” Bernice declared, slipping on a robe. “Gets the blood flowing.”
Cleo had started the day off with dessert. She vowed to work in some power strolling later.
They settled in on floral-print sofas and made pleasant small talk about one another’s libraries, former and present.
“I loved working at the school library,” Bernice said. “But now I have more time for me and my own reading.”
Since Cleo had come in Words on Wheels, she conducted official library business, confirming that Bernice knew about all the new audiobooks, free to download from the library.
“You bet I do,” Bernice said. She even listened with fancy headphones on now, she reported, after a young mother at the pool complained.
“Claimed my romances were too steamy for the children.” Bernice cackled happily. “She was right! Franklin gave me a pair of headphones.” She mimed hand-sized earmuffs and bobbed her head to an imaginary beat. “I look like a DJ at the pool now.”
Cleo smiled, enjoying the image of DJ Bernice. Most of all she was happy that the library could provide for all patrons, even those with failing eyesight. Business officially done, Cleo e
ased into her ulterior motive for visiting. “Franklin told me that a man interested in books dropped by the other day.”
“The hot aquaman—anti-quarium, antiquarian, whatever you call him,” Bernice said, waving a bothered hand. “Franklin said you were gathering the dirt on him. I’m surprised he didn’t come visiting you too. He said he was especially interested in lady librarians. He seemed nice enough. Great voice. Not bad to look at either, from what I could tell. It’s a pity about him.”
“Yes,” Cleo said carefully. “You know he’s … passed on.”
“Murdered! Heck yes, I know. That’s all we talked about at water class this morning. Now I get a bona fide private detective at my door!”
“Amateur only,” Cleo clarified.
The elder woman dismissed the distinction. “When you get to be our ages, Cleo, you know what you’re good at and titles don’t matter.” She clapped thin hands and chuckled. “Go ahead. Interrogate me. I didn’t do it! Although I will confess: I led that foxy man on. I let him sniff around my bookshelves and beg to see my old atlas collection and my Agatha Christies. Bet you’d like to see those too.”
Cleo didn’t have to beg. Soon enough, she found herself on aching knees in Bernice’s family room/library, a cool interior room lined with bookshelves. She was at the last and lowest shelf, still searching for an elusive Poirot.
“I don’t see the Poirot Investigates,” Cleo said. “Ah, there’s The A.B.C. Murders. That’s the one with Poirot’s quote on intuition!”
“Intuition comes from experience and little signs,” Bernice said. With more limber knees, Bernice got down on the floor beside Cleo. The older lady pushed up her dark glasses and squinted at the shelf. “That’s odd. Poirot Investigates should be right next to my Miss Marples.” She ran a thin finger across a matching set of volumes dressed up in red leather. Gold letters spelled the titles and the name Christie.
Cleo ran her finger along too and felt that tingle Kitty had talked about. Cleo didn’t need a signature to feel it, or even a real person. Both Agatha Christie and Jane Marple were real to Cleo, and equal idols.
“Check out my geography section while you’re down here,” Bernice said. “I have a bunch of retired atlases. Can you believe, my school was tossing them out? They’re valuable for the maps alone, not that I’d ever chop them up.”
Like Dot’s poor books. Cleo selected an elderly book, the cover as weathered as ancient bark. “Lovely,” Cleo said, except as she flipped, she didn’t see many maps.
She put it back gently and selected another. It opened to the middle, and Cleo gasped.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Cleo said, automatically. But the book didn’t appear to be. She flipped and confirmed gaps in the page numbers.
Bernice pulled herself up. With less elegance, Cleo did too.
“Well, that’s plain strange,” Bernice said, still thinking about her missing mystery. “I could have sworn that Poirot Investigates was in here. That’s the really special one. Not many first prints of it around, I gather. The other book guy said it was worth a bundle. The Fox guy didn’t seem interested in it. Come to think of it, that’s kinda odd too, isn’t it?”
Cleo wanted there to be another explanation. “Would your daughter have put it somewhere safe, knowing how valuable it is?”
“Nah,” Bernice said. “We agreed, best place to hide it is among all the books. Besides, I want to unload it soon.”
Cleo replayed her words. The other book guy. Had other scouts been around? A competitor could hold a grudge … and have a motive. She asked her hostess.
“Yep, my books and I are popular.” Bernice laughed. “We’re leading all sorts of men on. This guy was local. Nice. Polite. Not pushy at all. Young. Well, young to me. Around your age, Cleo. Ooo, I could set you up! What’s his name …? Something French, like the Revolutionary War guy. Lafitte? Nope, that was a pirate …”
“Lafayette?” Cleo said. “Henry Lafayette? I know him well.”
“That’s him!” Bernice said, slapping the nearest shelf. “My mind! I mean to call him, see if he’s still interested in helping me sell. He left a message last month, saying this aquarium whatever fair would be a good opportunity. I forgot …”
Cleo took back her theory that a local rival had a motive for murder. Henry helped folks assess books. When he told Cleo about this work, he spoke of the books, never their owners. Cleo took it as his version of her librarian’s vow of secrecy. Now she thought it wasn’t just for privacy but for safety too, of the books and their owners.
“You showed Mr. Lafayette your atlases?” Cleo asked, thinking she could ask Henry about the missing maps. There was no need to upset Bernice if nothing was wrong. The books could have been damaged back in their school library days.
Bernice said she had indeed shown him and he’d been downright appreciative. “I’d never sell those,” she said. “They’re not easily replaced. But the Christie books, I could get nice, inexpensive copies for the grandkids to read, and I can listen on my DJ headphones anytime.”
Cleo thought that was a lovely idea, as long as Bernice hadn’t sold any books to Hunter Fox. She ventured to ask.
Bernice grinned. “Nope. I told him I’d check with my local book guy. That foxy man was offering a lot less anyhow. I’d venture he was trying to swindle an old lady.” She laughed. “Didn’t work on me!”
Cleo stopped herself from mentally cursing a dead man.
Bernice chatted on. “I do need to find that book and get it sold. I’m gonna surprise Franklin and help pay off his nursing-school loans.” She pushed back her dark glasses again and squinted hard at the shelves, muttering that maybe her daughter had borrowed the book to read again.
With a heavy pit in her stomach, Cleo asked, “Did Hunter Fox borrow anything?”
Bernice went still. “Borrow? You mean, take? No. Like I said, I told him I needed that second opinion from the Lafayette fellow.”
“Was Mr. Fox alone in this room?” Cleo asked gently.
“Only when I went to make coffee and get us some cookies. Oh, and I answered the phone. Some woman I didn’t know, trying to say I owed a fine for failing to show up to jury duty. Not me! I attended jury a few months back. Took forever to get her off the line … I wasn’t gone but a minute or five. Ten at the most.”
Bernice suddenly looked her age. With a shaky hand, she gripped her bookshelf. “Are you saying, you think he swiped my book when I wasn’t looking?”
Cleo didn’t answer directly. An idea had struck her. Quite a terrible idea. “The woman on the phone, can you describe her voice?”
“Like she was whispering, but at talking volume. Like she was out of breath from running.”
Kitty, in her Marilyn voice? Keeping Bernice occupied while Hunter swiped valuable books? Cleo forced brightness to her own words. “Let’s hope your daughter put that book somewhere safe.”
Bernice wasn’t fooled. The older woman slapped the shelf. “He took it, didn’t he? It’s a good thing that man is dead, or I could kill him myself.”
Chapter Fourteen
The best thing about best friends was how they knew what you needed. Sometimes before you knew yourself. Sometimes a tad too quickly.
“I’m not sure,” Cleo said, backtracking on the desire she’d edged around over a four-pancake lunch. After leaving Bernice, she’d driven back to town, planning to pick up a snack at the Drop By. When that plan hit a bump, Cleo sped straight to the Pancake Mill and unloaded her worries.
“I sense your unusual indecision,” Mary-Rose said. “That alone tells me you need help. Hold on, let me get undressed and cash out table six.”
She hauled an apron over her head—the undressing. In the process, she tipped a postcard display by the cash register.
Cleo caught the tower of cards, her heart jumping with ridiculous alarm. Her decisiveness continued to teeter.
“It’s just that I did vow to give Dot time,” Cleo said, looking out over the Pancake Mill. The
lunch rush was winding down, and the air was heavy with scents of syrup and griddle cakes, browned butter, and hot blueberries. In the back, the massive waterwheel creaked, pushed by the wind.
Cleo rationalized aloud, again. “But that was before a killer came around, wasn’t it? It is odd that the Drop By was closed still when I went by. Dot could simply be taking the day off. Heaven knows, she deserves it. Maybe she gave her assistants the day off too, or they’re ill, or …” Or something is very, very wrong.
“Uh-huh,” Mary-Rose said, punching the cash register buttons with brisk authority. The drawer shot open. She doled out change and handed it to a waiting waitress. “Does that sound right to you, Desiree?”
Waitress Desiree shook her head, her expression suggesting she wouldn’t bother wasting words on the obvious.
“Exactly,” Mary-Rose said, coming around the counter. “Cleo, your instincts are right. Dot doesn’t close the Drop By on a whim. You said it yourself earlier: chagrin isn’t about to override her good business sense. We need to talk to her. For her sake and for Henry’s too. The intervention is on!”
“Intervention sounds a bit … startling,” Cleo said.
“Good. That’s the idea,” Mary-Rose declared, smoothing her sundress and hoisting a double-decker pie carrier. “You tried delicate and giving her time, Cleo. If I go with you, I can be the one who asks her straight out. You can be the good cousin.”
Mary-Rose stopped to chat with some diners. Pancakes bubbled on tabletop griddles. The do-it-yourself cakes ranged from perfect rounds to abstract blurbs and tiny drops of dripped batter. Mary-Rose often joked that her customers paid to do their own cooking.
Of course, the fun of forming and flipping cakes was part of the attraction. The other draw was the glorious view. Outside, the appropriately named Pancake Spring glistened. Swimmers crisscrossed the deep clear waters, leaving diamond paths across the round, natural pool. The resident trio of peacocks strolled along the banks.
