by Nora Page
Mary-Rose scoffed. “I kicked Hunter Fox out of the Pancake Mill. You could say I have a motive too.”
Cleo recognized that Mary-Rose was being supportive. Still … “Please,” she said. “I don’t need any more loved ones as suspects.”
Dot had broken away from Cleo’s grip and was twisting her napkin. “I know I should have sold my books through Henry. I didn’t want anyone to know my troubles. That’s why I’ve avoided calling you all too. I’ve been cowardly. I’ve made everything worse. Now there’s no fixing it, and I should own up to that.”
Mary-Rose slapped the table decisively. “Anything’s fixable, especially plumbing. I know some retired contractors who do volunteer work if we can muster the materials. I’ll send them over to the Drop By this afternoon.”
Cleo rallied too. She couldn’t help with repairs, but she could with books. “I’ll keep hunting for your Gone With the Wind,” she promised. And the killer who might have it …
* * *
By late afternoon, clanks emanated from the plumbing bowels of Dot’s Drop By. Long legs in jeans and loosely tied sneakers stuck out from the cabinetry.
“Oops!” Ollie said from inside. His sneakers floundered for grip. What had been an intermittent drip turned into a distinct splashing, and Ollie uttering those panic-inducing words, “Don’t panic!”
“Ollie, are you okay?” Cleo wanted to inquire if the plumbing was okay, but that might sound rude, as if she didn’t trust Ollie’s skills. Which she didn’t.
“He’s doing a fine job,” Dot said, hovering at Cleo’s shoulder. Dot raised her voice. “As long as you’re careful of yourself, Oliver. Don’t get hurt down there. I have cookies waiting when you’re done. The store-bought boxed kind, nothing I made here.”
Dot was taking health-code regulations seriously. She’d relented to opening the grocery part of the store but not the deli, thus avoiding any fines or infractions. She’d glumly told Cleo that probably no one would come by.
Ollie gave assurances from under the sink.
The door chime dinged, and Dot hurried out to the front. Contrary to Dot’s low expectations, the store was filling up fast. Word was spreading, and locals were coming to show their support. Cleo was proud of her town and of Ollie, who’d stepped right up too.
After their intervention at Dot’s house, Cleo had dropped Mary-Rose back at the Pancake Mill. She was taking Rhett home—and hoping for a catnap herself—when she noticed Ollie lying in a hammock hung between the catalpa trees. Her grandson was nodding over a book and still in his pajamas. When she’d told him of the difficulties at the Drop By, he’d swung into action, almost falling out of the hammock with enthusiasm to help Dot, whom he and Cleo’s other grandkids thought of as their favorite “auntie.”
He’d learned all sorts of skills on his recent Gulf Coast gig, he claimed. Soldering, plumbing, carpentry … Cleo had thought he’d spent his time photographing sunsets and shampooing oil off shorebirds.
“Ow! It’s okay!” he cried out now. “Hey, Gran, can you hand me that whatcha-call-it thingy? The one with the round head that swirls around and makes the clacking noise?”
“A ratchet?” Cleo eyed the tools Ollie had assembled from the garage, her husband’s old stash. Dear Richard could fix just about anything. She wished he were here to help Ollie.
“Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got this. Don’t worry, Gran.”
A half hour later, Ollie emerged, smudged and damp but declaring victory over the drip. Cleo offered the highest of grandmotherly praise.
Ollie turned self-effacing. “Yeah, well, it’s not much, is it? There’s the whole underground pipe part that needs to be dug out. I wish there was more I could do. If Auntie Dot gets in contractors, I could help them.”
Cleo squeezed her grandson’s arm and felt a pang of preemptive nostalgia. She hated to think that the Drop By might close. It would mark the end of an era, for her family and her town. She and Ollie made their way to the front of the store.
“Whoa,” Ollie said.
“Good gracious,” Cleo echoed.
The line of customers stretched all the way to the ice cream freezer. Folks were buying just to buy, Cleo guessed. A lady held an armload of canned corn. Another man was buying out the cake mixes, and a mom and toddler were stocking up on ice cream sandwiches. The tip jar overflowed. Dot stood at the cash register, flustered but glowing.
“Everyone wants to support her,” Cleo whispered. She pinched her palm to keep herself from tearing up in public.
“That’s it!” Ollie crowed. He bent and kissed Cleo on the cheek. “We can start an online fund raiser! That’s something I’m actually pretty good at!”
Cleo followed him outside, where she greeted and thanked friends and neighbors. Basking in the sun and warm words, she thought things might work out after all. All she needed was that book and a suspect for the police to nab.
The warmth lasted until she glanced across the park and saw another crowd, this one outside the Gilded Page. Cleo squinted. Through the pinks and purples flowering in the park, she spotted a lavender gown. The person wearing it turned slowly, arms raised to the sky.
Madame Romanov! Cleo didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to guess that this crowd wasn’t good news.
* * *
“Close your eyes … hold out your palms. Do you feel the cold fingers on your skin? The murdered man’s touch? He’s with us!” Madame Romanov jangled her bracelets. Slim, her double-wide dachshund, trotted off with jingles on his collar. Madame moaned, and the group of a dozen or so people giggled nervously.
“I feel something!” exclaimed a twenty-something woman in a tiny sundress. “A chill is crawling up my chest!”
Her friend squealed and grabbed her arm. “I feel it too!”
Cleo had crossed the park at brisk stomping pace. Thus she’d arrived glistening, her mother’s polite term for sweaty. Matched with the light breeze, a chill was only natural.
“You’re feeling the wind,” Cleo said.
Grumpy rumbles passed through the crowd. Cleo was ruining the fun. Madame Romanov broke contact with the beyond and pointed to Cleo. The psychic’s dark eyes looked wild, like they might see into Cleo or beyond. A fresh shiver crawled up Cleo’s neck.
“Look, we have a special guest. Very special,” Madame Romanov proclaimed. “This woman is a conduit to the other side. She finds the dead. She’s drawn to them. Don’t get too close to her, or you too might be taken.”
Cleo recognized some locals among Madame Romanov’s audience. “It’s true,” one of them whispered. “She’s a librarian who finds dead people!” Another waved and mouthed, “Hi, Cleo.”
Cleo guessed the rest were tourists. The clues were easy: Cleo didn’t recognize them, for one. Second, they carried book-fair tote bags and had glossy town maps sticking from their pockets. The squealing woman whipped up her cell phone and snapped some photos in Cleo’s direction.
“I am not a conduit,” Cleo said huffily. The psychic had her eyes closed again, her pointy chin raised to the sky. Slim had wandered off to mark the corner of Henry’s bookshop.
Cleo tried to reason with the audience. “A man has been killed. This is not a parlor game. It is a serious crime, and the police are searching for help and witnesses. Madame Romanov, did you witness anything?”
The psychic began another slow-motion dance, circling Cleo. “The dead seek justice. This woman, the seeker of the dead, is on the wrong path. A dangerous path. Spirits, help her find the way.”
Cleo frowned. Was the psychic trying to tell her something or simply misleading her audience?
The woman in the sundress and her friend rushed to Cleo’s side and snapped a selfie, giggling and then skittering off, like Rhett when he played games of imaginary prey.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Cleo exclaimed. Beyond the crowd, she saw Mr. Chaucer snoozing on his pillow in Henry’s window. A bearded face peeked out and just as quickly drew back. At least Cleo hadn’t gotten herself glistening
only to be irritated. Once the coast was clear of spirits and selfies, she’d check in on him.
Madame Romanov chanted on. “The killer is close.” She pointed a wavering finger toward the front door of the Gilded Page. A Closed sign hung from it. The hours were written out in gold paint across ebony-painted wood panels: The Gilded Page Antiquarian and Rare Books. Monday through Friday—when open. Weekends and holidays, nights, special occasions, and inclement weather—at whim.
Henry could add an addendum, Cleo thought. Closed for murders and psychic disruptions.
Wary of looking like a death conduit in further photos, Cleo forced a neural, pleasant expression on her face.
“Feel the killer … you know the killer,” Madame Romanov was saying, waving her hands too close to Cleo’s face. Chubby Slim ran by and barked. The crowd murmured.
Suddenly, Cleo did feel something, the thrill of an idea.
“You knew him,” Cleo said. “On the morning Hunter Fox’s body was discovered, you already knew his name, Madame Romanov. How? Did he visit you?”
“His spirit visited me.” Madame jangled her bangles. “He came from beyond. He told me his name.”
“Did he tell you his killer’s name?” Cleo asked, playing along.
Madame Romanov ignored the question. “We’re done here. The spirit portal has closed. Come along, people. Let’s continue our tour. The ghosts of the Myrtles Bed and Breakfast call to us. I have explored its hallways of many mysteries and hear its ghosts calling to us now. Listen …”
Cleo heard birdsong, the honk of a horn, and the tittering of Madame’s tour group.
The psychic took off at a speed-walking pace, leaving her guests and Slim to trot after her.
The door to the Gilded Page cracked open. Two worried faces peered out.
Mr. Chaucer woofed and waggled his back end.
“Are they gone?” Henry said.
“Off to chase ghosts at the Myrtles,” Cleo said. “I didn’t know it was haunted.”
Henry leaned out and scanned the street before ushering Cleo inside.
“I didn’t know my shop was haunted,” he said. “I came back from the fair to walk Chaucy, and she was out in the alley. She called my place the ‘Killer’s Workshop’ and accused Chaucy of being possessed.”
Mr. Chaucer sneezed and almost toppled over.
“He just has some springtime allergies,” Henry said defensively. His expression brightened. “I’m glad to see you. I had an idea … I’d like to invite you out on a date.”
Cleo’s first thought was that it was odd timing.
Henry grinned. “The bookdealers are getting together at the Myrtles tonight for an after-dinner cocktail hour, all members and their guests invited. You and I could go …”
“And listen in and ask questions.” Cleo beamed back at her gentleman friend.
“A sleuthing date,” he said.
He always knew just what she wanted. “I’d love to!”
Chapter Sixteen
Cleo almost slept through her date. Henry was picking her up at eight PM, downright late for going out for Cleo. To prepare, she’d had an early dinner and then settled on the sofa with Rhett, intending to rest up and read. Reading turned to heavy eyelids and a bobbing head.
Just a little lie-down, she’d told herself, stretching out with Rhett on her chest. I’ll only rest my eyes for a minute.
Over an hour later, she jerked upright, upsetting her book and her cat. The clock read 7:34. Cleo hustled upstairs. Rhett followed, meowing complaints, thinking it was time for bed and thus his bedtime treats. Sulky, Rhett offered no help as Cleo dug through her closet, wondering aloud what to wear.
Cleo chose a peachy linen dress topped with a deeper-hued cardigan. The night, seeping in through her open window, was still softly warm. Peach would match the season and have the added benefit of camouflaging the orange fur Rhett was enthusiastically rubbing against her hemline.
Cleo fluffed her hair, touched up her mascara, and was wondering whether lipstick was too much when the doorbell rang.
Rhett bounded downstairs. Cleo grabbed shoes and tinted lip gloss and hurried after him.
“Hello,” she said, swinging the door open and expecting a kiss on the cheek.
“Hello,” Gabby repeated, smiling brightly. “Why, you look lovely, Miss Cleo.”
Cleo hid her surprise by patting her hair. “Henry and I are going to a cocktail party,” she said, leaving off the sleuthing portion of their date.
“I know,” Gabby said, and her smile fell. “About that … Henry might be a smidgen late.”
Cleo’s stomach did flips, even as Gabby hurried on in chipper tones, saying it was nothing to worry about. “He’s, ah, just a little busy answering some questions for the chief. All voluntary. I’m sure they’re about done by now.”
Cleo had been steadying herself on the door. She swung it open wide. Gabby stepped in, only to be halted by a fluffy orange Persian flopping at her feet.
“Deputy Rhett Butler,” Gabby said, squatting to his level. “Henry and Mr. Chaucer will be here any minute.” She glanced up at Cleo, biting her lower lip.
Cleo read trouble.
Gabby kept her gaze on Rhett. “I didn’t get a chance to tell Chief Culpepper about Henry’s revised statement until this afternoon. The chief had Henry come into the station to clarify some points, that’s all. They were still at it when I left the station. Henry had said you had plans to meet tonight. I thought I should drop by and let you know.”
Clarifying didn’t sound terrible, yet Gabby was still biting her lip and concentrating too diligently on Rhett.
Cleo waited, sensing Gabby had more to say.
“And …” Gabby said, lingering on the word before spilling out more. “The chief charged Henry with giving a false statement. But don’t worry. That’s usually only a misdemeanor, a fine or community service, or a lawyer could get the whole thing dropped.” Gabby ended encouragingly, “It’s hardly worse than a speeding ticket.”
Cleo ran a hand through her hair, mussing her carefully arranged layers. “Poor Henry! Does he have a lawyer with him?”
“Not unless Mr. Chaucer has a law degree.” Gabby avoided Cleo’s eye.
“Outrageous!” Cleo declared.
“I am sorry,” Gabby said. “I tried to report it like it was no big deal, but it is kind of a big thing. Henry no longer has an alibi. The killing was outside his shop, with his tool. I can see where the chief is coming from, even if as a friend I don’t believe Henry hurt anyone.”
Cleo reiterated that anyone could have grabbed that awl. Henry had no motive. Henry was a good man.
Gabby let her vent. “I know,” she said. “If it makes you feel better, Miss Cleo, we’re looking into all the booksellers. I spent the entire day doing background checks.”
A wicked thought struck Cleo. She’d feel better if Gabby had found someone with a criminal background. “Any good news from your research?” she asked.
“Yes,” Gabby said immediately. “Most booksellers are good people, just like you’ve been saying.”
“Oh,” Cleo said, disappointed. Then she realized there was still an opening for bad behavior. “Most? Is someone not good?”
Gabby hesitated. She scratched Rhett’s ears and asked him, “Should we tell her?” After a moment and some encouraging purrs from Rhett, she turned to Cleo. “Okay,” she said. “I’m not revealing anything you couldn’t find with some Googling. Our Miss Kitty has a little shoplifting problem. I should say, book-lifting.”
Cleo drew a sharp breath.
“Now don’t go jumping to conclusions, Miss Cleo. Shoplifting books isn’t a pathway to murder. It seems Kitty ‘accidentally’ took an expensive book from a store a few years back, and from a library more recently.”
“A library!” Cleo stomped her sandal. Her stomp landed softly in the thick entryway carpet but felt justified. “That’s terrible. Theft from the library is theft from everyone.” She wasn’t mollified when Gabby rep
orted that Kitty had paid for her crime: a small fine and community service.
Cleo huffed. “What about Hunter Fox?” She imagined a lengthy record of crooked deeds.
“Clean as a proverbial whistle,” Gabby reported, scratching Rhett’s chin. “Which could mean he was a very good con man, if you’re right about his book-scouting ways. Or his victims were too embarrassed or shy to press charges.”
Like Dot, Cleo thought. If not for the murder and having to give a statement, Dot might not have told anyone about her troubles.
Gabby was listing other society members with publicly discoverable misdeeds. A couple of medievalists with speeding tickets. Cleo could empathize with that. She’d been known to have a lead foot.
“Professor Weber had some bad online reviews of his bookselling business,” Gabby was saying. “The most surprising thing about him is that he’s loaded. Serious family money. Maybe that’s what Kitty sees in him? Then there’s Henry,” Gabby said.
Cleo drew in a breath.
“Spotless,” Gabby said.
“Of course he is,” Cleo said, turning to reinspect her hair. She’d never doubted her gentleman friend, not for a moment.
“Kind of disappointing,” Gabby said. “Except for Henry. I mean, if I’d found an out-of-town stabber, that would be something to dig into.”
Cleo checked her watch. Eleven minutes past eight.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Gabby said. “How was your day?”
Cleo recognized Gabby’s kind attempt to distract her. “I have something for you to look into,” she said and described her encounter with Madame Romanov. “She told me I was on the wrong path. I wonder if she knows what the right path is? At the scene, did you or anyone else give her Mr. Fox’s name?”
Gabby stood, rolling her shoulders and neck as she did. Rhett jumped up to the banister post beside her, demanding more attention. Gabby rubbed his ears. “I’m sure I didn’t say anything to Ms. Romanov. Crime scene 101, you don’t give up the name of the victim before notifying next of kin.” Rhett purred as Gabby considered. “I don’t think the chief knew the victim’s name at that point. You told me. Then the chief was busy, so I didn’t have a chance to tell him right away. The techs and EMTs wouldn’t have known, most likely. Why do you ask?”
