Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  No one mentioned that Robin was the outlaw. Cleo could see how it made sense. Robin was the hero of the stories, bringing justice.

  “Robin Hood of Great Renown, that was the title,” Tookey said, smiling. “Hey, I wonder if those books are worth anything? They’re really old. Like 1900 old. Ancient.”

  “They’re priceless,” Dot said firmly. “Tell your family to hold on to them, Sergeant Tookey. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

  * * *

  Ollie had driven Cleo over to Dot’s in his Jeep. Cleo’s personal vehicle, a classic convertible inherited from her father, had been blocked in the driveway by Words on Wheels. Besides, Cleo didn’t want to hog the fun of driving, even if Ollie’s vehicle had nowhere near the handling of her convertible. The Jeep swayed like a rowboat on a roiling sea.

  Cleo already felt unmoored. She discreetly gripped the armrest as Ollie made his way down quiet residential streets. A full moon winked through the treetops, casting long shadows. As they passed Madame Romanov’s cottage, Cleo took advantage of being a passenger to stare. The antique globe lamp glowed in the window. More than complete darkness, the lamp suggested no one was home. Henry’s shop came into view next. A sliver of light seeped through the back curtains, his workshop.

  “Could you drop me off at the Gilded Page, please?” Cleo asked. “I’d like to tell Henry about the returned books.”

  “Sure thing, Gran.” The Jeep swayed to a stop. Ollie leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “You need a ride back? You can call me whenever if you want. I’ll be up late watching the fund-raising page, counting the money rolling in for Auntie Dot. She doesn’t need that old Gone With the Wind.”

  Cleo smiled, recalling Ollie in his little-kid years. Getting him to sleep on Christmas Eve was as impossible as stopping a bunny from hopping. Ollie loved the anticipation. He wanted to stay up and watch for Santa and count the presents almost more than he enjoyed unwrapping them.

  “I’ll be fine walking home,” Cleo said, adding thanks to her considerate grandchild. It was only a few blocks, she said. Henry would escort her. She didn’t mention that perhaps he’d stay over. She hoped he might. She seemed able to sleep better with him at her side.

  Ollie’s grin sank to serious. “Okay, but be careful, Gran. You don’t really think the killer sent Auntie Dot’s books back, do you? Seems kinda soft and sentimental for a killer. Or super-creepy.”

  Cleo’s sweet grandson quickly brightened. “Or maybe it’s just a nice burglar like Sergeant Tookey said. A Robin Hood, robbing from the bad bookdealers and giving books to good folks.”

  “Let’s hope,” Cleo said in her best grandmotherly tones. A beneficent burglar was better than a murderer, although neither was ideal.

  Ollie waited chivalrously in his Jeep, now rocking with music. Cleo rang Henry’s doorbell. She read the Closed sign and the hours written in gold paint.

  After a long minute, the door opened a crack. Henry peeked over a chain lock. His face brightened, and Mr. Chaucer wriggled out to snuffle at Cleo’s feet. Cleo greeted Chaucy while Henry closed the door to undo the chain.

  When the door opened wide, Cleo waved to Ollie. Her grandson tooted his horn, and the Jeep rattled off.

  “Is everything okay?” Henry asked. He wore a leather apron with pockets across the front. The silvery ends of tools jutted from the pockets. Cleo thought of the missing hammer and was relieved when he ushered her inside and relocked the door.

  “I have good news,” Cleo said. “Yet somehow I can’t help but think that it’s actually bad.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For over an hour, Henry and Cleo had sipped mint tea and speculated on the mystery of Dot’s returned books. They’d come to no conclusions, other than that Henry insisted on escorting Cleo home. The full moon shimmered above Fontaine Park, where Mr. Chaucer stopped to sniff the namesake fountain. The little pug circled the burbling fountain once, then once again.

  Cleo enjoyed the pause in the park. She wasn’t often out at this time, just past ten on a Friday. In the darkness the floral perfume seemed sultrier, sounds clearer: laughter from a group of young folks, the soft hoot of an owl, a car with a wheezy motor.

  Unable to locate the owl, Cleo watched the car’s taillights blink down Main Street. Streetlamps cast warm glows. The businesses were tucked in for the night.

  Except one.

  Past Dot’s Drop By, the yarn shop, a bank, the shoe store, and a lunchtime café, a neon light flashed.

  “The bar …” Cleo said as Mr. Chaucer moved on to a lamppost.

  Henry smiled. “You want a nightcap? I have a good bottle of bourbon back at my place. It’s closer and probably nicer than … what’s that bar called?”

  “Skeet’s,” Cleo said. Then she remembered that Skeeter O’Malley, the owner, had recently upped his image. “Skeet’s Gastropub and Beverage Lounge,” she said, drawing a chuckle from Henry.

  Cleo didn’t frequent the bar, but Skeet’s rebranding had been the talk of the town, mainly because all he’d done was raise his prices and rename his offerings. Locals in the know could request the “secret menu,” where the original prices of Skeet’s many fried delicacies lived on. Skeet was known for fried dill pickles, double-fried catfish, and conch fritters so absent of any seafood that Skeet was said to have relabeled them vegan.

  “Skeet’s is the closest bar to the bed-and-breakfast,” Cleo said. “It’s the only bar in easy walking distance, really.”

  “Ah.” Henry grinned. “I see where you’re going. Yes, it’s also where Kitty Peavey left her room key the night before she was robbed and Hunter Fox was killed. I heard all about that from the bookdealer rumor mill.” He held out an elbow. “Shall we?”

  Cleo took his arm. “We’ll just pop in and ask around,” Cleo said. Then she reconsidered. “Oh, but it is late. You’re probably tired.”

  “I’m wide awake and honored to accompany you on another sleuthing date. Do you think Mr. Chaucer can come too? I could leave him home, but a guard dog might be useful.

  Cleo smiled down at the wobbly pug. “Skeet doesn’t mind flaunting the law a little, and he has a barroom bulldog, I hear.”

  When they entered the bar, Cleo’s first impression was cozy, like she imagined English pubs must be. Her second was a dash of betrayal. For as long as she could remember, a bar had occupied this building. For just as long, her relatives had dubbed it a veritable den of iniquity, a no-go zone for folks who kept decent hours and stayed in after dinner.

  Cleo looked around admiringly. The ceiling sported decorative tin tiles, the bar gleamed, and Johnny Cash crooned from the jukebox, singing about watching his heart. Patrons filled the booths, tables, and barstools with a gentle din of chatting and laughter. The resident bulldog lay by the jukebox, stubby tail wagging but otherwise unmoved.

  “Look,” Henry said, nodding toward the end of the bar. “There’s Kitty.” Henry also noted Buddy Boone and a collector who specialized in fishing and boat-themed books. His gaze lingered on another group of bookdealers, two men and a woman who collected and restored medieval manuscripts. One was helping restore a stunning copy of The Canterbury Tales for a museum, Henry said.

  Cleo detected longing in Henry’s tone. The dear man had worked hard to arrange the fair, yet with all the troubles, he’d hardly gotten to enjoy any bookish fun.

  Cleo squeezed his arm. “Why don’t you go and talk with them? Sometimes the best information comes from not looking for it.”

  “I see what you’re doing,” Henry said, smile lines fanning his eyes. “Nope. Sorry. I’m here to help.”

  Cleo would shove him toward fun if she had to. She patted his arm firmly and said, “Go on. Honestly, it is a help. This way, it looks like we’re here for you. You’re my cover, and we’re dividing our expertise.”

  He relented. “Okay, but I’ll buy you a drink first. If you have any trouble, Chaucy and I will be right across the room. Who’s the target of your sleuthing expertise? Kitty? Buddy?”


  “Skeeter,” Cleo said, and enjoyed his surprise. “Bartenders are like librarians, I imagine. They likely see a lot and overhear even more, and I expect they’re very good at reading people.”

  * * *

  “Code of silence,” Skeet said. He was in his forties, with an anchor tattoo on one wrist and a bulldog’s grinning face inked on the other. He wore leather suspenders and a fedora that Cleo guessed came with his new gastropub image.

  She smiled at him over a frothy stein of root beer. “I understand. As a librarian, I have the same policy.” She tucked back her hair, took a sip of her fizzy, sweet drink, and tried again. “But a murder investigation takes precedence, even for priests.” And librarians too.

  Skeet declared he was no priest. He turned to pour a beer, and Cleo feared she’d taken the wrong tack. She’d asked Skeet if he’d seen Hunter Fox the night before his death. Asking about a recently murdered man might have been too forward, not to mention impolite. What would her mother have to say about her manners? She sipped some more and smiled, imagining Mama’s reaction to her daughter, sitting in a bar way past bedtime.

  Skeet slid the beer down the bar and wiped up the streak of froth. He sidled back to Cleo. “I’ve heard about you. You drive the bookmobile? I like those flames on your bus. That’s a real nice airbrushing job you have.”

  Cleo glowed. She loved those flames.

  “I’ve heard you … look into things,” Skeet said, his ruddy face pinched in a frown.

  “Like any good librarian,” Cleo said. “I like things orderly and cataloged. Plus, I’m helping my cousin and my gentleman friend, who’ve been under undue suspicion.” She glanced over at Henry, who was chatting happily with the medievalists.

  Skeet’s frown softened. “The chief of police came in here the other day, asking questions, throwing all sorts of undue suspicion on my business practices and my Margaret. Said she was a health-code violation.” Seeing Cleo’s head lob in a query, he clarified. “Margaret’s my bulldog. She doesn’t bother anyone and gets a bubble bath every Sunday.”

  “She’s lovely,” Cleo said, reaffirmed in her theory that even the most opposite of folks could bond over beloved pets. They could bond over shared insults too. “The chief calls me a nosy amateur,” she said.

  Skeet flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Yeah, an amateur who’s solved his cases, I hear.” He kept cleaning the counter, seemingly thinking.

  Cleo considered how much she should reveal. People confessed to bartenders, didn’t they? “It’s my gentleman friend,” she said, nodding toward Henry. “He’s being wrongly accused. I need to identify another suspect. For his sake. For the town’s too. We can’t allow a killer to go free.”

  Skeet put down his cleaning rag and looked Cleo in the eye. “Your gentleman friend’s the antiquarian book guy? I heard about him being hauled in for questioning. Saw Sergeant Tookey following him around town too. People are saying it looks bad for him, all kinds of evidence piling up.”

  Cleo held her breath.

  Skeet leaned over the bar. “But if he’s the wrong guy, all that attention’s wrong. Worse than wrong. A man’s got nothing if he doesn’t have his reputation.”

  Cleo nodded vigorously.

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” Skeet said, leaning across the bar. “’Cause I’m worried about someone too.”

  He’d seen Hunter Fox the evening before Hunter died, Skeet told Cleo. “Those book people were in here, partying.” Skeet jerked his head hard to the right. At the end of the bar, Kitty Peavey was twinkling at two men with name tags dangling down their polo shirts.

  “He was with her,” Skeet said. “Blondie there. She had a bunch of book dudes buying her drinks.” He frowned. “Better when someone else buys her drink. She sure doesn’t tip like a movie star.” He grinned. “Or a librarian.”

  Cleo had tipped Skeet double the price for the two root beers Henry ordered. It wasn’t a bribe. She was supporting a local business … and a fellow observer’s keen eye. Skeet was saying that Hunter Fox and Kitty left together.

  “She forgot her keys?” Cleo said.

  Skeet shrugged. “That’s what she says. Came in here yelling at me later the next day, like every problem she had was my fault. I told her, I clean up after I close up. I didn’t find any keys.” He paused to take an order and retrieve a plate from the kitchen. When he returned, he had a bowl of fried pickles. He dipped one in ranch dressing and gestured for Cleo to join him.

  A sudden wariness swept over Cleo. She swiveled to scan the room.

  When she turned back, Skeet was eyeing her. “Who are you looking for? Cop or criminal?”

  “My doctor,” Cleo said. “She shows up whenever I’m out and about to be naughty with my diet. I’ve already had pie tonight and part of a cookie. Now root beer and pickles? I feel like a kid at the county fair.”

  He laughed. “These here are all-natural, locally grown cucumbers, pickled by a resident hippie type. They’re practically a health food.” He jabbed a thick finger at the gastro menu to prove it.

  “Thank you,” Cleo said, to cover both the justification and the treat. Her mouth was watering already. Cleo adored dill pickles in all forms, and she never argued with fried.

  “So,” Cleo said, “Did you overhear anything that Kitty and the deceased man were talking about?”

  For a moment, a cone-of-silence look flashed across Skeet’s face. Then he shrugged. “Books,” he said. “That’s all this crowd talks about.”

  At Cleo’s prompting, Skeet recalled Kitty and Hunter bragging about a “big” book they’d acquired. “Big, as in worth a bundle,” the bartender clarified. “I’ll tell you, ma’am, I’ve heard criminals with more manners than those two. They were making fun of some old …” He paused and reworded. “I mean, some ‘seasoned’ lady they’d gotten one of the books from.”

  Cleo helped herself to another pickle, giving it a healthy dunk in ranch dressing. “That may have been my cousin Dot who owns the Drop By. She lost a valuable book to Hunter Fox. She was tricked.”

  “That’s not right.” Skeet sent another dark look down the bar. Kitty was oblivious. With each fresh bubble of laughter, she leaned into her companions.

  “So this is who I’m worried about,” Skeet said. “I didn’t tell the cops ’cause it wasn’t directly about the dead guy. One of my regular customers, she got in a fight with Blondie there. I’m talking a shoving, slapping, yelling match outside the ladies’ room.”

  “Oh my,” Cleo said, encouragingly. She was encouraged too. A lead!

  “I told ’em to take it outside,” Skeet said. “Since then, my regular hasn’t come back, which is unlike her. If you find her, tell her I have her back this time. Her name’s Tina. You might know her as …”

  “Madame Romanov,” Cleo said.

  “You do get around detecting, don’t you?” Skeet said.

  * * *

  Buddy had joined Henry and the medievalists, who were deep in conversation.

  Henry pulled out a seat for Cleo. “We’re talking about hidden fore edges,” he said. “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

  When Henry got drawn back into the book talk, Buddy explained, “It’s these secret pictures painted on the page edges of a book. Cool, huh? Like when you look at the book closed, it’s nothing but plain gold gilt. But then if you fan them, like a card deck, a picture appears.” He shook his head. “Amazing things, books.”

  “Marvelous,” Cleo agreed. She sat back and sipped the remains of her drink, half listening as the antiquarians geeked out. The other half of her mind turned over Kitty and Madame Romanov. A fight the night before Hunter died. A fight about a book. A swindled book of magic?

  “A secret, hidden in plain sight,” one of the medievalists was saying of fore edges.

  Like the killer, Cleo thought.

  “How’s your cousin?” Buddy asked, interrupting Cleo’s muses.

  “Happy,” Cleo said, which she hoped was true. “Some of her books were returned
tonight.”

  “That’s wonderful! Someone brought ’em back to her store or what?”

  “They were left anonymously at her home.” Cleo opened her purse and retrieved the list she’d made of the titles. “When you found Dot’s bird book at Professor Weber’s stand the other day, did you happen to notice any of these?”

  Buddy scratched behind his ear. “They’re familiar titles, aren’t they? They’re popular. Popular’s not Professor Weber’s thing.”

  He made a good point. “Most are by southern authors,” Cleo said, thinking aloud. “Southern delights?”

  “Miss Peavey? Yeah, could be. But would she give ’em back anonymously? She makes a show of things.” Buddy named some other society members who liked southern classics. He pointed to a title. “Now, I’d love to have that one.”

  It was one of the comics on the list, Pogo the possum and his pals in the Okefenokee Swamp. Cleo’s kids had adored Pogo, and Ollie did too. Like Ollie, Pogo cared about the environment, including swamps and all the creatures who lived there. Buddy chatted on about reading Pogo as a kid, and Cleo thought how books had different value to different people.

  Buddy eventually yawned and announced it was past his bedtime. “I’ll sleep better knowing Miss Dot got her books back.”

  His yawn was contagious. Cleo hoped she’d sleep well too. Henry and the others stood, and Mr. Chaucer wobbled to his feet.

  They all made their way out, waving to Skeet as they left. After good-nights and promises to chat more about books and restorations, the medievalists and Buddy headed for the Myrtles. Henry, Mr. Chaucer, and Cleo turned toward her home. Cleo glanced back into the bar as they passed. Kitty was laughing and raising a drink. Skeet was polishing the bar, and Margaret the bulldog likely still snoozed by the jukebox.

  If Mr. Chaucer hadn’t had spring allergies, Cleo might not have seen what she did. The pug erupted in a string of sneezes.