Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  “Bless you!” Cleo said, her gaze swinging from the window to Mr. Chaucer, who wobbled but managed to stay upright. Her eyes caught on a dusty white van wedged in the pull-in parking.

  She inhaled sharply. “Look!” she said, and then immediately corrected. “No, don’t look.”

  But Henry already had. “Oh, it’s Professor Weber,” he said. “I wonder if he’s looking for Kitty?”

  The engine was off. The professor had been leaning on the steering wheel, his gaze locked on the view through the window. On Kitty, Cleo was sure. She clutched her cardigan closer.

  “We should say hello,” Henry said, jolly from his book chat. He turned toward the van.

  He was stepping off the curb when the engine roared to a start and the van jolted into reverse. Professor Weber didn’t look back, not to check the street for oncoming traffic or to see if Henry Lafayette—stumbling onto the sidewalk and scooping up his pug—was okay.

  Henry sputtered. “What was that about?” He recovered his good-natured equanimity. “Maybe he didn’t see us.”

  The professor had seen them, Cleo was sure. He’d seen his fiancée too.

  “He was watching Kitty,” Cleo said softly.

  “Watching …” Henry repeated. “Looking out for her?”

  A prickle crept up Cleo’s neck. She suddenly felt they were being watched. She turned and Henry did too. Kitty Peavey had stepped close to the glass. She stared out at them, her face as rigid and chilly as her fiancé’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cleo lay in bed in the warm bliss of deep Saturday-morning sleep. The quilt was perfectly cozy, the pillow just right, her limbs so relaxed they felt like lead. She hadn’t had such a good rest in days, even weeks.

  Bang! Bang, bang!

  The disturbance melted into Cleo’s dream, a joyful if surreal fantasy in which she was cooking with her Granny Bess and her mother. They were all the same age, a sprightly forty-something, and making biscuits on Granny B’s old enamel table.

  Bang!

  Biscuit cutters sliced the dough. Bang, bang! A sheet pan fell to the floor, and the prickly sensation of a nightmare crept along Cleo’s skin. Granny B was gone. So was her mother. Cleo stood alone at the table.

  Meow! A furry forehead bumped Cleo’s nose. The tickle of whiskers followed, and a whiff of tuna.

  “Rhett,” Cleo mumbled. “Too early.” Cleo yearned to return to the happy dream, but it had fizzled away. With a sigh, Cleo forced her eyelids up. In the darkness, she blearily made out Henry, tugging a flannel robe over flannel pajamas. A brief flash of contentment returned. She wasn’t alone.

  Mr. Chaucer woofed. Henry made soft shhhhh sounds.

  “I’m awake,” Cleo declared with the blustery force of the drowsy. “I’ll get it.”

  Henry had already slipped out. Footsteps of man and pug rattled down the stairs. Cleo groaned at the clock. Who was pounding on her door before six? Chief Culpepper, after Henry again? Irritation sparked. She kicked covers from her feet and wriggled out from under Rhett, who hopped off the bed and bounded down the hall, meowing for breakfast.

  Cleo was at the top of the stairs when she heard Henry giving a more pleasant greeting than she would have managed.

  The pleasantries were not reciprocated. Sharp words barged up to Cleo’s ears. “I’m calling the police! You’ve brought crime to our doorsteps. Again!”

  Wanda! Rhett Butler turned tail and trotted back to the bedroom. Cleo wished she could too. Instead, she trudged downstairs.

  “Wanda,” Cleo said with a sigh. “It’s early, and …”

  “And that bus of yours has attracted the criminal element like I’ve been saying all along! I told you, Cleo Watkins. You’re attracting juvenile delinquents and social-media strangers and disreputables and—”

  Now Cleo felt too awake. My bus? Words on Wheels? “Wanda, what’s happened to the bookmobile?”

  “It’s gotten itself broken into. Weren’t you listening?”

  Cleo gasped. She pushed past Wanda and trotted across her porch and down her walkway, oblivious to the damp chill biting at her bare feet.

  At the gate, Cleo gaped. Henry stopped behind her, issuing soothing sounds.

  “I told you so,” Wanda said, sounding pleased.

  Mr. Chaucer caught up and woofed nervously.

  The door to Words on Wheels swung partially open, crooked on its hinges. Cleo tiptoed over the gravel drive. When she reached her bookmobile, she tenderly touched its side, as she might comfort a wounded being. Then she reached for the door, needing to get inside and check.

  A warm hand touched hers. “Wait,” said Henry. “This is a crime scene. Let’s call Gabby.”

  “I’ve already done that,” Wanda said. “For once, those police are taking me seriously. Figures, since you’re involved, Cleo.”

  Gabby’s screen door slammed a moment later. The deputy herself jogged up a few seconds after. They all met on the front sidewalk between Cleo’s and Gabby’s homes. Gabby wasn’t in uniform, but she was more dressed than Cleo, in faded jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Her hair was piled up in a messy bun.

  Gabby eyed Wanda with a healthy measure of suspicion. “If this is another call about my porch door slamming or my car …”

  “Why do I even bother to report crimes anymore?” Wanda declared in aggrieved tones. “All I get is complaints. Never any thanks. Ingrates.”

  Cleo noted that Wanda was fully dressed for yard battle—rubbery boots and old floppy pants, the mud-stained windbreaker, garden gloves poking out her front pocket. All that was missing were her weapons of floral destruction.

  “Thank you, Wanda,” Cleo said sincerely. Emotion shook her next words. “It’s Words on Wheels, Gabby. Someone broke in. The door is broken and wide open. I could see my display case on the floor.”

  “Oh, don’t get all weepy. It’s just an old bus,” Wanda grumbled. “If you didn’t make it so flashy, maybe criminals wouldn’t be attracted to it.”

  “Words on Wheels?” Gabby sounded properly outraged. She started down Cleo’s driveway.

  Cleo padded after her, trying to keep to the grassy edge. “We didn’t touch anything yet,” Cleo said. “Henry wisely pointed out that we shouldn’t leave prints.”

  Wanda followed along. “Yeah, you two know criminal procedure, that’s for sure. Too bad neither of you heard anything. That little dog was no help either.”

  Mr. Chaucer gazed nervously up at them, his wrinkles deepening and his eyes wide.

  “Good boy,” Gabby said to him. To the humans, she said, “Miss Cleo, you need shoes, and I need gloves and my evidence kit. Let’s go get those and meet back here. Wanda, we shouldn’t keep you. How about I come over later and get your statement? You were right to call this in. Thank you.”

  Wanda snorted. “Try and shove me off, will you? Well, I’ll stay right here if I want, thank you very much. I don’t want more crime erupting when you all turn your backs again.”

  Cleo knew she must be shaken because she felt Wanda made a good point.

  Rhett waited on the porch steps, frowny-faced from the dewy damp and lack of attention to his breakfast. Cleo fed him and then went upstairs to change. Henry did the same, doling out kibbles for his worried pug.

  Cleo’s emotions hovered between those of the pets: worried and vexed. Mostly, she was upset with herself. “I was negligent in my librarian responsibilities,” she said when she and Henry met back up in the foyer. “I left my collectibles display in Words on Wheels. I should have brought it in. I got lazy and considered it safe.”

  He made soothing sounds and added a supportive hug. “The break-in might not be related to the display. It could be like Wanda’s always said. Kids, pranksters, common vandals. Besides, didn’t you say that most of the items in the display weren’t worth that much? That was your point, right? That collecting doesn’t have to cost a fortune.”

  His hair was mussed and poking over his ears in all directions. Cleo reached out and smoothed it, ending
with an affectionate touch to his cheek and his fluffy beard. She knew the dear man was trying to make her feel better.

  She felt awful. “Except for the one valuable book,” she said. “The book Kitty coveted.”

  Henry didn’t try to offer false cheer. He squeezed her arm and said, “We don’t know yet.”

  Cleo knew.

  * * *

  Chief Culpepper pulled up with lights flashing. He ignored Wanda’s complaints about the book-related crime wave and blustered at Gabby, who had snapped on gloves and was prying the bus’s door open. Cleo steadied herself on her picket fence. Her lovely display case lay on the floor. From where she stood, she could see some book covers and due-date cards scattered inside the case.

  “A book will be missing,” Cleo predicted. “Possibly a signed due-date card too.”

  “A book and a due-date card?” the chief said with undisguised exasperation. “I got out of bed early on a Saturday for this?”

  “Burglary is a major crime,” Wanda snapped. “A small step away from home invasion and cold-blooded murder and outright mayhem.”

  “This was a valuable book,” Cleo said, united in indignation with Wanda. “Part of our library’s special collection.”

  The chief shook his head. “What’s so special about it?”

  Cleo explained. “This book had a signature by Shirley Macon James. We also had her signature on the due-date card too. It was quite … well, special.”

  She looked around. Henry was nodding supportively.

  Wanda scoffed, any camaraderie gone. “Are you talking about Into the Waves? Romance tripe. Better that it’s not in the library, I say. Children go to libraries, Cleo. They shouldn’t be reading junk.”

  “It’s a romance?” the chief asked with a frown. “My wife reads those.” He didn’t sound happy about it. Cleo thought again that Mrs. Culpepper was a woman of great patience and tolerance.

  And then there was Wanda … Wanda rallied every year for Banned Books Week, on the side of banning.

  “It was a robbery,” Cleo said, enunciating firmly. “A crime against the library and thus everyone in Catalpa County.” She held her chin high and dared the chief and Wanda to dismiss that.

  Wanda turned her attention to Cleo’s hedge, grumbling that it needed a good clipping. The chief stomped over to the bus and offered Gabby advice on hurrying up.

  The display case lay a few yards away, protected from the ground by a plastic sheet. Gabby was still inside Words on Wheels. She’d already dusted the door and told Cleo that it could have been too easily wrenched open with a few common tools and a little muscle.

  Overhead, a golden sunrise was burning off the dew, but long, thin clouds wisped at the horizon and a restless breeze kicked around the pollen. Both Wanda and Mr. Chaucer were sneezing.

  Chief Culpepper turned back to them, tugging his suspenders. “So,” he said. “If that book is so special, why’d you leave it in the bus?”

  “Bookmobile,” Cleo specified, but her face went hot with chagrin. “I did mean to take the display case inside for the night,” she admitted. “But then I went out—over to my cousin Dot’s. As you know, she received some of her stolen books back.”

  “Allegedly stolen,” the chief muttered. “Allegedly returned anonymously. No one saw anyone drop off that package. Who’s to say your cousin didn’t steal those books back herself and then pretend to get them back?”

  I’m to say. But Cleo knew disagreeing with the chief would only make him dig in harder. She forged on with her own confession. “Mr. Lafayette and I went out last night. We got in late, and I’m sorry to say, I forgot.” She was sorry. Very sorry.

  “You went out? Where?” the chief asked.

  Cleo realized she’d been a little too honest. “Oh, out to speak with some folks,” she said, with the mumbled reluctance of a truant schoolkid caught out.

  “And those folks were where?” the chief persisted.

  “The, ah … gastropub,” Cleo said.

  “Skeet’s?” Wanda crowed. “Skeet’s bar? Cleo Watkins! First you’re giving false overnight alibis for your boyfriend, and now you’re hanging around bars until all hours. It’s no wonder you forgot about your bus and books!”

  “We were there because of books,” Cleo protested.

  The chief was shaking his head as if disappointed.

  Wanda suddenly had somewhere to be. She hustled away, cackling. Cleo knew where she was going: off to her phone to spread gossip.

  Gabby stepped out of the bookmobile, tugging off her gloves. “Words on Wheels is too popular, Miss Cleo. You’ll have prints from half the town and then some inside. Do you have any theories to get us started?”

  Cleo didn’t hesitate. “Kitty Peavey. She wanted that book. She tried to buy it, and when I said no, she said she’d ‘get her hands on it.’” Cleo searched her memory. “‘Soon,’ she said.” Cleo kicked at some gravel. She could kick herself too. She’d been warned, and she hadn’t paid proper heed.

  “Miss Peavey?” Chief Culpepper outright laughed. “A pretty gal like her, breaking into an old school bus in the middle of the night? I can hardly see that. Why, she’s recently suffered a break-in herself.” He pushed out his chest and suspenders. “I’ll go speak with her personally, make sure she’s doing okay.”

  After he’d left, Gabby said, “Off the record? I can see Miss Peavey doing this. It really wouldn’t take much burglary skill to get in this bus. More than that, she’s determined. A determined woman will get her way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Wanda was back in her garden, whistling with unsettling merriment, when Cleo sneaked out a few hours later. Cleo eased her screen door closed and tiptoed down the walkway. She was alone and on foot. Earlier, Henry had given her a ride back from the repair shop, where Cleo’s favorite mechanics had promised to commence emergency surgery on Words on Wheels.

  It would be an easy and quick operation, the mechanics had assured Cleo. They’d throw in a general checkup for free. Her bus would be better than ever.

  Except it wouldn’t, not for Cleo. The mechanics could fix the door and make it more secure. They might even get the air conditioner to puff above tepid. But books were the vital organs, and Into the Waves would still be missing.

  Cleo was sure Kitty Peavey had the book. Unfortunately, Chief Culpepper was just as sure Kitty was innocent.

  Kitty had an alibi, the chief reported. He’d called Cleo to tell her and to warn her against “maligning” visitors. The lovely Miss Peavey, according to the chief, had spent the night in the arms of her fiancé.

  “Lucky man,” the chief had added wistfully. “A lucky man.”

  Vexed by his report and tone, Cleo pointed out that alibis from loved ones could be suspect. As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Words spoken in haste, her mother would have warned. Regretted at leisure.

  “You’d know all about that,” the chief retorted. “Are you sure Mr. Lafayette was with you all night? I should remind you, he’s a top-tier person of interest in a murder investigation.”

  As if Cleo had forgotten!

  Henry would be at the fair by now. Rhett was staying at home, sunning on the front porch. Cleo’s destination was unsuitable for cats. She was heading for the Drop By, where she hoped to find a glorious mess of exposed plumbing and electrical wires.

  The sky shifted between sunny heat and cloudy bluster. Cleo resolved to focus on the partly sunny in the forecast and the situation. She practiced as she strolled past Gabby’s cottage, where wildflower seeds were sprouting faster and thicker than weeds. They’d be gorgeous soon. Gabby had spent a whole weekend digging out the beds, her first attempt at gardening.

  Cleo admired a freshly painted fence and stopped to greet a friendly calico cat. When she reached downtown, she soaked in the flower-filled park and the lovely library. She beamed when she looked down the street and spotted a crowd outside the Drop By.

  How nice, Cleo thought, now in the rhythm of positive thinking.
Cleo stubbed her toe on a bump in the sidewalk at the same moment her optimism tripped.

  A crowd? It was nearly ten. Dot should have opened by now. Cleo stopped behind the throng of people.

  “What’s going on?” she asked the nearest person she recognized, Jamal Kennedy. The young man had graduated from high school with Ollie and now boasted a degree in botany and a job raising otherworldly orchids. Cleo saw him periodically when he stopped by Words on Wheels to check out science fiction and graphic novels as thick as the classics.

  “It’s wild, Mrs. Watkins.” Jamal looked down at her from his height somewhere above six feet. “Everyone’s saying an innocent dude’s getting railroaded for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “I’ve been saying that too,” Cleo said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  He nodded solemnly. “Then that settles it, and you’re in the right place.”

  Cleo was where she’d intended to be. What she didn’t understand was why everyone else was here.

  “Is it a rally on the innocent man’s behalf?” she asked. In that case, she was definitely in the right place.

  “Nah.” Jamal bent lower. “This is—they say—where the real killer’s hiding out. Everyone’s gathering in a quest for justice.”

  Cleo willfully resisted the logical but terrible implication. “The real killer? Here?”

  “The lady who owns this place. Who’d think it? She makes the best cookies.”

  * * *

  “Get inside, Gran, quick.” Ollie ushered Cleo in, shielding her from the crowd and a particularly pushy young man with a sculpted beard, a handlebar mustache, and a microphone. Ollie locked the door and practically pushed Cleo down the nearest aisle.

  Ollie moaned. “This is my fault.”

  He barreled on, speaking fast over Cleo’s murmurs of “No, no.”

  “It is!” he said, leaning back against a shelf tidily stacked with canisters of oatmeal and golden bags of grits. “I started that fund raiser. I got Auntie Dot online exposure That’s where it started. Online! People—strangers—got interested in Auntie Dot and her missing book and the murder, and well …”