by Nora Page
He rubbed both hands over his face. “A chat group got going last night, just to talk about the murder of that book scout, which seems good, right? I mean, you want to turn up new information and theories. But then everyone turned on Auntie Dot. They’re saying she stalked that guy Hunter and killed him and he had it coming, which maybe he did, but …”
“It’s okay, Oliver.” Cleo reached out a soothing hand.
Her grandson shook his shaggy-haired head. “It’s not. The fund-raising site shut down our page and sent back all the donations. That’s not even the worst of it. There’s a true-crime podcaster in town! The guy outside with the beard and the mic.”
Cleo hadn’t listened to podcasts, although she thought she might like them. As a child, she’d enjoyed radio serials. Her whole family had, gathering in the sitting room or on the back porch to listen. From Ollie’s expression, she knew she wouldn’t enjoy this one.
“Just listen,” he said, taking out his phone. “It’s the first episode, and it’s … it’s …” At a loss for words, he turned up the volume instead.
Ominous music filled the breakfast aisle, the kind that might introduce a true-crime drama on TV. A voice followed, a man’s, deep and foreboding. “Catalpa Springs, a tiny town few have heard of, let alone dared visit, calls itself the ‘safest little town in the South.’ A lure? A lie? Safe? Not these days. What follows is a tale ripped from the pages of dime-store noir. A desperate woman scorned, a bookdealer—”
“Cleo, is that you?” Dot’s voice trilled down the aisles.
Ollie scrambled to press mute while Cleo greeted Dot with a hug, finding herself at an unusual loss for words.
“I suppose you’ve heard,” Dot said when they released each other. She tugged at her apron ties, knotted tight at her front. “I’ve gone viral. Like the flu.”
“Auntie Dot, I’m sorry!” Ollie shook his head as if still in stunned disbelief. “It was going so well too. We’d raised a ton of money.”
A knock at the front door interrupted him, a happy tapping to a shave-and-a-haircut beat. Ollie ducked down. He gestured for Cleo and Dot to do the same.
“It’ll be that podcaster,” Ollie whispered. “Don’t talk to him. I admit, I listened to his last season. He’s good. He went after a nun who’d been acquitted of murder. Who knows if she was innocent, but he made everyone think she’d done it.”
Dot tidied some cereal boxes and murmured that she was sure it would all blow over. “Don’t you worry, Oliver. All the dirt comes out with the wash, as our mothers used to say, right, Cleo?” Dot shifted some bottles of cane syrup down to the baking section. “We’ve had a run on syrup,” she said. “I wonder what folks are making? Pies? Popcorn balls? Glazed ham?”
Cleo would normally have enjoyed syrup speculations. Now she worried that Dot was in shock … or denial.
The seven-beat knock came again, louder this time. Cleo felt her pocket buzz. She had her phone close for surgery updates on Words on Wheels. Now it seemed frivolous to worry about a wounded door.
I’ll just check, Cleo reasoned. It would be rude to ignore the repairmen if they needed her permission to proceed with some treatment.
Gabby’s name popped up in a text, prefaced by a smiley face. It’s the police, open up. Please? We’ll come around back.
“It’s Gabby,” Cleo said. “She’s coming around the back.”
Ollie brightened and loped off, ducking around the back by the freezers. Cleo and Dot followed. To Cleo’s dismay, Gabby wasn’t alone.
“Amateurs,” Chief Culpepper declared, stomping inside with so much bluster Cleo could have sworn she saw a cloud of disapproval following him. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, Miss Cleo, amateurs such as yourself and that podcasting pest from Atlanta only muddy up the investigative waters. I do not appreciate having my investigation questioned or having to address wild theories. Innocent members of the public can get hurt. Like Miss Peavey.”
Cleo firmed her spine. “Like my cousin.”
Standing in Dot’s shop, with Dot wide-eyed in front of him, the chief had the grace to apologize. “I am sorry, Miss Dot, but that podcaster and the chat group did make some good connections. You did threaten the man and go to his room the night he died. Now I learn you were banging on his door like that mob out there?”
Dot’s cheeks flared red. “No. Not banging. Tapping. I only wanted to talk, to reason with him.”
“Uh-huh,” the chief said skeptically. He turned to Gabby. “And Deputy, why wasn’t I made aware of the desperate financial situation here at the Drop By?”
Gabby gazed back with serene calm. “I did mention so in my reports, sir.”
“That’s my fault too,” Dot said. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”
Cleo took her by the arm and translated. “What my cousin means is, she didn’t want to advertise her finances. No one likes doing that.”
“Then I went and advertised them all over,” Ollie said with a groan. “I was trying to help. Auntie Dot would have closed the store rather than bother anyone.”
Culpepper stretched his suspenders. He looked out toward the light of the street. The crowd was drifting away. The podcaster trotted after passersby, thrusting his microphone at them. Most scooted away.
More banging came from the kitchen area.
“What’s going on back there?” the chief asked.
When Dot explained the contractors, his small eyes narrowed. “How are you paying for that?”
“They’re volunteering,” Ollie said. “Some guys Mary-Rose Garland knows who do good deeds.”
The chief peeked in the back room and left soon after, muttering that it was all a big, muddy mess and getting worse. Cleo couldn’t argue with that.
Gabby stayed behind, saying she needed to go over Dot’s statement with her. She drew out her cell phone. “I’m not mentioning this to the chief until I confirm it. A techie friend is helping me trace where the bad rumors about you got rolling, Miss Dot.”
“Mean rumors turn into avalanches on the Internet,” Ollie said grimly.
“True, but avalanches start somewhere. Look at this.” Gabby held out her phone. “One person started talking about the murder and insisting Henry was innocent.”
“A wise person,” Cleo said.
Gabby scrolled down her screen. “Then that same person gets going about Miss Dot’s connection and motives. Really whipping up incriminating evidence. Look, here’s the detail about Miss Dot going to Hunter’s room at the bed-and-breakfast the night before he was killed and—”
Cleo took back her wise-person comment. The online commentator sounded as bad as Wanda Boxer, but with a worldwide reach.
Ollie’s height let him crane over Gabby’s shoulder to read the phone screen. “User name, TinaTheSeer.”
Cleo and Dot crowded close.
“Madame Romanov!” Cleo adjusted her bifocals to inspect the thumbnail-sized photo. It wasn’t the psychic herself but just as recognizable: a chunky dachshund wearing a purple cape. Slim.
“Why would she do this?” Cleo asked, and then immediately answered herself. “She’s guilty, Gabby. This is proof in itself. She’s shifting the blame.”
“But why go after Auntie Dot?” Ollie said.
Dot said in a small voice, “If it’s Madame Romanov, she doesn’t like me. I caught her shoplifting a while back.”
Gabby frowned. “You did? I didn’t hear about that.”
A frenzy of banging came from the back room. Dot waited until the noise subsided and said, “I’d never call the police about a little shoplifting. I figured she needed what she was taking. I offered her a free lunch, but she accused me of being condescending. She said she’d only been practicing her ‘art,’ her sleight-of-hand moves. I did apologize. I hadn’t intended to offend her.”
Gabby made a note of the shoplifting. At Dot’s insistence, she also dutifully recorded that Dot hadn’t meant any harm. “I’ll put it all in a report. If this is Madame Romanov mak
ing these posts, it’s good information. We can deduce a lot from them.”
“She’s manipulative,” Cleo said.
“That,” Gabby agreed. “And she’s alive.”
Cleo felt momentary guilt. In her vexation, she’d forgotten that Madame Romanov’s safety had been in question.
Gabby pointed to her phone again. “She’s close by too, or in contact with someone locally. See here? TinaTheSeer knows intimate details about your plumbing line repair, Miss Dot.” Gabby grinned. “Either that or she is psychic.”
Cleo and Ollie scoffed as one.
Gabby slipped her phone back in her pocket. “Speaking of plumbing, if you’re still digging that line, I can come by and help later. I’m not allowed to do any more overtime today.” She grinned. “I need to keep up my garden-digging muscles.”
Ollie perked up. “That would be awesome. I’ll bring something to eat. It’ll be like … like a picnic!” They made plans and talked about times and foods and parted with cheerful see yous.
Cleo and Dot waited until the street looked clear of podcasters and then slipped out. Cleo walked Dot home, determined to keep up a positive conversation. By the time they reached Dot’s house, Cleo felt they’d complimented every spring flower and singing bird in Georgia. Then she hit on a positive that made her genuinely smile. “There is some good to come out of this. Ollie …”
Dot smiled back. “He’s done it, hasn’t he? Ollie almost sort of made a date with Gabby.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
More good news came when Cleo was sitting at Dot’s kitchen table, enjoying tea and caramel cookies. Dot had made the cookies earlier, planning to give them out as an afternoon snack to volunteers and well-wishers at the Drop By.
“Sorry,” Cleo said as her phone buzzed. When she saw who was calling, she crossed her fingers for good luck.
“The repair shop,” she said, and Dot crossed her fingers too.
“Well,” drawled one of the look-alike brothers who ran the repair shop. “I’ve got some bad news, Miss Cleo.” The chuckle that followed verged on a giggle. He was outright laughing when he said, “You won’t have the air conditioner as an excuse to speed down the highway anymore. You’ll be shivering at five miles per hour.”
Cleo let out the breath she’d been holding. “You’re a genius!”
“I’ll drive you over to the repair shop,” Dot said when Cleo ended the call. “How about we take some cookies to the men too? I made dozens, way too many. Oh, and I could take some by the book fair to thank Professor Weber for bringing by my book and Buddy for finding it. And Henry, of course, and anyone else who’d like some.”
Cleo opened her mouth to issue a warning. Dot was too nice, too sunny and trusting …
Before she could say a bad word, Dot said. “I’ll be careful, Cleo. I won’t talk to podcasters or psychics. I know I was too trusting before, but just look at all these cookies. Besides, it never hurts to be nice.”
* * *
“Take her for a spin,” the mechanics had urged. “Crank up the air. Give the door a workout.”
The door opened with the silkiness of warm cream. The brothers had installed an inner brace, hopefully making it harder to break into. The door was better than ever, as they’d promised. The engine hummed and sipped on fresh oil.
As nice as spinning would be, Cleo decided to save it for later. She followed Dot back to town at Dot’s sedate speed. When Dot pulled over at the Depot, Cleo waved and gave the horn a mighty honk. She kept going, out Elberta Street, named for the railroad-ready peach that gave Georgia its Peach State nickname.
Cleo continued to drive slowly, following the abandoned tracks and thinking about other changes. Peaches had fallen from their pedestal. Several years back, blueberries had grabbed the state title for the biggest fruit crop.
At least that was a change Cleo could easily adapt to. The year the blueberry news broke, she and Mary-Rose had come up with a recipe for peach-blueberry cobbler that was downright divine.
Cleo’s thoughts turned to the Pancake Mill, where blueberry pancakes would be sizzling on the griddles. Her stomach rumbled. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel, listing all the reasons why she should spin out to the Mill. She should test her bus. She’d had a most unsettling morning. Besides, she’d had only coffee and cookies for breakfast. Cookies didn’t count as breakfast.
Cleo pressed the gas and turned on the air conditioner. The arctic blast blew her hair back.
“Good gracious,” Cleo murmured. She turned off the air, opened her window, and let the warm, muggy scents of a passing wetland sweep in. She could make a stop on the way, a bookmobile stop to absolutely justify a second breakfast. She had some books for the residents of Golden Acres Nursing Home tucked in the shelf behind her seat. Thank goodness those hadn’t been touched or taken.
Nurse Franklin greeted her in the lobby, where the air was thick with the scent of peonies. The towering nurse held a vase of the frilly flowers in his hand, pink and complementing his hot-pink scrubs.
“Where’s your furry sidekick?” Franklin asked, leaving the vase on the reception desk and taking a heavy tote bag of books from Cleo’s hand.
Cleo explained that Rhett had stayed home. “I had a little trouble with my bookmobile this morning,” she said. “It shook up my plans for the day.” It had shaken her up too.
“The break-in. We heard.” Franklin clicked his tongue in disapproval and added, “Just so you know, no one’s taking any stock in the rude rumor that you failed to notice because you’d been out carousing in a bar with your bad-boy criminal boyfriend.”
“Wanda Boxer!” Cleo exclaimed.
Franklin gave a deep, rolling chuckle. “Yep. That would be our source. Our receptionist is on her gossip hotline.” He winked down to Cleo. “Most of us think your bookseller boyfriend is innocent, and everyone says you should kick up your heels all you can.”
Cleo thanked him.
“My pleasure,” Franklin said. “I like delivering good news. Here’s more. The bibliophiles are gathered in the sun-room.” He offered to escort her there. “It’s uncanny, actually, you showing up. Everyone was just talking about you. Were your ears buzzing?”
Cleo groaned. “Because of Henry and the bar? He’s innocent! It’s a gastropub.” She silently gave thanks that Wanda hadn’t heard of the podcast yet, although that wouldn’t last long.
A lady slowly rolling up the hall in a wheelchair flagged Franklin down and asked to be taken to the “event.” He swooped her along. After pleasantries and introductions, he turned back to Cleo.
“Nah, the bibliophiles don’t have time to dwell on gossip, not when they have books.” He bent to wheelchair height. “Right, Mrs. Slater?”
She gave a sprightly if slightly off-color affirmation.
“That’s right. Heck yeah,” Franklin agreed, winking at Cleo.
Cleo held the door for Franklin and his passionate friend. She stepped after them into a room filled with giggling ladies, a handful of pink-cheeked men, and the pirate-tongued parrot. The women filled a collection of soft chairs, sofas, and wheelchairs arranged in a loose circle.
The parrot perched atop his plastic palm, clucking what sounded like “Hot, hot, hot.” The men were grouped around a card table, with cards and potato chip bags scattered about.
When they noticed Cleo, the preacher’s wife led the cheer of greeting. “You’ll never guess what we got our hands on,” she said, clasping her own hands in excitement. “The Lusty Lord! The very book from the library! Can you believe my daughter bought it from the library book sale a few years back? We’re having read-aloud story time, right, girls? Gentlemen?”
“We’re only here to play cards,” a man protested, too gruffly.
His compatriots blushed and ducked behind their cards as the ladies had a good laugh. “Liars,” a female voice cried out, echoed by the bird.
“They’re here for the good parts,” the preacher’s wife said. “I had forgotten just how lusty this lord
is!” She stuck in a bookmark and waved off Cleo’s apology for interrupting. “We all need some iced tea and a cooldown,” she said, handing the book to Cleo.
Laughter and the clink of ice cubes filled the room. Cups of iced tea and lemonade were passed around.
Cleo opened to the front cover and smiled. It was the library copy, all right. There was the lovely bookplate showing the likeness of the Catalpa Springs Public Library. Another stamp hovered over it, in blue ink and blocky capital letters. Withdrawn.
A day decades ago flashed to Cleo’s mind as if it had happened moments before. Her work mentor, the head librarian who’d hired her, had gathered the library staff together to discuss the stamp. At the time, they’d been stamping Discarded in red ink. Cleo’s mentor thought that sounded too rude and awful. Cleo agreed. After much debate, they settled on Withdrawn. The word was easy to fit on a stamp, but it didn’t capture the difficulty of removing any book.
Recently, Cleo and her protégé, Leanna, had revisited the library’s deaccessioning process and the stamp. They’d volleyed around other possibilities for the wording. Retired took first place for Leanna. Cleo, however, had issues with the word. “Heavens,” she’d sputtered to Leanna, “it isn’t like the books are moving down to Florida.” She’d probably overreacted. Retirement was a trigger word for her.
After that, she and Leanna had wavered between too silly and tragic. On permanent holiday, with gratitude for years of service. Gone but not forgotten. Passed on to other pastures. A good book looking for a forever home.
In the end, they’d stuck with plain Withdrawn. Cleo now wondered if they should try again. Perhaps Retired was preferable.
The preacher’s wife broke her thoughts, raising her glass in a toast.
“To all the library books we’ve loved before,” she said, to a rousing chorus of “Hear, hear” and a parrot yelling, “Lusty liar, lusty liar!”
Cleo wondered if that could fit on a stamp—the toast, not the parrot’s outburst. She’d ask Leanna. When the toasting died down, Cleo got down to business, passing out books residents had requested. She’d leave others at the front desk for residents who weren’t attending the reading.
