Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  Mary-Rose jumped up and began snapping photos with her cell phone. Like a fashion photographer, she dipped and angled and zoomed. They’d had this planned too.

  “Is it?” Kitty said, in a high, incredulous tone. “How can you tell? I don’t see any evidence, do you? In fact, all I see are a bunch of little differences.”

  Cleo turned to the inner front where the library’s bookplate would reside. The paper was smooth and unmarked, an aged white. No bookplate. Cleo flipped a page. There was the signature, Shirley Macon James. It looked the same, except for an underline flourish, something Cleo couldn’t see the shy, reserved Miss James ever doing. The line was in ink, almost the same color as the signature. Almost, but not quite and not right. Heart thumping, Cleo turned back to the front, as if the bookplate might appear.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Kitty cooed. Before Cleo could answer, Kitty swiped the book from her hands. She clasped it to her heart again before sashaying over to the safe. She put the book in and drew out another.

  Cleo felt herself being tugged, as if by an invisible thread, toward the book in Kitty’s grasp. Gone With the Wind, open to Margaret Mitchell’s signature. It had to be Dot’s book. Mary-Rose hovered at her shoulder, clicking photos.

  “That’s right, it’s not imaginary anymore,” Kitty said, posing with the signature page. “This is the real deal. As much as I adore it, I’ve come around to parting with it. It reminds me too much of Hunter. What do you say to twenty thousand? That’s a deal, a steal for a ‘first first’ edition! It’s in fine condition. Not like your cousin’s, with some ugly crayon scribble on the back cover.” She held open the back. It was clean. No purple crayon mark by Dot’s niece.

  “No,” Kitty said. “I can’t let it go for so little. Let’s say twenty-three thousand.”

  Cleo’s insides twisted. It was like Buddy had warned. Identifying marks could be removed. If that’s what had happened, how could she prove the book was Dot’s?

  “You’re an awful person,” Mary-Rose declared. She tugged Cleo’s elbow. “Come on, Cleo. We’ve seen enough to get the police searching this place.”

  Cleo knew Mary-Rose was bluffing. They didn’t have anything.

  Kitty waggled her fingers in a taunting wave. “You two are fun! Go ahead and try. Chief Culpepper won’t bother me.” Her voice was wispy high. “I have an alibi. I’m a victim.” Her voice hardened. “In any case, your cousin wasn’t robbed. She gave her books away.” Kitty opened the door wide. When they staggered into the hall, she slammed it behind them.

  “Well, that was successful,” Mary-Rose said, refastening her hair into its loose bun. “Mostly.”

  “Successful?” Cleo had held the book in her hands and let it get yanked away.

  “We’ve confirmed she has the books,” Mary-Rose said. “Now she’s your prime suspect for sure. Or is it Professor Weber and his ‘naughty behavior’?” Mary-Rose cringed dramatically. “I don’t think I want or need to know about that!”

  Cleo roused herself from thoughts of the book and recalled the couple’s argument. “I do,” she said. “I want to know what Professor Weber did that could embarrass him.”

  Mary-Rose murmured, “Dying from embarrassment.”

  “Or killing to avoid it,” Cleo said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I promised a friend I wouldn’t say anything,” Henry said. “It could cause …” He shifted in his armchair, looking uncomfortable. “Embarrassment.” He recrossed his legs, clad in light-beige slacks and pale-blue argyle socks. On his lap, Mr. Chaucer snuffled and sneezed before returning to sleep.

  Cleo sipped sherry, sweet as candy. She and Henry were in his cozy, book-filled apartment above the Gilded Page. Before them, tall windows looked out over Fontaine Park, where the treetops ruffled as if swept by waves.

  Embarrassment was exactly what Cleo wanted to hear about. She held her tongue, giving Henry time to consider. Breaking a promise to a friend would be a conundrum. She would have qualms too. However, she hoped Henry would come to the logical conclusion that murder was far worse. So was being wrongfully accused of murder.

  After their visit to the bed-and-breakfast, Mary-Rose had headed home for a dinner date with her husband. Cleo had come straight to Henry’s shop. When she arrived, the lights were off and the Closed sign dangled from the door. She hadn’t worried. She knew he’d be in, and it hadn’t taken keen detecting to reach that conclusion.

  First and foremost, Henry had said he’d be at his shop, and Henry Lafayette was a man of his word. Second, there was Sergeant Tookey. Cleo had spotted the sergeant sitting on a bench at the center of Fontaine Park. He was crunching his way through a party-sized bag of Zapp’s kettle chips, his head swinging like a metronome. Methodically, he took a chip and looked toward the Gilded Page. He took another and shifted his gaze to Dot’s Drop By. Back and forth, chip by chip.

  “You’re busy,” Cleo had stated, pausing by the bench where he and several hopeful, hungry sparrows sat.

  Tookey politely offered her a chip, which she shared with the birds. “Double overtime,” he said, managing to sound both happy and burdened.

  “Double surveillance?” Cleo was unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.

  He thrust the bag of chips at her again. She peeked inside, saw it was nearly empty, and declined with thanks. Tookey was working, after all.

  “Yep,” Tookey confirmed, tipping the last chips into his hand before emptying the shards at his boots. Birds flew in from all directions. “Chief’s orders. But don’t you worry. I’m doing some off-the-books surveilling too.” He pointed to his right eye and then aimed his finger in an arc, encompassing the whole of downtown. “I have my eye on all these suspicious book types. I’m on the lookout for that psychic lady too.”

  Cleo praised him and was rewarded with words she’d wanted to hear.

  “I don’t like the idea that the killer’s someone local,” Tookey said. “Especially anyone nice like Henry or Dot.” He turned toward the Drop By and said wistfully, “I’d miss those cookies …”

  Now, looking out over the park, Cleo squinted through her bifocals, trying to see if Tookey was still out there. She didn’t see him and hoped he’d left, following a better suspect. Besides, the weather was turning. Rain spit at the window. The treetops waved, and a deep, distant rumble made Mr. Chaucer whimper.

  Henry sighed heavily. “Embarrassment isn’t usually deadly,” he said slowly.

  “It could be,” Cleo said. “I imagine folks have killed to save face. People who think their reputation is everything.”

  She’d already told him what she and Mary-Rose had heard, eavesdropping on Kitty and her professor. Now she thought back to the fair when Henry had tentatively assessed Buddy’s big find—the Oglethorpe letter—as a fake.

  “That day,” Cleo said, recalling the situation out loud, “Kitty seemed more upset with your diagnosis than Buddy did. She said something about ‘meddling’?”

  “I feel bad for Buddy,” Henry said. “He walked over here with me at lunchtime when I came home to feed Chaucy. He wanted tips on how to pick out fakes in the future. It’s nice of him not to blame me for delivering the bad news.” He added darkly, “Like some people.”

  Cleo raised her eyebrows. Henry had turned from the window to look at her. She saw the conflict in his eye, but also a twinkle. “Revealing a secret to a librarian is like confessing to a priest, right?”

  Cleo smiled over her sherry. “Librarian’s code of silence,” she said, miming lip-zipping. “Although you know that only holds for patrons’ reading preferences. I’ll have to tell Gabby if it’s information that can help the police.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Henry said. “Librarians deal in information.” He poured himself a touch more sherry and said, “I did ‘meddle,’ but only at the request of the wronged party.”

  Cleo listened intently as Henry described how a friend—a respected collector he’d known for decades—had asked him to authentic
ate a text he’d purchased.

  “A gorgeous book of philosophical essays,” Henry said. He spoke admiringly of luminous illustrations before getting to the grittier details. “At first glance it was lovely. When I studied it further, it became clear that it was a copy. A very good copy, with some hand-scribed flourishes and imperfections that made it even more realistic. It wasn’t worth more than any modern reproduction. My friend didn’t want to make a fuss. All he wanted was his money back from the seller.”

  “Professor Weber?” Cleo guessed, so Henry wouldn’t have to be the first to say the name.

  He nodded. “It was awkward. More than awkward. Professor Weber became belligerent. He accused my friend and me of planting the forgery. From there … well … you know how conspiracy theories can spin up into even more extreme ideas?”

  “I know that very well,” Cleo said, thinking of Dot and the online conspiracy avalanche.

  “Professor Weber got it in his head that my friend and I were trying to blackmail him because he’s wealthy, that we were ‘shaking him down’ and ‘holding his reputation hostage.’” Henry raised air quotes around the absurd words. “I remember exactly what he said because he got sent legal documents. I think he wrote them himself—threats to cease and desist, threats to sue. I’m not sure how legal they were.”

  “How very strange,” Cleo said. “He seems so stoic and …” She frowned.

  “Professorial?” Henry supplied. “Logical? I used to think that too. I suppose I assumed, based on his job and him being president of the antiquarians.”

  “And appearance,” Cleo said. “We judge books by their covers, don’t we? Even when we know better.” She asked about the ending of the story, which she’d shelve under Horror. Thankfully, it didn’t have a horrific ending.

  “My friend had saved photos of the book from Professor Weber’s original online sales listing,” Henry said. “Thank goodness! There was a tiny identifying mark, proving the book came from his shop. We were finally able to convince him that he’d been wronged by whoever sold him the book. He was still angry, but he refunded my friend.”

  Rain splashed at the window in gusts. Mr. Chaucer hopped off Henry’s lap and took cover under his chair. Cleo thought of Rhett, who spent storms under her bed. She’d give him an extra treat when she got home.

  “Who sold Professor Weber the book?” Cleo asked.

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t want anything more to do with it.” Henry set down his glass. Thunder rumbled, rattling the windowpanes. “He ordered my friend and me to keep quiet about the incident. That’s why I feel I can tell you. I’d have been more sympathetic if he’d simply apologized and asked nicely. Instead, he said he’d make sure our reputations were the ones ruined if we told anyone.”

  Lightning flashed outside. “Rude!” Cleo said.

  Henry got up and looked out the window. Cleo resisted the urge to pull him back. The storm was close and dangerous.

  Henry said, “I still remember his words. ‘I’ll kill your reputations.’ My friend and I laughed it off as the delusions of a small but self-important man.”

  Chills crept up Cleo’s arm, and not only because of the electric fizz in the air. I’ll kill … Hunter Fox had embarrassed Professor Weber by romancing his fiancée. Kitty had flirted back. Cleo hoped Sergeant Tookey really was watching the booksellers. She didn’t trust Kitty or approve of her book-swiping ways, but Cleo didn’t want to see her or anyone else get hurt.

  Chapter Thirty

  “The final hours,” Cleo said to Dot the following afternoon. “The last day of the fair.” They sat inside Words on Wheels, Cleo in her captain’s seat, Dot on the front bench seat. Cleo had parked the bus near the Depot. She liked taking the bookmobile out on Sundays, prime days for patrons to stock up on reading. She also wanted to keep an eye on the antiquarians while she still could.

  “I don’t know if I’m relieved or sad to see the fair go,” Cleo said, gazing toward the Depot, where a customer backed out the doors, balancing an armload of books.

  Dot didn’t share such indecision. “Good riddance to this fair and the trouble it’s caused!” When Cleo glanced back, Dot flushed. “Oh, please don’t tell Henry I said that. I’m sure it was a very nice fair except for the … well …”

  Murder, book thievery, rogue podcasters, and missing so-called psychics. Cleo’s stomach tightened. The fair might leave, but she feared the trouble would stay put, especially if Dot and Henry were the only suspects left in town.

  “You made lovely finds,” Dot said, changing the subject to something sunnier.

  Cleo swung her legs over the side of her seat so she was facing Dot. Two tote bags filled with treasures sat beside her cousin: new old books that Cleo had bought earlier at the fair. Cleo had rationalized that it was her last chance to look for both missing books and book deals. She’d failed to find the former, but she had snagged some wonderful books.

  From Buddy, she’d bought a sheet from a Pogo cartoon, which she planned to give Ollie for his birthday. She’d also found a copy of The Wizard of Oz featuring the gorgeous color illustrations of the 1899 version but reproduced in 2017. It had cost less than filling up her gas tank and was thus suitable for grandkids to read and enjoy.

  The real first edition would have set her back tens of thousands. Signed could be as much as a hundred thousand, the dealer had told her. Cleo had thumped her heart.

  Dot was flipping through The Wizard of Oz. “What a lovely book,” Dot said, sounding as far away as Dorothy.

  “A bargain,” Cleo said, reassuring herself that she hadn’t overspent. Book sales were dangerous territory for her wallet, as Mary-Rose had warned when the fair started.

  Dot closed the book gently. “A bargain and still a glorious book. It almost makes me wish I’d never found the precious Gone With the Wind at that estate sale. Do you think that’s what sparked this awful trouble, Cleo? My book?”

  Cleo’s first instinct was to comfort Dot, to tell her no, of course not. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “But even if it did, it’s not your fault or the book’s.”

  Dot stood and peered out the windows. “That podcaster came by my house again,” she said. “I didn’t talk to him or open the door. He set up his microphone on my front step, though, and I could hear everything he said.” Dot smiled weakly. “I almost started to believe I’m a stalker and a killer. He’s very convincing.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Cleo said, with the conviction and guilt of someone who had. With Ollie’s help, she’d tuned in last night. Between dramatic pauses and ominous music, the podcaster had raised leading questions. Just who is Dot Moore? How desperate was she to save her store? Desperate enough to kill? To frame an innocent man, her own cousin’s significant other?

  Cleo had always thought “significant other” was a strange, unromantic term, like something mathematical. She liked the podcaster’s absurd questions even less.

  “He’ll tire of pestering you when nothing comes of it,” Cleo said, gripping the steering wheel. “I bet hardly anyone around Catalpa Springs listens to his silly podcast.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Dot said, hugging Cleo before stepping down. “Have fun at the soiree tonight. Don’t step on any toes.” Dot grinned up at Cleo.

  “Not unless I have to,” Cleo joked back.

  Dot waved to Cleo and then issued another cheery wave across the street. Cleo frowned. Sergeant Tookey leaned on a lamppost at the crosswalk, sipping from a cup the size of a bucket. When Dot waved, he ducked behind the slender pole, his belly and drink still clearly visible.

  Cleo continued to watch as Dot hustled up Main Street toward the Drop By, head dipped. The sergeant waited until she was a block away and then ambled in the same direction.

  The last day, Cleo thought again, gripping her steering wheel tighter. She didn’t have much time left to find the missing books, clear her loved ones’ good names, and nab a killer too.

  * * *

  At 7:02 PM, Henry tap
ped on Cleo’s door, giving her only two minutes to worry that he’d been delayed for questioning again.

  Henry looked dapper in a tailored pinstripe suit of light gray, and Cleo was pleased that, by chance, her robin’s-egg-blue dress complemented his silk paisley pocket square. Mr. Chaucer wore a matching paisley bandanna. The pug and Persian were having a pets’ night in and romped off to tussle in the living room before Cleo and Henry had a chance to pat them good-bye.

  Henry drove them to the Myrtles, which was done up in swaths of twinkling lights. Strolling arm in arm up the crepe myrtle–lined walkway, Cleo could almost convince herself they were on their way to a normal, pleasant evening.

  Nina Flores broke the spell. “One. More. Blessed. Day!” the innkeeper exclaimed when Henry and Cleo stepped inside. Nina was bundled in a puffy parka. The air conditioning blasted at arctic. Bloodshot flared around her pupils, and she pressed a finger to her temple, rubbing in circles. “After these book people depart tomorrow, Karl and I will have three blissful days off before we host a nice bunch of frat boys on a pledge week. Three whole days!”

  “Fraternity pledging?” Cleo said, unable to keep skepticism from sneaking into her tone. “You don’t worry the boys might be a bit rowdy?”

  “As long as there’s no theft, murder, fighting, and the police skulking around, I’ll be delighted.” Nina jerked her head toward the back. “You know the way. Follow the Marilyn Monroe music.”

  The ballroom was festooned in more twinkling lights. Karl once again stood behind the bar, polishing a glass. “Bye Bye Baby” played softly in the backdrop. Cleo gripped Henry’s arm, urgency meeting uncertainty.

  He patted her hand, understanding. “So, who do you want to interrogate first?”

  Cleo scanned the room. Buddy was chatting with the man who collected fishing books. Henry’s friends the medievalists were in deep conversation over by the potted fern. The biggest crowd was at the bar, orbiting in the bright glow of Kitty. Professor Weber stood off to the side, watching his fiancée intently.