Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  “Kitty already looks tipsy,” Cleo said. “Maybe it will make her talkative.”

  They were a few steps into the room when Kitty pointed toward Cleo and Henry. All eyes turned.

  “Oh, lookee here,” she said, her voice shrill despite a slight slur. “It’s my librarian nemesis and her liar boyfriend.”

  Henry groaned. “Too talkative,” he murmured to Cleo.

  Kitty pointed at Henry. “He lied about his alibi. Did you all know that? He had no alibi the night our beloved colleague Hunter was killed. Slain!”

  Eyes shifted awkwardly from Kitty to her fiancé and on to Henry.

  Professor Weber moved close to Kitty and looped a protective arm around her slender waist. She clung to him and sobbed dramatically.

  “You’re bothering my fiancée,” Professor Weber said, turning his stony stare on Cleo and Henry. “You’re trying to make her look bad, and I won’t allow that.”

  “I only want to help,” Cleo said. She addressed the general crowd of antiquarians. “You all want justice for your colleague Hunter Fox, don’t you?”

  Murmurs of agreement were drowned out by Kitty. “Justice? The police already have two prime suspects. This man—our host!—owned the murder weapon. He had a motive too. Hunter was scooping him on book scouting. Then this woman’s cousin stalked Hunter. She threatened him and then supposedly found his poor deceased body! You can learn all about her motives online. It’s everywhere. There’s a podcast and a discussion group dedicated to her guilt.”

  Professor Weber glared around the room as if daring any members to question Kitty’s assertions. Finally Cleo thought she understood the connection between the unlikely pair. He enjoyed shielding his beautiful damsel in distress. She enjoyed his protective prestige. Cleo gripped Henry’s elbow. She sensed a presence at her other side.

  “Drink, ma’am?” The voice was familiar, startlingly so.

  “Ollie?” Cleo frowned in confusion. Her grandson was dressed like a waiter, black slacks, white shirt, and black vest. She hadn’t known he owned slacks, let alone a vest.

  He grinned and bent to whisper past her ear. “I’m undercover, helping Gabby. She’s in the next room. The chief is watching the door. Sergeant Tookey’s here too. See that palm tree?” He nodded toward a potted palm, sprouting a protruding belly.

  Cleo couldn’t help smiling. “I’m glad you’re all here,” she said, taking the proffered flute of bubbly. Henry took one too.

  Kitty was raising her glass. “Let’s toast our fallen colleague.”

  Glasses clinked. A cheer rose, but grumbles rumbled below it. Hunter Fox hadn’t been beloved by all. Across the room, Buddy raised his glass but frowned. Another dealer rolled her eyes, while others stared at their feet. Professor Weber refused a glass and kept his hands in his pockets.

  Kitty downed her entire drink. She swayed slightly, and her drawl blurred around the edges. “In honor of the best scout this society has ever known, I’m offering a special deal on a true eye-opening delight. That’s right, I have what you’ve been looking for.” She giggled and spun, her you seeming to address everyone in the room personally. When she wobbled to a stop, she added, “Inquire privately, and I may let you check out the goods before we make a deal.” She swayed toward the bar. A crowd closed in around her.

  Music boomed in a zippy beat, not a dance Cleo had studied. She wasn’t sure her knees would agree to it. In silent agreement, she and Henry moved toward the nearest wall.

  “I didn’t know that book people would be such dancers,” Cleo said, having to yell into Henry’s ear.

  He smiled. “The soiree is usually a happy affair, a celebration.”

  Cleo watched the dancers, many of whom weren’t doing anything close to steps in rhythm. Maybe she could manage this dance. She was about to ask Henry if he wanted to try when she glanced back at the bar and realized Kitty was gone.

  Cleo caught a flash of red exiting the ballroom. She grabbed Henry. “Kitty! She’s leaving.” They followed, staying back but close enough to see her head up the stairs. Cleo’s heartbeat sped up. Was she going to get Dot’s book? To sell it?

  Ollie and Gabby were nowhere in sight as they climbed the stairs. At the second floor, Cleo hesitated. “Kitty has to come back down. Let’s wait here and—”

  Henry raised an eyebrow. “And reason with her? I’ve been thinking. Our only hope might be a threat.”

  When Cleo’s eyes widened, he explained. “A warning threat. We could say that we’ll broadcast to all the bookdealers and all the online forums that the book is stolen. No ethical dealer or collector would buy it then. It would be sullied.”

  Cleo liked the idea. “We’ll give her one more chance to do the right thing.” Cleo looked down the dim hallways. “There are two sets of stairs to the third floor. I believe they extend down to the ground floor too. We should probably split up and listen in case Kitty doesn’t come back this way.”

  Henry squeezed her hand before disappearing down the dim hall to the right. Cleo wandered slowly down her side, wishing she could lower the music thumping from the ballroom. She stopped at the end of the hall, her eye caught on a bookshelf. A handwritten sign urged guests to help themselves: take a book, leave a book. Cleo loved seeing what people carried along on trips and left behind.

  She was reading the back cover of an intriguing British mystery when a crash came from the other end of the hall. She froze. “Henry?”

  A grunt followed. It was followed fast by a jangling, a rustling, another grunt, and the bumps and thuds of a struggle.

  Cleo swiveled and rushed back, but not before a scream echoed down the hallway and down the steps. All the way down. Thump, thump, thump, ending in a groan.

  Henry stood at the top of the stairs, disheveled and clutching his arm. Cleo ran to him, her attention focused on making sure he was okay. He raised his other hand, pointing to the grand marble steps. Cleo followed the point, down the stairs to a puddle of red. Kitty lay crumpled in her red dress with an awful red blossoming on her head.

  Before Cleo and Henry could react, another scream echoed up. The bookdealers streamed from the ballroom, Professor Weber among them. He finally let out emotion, bellowing his fiancée’s name as he knelt beside her. Gabby and the chief pushed through the crowd. Ollie followed, still balancing a tray of bubbly drinks.

  “Everyone back!” Gabby took charge, feeling for a pulse and calling for an ambulance. The chief and everyone else stared up at Cleo and Henry. Silence fell, cold and heavy with accusation.

  “I was pushed in the hallway,” Henry said shakily. “I fell. Then I heard Kitty yell, and—”

  “Uh-huh,” Chief Culpepper said. “What are you going to tell us next? That Miss Cleo there is your alibi again? That you have no motive? I don’t think so. Henry Lafayette, you’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I’m sorry,” Cleo said, meeting Mr. Chaucer’s worried gaze. The pug trotted out to the front porch and squashed his nose to the screen door. When Henry didn’t appear, Chaucy looked back at Cleo and whimpered.

  Cleo had intended to go inside and make herbal tea for Gabby and herself. Weariness and worry overtook her, and she sank into the nearest porch seat.

  Gabby stood midway between Cleo and Mr. Chaucer. It was nearly midnight, and the young deputy looked as exhausted as Cleo and unsure of whom to comfort first and how. She’d given Cleo and Ollie a ride home from the station, where they’d provided witness statements. At Cleo’s urging, Ollie had gone on to his cottage, to bed. Cleo had assured her grandson she’d be doing the same. However, she knew she wouldn’t sleep.

  Henry had gotten a ride to the station too, in the back of Chief Culpepper’s truck. Henry wouldn’t be coming home tonight. She’d spoken to him briefly before she left. He’d tried to put up a chipper front, even when making two requests that wrenched Cleo’s heart. “The two most important things in the world to me,” he’d said.

  Cleo replayed them again, gazing out into her da
rk garden.

  You have to believe me, Cleo. I didn’t hurt Kitty or Hunter. You believe me?

  Cleo believed him.

  You’ll take care of Mr. Chaucer?

  Of course she would. However, she couldn’t explain to the little dog why his beloved human hadn’t come home.

  Her eyes prickled, and she swiped at them. Mr. Chaucer sensed her mood. He looked back with worried wrinkles. “It’s okay, Chaucy,” she said, pitching her voice to singsong high for the lie. It wasn’t okay. Henry was in jail.

  Rhett Butler sashayed out the open front door, tail held high. He jumped on Cleo’s lap and purred into her chest. Her cat always knew when she needed comfort.

  “Henry has a good lawyer,” Gabby said, going to pat Mr. Chaucer. The pug waggled his tail but kept his nose to the screen. “He’s only charged with assault for now.”

  “Only,” Cleo breathed. The chief had made the lesser charge sound like a threat. One more nail in his rock-solid case.

  “He has the best criminal lawyer around,” Gabby continued, speaking the words to Mr. Chaucer’s worried pug face. To Cleo, she said, “Tex Payne. You should hear the DA curse when Tex gets involved in a case. That man’s gotten so many criminals off, you wouldn’t—” Gabby bit her lip and stopped talking.

  Cleo buried her nose in Rhett’s fur. Tex Payne was a swaggering Texan who owned the building next to Henry’s shop. He oozed confidence and bravado, wore flashy bolo ties and Stetsons, and appeared at the library whenever John Grisham published a new legal thriller. He was competent, Cleo was sure, but he was a criminal lawyer.

  “Henry’s innocent,” Cleo said in a small voice. The night songs from the garden grated at her nerves. The crickets were off-key. The tree frogs incessantly repeated their tunes.

  Gabby plunked down on the porch planks. She leaned her back against the doorframe and gently tugged Mr. Chaucer to her lap. “I called the hospital before we left the station. Kitty’s still out of it. Unconscious. The doctors say that’s good. They want it that way for now. The swelling on her brain should go down. When she wakes up, hopefully she’ll be fine and able to tell us what happened.”

  Hopefully. Cleo couldn’t rely on hope. She couldn’t sit about feeling sorry for herself and Henry either. She straightened her spine and her mind, replaying the events before Kitty’s tumble. She’d given her statement to Chief Culpepper under throbbing fluorescent lights and his blustery prodding. Here on her porch, she might remember more. Cleo was grateful her favorite neighbor was here to listen and seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “Right before Kitty tumbled, I was looking at a bookshelf,” Cleo said.

  “Of course you were. Those are like stinky cheese in a mousetrap to a librarian.” Gabby’s grin lifted Cleo’s spirits.

  “Henry was down the other hall. It was dim. Quite dark, really.” Cleo frowned, willing her senses to remember everything, anything.

  “And Henry said someone pushed him?” Gabby prompted. “He fell into one of those fake potted plants, and by the time he got back up, he heard Kitty falling? Did you hear anything?”

  Cleo replayed the first crash. Almost simultaneously, she’d heard a grunt and a rustling. Henry, falling into the plant? A thump? A door? And footsteps, not so much the sound on the thick carpet but a vibration under her feet. She couldn’t say how many feet. Then the awful thumps and Kitty screaming, all the way down.

  Rhett rubbed his chin to Cleo’s. His fur smelled of fresh green grass. His breath had the ever-so-slight whiff of salmon.

  “A smell,” Cleo said, remembering. “Thank you, Rhett. When I ran to find Henry at the top of the stairs, there was a scent. Something I’ve smelled before.” Cleo shut her eyes for a moment. Then a memory jolted her upright so abruptly that Rhett dug his claws into her thighs. “Incense! Madame Romanov uses it at her home. It clings to her like she’s bathed in it. What if it was her? We suspected she’s still nearby. Henry said he heard a jingling sound too, like keys. What if it was her bangles?”

  Cleo recognized the mix of excitement and pleading in her voice.

  Mr. Chaucer stood precariously on Gabby’s outstretched legs, his back end waggling. Gabby held his sides so he wouldn’t topple. “I’m still trying to find Madame,” Gabby said. “I won’t stop.” She gently lifted Mr. Chaucer from her lap and eased herself upright in one elegant move. The little pug resumed his watch of the door.

  “I promise, Miss Cleo,” Gabby said. “I’ll look into everything. You try to get some sleep. Kitty could be awake in the morning and clear up everything.”

  Gabby hugged Cleo good-night and patted each pet, instructing them to take care of Miss Cleo.

  When she heard Gabby’s cruiser rumble down their sleeping street, Cleo ushered the pets in and double-locked the door. They had to be careful. A killer was still on the loose.

  * * *

  Cleo stumbled bleary-eyed into her kitchen the next morning, feeling the worst case of Monday blues she’d ever had. She turned the coffeemaker on, forgetting to add the coffee. She checked her answering machine, although she couldn’t have missed any calls during the night. She’d woken at what seemed like five-minute intervals, overcome with the need to check her cell phone and the landline resting quietly on her nightstand. Both awake and sleeping, she’d dreamed that Henry would call with good news. He’d tell her he was free, exonerated.

  Cleo stared dismally at the coffee-free hot water dripping into the carafe. She knew where he was. Still in jail. Last night Gabby had warned that Henry might have to wait a day, maybe two, possibly even more, for a bond hearing. The courthouse was short-staffed and overbooked.

  Unless I can exonerate him sooner, Cleo thought.

  While Rhett gobbled his breakfast, Cleo let Mr. Chaucer out for a romp in the yard. The little pug ran straight to the gate and pressed his snout to the pickets, searching for his best friend. Cleo had to lure him back in with dog biscuits, a necessary treat when she realized she was out of his kibble.

  “We’ll go to your place later,” she told Mr. Chaucer when he looked up anxiously. A walk would be good for both of them. Good for thinking, and better than sitting around waiting for a phone to ring.

  After her own breakfast and placating Rhett with a second helping of Tuna Delight, Cleo clipped on Mr. Chaucer’s lead. Together they strolled down the lane and across the park. Cleo saw a few folks she recognized. They averted their eyes when they saw her.

  “They just don’t want to bother us,” she told Mr. Chaucer, but a worry rubbed at her. Or they think Henry is guilty and don’t know what to say to me.

  Cleo let herself and Mr. Chaucer into the Gilded Page, using her key. The pug trotted each aisle, searching for Henry. Cleo flipped on a light and then another. The bookstore felt empty and deserted, although it had spent only a night alone.

  In the back workshop, Cleo doled out kibble. While Chaucy ate, she stared at the pegboard wall with its tidy outlines of tools. Her gaze stalled at the outline of a clawed hammer. The second murder weapon? Henry could simply have misplaced the tool. His toolboxes were still stuffed. What if he and the police had missed it in their search?

  More out of the need to do something than thinking she’d find anything, Cleo hefted the handled wooden carrier to the workbench and began lifting out each tool. As she did, she tried to imagine their uses. Poking. Slicing. Pounding. Striking. Dark purposes came to mind. Cleo yearned to dispel them. These tools fixed needy books. They were good.

  “When Henry comes back, I’ll have him give me a demo,” she told Mr. Chaucer, who dropped a kibble and woofed.

  “I know, it’ll be fun,” Cleo said. But she’d misinterpreted. Mr. Chaucer growled and ran to the front of the shop, hackles raised.

  A chill ran up Cleo’s spine. She picked up the first tool at hand—a wooden mallet—and trotted after her guard pug.

  “Get! Get away. Ugly creature.”

  The male voice and mean words made Cleo gasp. She recognized the haughty huffiness before she saw
the speaker.

  “Professor Weber!” Cleo declared, rounding an aisle. She gripped the mallet tightly but kept her hand lowered. He stood at the first row of shelves, inspecting a book.

  “Get this mutt away from me,” he ordered, as if Cleo and Mr. Chaucer had barged into his private domain. Mr. Chaucer stood stiff-legged, his wrinkly snout pointed at the professor’s shins. The professor flicked his shoe.

  “Chaucy,” Cleo called, clicking her tongue and repeating his name with artificial cheerfulness. She didn’t want the brave pug to get hurt. Mr. Chaucer backed up but remained in his tippy version of an attack stance.

  “The shop is closed,” Cleo said to their unwanted guest. “You’ll have to leave.”

  Professor Weber ignored her and strode to Henry’s wall of history and philosophy offerings. The covers were leather in hues of burgundy and rich brown. He reached for a tome on the top shelf, which Cleo would have needed the ladder on rollers to reach. Cleo loved the look of the ladder. She’d always wanted one for the library and for her personal library too.

  “You have to leave,” Cleo repeated.

  “My fiancée and I were set to leave town today,” Professor Weber said. “Now she has to stay in the hospital, and the police rudely asked all the antiquarians to stay on too, as if we have nothing but time.”

  “How is Kitty?” Cleo asked, her earlier irritation slipping away. The professor had to be worried about his loved one, as she was for hers.

  “Awake,” he said, and Cleo’s hopes soared until he added, “But confused. She doesn’t remember what happened, but I do.”

  “You do?” Cleo frowned. She recalled him running in just ahead of the rest of the soiree crowd, yelling Kitty’s name.

  “Clearly,” he said. “It was Henry Lafayette. Do you not see yet what sort of man Mr. Lafayette is? Do you know, he once tried to blackmail and malign my reputation? He said he was helping a friend. I suppose he’ll say that now, that he was helping you and your obsession regarding that tawdry Gone With the Wind.”