by Nora Page
“Dang,” Tookey said, frowning right back. “I almost missed it. You said I should watch the back, by the kitchen.”
Tookey recited the Miranda warning. Gabby slumped to the bed and Cleo sank down beside her.
“You had me scared, Miss Cleo,” Gabby said, regaining her composure. “Let’s not do that again, okay?”
“I hope we won’t have to,” Cleo said, patting back her hair. Her face felt flushed. Her elbow ached and her heartbeat was still thumping on high. But she’d gotten him. They’d gotten him. She couldn’t hold back a giddy smile, and when she glanced at Gabby, she saw her favorite neighbor was grinning too.
Cleo managed to look properly serious as footsteps raced down the hall. One by one, the bookdealers crowded at the doorway, vying for a view.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cleo and Henry embraced in the police station lobby. Together they pushed open the station doors and stepped outside. The clouds had parted and the air was softly steamy.
Henry breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were glistening.
“Let’s go to my place,” she said, taking his hand. He knew his shop had been searched, but she didn’t want him to face the mess right away. Besides, Mr. Chaucer was waiting. “Someone is very anxious to see you,” Cleo said.
They walked slowly, dodging puddles and soaking up the sunshine. Cleo talked and Henry listened in stunned silence.
Her picket fence was in view when he finally said, “Buddy? But … he seemed so nice. He was so helpful, finding Dot’s book.”
“Seemed nice,” Cleo said. She reconsidered. “Maybe he is nice, in some ways. He took a liking to Dot. But he’s also a killer, a thief, and a forger. And he’s not Buddy Boone.”
They approached Cleo’s gate. A metallic snapping sound came from the next yard. Too late, Cleo raised a finger, urging silence.
“Cleo, is that you?” Wanda Boxer appeared at their fence line, clippers gleaming with a green tinge. Plant blood, Cleo thought, and realized she was giddy and shocked and shaken all at once. Thank goodness her kitchen, their four-legged friends, and all those treats were only a few steps away.
Wanda aimed the clippers at Cleo and then slowly over to Henry. Cleo wished, for once, that Wanda’s gossip line was faster. Then she’d know. She’d know Henry was innocent, vindicated. Cleo didn’t want to be the one to explain it to her. Wanda, she felt, would only spout negatives, and Cleo didn’t want her glossy happiness marred.
“Morning, Wanda,” Cleo called out. “Turning out to be a lovely day, isn’t it? Quite a storm last night …” She hurried up the walkway, Henry close behind her.
“Don’t you run off, Cleo Watkins,” Wanda ordered.
“Go inside,” Cleo whispered to Henry. “I’ll fend her off.”
He didn’t budge. “You’ve done way too much fending for my sake today.”
“You,” Wanda said, re-aiming the blades in Henry’s direction. “You are a lucky man.”
Cleo gaped. “You heard? Already?”
“I’m on spring break,” Wanda said, in a tone others might use to announce sick leave. “What else do I have to do?” She scowled at them over a butchered camellia. “Really, Cleo, the things you’ve been up to lately. Fighting criminals, frequenting bars, staying out until all hours … Keep it down over there, is all I have to say. I don’t want to hear any big party celebrations tonight. And you …”
She narrowed her eyes at Henry. “You better appreciate a woman who goes cavorting around, putting herself in danger to clear your name.”
“I do,” he said warmly and embraced Cleo in a bear hug. The kiss that followed had Wanda huffing. The sounds of frenzied snipping and pruning followed them into the house, where Mr. Chaucer spun in wobbly circles of joy. Henry scooped him up and let himself be smothered in sloppy pug kisses. Rhett bounded up, meowed sharply, and led the way to the kitchen.
Cleo ushered Henry into his seat at the table.
He sat, looking slightly dazed. “Wanda’s right. You put yourself in danger. You could have been hurt, and that would have been the worst thing in the world for me.”
“Worse than prison on a murder charge?” Cleo tried to joke. “Worse than getting kicked out of the Georgia Antiquarian Book Society?”
His face was serious. “Far worse.”
Cleo pictured the flash of the awl in fake-Buddy’s hand and Hunter stricken down in the alley.
“Gabby was with me,” Cleo said, doling out treats for the pets. “I told Gabby what I suspected but couldn’t prove. She came with me and waited down the hallway. Sergeant Tookey always believed in you too. He was staking out the downstairs, in the vicinity of cinnamon rolls.”
Cleo put on coffee—decaf for her jumpy nerves—and dragged out goodies: cookies, cake, and pie. “And salads,” she said. “I have a bunch of salads too. The unhealthy kind, mostly, with bacon and cheese.”
Henry looked puzzled. “You’ve been cooking?”
“Folks dropped by,” Cleo said obliquely. She was glad when he took a cookie and didn’t question why folks had dropped by with a buffet.
He smiled. “I think we deserve something sweet. You especially. How did you come to suspect him, of all people? When I was in that cell, I kept trying to guess who was responsible. I decided it must be Professor Weber.”
Cleo told him about Buddy’s mistake regarding the first edition of Gone With the Wind.
“I didn’t know about ‘first firsts,’” Henry said. “I probably could have guessed the approximate first publishing date, but not exactly.”
“But you’re not a specialized collector of Georgia books,” Cleo said. “Buddy claimed to be a fan of Gone With the Wind too, and he had several copies at his shop, different editions. Now I wish I’d looked more carefully at each and the pricing. Maybe I would have guessed earlier.”
“His act was so convincing,” Henry said. “He looked the part, sounded the part …”
Cleo tried to explain how that had tipped her off too. “He was almost too perfect, if that makes sense. Too much in character, and yet that character wasn’t quite right. I started making a list of who would be the most surprising guilty party. Not Kitty, Professor Weber, or Madame Romanov. Not even the medievalists, although I did wonder about them when the forged history books turned up in your shop.”
The coffee burbled. Cleo poured them big mugs. “I also considered who had the opportunity to swipe your tools and plant evidence and forgeries in your shop. Buddy was keen on your shop and came to town early to visit it. When I thought about it, he seemed keener than his supposed collecting interests warranted.”
Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He followed after us, that first day of the fair when Dot argued with Hunter Fox. He would have gone right past my demonstration table with all my tools.”
Cleo had thought about that too. Buddy had been carrying a bag. He could easily have slipped in the awl and hammer. Perhaps an extra awl too, the one he’d brandished at her.
Henry shuddered. “He came by the shop several times. I left him alone sometimes, to browse while I got things from my workshop and walked Chaucy. I thought he was simply interested in books.”
“He was,” Cleo said. She suggested they take plates out to the back porch for some fresh air. The day felt scrubbed by the storm, fresh and sweet. They sat quietly, the pets at their feet, for an hour or so, long enough that Ollie’s curtains twitched open.
Cleo tried to let her mind wander down pleasant paths, to summer gardening plans and her bookmobile route, all the places she’d go with Words on Wheels’ new door and ice-cold air conditioning.
But a dark thought kept popping up. She knew she needed to tell Henry, even if it might upset him most.
Cleo took a deep breath and said, “I think Buddy—whoever he is—planned long in advance to swipe your books and replace them with the fakes. It sounded like he came here specifically to target you.”
Henry sat back in his seat. “So I di
d bring this on us. How awful. If I hadn’t pushed so hard for the fair to come to Catalpa Springs, none of this would have happened.” He sighed. “The Georgia antiquarian bookdealers might not forgive me.”
The phone rang inside. Cleo considered letting it go, but her phone manners were ingrained from an era before robocalls. She still held the hope that every call would be a real human she wanted to speak with.
Cleo answered and listened, twirling the cord around her finger as she did. Her smile grew wider with every word on the other end.
“I think they’ll forgive you,” she said, seeing Henry peering anxiously inside. “No, I know they do.” Cleo reached for Rhett’s harness and the keys to Words on Wheels. They all needed to see this, and they’d arrive in bookmobile style.
* * *
As they passed by the library, Cleo beeped in happy honks. Leanna and a handful of patrons ran out and waved from the front porch. Cleo issued another burst of the horn as they circled the park and rounded the corner. The Gilded Page came into view, and Cleo saw that good graces were on their side, in more ways than one.
A parking space long enough for a bus stood empty in front of Henry’s shop. Best of all was the crowd. Not an angry or accusatory mob, but a mix of happy locals, a beaming Dot, and contrite antiquarian bookdealers. Professor Weber stepped out from among them, waiting on the curb.
Cleo swung Words on Wheels into the spot and threw out the stop signs. “Ready?” she said. Rhett hopped out of his peach crate and was first down the steps. Henry and Mr. Chaucer hung back.
“Professor Weber?” he said warily. “What do you think he wants? To search my shop again? To accuse me of fraud and forgery and pushing his fiancée?”
“I’d say he’s here for the same reason as the rest,” Cleo said. “To apologize.”
Professor Weber blocked their way down the bus steps. He held out a hand. “Mr. Lafayette,” he said stiffly. “Open up, and we’ll get your shelves back in order. Can’t have your books lying around in stacks. It’s bad for their spines.”
“Go on,” Cleo urged. Looking dazed, Henry walked to open up the shop, his pug trotting at his side. To Cleo’s relief, Henry’s look turned to joy as friends and neighbors kept halting his progress, wanting to shake his hand and pat him on the back. Cleo scooped up Rhett and followed, blushing from the cheer raised in her honor.
Eventually, after handshakes and hugs, the locals moved their impromptu party to the park, where the bakery and Dot brought out treats. The antiquarians got to work inside, tidying Henry’s books and workshop, praising his work, and—best of all—apologizing.
“I never took the rumors of the ‘fair curse’ seriously,” Professor Weber said brusquely to Henry and Cleo. “I considered it made up, a hypochondria at best, an excuse for bad behavior at worst. There are always a few bad deals. Now I wonder …”
“You wonder about your own collection,” Cleo said bluntly. “You were tricked by a forgery. You even sold that forgery before you realized.” She put her hands on her hips, elbows out, almost hoping he’d deny it. She’d taken on a killer this morning. She could stand up to an insecure bully.
His expression hardened. Cleo drew a deep breath, prepared to let it out with truth and indignation.
“I suppose I owe Mr. Lafayette an apology for that,” he said grudgingly. “I plan to do a thorough examination of my inventory and any sales since the fair two years ago, when I hosted.”
Cleo used her breath for another righteous truth. “That’s wise,” she said. “You’ll also return any stolen books that you and Miss Peavey still have in your possession.”
When the professor chuffed in misplaced indignation, Henry said, “The Georgia Antiquarian Book Society takes ethics seriously, as you’ve said.”
“I never …” the professor blustered. “Those are unfounded accusations. You shouldn’t insult Kitty when she’s fragile and recovering in the hospital.”
“Who’s insulting whom?” Gabby Honeywell strode up, grinning at Cleo. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, her hair bobbing in a high ponytail. “Leave some suspects for me to interrogate, Miss Cleo.”
Professor Weber scowled. “This woman is insulting me and my fiancée.”
“Oh, I’d say rightfully so,” Gabby said. “I have some questions for you too, Professor. Our ‘guest’ down at the police station won’t say much about himself, but he’s happy to spill about the rest of you. Like your fiancée. Miss Kitty can’t help her kleptomania. I get that. It’s a disease. Hunter Fox helped satisfy her book urges. Did you? Did you help her rob Miss Cleo’s bookmobile?”
The man’s face darkened. “Kitty was under immense strain after Hunter Fox’s death. We all were. When she’s under pressure, she … she acts out and engages in risky behavior. Like you say, it’s a mental health condition. She’ll go back to treatment. I’ll watch over her. I’ll take care of her.”
Cleo frowned. “Did you watch when she robbed my bookmobile?”
He scowled. “No. I had been watching her that night, worried she might be overly stressed and anxious after Fox’s death. You and Mr. Lafayette drew her attention to me. She gets upset if she thinks I’m smothering her with my concern. In a way, it’s your own fault that bookmobile was robbed. If you’d left me alone, I could have dissuaded her. I’ve gotten her through past episodes, and I’ll help her through this.” He paused and then said, with a hitch in his voice, “I love her.”
Love. More than ever, Cleo understood clinging to love through precarious times. She touched Henry’s hand and said, “The Catalpa Springs Public Library may be able to forgo pressing charges if Miss Peavey returns Into the Waves. Although she did mar it in her attempt to disguise her actions.”
Gabby scowled, proving she was very good at playing bad cop. “I don’t know. She stole from a public institution, from all of us! Wouldn’t you say that library principles are at stake, Miss Cleo?”
“I would,” Cleo said.
The professor’s stony face seemed grayer.
“Then there’s this,” Gabby said. She hitched her backpack down and unzipped it, drawing out a clear plastic evidence bag holding a book.
Cleo recognized the contents immediately. “Dot’s book!” Behind it was a mailing envelope with express-delivery markings and Dot’s address on it.
Gabby nodded. “We found this in our suspect’s room at the Myrtles. It suggests he pushed Ms. Peavey down the stairs. It appears that he intended to mail it to Miss Dot. He really does seem to like her. It will have to stay in evidence for a bit, but Cleo, you can let Dot know the book will be coming back to her.”
Gabby looked Professor Weber in the eye when she said, “Because we all know it belongs to Dot Moore. If Miss Peavey tries to say otherwise, I’ll have to call in a respected book restoration expert.” She paused and nodded to Henry before continuing. “I’m sure such an expert will easily detect how Kitty tried to hide identifying marks by slicing out the identifying crayon marking in the back. Receiving stolen goods is a crime, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Gabby said, using the professor’s own pedantic tone.
She pulled out another list with Cleo’s own handwriting, the list of missing and stolen books. “Most of these books were found in the suspect’s room, in the boxes he was packing up to take with him. A few are still missing. Professor Weber, you had one previously, a book of birds. I’ll warn you, anyone possessing these could be charged with possession of stolen property.”
Cleo realized the shop had gone quiet. The antiquarian bookdealers stood at shelves, miming interest in books, but no pages turned. Cleo knew they were listening intently.
Professor Weber knew too. “Hunter Fox gave that bird book to Kitty. She stored it in her safe and later gave it to me, knowing I’m a collector of natural history. I’ll recheck my inventory, as I said. We all will.” Murmurs of agreement filtered across the shelves.
“Yes, you will,” Gabby said. “We’ll check Miss Peavey’s inventory too. In fact, let’s go do that r
ight now, shall we?”
Under the gaze of his colleagues, the professor ducked his head and meekly followed Gabby out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Late the following week, Cleo put on her freshly polished dancing shoes.
Henry Lafayette adjusted a bow tie. “Too formal?” he asked. “Too polka dot?”
“Just right,” Cleo said. “Polka dots are perfect for a party.”
Furry faces followed them to the door.
“You two guard the house,” Cleo said. Rhett galloped off down the hallway, meowing dares for the pug to follow him. Mr. Chaucer shot a worried look at Henry before woofing and wobbling after Rhett.
Cleo and Henry arrived to find the party already buzzing. Dot’s Drop By was lit up with string lights and a joyful crowd. Cleo was among the happiest of all to see the door sign turned to Open and the code inspector’s “passed” paperwork pinned to the specials board. Dot was looking resplendent in a fresh gingham apron with waves of ruffles.
Dot enveloped Cleo in a hug. “I couldn’t have done this without you and Ollie and everyone!”
Dot was misty-eyed, and so was Cleo.
“No weeping at parties,” Mary-Rose said, swooping in for hugs and wiping a happy tear from her eye too.
Ollie and Gabby joined them. Cleo noted that Ollie seemed to have gotten over his stammers. “We have two parties in one night,” he said, bending to kiss Cleo on the cheek.
“We’re off to Ollie’s crane fund raiser after this,” Gabby said. “Are you coming, Miss Cleo? Henry?”
Cleo and Henry shared a smile and an understanding. They’d gladly donated to Ollie’s cause. However, that dance party started at ten, when Cleo and Henry preferred to be tucked into bed reading. “I think I’ve had enough late nights for a while,” she said. “Unless we stop off at the gastropub for a nightcap.”
Gabby chuckled. “You deserve a rest. Did you get all those missing books back to folks?”
“I returned the last one today.” Cleo had been busy, adding stolen-book returns to her bookmobile route. She’d completed the satisfying task that afternoon. On the way back to town, she’d stopped by Golden Acres. The residents had wanted all the news and had given her the “honor” of reading the final, blush-inducing chapter of The Lusty Lord.
