Read on Arrival

by Nora Page

  “She’s gone,” Cleo whispered, confirming what his expression said. She reached out to help him up.

  He took her hand and squeezed, but remained squatting. “Look,” he said, pointing toward Dixie’s far hand. Beyond her fist lay a piece of paper, black matte with jagged white writing. It was the size of a bookmark and shaped like a coffin.

  “Death signs …” Cleo gripped Henry’s hand tighter. “Dixie said death was coming for her.”

  He heaved himself to standing. The bees sounded louder, mingling with the whooshing through Cleo’s head. Cleo pushed back her bifocals and leaned over Dixie, keeping her eyes on the note beyond. She read the note aloud: Good luck saving yourself now, Dixie Huddleston. Welcome to your new home.

  Cleo stepped back. “How awful!” A bee zoomed by her ear. Another bumped her nose. She felt wings and sticky insect feet but thankfully no stinger. The blob on the window was coming apart, taking flight. Coming their way.

  Henry took her arm and tugged her out, slamming the door behind them. They hurried across the smoky kitchen, Cleo’s heart racing. When they reached the door, Cleo was ready to hurl herself outside. She needed air. She needed to get away from that terrible scene.

  Henry, always chivalrous, reached the door first and held it open. Cleo burst outside, thinking, Thank goodness—right before she screamed.

  * * *

  Henry caught Cleo as she lurched backwards. Her ears rang, and her knees went jiggly again from the fresh fright. She faced two startling faces. They were white and chalky with eyes lined in jagged black circles and full red lips painted in smiles. One was a woman, the other a man.

  “Clowns!” Cleo blurted, thumping a hand to her heart, aware of her rudeness as soon as the word left her mouth.

  “Mimes,” the female of the pair corrected, her eye-roll and head-shake suggesting Cleo had made a fool’s mistake. “Mimes in the classical French theatrical tradition.”

  Cleo patted her thumping heart. “Of course.” She felt Henry squeezing out the door behind her. Cleo moved aside and gathered a breath along with her manners. “Pardon us,” she said. “You gave us a startle. There’s been a most upsetting—.”

  “You startled us!” the woman interrupted. “Who are you anyway? What is that smell? Is she-of-the-manor burning lunch again?” Her large nose wrinkled and twitched. She turned to her companion. “I told you we should have just gotten something to eat in Claymore. Why do we even try?”

  The male mime was busy with an exaggerated performance. He peeked shyly over his sputtering companion’s shoulder and wiggled his fingers in greeting. They were dressed alike in all white, from their puffy-sleeved tops to ivory leggings, billowing pantaloons, and lace-up slippers.

  The getups looked old-fashioned, as in Shakespearean old. Cleo’s thumping heart slowed in a grim realization. She could hear Dixie’s voice, as clear as the sky above: That clown of a son of mine and his drama queen wife! Cleo had overheard Dixie at the supermarket a few months ago, complaining about Jefferson, her only son. He’d moved back to town. His wife, a professor of drama, had gotten a job at Claymore College. They were living—freeloading, as Dixie put it—in her backyard cottage. Cleo hadn’t intended to eavesdrop. Dixie was a loud talker.

  “Jefferson,” Cleo said aloud.

  He mimed a querulous look and surprised Who, me? gestures.

  Cleo knew it was him. She recognized his soft baby face now, oddly tiny atop a big man’s body. She tried the more talkative, although certainly less friendly, woman. “Are you Mrs. Huddleston?”

  “No! I am his spouse, but I have my own name. I am Doctor Jacquelyn Ames.”

  “Of course,” Cleo said again. She took Henry’s coat sleeve and gently moved him and herself through the door, closing it and forcing frowning Jacquelyn to step back too.

  Jacquelyn made more huffy sounds. “Let me guess, the royal she won’t be accepting any more visitors today, even though she insisted we come for lunch, at no notice? Jefferson, let’s just go. She only ever invites us if she wants something. Like kicking us out. She was probably planning to serve up an eviction notice.”

  Jefferson’s sad makeup looked more appropriate now that Cleo realized who he was. He mimed confusion and weeping. Cleo wished she weren’t about to make him truly sad. She didn’t know Jefferson well as an adult. He’d been away at college, grad school, and jobs elsewhere before returning to Catalpa Springs.

  However, Cleo had watched him grow up, and she suspected he’d changed little. Jefferson was the sort of child who attracted bullies like lemonade draws wasps. He was clumsy and pear-shaped, with thick glasses and hobbies that included reenactment and elaborate costumes and role-playing. His disapproving mother hadn’t been much kinder than a common bully, yet he’d always sought Dixie’s affection. Cleo knew he’d be crushed.

  “Jefferson, dear,” Cleo said, ignoring his bristly wife. “Do you remember me? Cleo Watkins? The librarian? You used to come in and help me read to the littler kids during story hour. Remember? You’d act out stories for them?”

  He nodded slowly, lines of concentration creasing his makeup. Cleo wondered if he remembered the time Dixie—his own mother!—had sent him inside with Luck and Lore, telling the anxious kindergartener to wave it at Cleo and run off. Cleo hadn’t held that against him. She’d always had a soft spot for Jefferson. He liked reading and followed his passions, even if they got him mocked.

  His older sister used to come into the library too. She’d been more like Dixie, prone to walking off without checking out books and racking up late fees. Cleo’s mind fixated absurdly on trying to recall the girl’s name. She hadn’t been around town in years.

  Jefferson was miming out the joy of reading.

  Henry groaned and stepped up. “Sir. Ma’am—” Henry said.

  “Doctor,” Jacquelyn snapped. “Almost doctor,” she said, nodding back toward her husband.

  Henry forged on. “There’s been a … uh … problem. A medical issue …”

  “Jefferson,” Cleo said, reaching for his hand, which eluded her grasp, raised to his lips in a bashful act. “We’re so awfully sorry. We came to see your mother. We had an appointment, but we smelled smoke and went inside and found her … deceased. She’s gone. Passed on.” Nerves made Cleo ramble.

  “Deceased? Mother?” Jefferson’s voice, finally used, came out adenoidal and cracking. “No,” he said, head shaking so vigorously his white beret slipped down, revealing pale hair thinning over a paler crown. “Nope. Sorry. Don’t believe it. Mother’s been going on about dying, but it’s all show. If you know her, you know how she is. Tricky. I mean, a jokester. You do know Mother. I know you do. She has a funny sense of humor.” His laugh caught in his throat and ended in a coughing fit. His wife slapped him hard on the back.

  Cleo did know how Dixie was. For a second, she wavered. Could it be a trick? If so, she’d certainly been fooled this time. Oh, wouldn’t Dixie be beyond delighted. So would Cleo.

  She pictured Dixie rising from the floor, laughing and waving the overdue book. Cleo almost turned back and checked again. Then she glanced at Henry, his expression grim. They’d both seen her, that awful note, and the death’s grip that could never be faked.

  “I wish that were so,” Cleo said. “I’m awfully sorry.”

  “Dead?” Jacquelyn said. “You’re serious?” She put a hand to her mouth, but not fast enough to hide a grin. She reached behind Cleo for the doorknob. “This I have to see to believe. Maybe you’re wrong. You said you’re a librarian? Librarians aren’t qualified to judge medical issues or death.”

  Unfortunately, Cleo did have experience with death, both natural and not. She wedged herself firmly in front of the door. “Mr. Lafayette and I are about to call 911,” Cleo said. “You really shouldn’t go inside, dear. No one should until the police get here.”

  Jacquelyn began to grumble about Cleo’s use of “dear.” She stopped mid-fuss and frowned. “Police? Why do you say police?”

  “The circumst
ances are unusual,” Henry said carefully. “It’s dangerous inside too. There’s a natural hazard.”

  “A swarm of bees,” Cleo specified, watching the two closely.

  Jefferson yelped. He grasped for his wife. “Bees! Let’s go! Come on, come on, we have to get out of here!” He swung around and ran, stumbling down the back steps and lumbering down the brick path, dutifully following its twists and curves to the squatty cottage.

  “Oh for goodness sake,” Jacquelyn said through a sigh. “Fine. You two call the police. We’ll be hiding inside from bees.”

  Cleo and Henry watched her cross the yard. Her step was springy, and she whistled as she cut a straight path across the grass.

  “Odd,” Cleo said as she pawed through her purse in search of her cell phone. “That woman had a strange reaction to her mother-in-law’s death.”

  “Perhaps it’s the shock,” Henry said, grimly charitable. “Some folks can’t process a death unless they see firm evidence. Even if they do take it in, they might cover their grief with inappropriate reactions.”

  This was true. Cleo had seen it happen before. But what if it wasn’t grief or even surprise? She located her phone, which she’d turned off for book club. It leisurely awoke in a series of lights, chipper icons, and a screensaver of Rhett’s furry face. Cleo’s mind brought up less pleasant images: threats over pancakes, the swarming bees, Dixie’s terrified expression, and a note written on a coffin.

  When Cleo finally reached the 911 operator, she didn’t use a euphemism or mince words. “A woman is dead,” she said. “We believe she’s been murdered.”

  Chapter Five

  Chief Silas Culpepper smiled at Cleo, a real-life rendition of the smiley faces dotting his red suspenders. The chief had broad shoulders, a mountainous middle, and twiggy legs under waif-worthy hips. He wedged thick thumbs under the already strained suspenders and pushed out, sending the happy faces into contorted screams. Cleo inched back a smidge. She wanted to be clear of the snap zone should the elastic fail.

  In truth, she wanted to be anywhere else. Home with Rhett, reading on her front porch. In her bookmobile, surging down the highway. Back at the Pancake Mill. If only she’d taken Mary-Rose up on her offer of pie and coffee and a stroll around the peaceful spring.

  She, Henry, and the chief stood on Dixie’s pretty back porch with a view of the peach orchards and a crime scene. Clouds had smudged out the sun. It was quiet, but not peaceful. The sirens and shouts and stomps of the first responders had turned to tense waiting.

  Through the open door, Cleo could see the two EMTs leaning on Dixie’s kitchen island, chatting with a fireman in full gear. Sergeant Earl Tookey, bless his heart, stood at the sink nursing a bee sting and sullenly munching a candy bar. Cleo’s favorite deputy—and favorite neighbor—Gabby Honeywell slowly paced the kitchen, hands behind her back, head swiveling.

  Following Tookey’s sting, the chief had ordered the pantry closed off. A beekeeper and pest professional had been summoned to corral and capture the swarm.

  “I do understand,” the chief repeated for what must have been the third time. “I empathize.” He released his suspenders. They smacked his puffed chest with a thunk. He laid a hot mitt of a palm over Cleo’s elbow.

  Cleo only half-listened. Her eyes kept fixing on Gabby. She tried to imagine what the clever young deputy might be seeing in the kitchen. Cleo wished she’d taken in more details herself. At first she’d been so dazzled by all the luck charms. Then there was the rush to turn off the burner and check the oven. She sniffed. The smoke was escaping, creeping out the open door and fleeing with the breeze.

  Cleo willed her mind to stop its mental walk at the stove, but the pantry kept flashing back. Cleo clutched her sweater closer. Poor Dixie. The stubborn woman might have vexed Cleo for decades, but she didn’t deserve death. Henry shifted closer, touching shoulder and hip to Cleo’s.

  “I completely understand why you did it,” the chief said. “I might have done the same myself. Nope, correction, I definitely would have done the same. You have no reason to feel bad.”

  “What?” Cleo blinked, forcing herself to focus. “You mean, feel bad about calling nine-one-one and requesting you all? Well, yes, I was sure we needed the police, and then there were those bees. It’s all suspicious. When you get back inside, be sure to preserve that note. It’s the size of a bookmark but shaped like a coffin.”

  “So you said.” The chief nodded, lips pursed. “I hear you. A bookmark. You’ll want it back.”

  Cleo frowned. Want it back? The man was acting awfully odd. Usually Chief Culpepper was too busy expounding and explaining to hear anyone but himself. She freed her elbow from his grip by pretending to clean her bifocals. They did have a smudge, but when she put them back on, the situation was no less foggy.

  “The pantry door was locked with a key from the outside,” she said. “Dixie was trapped in there with those bees. She looked terribly afraid. Well, anyone would. I wonder, could that have killed her? Fear? Or was it the bees? We didn’t see blood …” Cleo leaned closer to Henry. “It’s awful,” she summed up, shaking her head.

  “And understandable,” the chief repeated. “We see this all the time. The bullied, taunted party snaps and lashes out and then, being a good person, realizes what they’ve done. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person—just the opposite. You care. A little too much, obviously, but—”

  “What? Taunted party? Lashing out?” Cleo felt the conversation had taken a wrong turn.

  Henry looped his arm through hers. “Perhaps we should wait in the bookmobile, unless we can give our statements later at the station. I need to rest my legs. We should check on the pets.” He tugged Cleo gently in the direction of away from Culpepper.

  With a flash of clarity, Cleo realized what was happening. “Wait, you think I hurt Dixie? Me?” She might have been more offended if she hadn’t been so shocked.

  Chief Culpepper shrugged. “You did ‘find’ her,” he said, adding irritating air quotes. “You had a beef with her. It’s well documented. I read all about it in the paper.”

  Heat rose in Cleo’s cheeks, primarily from embarrassment. “I never named Dixie Huddleston as the holder of that overdue book. The article was supposed to be about the grand reopening party at the library. The reporter exaggerated.”

  The chief beamed. “Ah, so you admit you sought to hunt her down and make her pay.”

  Cleo turned her gaze to the peach orchard, where she set about counting calming trees. She reached twenty-two and a stump before she felt fit to respond. “Mr. Lafayette and I came to visit Dixie because she wanted to return that book. I had no reason to be upset.”

  The chief raised an eyebrow, pale like the close-cropped hair receding from his brow. “Oh? Where is the book?”

  Henry answered, saying they hadn’t had time to look for any book, nor had they cared to.

  But I was looking for the book, Cleo thought. It seemed so petty in retrospect. After turning off the oven, she’d scanned the room, searching the kitchen island and counters, the shelves overflowing with lucky knick-knacks. She hadn’t seen Luck and Lore. She’d felt vexed that Dixie hadn’t been there, holding it out, begging Cleo to accept her apologies and the late fee.

  Cleo shifted in her loafers, feeling guilty. But not guilty of murder! Straightening to her full height of five foot three, she said, “I’m sure the book will be there, probably sitting by the front door.” She wasn’t sure at all. Dixie might have been planning a trick, until someone got the best of her first.

  * * *

  “Chief?” Gabby interrupted the chief’s smiling suspicions. The young deputy lugged a duffle bag and wore a grim expression. “The pest guy called, saying he’s delayed. The beekeeper will be here soon. The doc says he’ll take that syringe we found to the coroner’s to be sent out for testing. The fireman wants to talk to you about burned bread. I can take statements while we wait.”

  Chief Culpepper slipped back to his natural bluster. “I bett
er get in there and handle all this, then,” he said, as if Cleo and Henry had been stopping him. “Deputy, search the perimeter. Collect and record anything odd or out of place. Leave it to me to decide what’s relevant. And get statements from these two. Get their fingerprints too.”

  He marched to the kitchen.

  “Elimination prints, I’m sure he means,” Gabby said politely.

  Cleo released a held-in huff. “No, the chief suggested I was a cold-hearted but relatable killer.”

  Gabby let the duffle bag drop with a thump and retied her ponytail. The youngest member of the police department, Gabby was also the only female, African American, and former beauty queen on the force. Cleo’s twenty-five-year-old grandson, Ollie, had a serious crush on Gabby. The dear boy dissolved into stammering and blushes whenever he saw her, which was usually often since Gabby lived next door and Ollie lived in the little mother-in-law cottage in Cleo’s back garden. For the past month and a half, however, the back cottage had sat lonely. Ollie was down in Louisiana, helping an environmental group clean up an oil slick. Cleo knew he was doing good work, but she couldn’t wait to have him back home for the holidays.

  Gabby fluffed her curls. “Relatable, you say? I can guess what’s happening. The chief went to a workshop last weekend and learned all about ‘offering a theme.’ It’s an interrogation technique. The detective offers a suspect a theory that justifies or minimizes the crime, making it seem like something the detective empathizes with. Like, ‘Oh, your roommate ate your yogurt? I get it. I’d have killed him too.’”

  Cleo sniffed indignantly. “He suggested I killed a woman over an overdue book.”

  A grin flickered through Gabby’s serious expression. She swung her ponytail and hefted the duffle. “No offense, but I can see you getting worked up about a book, Miss Cleo. It wouldn’t be that forty-year overdue book I read about in the news, would it? That’s more than a book. That’s like a thorn in your foot.”