by Nora Page
“What if you guessed and I gave a signal about whether you’re on the right track?” Gabby said.
“Allergic reaction,” Cleo said.
Gabby gave an obvious signal. She nodded grimly. “The coroner will have to confirm it, but, yes. Beestings.”
“You can’t charge bees with murder,” Mary-Rose said.
“We can charge whoever put them in Dixie’s pantry and locked her inside,” Gabby countered. “Prosecutors have won murder cases against less. Bullies who forced allergic classmates to eat peanuts, say, or tampered with their lunch, even as a joke. Trapping and terrifying Dixie along with basically poisoning her with allergens? That’s no joke. It’s a crime. Dixie had her medicine, but it clearly didn’t work. We’re waiting for tests.”
Rhett hopped up on the empty seat by Gabby. She rubbed his ears, and he collapsed in a purring puddle.
“A swarm of bees isn’t as easy as a peanut to sneak in,” Mary-Rose pointed out. “You don’t just hide a hive in your purse.”
Cleo looked around her kitchen, with its warm cozy scents and morning light and, blessedly, no bees. “That might narrow down your suspect pool,” Cleo said. “I wouldn’t know how or where to find bees.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could read up on it,” Mary-Rose said. “I bet the library has books on beekeeping and bee-thieving too.”
Cleo waggled a finger at her friend. “You’re determined to make me into a murderer, aren’t you?”
Mary-Rose shrugged. “I’m just saying, books provide a world of knowledge. I thought you’d appreciate that.”
Gabby watched them, head swinging from Mary-Rose to Cleo and back. “Y’all sound like my sister and me,” she said with a grin. “My sister claims I could commit the perfect crime because I’m a cop.”
“Probably true,” Mary-Rose said agreeably.
“I’ll be sure to add myself to the suspect list, then,” Gabby said. “Along with an angry artist, the son and daughter-in-law, a librarian on a warpath, bees …”
Cleo hoped the angry artist didn’t know who mentioned her to the police. “Have you spoken with Iris?” she asked.
Gabby got up and gathered more biscuits. “Never better than when they’re hot.” She placed them on a plate she delivered to the middle of the table. Three hands reached for biscuits.
Gabby concentrated on buttering hers before answering. “I guess I’m not revealing any big police secrets,” she said. “Tookey and I tried to talk to Iris, but she wasn’t in. She lives with her mom, and mom claims her delicate daughter got up late yesterday, went straight to the book club, and then on to an art fair. It’s somewhat of an alibi, since Dixie seems to have died early yesterday morning.”
“Somewhat of an alibi?” Cleo said.
Gabby shrugged. “It’s better than your pre-dawn alibi of being in bed with Rhett Butler, Miss Cleo. But it’s not ironclad. You probably know the Hays place? That big sprawling farmhouse out off Old Coopers Highway? Iris lives in a separate wing in the back. Her studio’s back there too. She could hold a dance party, and I don’t know if her mother would know.”
An absurd image popped into Cleo’s head: BOOK IT! throwing a bookless disco bash in the rambling back half of the old Hays farm. She rubbed her head, thinking she was slipping back into last night’s nightmares.
“Then there are the most obvious suspects,” Gabby said, breaking into Cleo’s thoughts. “Do either of you know anything about Dixie’s relationship with her son and his wife?”
“I don’t think it was that good,” Cleo said. “I overheard Dixie calling them ‘freeloaders,’ and Jacquelyn had an odd reaction to her mother-in-law’s death. She looked pleased.”
“Those two are odd in general,” Gabby said. “They wouldn’t let us in their cottage, which seemed strange. You’re right—Dixie didn’t want them there, but Jacquelyn claimed they were happy to go. Jefferson said up and down that he loved his mother and can’t think of anyone who’d even disliked her. He also confirmed Dixie’s bee allergy and went on and on about his bee phobia. Now, I get that one! Even after the beekeeper left, stray bees were flying around that kitchen. Tookey got stung again.”
Mary-Rose rapped the table repeatedly with coral-colored nails. She cleared her throat pointedly.
Cleo got the hint. “Sorry, Mary-Rose! You have a new suspect. Who is it?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” Mary-Rose leaned over the table. “I heard a death threat against Dixie Huddleston. I didn’t remember it until this morning, when church gave me time to think. Let me tell you how it happened …”
Mary-Rose was a natural at what Cleo’s granny called porch lies, tales stretched as long as a lazy summer afternoon. Mary-Rose got comfy, wiggling into her seat like she was warming up for a lengthy elaboration.
“Only the facts,” Gabby said.
Mary-Rose lowered her voice. “It was the farmers’ market at the elementary school, the day ice fell from the sky.”
“That thunderstorm with hail last Wednesday,” Gabby murmured.
“Exactly. Well, I’d had too much sweet tea and felt the need to use the ladies’ room, which, you know, the school forbids. Safety, my …” Mary-Rose stopped short of uttering any rudeness herself. “In any case, I visited the HoneyBucket portable they park over by the gymnasium door. That’s when I overheard it. A woman I couldn’t recognize, yelling to the tune of ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you! You’ll be sorry!’ Then there was a slap. Whap! Skin on skin. I didn’t recognize the yeller, but when I stepped out of the HoneyBucket a discreet moment or two later, there was Dixie Huddleston, and wasn’t she just holding a big red splotch on her cheek?”
“Another threat,” Cleo said, feeling bad for Dixie. Dixie used to brag about her good luck and fortune. She hadn’t been fortunate at all if so many people disliked her.
“It dilutes suspicion from Cleo, doesn’t it?” Mary-Rose said eagerly.
Gabby nodded. “But you didn’t recognize the speaker? Anything distinguishing? Pitch? Old, young, definitely female?”
Mary-Rose shut her eyes and squinched her face in concentration, repeating the threatening words. “No,” she said, hazel eyes popping open. “I didn’t recognize her. Definitely female. Angry. A Southern accent with a little bit of a trill? That’s all I have. I think I’d recognize the voice if I heard it again.”
“It’s something,” Gabby said. “Come down to the station later, and I’ll make an official report.”
Mary-Rose looked rosy-cheeked pleased. “I’m delighted to help. I have other good news too. Well, not good, exactly. There’s going to be a wake tomorrow.”
Cleo had just bitten into another biscuit, so Gabby beat her to the question she wanted to ask.
“A wake?” Gabby said, sounding incredulous. “But we haven’t released the body, and I’m not at all sure when we will. It could be days or even weeks.” Rhett hopped on Gabby’s lap and head-butted her hand, demanding rubs. Gabby obliged, scratching under his chin, a move that sent his back leg kicking. “Goofy guy,” she murmured.
“It’s not a wake where you actually have to watch over the body,” Mary-Rose clarified. “My minister shared the news. Jefferson Huddleston has been calling all around town, saying he and his wife are holding a remembrance ceremony and ‘special event’ at Dixie’s house. Tomorrow evening, five till seven. BYOB and a dish to pass.”
“But,” Gabby said, frowning in incomprehension, “they’re holding it at the main house? That pantry is still roped off as a crime scene. A murder scene!”
Mary-Rose held up her palms in a don’t-ask-me gesture. “I know, but relatives do need to mourn, and everyone loves a wake. It’ll give folks something to look forward to on a Monday.” She winked at Cleo. “It’s a good opportunity to look around for clues.” She turned an innocent smile to Gabby. “For you professionals, I mean. The police should be there. What if the suspect returns to the scene of the crime?”
What if the suspects were hosting the party? Cleo helped hers
elf to a big spoonful of pecan jam and forced her mind to the important decision of what to bring. Something sweet, she decided. Her Pecan Everything Heavenly Blondies would do. Even better would be the company of Henry Lafayette.
Chapter Seven
“Is this a receiving line or the security checkpoint at Atlanta International Airport?” Mary-Rose stretched her neck, peering over Cleo’s and Henry’s shoulders. The sun had slipped behind the trees an hour ago. Dim solar lights lit the pathway to Dixie’s home. Lights glowed in every window, reminding Cleo even more of a fairytale castle, the turrets outlined against the blue-black sky. In fairytales, bad things happened in such pretty places. That happened in real life too.
Gabby and Leanna stood in front of them, Gabby in her “undercover” outfit of black jeans and a sweater, Leanna hard to miss in her black-and-white polka-dot swing dress with a black cat appliquéd on the front. Only Mary-Rose had stuck to her signature rosy hues and her contention that a wake was for celebrating life as much as mourning death.
No one was doing much of either yet. After ages waiting, Cleo’s little group still stood a good two dozen visitors back from the door. Behind them, the reception line stretched down the street and into the darkness.
Mary-Rose gave another impatient huff. “We’ll wither out here. We should have brought snacks.” A double-decker pie holder rested between her feet. Cleo had her Heavenly Blondies tucked in a picnic basket along with Henry’s funeral potatoes. The dessert bars included chocolate chips, coconut, and pecans—everything heavenly. Henry’s potatoes lived up to their name too, containing enough cheese, butter, and artery-clogging potential to prod diners toward their own last rites.
“I’m sure we’ll get in soon,” Henry said. “It’s a lovely night. Not too warm, not too cold. Just right.”
Cleo thought again of grim fairytales. She smiled affectionately at her gentleman friend. His beard was freshly trimmed, and Cleo thought he looked adorable in his charcoal wool suit with a red tie and matching silk handkerchief peeking out the front pocket.
The line inched ahead. Feet and baskets scooted forward until they reached the bottom step to Dixie’s front porch. The house was certainly done up, Cleo noted with approval. Swaths of magnolia leaves looped along the banister and up and around the door. Icy-white string lights twinkled. A floral wreath spelled out “DIXIE” in white carnations.
Murmurs came down the steps.
“Pass it on,” said the lady in front of Gabby. “The clown at the door wants everyone to provide a word that describes Dixie Huddleston. You can’t get in until you do.” Cleo recognized the woman as another realtor. How nice, she thought. Dixie’s competitors had come to pay their respects. She quickly corrected that impression.
The woman’s companion, a clean-cut young man in khakis and a logo-embossed jacket, shared his word for Dixie. “Scheming,” he said in a stage whisper that carried down the line. “Underhanded.” He giggled. His friend raised a shushing finger but tittered.
“One word? Oh, that’s difficult,” Leanna said. “Lucky? I suppose that’s taken already.”
“Unlucky?” Mary-Rose countered. “Dead …” she murmured darkly.
That clown at the door. Tipping on her tiptoes, Cleo saw Jefferson, framed by light and funeral flowers. Dixie’s only son wore black leggings and a flouncy-sleeved blouse, also black. His face was literally painted in grief, from the teardrop drawn on his cheek to his upside-down smile. “Oh dear,” Cleo said. “Jefferson’s in his mime getup. I hope folks come up with nice words, for his sake.”
“Maybe that’s what’s taking so long,” Mary-Rose said.
* * *
“Resolute,” Cleo said when it finally came her turn.
Leanna and Gabby had gotten in with reader and realtor, respectively.
“Fine.” Jefferson sighed at Cleo’s word, gloomily scribbling it in a lined notebook. Pencil lead and waxy white paint smudged his hand. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”
Cleo launched into her go-to statement for grief. “Your sadness and loss will never go away, but with time, the happy memories of your mother will shove aside the sorrow.” Her nose twitched from the pollen-sweet scent of lilies. Behind Jefferson, blooms filled the foyer. White lilies, chrysanthemums, carnations, and purple-black roses. Cleo rubbed her nose to keep from sneezing on the bereaving.
“No, not that.” Jefferson tapped the pencil with irritation. “It’s these words. I’m making a performance poem from them. How am I supposed to work with indefatigable? Nothing rhymes with that. Tall is fine but boring, and I have it three times already. Fierce. That could be good. I could do spoken word. Slam poetry. Yeah …”
Cleo settled on silence as the most polite response. She stepped aside and let Henry give the word she’d provided him: shrewd. It wasn’t cheating. Henry had only met Dixie the other day, and then, under odd circumstances.
Jefferson took note, mumbling in cadence under his breath. “Tall and fierce, shrewd and malicious … realtor …” He frowned. “Kitchen is in the back. Oh, but you know that.”
Cleo and Henry paused in the foyer. Amidst the floral explosion, good-luck charms covered the walls and sideboards, reminding Cleo of a kids’ picture puzzle, so crowded with objects they were hard to pick out. She counted a dozen shamrocks, half as many horseshoes, assorted ladybugs, two white elephants, and a ceramic cat with a bobbing paw. She didn’t see a lucky book, at least not out in the open, waiting for her in the foyer. Gabby had searched the whole house looking for Luck and Lore, with no luck.
Mary-Rose joined them. “Finally!” she said. “I cheated. I gave two words: pancake fan. I don’t know if that’s true. The few times Dixie visited the Pancake Mill, she informed me her pancakes were better than mine.”
“Fighting words,” Cleo said. “I won’t tell the chief, or he’ll put you on his suspect list too.”
They made their way toward the kitchen, down a photo-lined hallway.
“Dixie sure liked photos of herself,” Mary-Rose observed, as they passed frame after gilt frame of Dixie receiving prizes, Dixie with dignitaries, Dixie posing with “SOLD” signs outside expensive properties. “Is that Jefferson?” Mary-Rose pointed, squinting at a small, framed snapshot. “I think he’s in the background in this one. Wasn’t there a daughter too? Surely she’ll be here?”
Cleo again racked her brain for the daughter’s name, sorry she hadn’t remembered to look it up. How could she not recall? Amelia? Anna? The puzzled distracted her until they reached the kitchen and lightheadedness caught her by surprise. Cleo caught the doorframe.
Henry placed a hand on her elbow. “Are you okay?”
The kitchen looked nothing like the terrifying scene they’d encountered the other day. The only smoke rose from a skillet of fajitas sizzling on the buffet table. The buzz came from animated chatter. Dixie wouldn’t be here—Cleo knew that for sure. Still, she drew a breath and held it as she looked toward the pantry. Police tape crossed the closed door, like terrible gift wrap.
“You’re looking pale, Cleo,” Mary-Rose observed, frowning at her. “You need food. Let’s get to that buffet table.”
“I’m okay, honestly,” Cleo said. “I just need a moment.” She took in the room, recognizing many familiar faces of friends and patrons and folks she saw about town. Gabby had gone to speak with the chief and Sergeant Tookey, who were both bellied up to the dessert table. Pat stood in a corner, handkerchief to her nose. Several Who-Done-It mystery readers stood supportively around her. Cleo saw another well-known group and frowned.
Mercer Whitty stood on the far side of the room, his chin tucked coyly to his bow tie. Three library board members and Belle Beauchamp hovered close to him. Belle’s blonde bob shimmered. She laughed at something he said, touching his arm.
“Why’s she here?” Cleo murmured.
“She?” Henry asked. He followed her gaze and said, “Oh, your bookmobile rival. Did she know Dixie?”
Cleo searched her mental map of C
atalpa Springs connections, but came up blank. “Mercer’s looking awfully merry,” Cleo said. Her mind turned to how Mercer knew Dixie. They likely crossed in well-to-do circles. Perhaps she’d sold some property for him? Yes, Cleo thought, sifting through her memories. Dixie had listed a lovely piece of riverfront property Mercer owned. Her billboard and smiling face had hovered over the parcel for years. Mercer had demanded an exorbitant price.
Cleo blinked. With a jolt, she realized she’d been staring and spacing out. Worse, she’d been caught. Belle waggled sparkly fingers at Cleo, smiling brightly and mouthing something Cleo couldn’t make out. Cleo managed a weak wave in return. She knew she should go say hello, but the thought of Mercer gushing about Belle and bookless BOOK IT! seemed too much to stomach on top of the already unsettling occasion.
Mary-Rose touched her elbow. “Cleo Jane, you’re looking downright weak. It’s not like you to resist a potluck. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Cleo let herself be led to the buffet. She dutifully assembled a plate of her favorite foods: three varieties of cheese straws, Henry’s potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, cocktail shrimp, and little quiches as pretty as dollhouse pies. Mary-Rose got caught up chatting with a friend. Leanna, who disliked crowds, found a fellow introvert to sit quietly with on the unpopulated back porch.
Henry suggested they find a quieter spot too. Cleo felt a claustrophobic closing-in of warm bodies, hot dishes, and disturbing memories. She was all for finding someplace serene and for doing a little looking around too. When they’d piled their plates, Henry led the way to a sitting room they’d spotted on the way in. Wood trim gleamed, framing the tall doors and windows and magnificent floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. As if tugged by literary magnetism, Henry and Cleo headed straight for the shelves.