Read on Arrival

by Nora Page

  Enterprising Gabby was tucking the baggy and syringe into the hard-covered eyeglass case and then safely into her purse. “Why were you looking for me?” Gabby eyed the real estate guide. “Something with houses?”

  Outside, Jefferson’s voice rose, followed by some obliging clapping.

  “In a way,” Cleo said. She briefly outlined Iris’s ire about her moldy house and studio. “But most of all, we wanted to show you this,” Cleo said. She unwrapped the paper coffin.

  Gabby was already readying another evidence bag. Once the paper coffin was inside, she held it up to read. Dixie Huddleston, Lady Unlucky, this will soon be your new home. ‘Soon,’ it says. I wonder when Dixie got this?” She turned the bag, as if to tip out an answer.

  Raised voices came through the door, along with the loudest clapping of the evening.

  “What is going on out there?” Gabby asked. She put her hand to her purse, and Cleo remembered the Taser inside.

  “Just some slam poetry,” Cleo said. It sounded like a group slam fest of angry words now. Even so, Cleo was anxious to leave the pantry. She turned the doorknob. It twisted, but the door didn’t budge. Her heart skipped. She turned again and pushed hard. The door opened to an apologetic Mary-Rose.

  “Sorry!” Mary-Rose said, inching the door open and peaking around. “I was leaning. You might not want to come out here. There’s a brawl brewing!”

  Gabby didn’t hesitate. Neither did Cleo. They stepped out to slamming that wasn’t the poetic kind. Jefferson teetered on his chair as two women shoved at each other beneath him. Cleo gasped, not just at the fight, but at who was involved.

  She backed up until she hit the doorframe and could go no further. She’d seen a ghost! The image of Dixie, thirty years younger. Red hair, fiery eyes, a face pinched in combative determination. The woman sounded like Dixie too, her voice strident and demanding with a hint of grit, like she was chewing on rocks. Dixie’s look-alike waved what seemed like a torn poster, rustling it in Jacquelyn’s face before tossing it to the ground and tugging at a stunned Jefferson.

  “This is my house!” she yelled, dislodging Jefferson from his chair. He fell, flailing, into his wife’s arms.

  The redheaded woman took his place on the chair. “I am Amy-Ray Huddleston. I am Dixie’s eldest child, and this is my house. I won it. Everybody out!” She put her lips to the microphone and chanted, “Out! Out! Out!”

  Chapter Nine

  “Well, that was interesting,” Mary-Rose said, poking bobby pins into her off-kilter bun. “Nice when the whole family gets involved in a wake, isn’t it?” She grinned, eyes twinkling in the dim light of Cleo’s keychain flashlight.

  “You’re wicked,” Cleo said to her friend.

  “Just trying to lighten the situation.” Mary-Rose jabbed in another pin. Her hair had come undone in the crush to get out.

  “I think you have some lemon pudding cake on your ear,” Cleo said. She reached out with her sweater sleeve to brush it off, before realizing the sleeve was still sticky with honey. She let the dessert stay where it was.

  They stood on Dixie’s lawn, the sounds of night creatures and chattering people all around them. Overhead, no stars poked through the clouds. Henry had gone to look for Leanna. Cleo hoped he would find his way back to them. She was keeping her keychain flashlight on as a beacon.

  “You shouldn’t have waded into that melee,” Cleo further chided her mussed friend. “It’s like they tell you on airplanes: In case of an emergency, don’t grab your carry-on luggage. Exit as fast as you can.”

  Mary-Rose was unrepentant. “You’d be down one picnic basket and some casserole dishes if I hadn’t waded in,” she said. “Who knows when any of us will get invited back to this place? I don’t think Amy-Ray Huddleston will be sending out thank-you notes and handing back potluck dishes.”

  One by one, the lights in Dixie’s windows were going dark. Cleo regretted that she hadn’t had time to sneak upstairs, but now she could imagine the layout, and Dixie’s likeness, roving from room to room, flicking the switches.

  Jefferson and Jacquelyn were on the porch, illuminated by an outdoor chandelier and twinkling fairy lights. Jefferson slumped in a rocker. Jacquelyn waved in broad, angry gestures at Gabby. Cleo didn’t have to be a trained mime to guess the conversation. Jacquelyn wanted Amy-Ray out of her house. She wanted Dixie’s daughter arrested for assaulting Jefferson. Jacquelyn had been yelling such things—along with charges of police harassment—as Gabby and Tookey struggled to herd the unhappy family trio outside. They’d just gotten them out when Amy-Ray bolted back in, locking the doors behind her.

  “Exactly what Dixie would have done,” Cleo said, watching a silhouette take form in an upper turret window. The shadow waved, tauntingly, before fading back and disappearing.

  “Her spitting image too,” Mary-Rose agreed. “Dixie would be so proud.”

  Would she? As far as Cleo knew, Dixie and her daughter hadn’t spoken in years. “Amy-Ray hasn’t shown her face in town for so long, I forgot her name,” Cleo confessed. “It’s a shock to see her. I thought I was seeing a ghost, she looks so much like her mother.”

  “Maybe she is a ghost,” Mary-Rose said. “It would be just like Dixie to come back to haunt us. I notice you haven’t found your overdue book yet. That’s what ghost Dixie would do too. She’d hide it from you. Run off straight through walls, waving it at you. It gives me the shivers.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts,” Cleo pointed out. “You’ve told me.”

  Mary-Rose shrugged. “I wish I did.”

  Three figures emerged through the darkness. Henry had a little flashlight on his keychain too, having bought a matching set for himself and Cleo. He lit the way for Leanna and Pat.

  “Thank goodness Mr. Henry found us!” Leanna said. “It’s chaos.”

  “It’s a disgrace,” Pat sputtered. “Dixie would be so upset. Her wake was ruined!” She sniffled and Henry produced another clean handkerchief.

  Cleo tried to console Pat. “It was a fine event before the fight. Such lovely flowers. Nice of Jefferson to read his poetry too.”

  Poor Pat remained stubbornly inconsolable. “Dixie thought chrysanthemums and lilies were bad luck. She called them death flowers. She didn’t like poetry either. Jefferson should know that.”

  “The food was fabulous,” Mary-Rose said. “Even if some of it got in my hair. I should get home and take a shower. This has been something.” She gave Cleo a sticky hug. Leanna headed home too, saying she needed to study.

  “I suppose we should go as well,” Cleo said. She felt ghoulish, watching the family drama. Ghoulish didn’t seem to bother the bulk of the guests. As they made their way carefully across the dark grass, Cleo overheard bits of excited conversation. Folks played back the fight and theorized about the murderer. Cleo was guiltily heartened not to hear her name. That is, until they passed the real estate agents.

  “I saw that librarian sneaking into the death pantry,” the snarky male agent said in a scandalized stage whisper. “The white-haired one. I read about her in the paper. She’s on some warpath, like she’s vowed never to rest or retire until she gets back an overdue book. They say she might have killed Dixie.”

  “Oh!” Cleo huffed.

  Pat took her arm. “Come on,” she said, sounding less shaky. “Don’t listen to them. Some people enjoy being mean. I believe in you, Cleo.”

  “Me too,” Henry said, his hand resting on her back. “You ladies take your time. I’m going to go along ahead and get the car turned around. The lane is apt to be a parking lot.”

  Pat and Cleo made their way slowly down the dim walkway. At the gates, they stopped and looked back. Chief Culpepper pounded at the closed door. Jacquelyn continued to gesticulate, now to both Sergeant Tookey and Gabby. The house had gone completely dark except for the blinking string lights.

  They were turning to leave when Pat gasped. “What is that?” She pointed upward. A torn banner fluttered above them. Another, higher up, was stil
l intact.

  Cleo squinted to catch the text. The banner was white, with glow-in-the-dark green text. “ ‘Huddleston House—Future Home of Mime over Matter School of Productions’? Is this what Jacquelyn meant when she said a ‘new venture?’ ”

  “Dixie would die again if she saw this!” Pat cried, throwing a hand to her heart. “A mime school would be her worst nightmare for her home. This is why they invited us, isn’t it? To promote their awful school.” She gasped, turning wide-eyed to Cleo. “Is this why they killed her? Or was it Amy-Ray? What’s she doing back here, claiming her mother’s house? Or Iris—she was being awful too!”

  Pat was as quivery as the tomato aspic passing by in the hands of the minister’s wife. Cleo reached out a comforting hand. “The police are working hard,” she said. “There are new leads and—”

  “But Cleo,” Pat cut in breathlessly. “You remember what happened last time. The police got off on the wrong track. You solved the case. You could do that for Dixie.” Pat clutched at Cleo’s sleeve. “We could do it together. I have to do something, Cleo. She was my best friend.”

  Cleo was glad Henry had gone ahead. The parking situation looked truly atrocious. Besides, the dear man would have fretted to see her seriously considering the idea. Cleo felt bad for Pat and wanted to help her. She might just help herself too. Nabbing the real killer would clear Cleo’s good name.

  * * *

  Henry likely would have come inside. Barring that, he might have given Cleo a gentlemanly kiss. As it was, they stood on Cleo’s front steps under the dark sky, Pat a solid block between them.

  “See you soon,” Henry said, leaning around Pat. Pat had accepted Cleo’s offer of beverages. Henry had politely begged off. He had a pug to walk and he was tired. “It’s been an … interesting … outing,” he said.

  Cleo’s mother had two uses of the word interesting. One came straight from the dictionary: “intriguing, riveting, arousing of curiosity.” The other was a polite slap-down, issued in a syrupy drawl and used in such phrases as, “My, isn’t ham an interesting addition to this orange Jell-O.”

  Henry’s interesting was clearly the meat-in-gelatin usage.

  Cleo watched her gentleman friend go, thinking things had been going so well, with her relationships, her work … with not coming across dead bodies. That was the thing with good fortune. One often didn’t notice it until the pendulum swung the other way, crashing everything in its path.

  “I’m intruding, aren’t I?” Pat said, wringing her hands. “My mother always said, I’m an an overstayer. I should go. I have work schedules to figure out for tomorrow. Half my cleaning staff wants off for the holidays, and Albert is out of town, of course, of all the times.”

  Albert was Pat’s husband, a jolly man who treated himself to lengthy golfing excursions. He was in Arizona, Pat was saying, adding why she’d never go there: too hot, too dry, too many things that bite. She swatted away a November-slowed mosquito and declared that she also couldn’t tolerate spicy Southwest foods.

  “You’re not intruding at all,” Cleo said, as good manners sometimes required polite fibbing. Truth be told, Cleo yearned to kick off her shoes and settle in on the sofa with Rhett and a good book. But Pat was clearly anxious and upset, and understandably so. It had been an interesting evening.

  Cleo unlocked her front door and nearly got bowled over by a galloping Persian. Rhett yelled a meow, turned tail, and trotted back to his food bowl. In the kitchen, Cleo fed Rhett an evening snack and made hot herbal tea for herself and Pat. She hadn’t had a chance to hit the dessert buffet, so she also brought out the “extra” Heavenly Blondies she’d kept behind. She offered the plate to Pat first.

  Pat held up a palm and turned her head, as if Cleo were serving up sin. “My doctor says I’m on the verge of obese. High blood pressure, bad cholesterol, arthritis, weak knees, low vitamin D, brittle bones, jaw and spine troubles. It’s all in my mother’s family, in our genes. My mother and grandmother and aunts and all the women before them too, every one of them were gone before they hit seventy. No, that’s not quite true. My eldest sister made it to seventy and a day.”

  “Surely not,” Cleo said. “Everyone’s different.”

  “That’s what Dixie used to say,” Pat said with a weak smile. “She said I dwelled on health problems too much and that dwelling would make them become real, and it’d be my own fault if I got sick. She never liked to talk about her own health. That’s why I feel so bad too. She tried to tell everyone about the omens, and we all blew her off. Even me! Those omens sounded so …” Pat looked down at the table. “So silly. So unreal.”

  “You had no way of knowing the threats were real,” Cleo said. She made a decision. If she was going to investigate—and if Pat wanted to help—they both had to acknowledge what they were dealing with. A terrible person, someone who’d taunted and terrified Dixie right up until her death. Cleo selected an indulgently massive blondie and told Pat about the coffin notes, the threats she and Henry had found tonight and earlier by Dixie’s body.

  Pat leaned back in her chair, mouth and eyes widening in horror.

  “She didn’t tell me,” Pat said in a small voice. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

  Cleo wished she knew. More than that, she wished she had a clue as to who’d sent the notes. She took a fortifying bite of blondie, thinking her slightly raised glucose levels were minor compared to Pat’s family history. She let Pat think about the situation and then asked, “Are you sure you want to look into this? It could be dangerous.”

  Pat bobbed her head, her bangs flapping. “Yes! More than ever! Does this mean you’ll do it? You’ll investigate?”

  “I’ll do my best to help the police,” Cleo said, slightly concerned by Pat’s enthusiasm.

  “Where do we start?” Pat asked. “What did you do last time you caught a killer?”

  Luck popped to Cleo’s mind. But it wasn’t only chance. Cleo had done research and interviewed people. She’d chased down details and engaged in a little deception too. “Librarians gather information,” she said, glossing over the rest. “That’s all I did.”

  Warm peppermint wafted from their teacups. Cleo sipped, breathing in the herbal mist.

  “You’re being too modest,” Pat said. “Who should we start with?” She put down her teacup hard. Tea sloshed and she jumped to mop it up with a napkin. “Oh, but maybe you don’t really want me tagging along. I might be a burden to you. I don’t know anything about detecting.”

  Cleo hurried to assuage her worries. “I’m no professional either, but I do know you’re one of the most valuable people in this investigation, Pat. You knew Dixie best. You’d know who she might have had troubles with too. Her enemies …”

  Pat stared into her tea. “I hate to think about that, but you’re right. I suppose I do know some things.”

  “Like her children,” Cleo prompted. “Who do you think her estate will go to? Jefferson and his wife? Amy-Ray? What do you know about Amy-Ray? Do you know where she’s been living? What she’s been doing?” She realized she was bombarding the poor woman. She halted her questions and smiled encouragingly across the table. “Sorry. I have a lot of questions.”

  “So do I,” Pat said. She took a moment before answering. “If I had to guess, I’d say Jefferson would inherit,” Pat said. “Or neither of the children. Dixie didn’t like to talk about Amy-Ray, but I’d heard rumors she was living over in Claymore, working as a natural healer. Or was it a manicurist? A hairdresser? I can’t recall. It’s sad, though, her being so close, yet the two of them so far apart. What I wouldn’t give for a daughter …”

  Cleo knew that Pat had a son who was named after, took after, and favored his father. He’d moved away to a hot, dry place with many golf courses.

  “Maybe Dixie reached out to her daughter?” Cleo asked. “She was making amends.”

  “I can’t imagine Dixie going that far,” Pat said. She raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “It’s hard to explain. Giving back yo
ur library book would be one thing, but admitting she was sorry to her own daughter? That’s personal. She’d have to have been desperate.”

  The wall clock ticked loudly in the silence that fell over them. Rhett hopped on Cleo’s lap and purred. Cleo ruffled his fur. Rhett always knew when she needed some feline comfort. “Why did Dixie and Amy-Ray fall out?” she asked. Rhett stretched his head up to knock against her chin. His fur smelled of fresh grass. His breath had a whiff of Tuna Delight.

  Pat smiled at him. “He’s a cutie. I wish Albert wasn’t allergic, or I’d get a kitty. Anyway, Amy-Ray … She and her mother butted heads like two billy goats. I think the last fight was about some boy Amy-Ray liked and Dixie didn’t. Amy-Ray left the day of high-school graduation and said she wasn’t coming back until Dixie showed her some respect. Those two should have been like peas in a pod. I know Dixie felt bad, not so deep down. But she’d never admit she was wrong or that she’d hurt someone. Dixie always thought folks would forgive her.” Pat sniffled afresh.

  Cleo refreshed their teacups, balancing a snuggly Persian in the crook of her elbow.

  Pat stared out the window, to where Ollie’s little cottage sat dark. “Dixie and I were friends since kindergarten. She said she never remembered how we met, but I always will. She stole the cookie out of my lunchbox.”

  Cleo chuckled. She relayed the tale of Dixie blowing out her birthday candles. They both had a much-needed laugh.

  “That’s Dixie, through and through.” Pat chuckled. “I can see her doing it. Not everyone understood her. She was the way she was.”

  “What about Iris Hays?” Cleo asked gently, sorry to break the cheerier mood. “Iris told me tonight that Dixie ruined her life. Mold? Do you know what happened there? Mrs. K. seemed to know.”

  Pat didn’t answer right away. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That awful mold. Dixie sold Iris a house and studio years back. Turned out, both were riddled with mold, the worst kind, in the walls and under the floors, pretty much anywhere it couldn’t be seen until too late. The mold got into Iris’s paintings. The way Iris tells it, those paintings were going to be her big break—her ticket out of town. She went to show them at an exhibit in Atlanta. The mold spread to every painting in the place. She got kicked out and banned from future shows. She got sick too. Bad lungs. Headaches. She blamed the mold. To make ends meet, she had to take up substitute art teaching, which she detests. Dixie knew about that mold from the start, but always claimed she didn’t. Last week, she finally admitted it to Iris, part of her making amends. It didn’t help. Iris was madder than ever. I felt so bad for Dixie …”