by Nora Page
“Wonderful!” Mercer said, ignoring Cleo. “Let me show you more, Belle—may I call you Belle? We’ll be working so closely together.”
Mercer could move fast when he wanted. He swooped into the reading room and pointed to a table piled high with boxes and cords. “The so-called technology center will be here,” he said. “Already, I see how your bookmobile has better offerings than what we have planned. This is so … boring, tired.”
Leanna jumped in. “It’s not finished yet! It will be really great and interesting.” Cleo’s beloved protégé was an introvert on top of shy. Leanna usually held in her words and feelings, but if pushed too far, she sputtered like a boiling kettle. Cleo put out a comforting hand. It was too late. Leanna was steaming over.
“We’ll have laptops patrons can use in the library,” Leanna said, talking fast. “New databases to access newspapers and journals, and a kids’ station called All Hands on Tech. We got a state grant and a matching grant and some money from a will and … and it’s all going to be amazing! I mean, really interesting.” Leanna sputtered to a halt. “Sorry,” she said. “No, I mean, I’m not sorry, I’m …”
“Sorry? Not sorry?” Mercer said. “Words, young lady. Think about your words.”
Cleo saw Leanna’s mouth open, about to form an automatic “sorry.”
“It will be lovely,” Cleo said quickly. “We’re bubbling over with enthusiasm. We’ll have some cutting-edge resources for those who want them and good, old-fashioned quiet spaces for readers.”
“See?” Mercer said, turning to Belle. “Quiet. Old-fashioned. Like worn-out pajamas. This is exactly why I must hire you, Belle. What was the title you prefer? Creative consultant? Innovator?”
“Wait a minute,” Cleo started to say.
“A minute?” Mercer held up a gold wristwatch and bobbed his head for a few seconds. “Okay, we waited a minute. Now what?”
“Mercer, you’re such a card!” Belle laughed.
He didn’t question the logic of that. He was too busy blushing.
“Mr. Whitty,” Cleo said in her briskest of librarian’s tones, “as you are aware, our renovations plans have already been approved by the full library board. We will not be making any changes at this late hour.”
Mercer had teeth like little piano keys, Cleo noted. They were tight and square, and he flashed them at her before glancing back at his watch. “Hardly a late hour, Mrs. Watkins. It’s only nine thirty-six.”
Cleo held in a frustrated huff. “We do not have a job opening for an innovator. Our current opening is for a part-time librarian, experience and degree required, to be chosen by the full board and head librarian.” Cleo was the head librarian. She had no intention of hiring Belle. Belle seemed nice enough and misguidedly enthusiastic. However, she was in no way qualified. “Ms. Beauchamp is welcome to apply, of course. We’ll be giving all applicants full and equal consideration.”
“Belle won’t want that mundane, part-time job,” Mercer declared. “As I’ve already informed the board, my foundation will fund a contract consulting position so that Belle can help you ladies whip this place into proper shape. Why reopen at all if your new is already outdated? The board is enthusiastic. Thrilled, in fact. Belle and I spoke with several members at that ridiculous wake, and they are all agreed.”
Cleo’s mouth hung open—catching flies, her mother would say. Cleo snapped it shut, since she certainly didn’t have anything nice to say either. The board secretary popped her head around the doorframe, eyes wide as a bunny’s in headlights. She ducked back.
Mercer’s fingers had come to rest in a church-steeple pose. He blushed at Belle. “All I need to know for the contract is the title you prefer.”
Belle gave a little clap. “I’ve been thinking. I had the best idea. Innobrarian! Isn’t that cute! It’s ‘innovator’ mixed with ‘librarian.’ ”
Leanna slumped into a chair. Cleo’s head spun. Reasoning with Mercer seemed hopeless. She tried appealing to Belle directly. “Belle, it’s very kind of you to consider us, but I’m afraid we can’t accept. Leanna and I—the main library staff—are happy with the direction of our library. Besides, we can’t steal you away from the Claymore Library. It wouldn’t be right.”
“I hear you,” Belle said in a sugary drawl. “So many of my clients say the very same thing. ‘We’re not ready. We’re happy the way we are …’ Your concerns just prove you need what I call ‘shock innovation.’ Don’t y’all worry. It’s like getting a shot. It’ll be over before you know it, and all for the better. We’ll have a great time! Look at all the fun we had bookmobiling together! Ooh … I have some ideas for your old bus too. If we take out some of those bookshelves, you’d have all sorts of fresh space.”
Before Cleo could respond, Belle spun on her heels and strode to the door. “Gotta go! I’m meeting my own specialty consultant. Mercer, honey, once you get that innobrarian contract written up, give me a call and I’ll scoot right over.”
“Good day, ladies,” Mercer called out as the front door creaked open, and the board secretary slunk out behind him.
“No, it’s not a good day,” Leanna muttered to the closing door. Leanna continued to sputter, so agitated her glasses slid off kilter. “How could they call our library dull? ‘Shock innovation’? An ‘innobrarian’? This is absurd.” She stomped her sneaker. “I knew that bookmobile with no books was going to be trouble! Those two just can’t picture our finished product. Once everything’s all set up, everyone will love it. Right?”
“Of course!” Cleo said, more confidently than she felt. “I’ll talk to the board. At least half of them hold seats because they love libraries. They’ll understand our side.” The other half were there because of their money, and Cleo feared they’d be harder to sway. They’d likely see Mercer’s offer as a benefit, a free consultation. But free could cost the library, the bookmobile, and Cleo’s legacy too. Cleo needed to clear her head, and she knew what would help: talking out the troubles with Henry Lafayette.
“Will you be okay working alone here if I pop out for some air?” Cleo asked.
Leanna was busy rooting, head deep in a packing box. Her voice came out muffled. “As long as those two are gone, the library and I will be just fine.”
Chapter Thirteen
Outside, the day still looked sparkly. The temperature hovered just above the level of chilly air-conditioning, and a single cotton-ball cloud dotted a bright blue sky. Cleo reminded herself to be wary. At Main Street, she looked both ways, scanning for Jacquelyn and her Toyota. At the park, Cleo picked up speed, anxious to get to Henry’s. Consumed in her thoughts, she strode by the bubbling fountain with hardly a glance. She cut a diagonal across the lawn and veered away from a patron prone to lengthy chats. Cleo even passed an adorable infant without pausing to fawn. When she reached the other side, she stopped short.
Henry’s shop and home occupied a corner brick building. Sun hit the gold lettering spelling out the shop’s name, “The Gilded Page.” The wood panels along the front gleamed in a deep ebony paint, reminding Cleo of Old World bookstores she’d seen in photos and postcards. It was lovely, except her view was becoming blocked.
A red pickup hauling a silver Airstream pulled up. BOOK IT! Music filtered from the camper. The truck honked. Cleo frowned, head lobbing to her shoulder, as the shop door opened and Henry emerged. The truck and camper reversed, obscuring Cleo’s view of her gentleman friend. A few moments later, the pickup and camper pulled away. The street returned to silence. The view was back, but Henry wasn’t in it.
Cleo adjusted her bifocals and told herself she’d misread the situation. Henry had probably gone back inside. She crossed the street, avoiding a slow-moving SUV searching for parking. A “CLOSED” sign hung jauntily across the door. Henry often forgot to flip his sign over. The antiquarian book market wasn’t a booming one anywhere, let alone in tiny Catalpa Springs. Henry did most of his business transactions online. In the back of the shop, he had his book “surgery,” where he mende
d geriatric books, fixing broken spines and brittle glue and touching up paint and pages, often offering his services and skills for free. He and Mr. Chaucer lived upstairs in a cozy apartment lined with bookshelves and well-stocked in cozy reading spaces.
Cleo knocked and waited, reading the shop hours she knew by heart. “Monday through Friday—when open. Weekends and holidays, nights, special occasions, and inclement weather—at whim.” Had whim taken him off with Belle? Heaven forbid he was smitten like Mercer. Teenage jealousy rose in Cleo. She tamped it down, recalling Belle’s words before leaving. Belle had mentioned meeting her “own” specialty consultant. Cleo sighed, an ember of jealousy remaining, stoked by disappointment.
A raspy bark came from inside, followed by anxious whimpers. Cleo went to the picture window and tapped on the glass. She smiled and waved at Mr. Chaucer, who goggled up at her, head bobbing in recognition. With effort, the elderly pug launched himself up his ramp, specially made for access to his window-box seat. When he reached the top, he waggled his curlicue tail, turned in a circle, and plunked down on his satin pillow. Within moments, his eyes drooped into sleep.
Cleo wished she could spend the afternoon napping. She cataloged her options. She could go back to the library and help Leanna, although she was no help with computer setup. Or … The perfume of fresh-baked delicacies wafted down from the Spoonbread Bakery. Some strawberry shortcake spoonbread would calm her nerves. The sweet, pillowy cross between cornbread and a soufflé might spark a helpful idea, and strawberries were fruit. Her doctor wouldn’t have to know.
Cleo was halfway to the bakery, anticipating sweet delights, when she spotted the good doctor, sitting at the one of the outdoor patio tables, smack in front of the entry.
That doctor! She was everywhere.
Cleo turned heel and headed toward a nearby neighborhood. It was no use being among yummy baked goods if she had to stick to health food. She walked on, letting her feet choose a path that passed by a little clapboard home once owned by her late Auntie Audrey. Cleo slowed to picture the cozy kitchen. She wished her aunt was still there. Auntie Audrey was always generous with her sampler boxes of chocolates and with good advice.
A cool cloud of melancholy swept over Cleo, until she realized her aunt would always be with her. So would her wisdom. A smile spread across Cleo’s face and into her heart as she whispered one of Audrey’s favorite tips for taking on an adversary. “Slay them with sweetness.”
Cleo smiled wider, picturing her aunt rampaging through a chocolate box, poking and nibbling until she found a favorite flavor, coconut cream or chocolate cherry. Aunt Audrey didn’t mess around with candies or situations she didn’t like. There was a second part to her advice too. “Then knock ’em cold with the truth.” Audrey’s old one–two.
Cleo felt as light and bright as the day. She had a plan. She’d sweet talk the board members and then hit them with data about best library practices. Leanna could help with the latter. They’d come up with sensible, written goals and guiding principles for the library and bookmobile. Cleo became so wrapped up in plotting, she didn’t notice that she was strolling straight into a coffin.
Chapter Fourteen
“Miss Cleo, hop!”
A young girl’s voice. Cleo blinked and refocused, realizing she was outside the elementary school. Happy screams and excited words and laughter filled the playground. Cleo stared at her feet. She didn’t hop. A coffin, clear as the day, stretched out before her.
The chalk outline covered three sidewalk squares, divided into twelve numbered blocks, some decorated in pink-chalk skulls. A coffin hopscotch? A Halloween leftover, Cleo told herself. The skulls were actually quite cute, grinning wide, with eyes outlined in flower petals. What wasn’t cute was the little black coffin lying in square six just beyond Cleo’s shoes. It had writing on it. White jagged letters that looked disturbingly familiar. Cleo stepped farther into the grave.
“Miss Cleo, stop! You have to hop that square. Number six. If you don’t hop, you get turned into a ghost.” Little girl imitations of ghostly whoos followed, peppered with giggles.
Cleo made herself turn away from the coffin. She smiled at a familiar freckled face framed in fiery red curls. Zoe, age nine, was Mary-Rose’s grandchild and one of Cleo’s favorite young friends.
“Like this,” Zoe said. With a gust of wind carrying the scent of grape bubblegum, Zoe hopped by, grabbing the little coffin as she passed. It had been awhile since Cleo played hopscotch. At least two decades. She was trying to recall the rule, when Zoe tossed the coffin again. It rolled toward square seven, hit a sidewalk crack, and bumped askew to land against Cleo’s shoe.
“Sugar!” Zoe said, her grandmother’s favored alternative to cussing. “Miss Cleo, can you toss back our hopscotch shooter, please and thank you?” Behind Zoe, two other little girls shifted up in line, ready for their turns.
“Zoe,” Cleo said cautiously. “What is this game?”
“Hopscotch.” Zoe replied in the flat tone kids use when thinking adults as dense as petrified stumps.
Cleo smiled. She’d asked for that. “I meant, where did you get this design for the outline and this little … toy?” Cleo reached down and picked up the object. It was wood, painted black, only a few inches long but heavy in her hand. The words sent a chill up her spine. Finders weepers. To whoever finds this, welcome to your next home.
Cleo stared at the words, willing them to change. They were too similar, in sentiment and handwriting, to the awful notes they’d found at Dixie’s. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a toy. Cleo found a fresh tissue in her purse, gently wrapped the wooden coffin, and tucked it in her coat pocket.
“Hey,” one of the other girls protested, stomping a high-top sneaker. She had buzz-cut dirty-blonde hair and jeans with holey knees. Mothers used to have to patch those, Cleo thought. Now the young folk bought frayed and ripped pants on purpose. “That’s our shooter, ma’am. Can we have it back? Please?” The girl stepped forward, holding her palm flat out toward Cleo.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Cleo said, wondering how she should explain the situation to the kids. “I have a friend who’s a policewoman, and she’s looking for things like this. It’s very important. You made an important discovery.”
The third friend nudged high-top girl. “We’ve still got the other.” She reached in her own pocket and another coffin sailed past Cleo, landing on square eight. She whooped and flew past Cleo, a cascade of ebony braids bouncing behind her, up the chalk blocks and back again, grabbing the toy coffin as she went.
“Kayla wins!” Zoe declared, raising the girl’s hand. “Champ!”
Kayla gave a toe-touching bow just as the school bell rang.
“Lunch!” they squealed in chorus.
Now Cleo did hop. She jumped in front of the schoolyard gate. “Girls,” she said, having to bend only slightly to reach their level. “This is very important. I’m a friend of Zoe’s and—”
As she’d hoped, Zoe confirmed this with a vigorous nod and “Yep!”
“I need to know where you found these toys. The little wooden, um …”
“It’s a vampire casket,” Kayla said. “Like Dracula sleeps in during the day.” All the girls giggled, and talk scattered into an elaborate fantasy world of castles and girl warriors with flying horses and superpowers and—
Cleo gently cut in to ask when and where they’d found the vampire casket.
“This morning, on the way to school.” Zoe glanced anxiously beyond Cleo. Cleo heard a stern voice announcing the recess was over.
“It’s Mrs. K. She’s looking mad,” the high-top girl warned.
“Please,” Cleo said. “Kayla, could I borrow the one you have? My policewoman friend will want to see it too.”
Three sets of skeptical eyes looked back at her. Lunch was important. Finders keepers was important too. Cleo straightened and glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. K. strode their way. High-top girl was right. The principal did not look pleased.
“Why do
you and your police friend want our vampire casket?” Zoe asked, hazel eyes narrowing. “Are you detecting?” She turned to her friends. “Miss Cleo is like that lady my gran watches on TV. Miss Marple. She fights crime.”
“Like Wonder Woman?” Kayla asked.
“Yeah,” Zoe affirmed. “Like her. Kinda.”
“Girls!” Mrs. K. rapped a pen against the metal gate. She looked taller than usual to Cleo, her hair a steel helmet in its no-nonsense crop. Her expression suggested she might give them all detention.
“Mrs. K.,” Cleo said with forced brightness. “I’ve been keeping the girls. They’re helping me out.” She turned to the girls and gave them a conspiratorial “Shh,” a finger to her lips and a wink of her eye.
Three eyes winked blatantly back. The girls filed past, Kayla first. She nudged Cleo’s hand as she passed, turning over the coffin.
Zoe went by last. “In the park. By the fountain,” she whispered. “That’s where we found the first one. The second was by the flower lady’s shop, waiting by the door. We’re not the only ones who have ’em. There’s some boys who have one, and they say it’s cursed, but we don’t believe that. It’s like an Easter egg hunt … for vampires!” She ducked her head and edged by Mrs. K. to join her friends. They took off across the lawn, running and laughing, the last ones in the stately brick building.
Cleo had attended this same school. Her mind time-traveled back to the clank of metal lockers, the squeaky waxed floors, and old-sock mustiness of the dreaded gymnasium. She’d been a good and dutiful student, especially in subjects that relied on reading.
“What did you need help with?” Mrs. K. asked, lingering behind the fence.
Cleo thought fast. On-the-spot lying wasn’t her best subject. Standing before the principal, she was sure Mrs. K. would catch her out.
“Nothing important,” Cleo said, and she quickly changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what the Who-Done-Its selected for this month’s reading. I’ll need to get myself a copy. If I’m still your moderator, that is.”