by Nora Page
“Got that covered too!” Belle said, patting her own slim belly. “You’re too hard a worker, Cleo. I called and ordered us some lunch from Dot’s Drop By. She makes the best food.”
This was true, but Cleo knew her cousin Dot did not deliver. Had Belle convinced Dot to run over in the rain? Cleo was torn, bristling at the thought of putting Dot out and salivating at Belle’s description of what she’d ordered.
“Two of those gigantic chocolate chip cookies. Sweet tea, of course. And for the pièce de résistance, the Friday special is a biscuit sandwich with fried chicken, pimento cheese, and pickles. I got us both one.”
Cleo’s stomach rumbled happily. “That’s very thoughtful,” she said. “I can go pick it up. Dot’s my cousin, and I know she has a hip that acts up in stormy weather.”
Belle made a pish sound. “No need for any of us ladies to get our hair messed up.” She ran a manicured hand over her immaculately sleek bob. Cleo could feel her own white waves actively frizzing in the damp air. Belle tucked a shimmering lock behind her ear. “I have a delivery boy,” she said slyly, just as the door moaned open.
Cleo couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Mercer Whitty pushing his way in. The board president held a large paper sack in one hand and a cardboard drink holder in the other. Rain had turned his thinning hair into lanky strings dripping at his earlobes. In a more generous mood, Cleo might have felt sorry for him. Not today.
He wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Belle was buttering him up with sugary thanks. “You’re so sweet, Merc,” Belle drawled, taking the bag and drinks and heading toward the staff room.
“I can stay and help you ladies,” Mercer offered eagerly.
“No need,” Belle said, already over the threshold to the staff-only room. “Miss Cleo and I are getting on just fine.”
A frown clouded Mercer’s face, his small eyes narrowing. He turned the frown toward the wall with the shocking paint sample. “What is that?” he said with clear distaste.
Belle gave him a sparkly smile. “Got your attention, didn’t it?” She disappeared into the break room, her perfume and a “Thanks, hon!” sailing behind her.
“Electric Peach Fizz,” Cleo said dryly. “Belle picked the color.” She enjoyed the conflict evident in Mercer’s reptilian features. “Thanks for dropping lunch by!” She shut the staff-room door firmly behind her. A groan sounded down the hall, the front door announcing Mercer Whitty’s inglorious exit.
Belle had already spread out the goodies on the long wooden table that served as an organization and picnicking space. Cleo savored the first bite of biscuit, pimento cheese, and Dot’s fine fried chicken, washed down with a sip of properly sweet tea. Belle nibbled at the biscuit and poked at her phone.
“Sorry,” Belle said when she finally put the device down. “These things are a blessing and a bane, aren’t they?”
“I often forget to check mine,” Cleo said.
“Keep it that way,” Belle said, raising a dill pickle to punctuate the point.
Cleo sipped more tea and decided now was a fine time to ask. “So,” she said in her best mild small-talk tone, “how did you know Dixie Huddleston?”
Belle’s head jerked up. Just as fast, she looked back at her phone, snatched it up, and started poking at the screen again.
Cleo waited patiently. While she did, she sampled a bit of cookie and concluded, once again, that her cousin was a genius.
Belle looked up after a few beats. She cocked her head. “Who?” she asked, then quickly took a big bite of biscuit sandwich.
“Dixie Huddleston,” Cleo said, enunciating loudly. “You were at her wake.” Cleo knew folks who made wakes a hobby, going to every open reception they could, regardless of whether they knew the deceased. She didn’t picture Belle as a recreational mourner. She also knew that Belle couldn’t have forgotten Dixie. According to Mary-Rose, Belle had slapped Dixie at the farmers’ market just last week.
“Oh, how silly of me!” Belle said. “Her … Yes, I knew her as Dixie Oakley, way back when. I wouldn’t have gone to the wake, honestly, but Mercer invited me, saying I should meet the community and some library board members. I thought I should play nice and go. That was some wake, wasn’t it? She certainly had a lot of friends.” She sipped her tea and returned to her phone.
“She made some enemies too,” Cleo said, hoping to provide Belle with an opportunity to vent.
Belle glanced up. “Hmm? Like you, I hear. She’s the one who had that overdue book, isn’t she? I read about it in the paper and asked Merc. He told me you’d tried all sorts of things to get that old book back. That must have grated on your nerves. Did you ever get it back? The book?”
“No,” Cleo admitted, not appreciating how the conversation had turned on her. She tried to get back in the interrogator’s seat. “You knew Dixie when you were young, you said? How? You aren’t from Catalpa Springs, are you?”
Belle made a noncommittal noise. “That was such a long time ago. We ‘seasoned’ ladies shouldn’t be made to reveal our ages, should we?” She smiled conspiratorially and leaned in a little. “Tell me, what makes that book so special, anyway? Is it valuable? Do you even remember what it’s about?” Before Cleo could answer, Belle sat back. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’ll be old now anyway. Write it off, I say.”
Cleo did wish she could remember more about Luck and Lore. She certainly wasn’t ready to write it off. It was the principle. Besides, books didn’t lose their value with age any more than people did. In other circumstances, Cleo might have given a rousing speech. Instead, she forced herself to remain silent.
As she hoped, Belle filled the void. “Rude of her to keep the book so long. I know, I shouldn’t call her rude, her being so recently dead and all.” Belle crumpled a piece of wax paper. “Which is a shame, don’t you think? Or do you? You can tell me, woman to woman. I heard folks saying you were out to get her. Is that true?” She turned her crumpling energies to more wrappers, stuffing them in the larger paper sack.
Cleo studied Belle. Why was she being so evasive? “But you knew Dixie personally,” Cleo said. “I heard you two had a disagreement at the farmers’ market last week.”
Belle had cleared her place, pushing her cookie toward Cleo. She brushed crumbs off the table and shoved back her chair. “Who told you that? Small towns, I swear, they’re like gossip tornados. Every little thing gets swept up and twisted around. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t left Atlanta.”
Cleo didn’t feel she could press more about Dixie. “Why did you leave Atlanta?” she asked.
Belle had squished her lunch sack into a tight ball. She threw it into a nearby trash can with such force the can tipped and rattled. She twisted her lip. “You’re lucky, Cleo,” she said. “Holding out this long in your domain. In my work—my former work—a woman over sixty is considered as useful as a dinosaur in heels.” She sighed, shrugged, and looked at her watch, a bright but chilly smile returning. “Can you believe what time it is? Lilliput will be demanding his afternoon apple treat. I’d better get him home or he’ll eat the garden down.”
Cleo was relieved to see Belle leave. She was even more intrigued by her abrupt departure and her strange reluctance to talk about Dixie Huddleston.
Chapter Nineteen
After Belle left, Cleo got her quiet time in the library. It wasn’t the same as she’d imagined earlier in the day. She found herself wandering from room to room, taking in details to store in her memory in case they disappeared. Her mind kept spinning around Belle, about what Belle’s innovations might mean to the library and bookmobile, about why Belle didn’t want to talk about Dixie.
Faced with too many questions she couldn’t answer, Cleo turned to doable tasks. She shelved several boxes of books, telling herself that filled shelves would be harder to remove. She tidied the reference room and cleared out some empty computer boxes. She called Leanna, who seemed to be taking lying low seriously. Two calls went straight to Leanna’s voicemail after the chipper greeting: H
ey, you’ve reached Leanna the librarian. Leave me a message. Cleo left a message, saying the coast was clear at the library and that she’d be around until about five.
Eventually, Cleo got caught up in her tasks and pleasant diversions, like reacquainting herself with favorite books. Time sped by and when Cleo glanced at a window, she was surprised to see darkness settling in. Evening came early this time of year, and Cleo preferred to be home before dark, cozied up with Rhett. Her cat would be grumpy from a day shut in by rain. Cleo was switching off lights, preparing to leave, when she heard footsteps on the porch.
Leanna, she imagined, thinking she could stay a little longer to strategize with her colleague. Cleo returned to the wood-paneled reference room, eager to show Leanna the progress. She tidied a bit more, rearranging books on the fine oak table in the center of the room. She registered the groan of the front door opening. She turned around just in time to see the hallway go dark.
The stomp of feet followed. They sounded large and loud, and they were accompanied by a curse in a voice that was most definitely male and not Leanna.
Jefferson. Cleo froze, recalling Jacquelyn’s anger. Was Jefferson coming by to chew her out too? A flutter shot up her core. The police hadn’t arrested Jefferson, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was innocent. She tiptoed to the door and eased it closed. There was no lock, and the overhead light could only be turned off by a switch on the hallway side of the door.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Jefferson’s voice bounced down the hall. “Where are the lights in this place? Yoo-hoo, anyone here?”
In the gap under the door, Cleo saw the hall lights flicker. On, off, and then on again. Footsteps came closer, and the lights in her room flickered too. Before Cleo could decide what to do, the door inched open, and Jefferson’s round face poked around.
“Miss Cleo! There you are. I tried your house, but you weren’t there.”
Cleo was relieved that Jefferson didn’t seem upset with her. In fact, he looked so happy to see her, Cleo’s leeriness waned. However, quick as a switch, his cheeriness dimmed. “The lights in here are confusing. I couldn’t see and bumped my knee in the dark. Didn’t you hear me calling when I came in?”
“I must have been caught up working,” Cleo said brightly, wishing their positions were reversed. He blocked the door with his bulk. She moved behind the oak desk, keeping up a friendly chatter. “I’m meeting someone. She should be here any moment.” She didn’t know if Leanna had gotten her messages or if she would be coming by. Cleo’s phone, which her kids and grandkids had gotten her for emergencies, was out in the hallway.
“It’s just you here, then?” he asked.
Cleo didn’t want to answer that. “My friend is practically here,” she said, waving a hand toward the door he blocked. “Why don’t we go out on the porch and wait for her? It’s a lovely night.”
“It’s rainy. I offered a mime workshop in the park, but no one signed up. It was free! Free costumes, free face paint. No one would stop.” He rubbed his cheek, and Cleo noted waxy white in the five o’clock stubble that didn’t fit his baby face. He stepped farther into the room. “It wasn’t just the rain. Rain doesn’t stop miming. It’s because people don’t trust me, isn’t it? They think I hurt Mother.”
His shoulders fell so low they almost disappeared. His lip quivered. “I couldn’t have hurt her. I told you, and you understand, right? The police said they did, but now I think they were lying. I was only trying to help by talking to them too. It didn’t help me. Now everyone thinks I did it. I heard people saying so.”
Sympathy swept over Cleo. Behind his big bulk and his scruffy face, Cleo could see the kid in Jefferson. His baby-fine hair stuck out in scattered disarray. His clothes were rumpled from his khakis to his jacket, and he carried a sour odor of anxiety. If the poor man really was innocent, he’d have to endure harsh suspicion that would never lift if the culprit wasn’t caught.
“The chief is casting a wide suspect net,” Cleo said. She forced a smile. “For heaven’s sake, he even suspected me.”
Jefferson’s chin shot up. His eyes narrowed on her.
“Of course, I didn’t hurt your mother!” Cleo quickly clarified, regretting her attempt at camaraderie. “I’m telling you that because I understand what you’re facing. Folks have been muttering about me too. You have to keep your chin up and believe justice will be served.”
“That’s the trouble,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that at all! The chief, he keeps saying he knows why I did it. It was so easy for me, he says. I had access to the syringe, I had motive, I wanted Mother’s house. She didn’t like my miming and …” His list trailed off in a sniffle.
From what Cleo could tell, all of that was true. She’d thought it herself and could add some more items to the list. Jefferson knew his mother’s superstitions, her fears, her allergies. Dixie had bullied and berated him for years. Cleo surreptitiously surveyed the room, looking for possible defensive weapons.
The reference room housed lots of large, heavy books, but a librarian shouldn’t harm a book. Bookends would do. The nearest set was a cast-iron pair shaped like open books. If she could heft them, she could throw them. Cleo had played South Georgia amateur softball in her youth and felt she could still muster a mighty pitch. She rolled her throwing shoulder, telling herself that if those bookends somehow missed their mark, she could lunge for the decorative bronze bust of Jane Austen over by the window. She didn’t like the idea of hurling around such an important literary lady, but she thought Miss Austen would understand.
“No one really understands,” Jefferson muttered. “Jacquelyn’s practically living in her office, saying we never should have moved to Mother’s cottage. Amy-Ray’s acting like she owns the place, after deserting us all for years. Now someone’s threatening me and no one cares.”
Cleo halted in her bookend appraisal. “What?” she said. “You’ve been threatened, Jefferson? What do you mean? What happened?”
He tugged on his ear and shuffled his feet. “You won’t believe me.”
“Try me,” Cleo said.
“Someone left a paper coffin on my car. It had my name on it. The chief said I put it there myself, but why would I do that?” He lurched toward the desk separating them. Cleo jerked back, but he grabbed her hand. Two cold yet sweaty palms clamped on hers. “I need help, Miss Cleo. I heard about you solving the murder last spring.”
Jefferson had, until recently, lived out of state. Was her reputation reaching beyond Catalpa Springs? Beyond Georgia? Cleo’s curiosity got the best of her. She eased her hand from his grasp and asked how he’d heard.
“Mother,” he said, blushing. “She called and told me. She said you might decipher crimes, but you’d never figure out how to get that overdue book back.” A smile crept in. “She loved to play jokes.”
Dixie loved to taunt and tease. Cleo kept that thought to herself.
“Someone was messing with Mother. Now they’re messing with me. That coffin! I need your help. The police aren’t going to help me. No one else is.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and paced the room.
“Coffins have been appearing around town,” Cleo said, careful not to sound like she was agreeing to help. Jefferson had just offered a very compelling list of reasons to remain leery of him. “What did the coffin you found say?”
“I don’t know, something like ‘Jefferson H., this is not your home. Get out.’ ”
Cleo frowned. The message wasn’t quite right. The other notes welcomed recipients to their new home, the grave. “Odd,” she said. “You’re sure it said ‘not your home’?”
“I’m sure! Look, I’ll show you. I took a photo before giving it to the police—like they cared.” He reached into his back pocket, fiddled with the phone, and then shoved it across the desk. “See?”
Cleo took the phone and stared at the photo. Not only was the message off, so was the paper and writing. The paper was black like the others, but glossy. The printing was distinctly different t
oo, a loopy cursive unlike the jagged printing she’d seen on the other notes. “It’s not right,” she murmured.
“You can say that again!” Jefferson said. “Someone’s following me too. I feel it. I felt it coming here and at the house—Mother’s house and our cottage.” He raised a trembling chin. “I’m extra-sensitive to extrasensory vibrations. I felt something the night before Mother died. I went outside, thinking I’d heard something. I wish I’d gone over. I might have saved her.”
Cleo handed back his phone, thinking as she did. “Jacquelyn said she saw your sister around the house this morning. Did you or Jacquelyn see Amy-Ray the night before your mother’s death?”
Jefferson shook his head. “No. I didn’t actually see anything, any of the times. That’s why everyone says I’m crazy or making stuff up. It’s just a feeling. Will you help me, Miss Cleo? I know it’s a lot to ask, but you were always so nice to me as a kid, letting me come in here and do the story hour.”
Cleo felt torn. She wanted to believe he was innocent. Her heart said so. However, her rational, sleuthing side warned her to keep her distance. He was making pleading gestures, palms pressed as if in prayer.
“Hello? Miss Cleo?”
Leanna’s voice cut through the quiet.
Jefferson’s whole body twitched. “I have to go,” he said. “If there’s anything—anything at all—you can find to help me, Miss Cleo, I beg you!”
He turned and lumbered out the door.
Cleo hurried after him. She heard Leanna gasp and met her young assistant in the hallway.
“What was he doing here?” Leanna demanded. “Are you okay, Miss Cleo? Did he threaten you? We should call Gabby.” Leanna patted her pockets, seemingly in search of her phone. Cleo’s protégé unfortunately took after Cleo in cell-phone forgetfulness too.
“It’s okay,” Cleo said, reaching out a hand to halt her search. “Jefferson wanted me to help him. He says he’s innocent.”