by Nora Page
Better Off Read
A BOOKMOBILE MYSTERY
Nora Page
To my grandmother, once a librarian, always a lover of books.
Acknowledgments
This is where words feel inadequate. To my family, especially my parents, in-laws, aunts, and grandmother, I have more gratitude than I can express for your support and encouragement. Thank you to friends near and far and to the wonderful writers of Sisters in Crime. I’m grateful for my beta readers, Jaime and Jane, who took the time to point me in better directions, and to Cynthia, the most encouraging of critique partners. Eric, thank you for your love, our travels, and enduring many a dinner conversation about mysteries and murder.
To Christina Hogrebe, agent extraordinaire, much gratitude for your insights and support and for finding this series such a wonderful home at Crooked Lane Books. To my amazing editors, Anne Brewer and Jenny Chen, thank you for believing in Cleo Watkins, senior sleuth, and for honing the manuscript into a book. Thanks to Jesse Reisch for the gorgeous cover illustration, Sarah Poppe for her publicity prowess, and Jill Pellarin for meticulous copyediting.
Most of all, heartfelt thanks to readers for joining Cleo on her bookmobile adventures.
Chapter One
In all her seventy-five years, Cleo Watkins had never harmed another human being. Not intentionally, and certainly not in anger. Cleo considered herself a proper, well-mannered Southern lady. She’d never harmed a book. Cleo was a librarian.
Now, however, Cleo considered the hardback in her purse. Zen and the Art of School Bus Maintenance had a fine, firm spine. It was compact, perfect for carrying along to appointments … and for winging at the man in the plaid purple shorts. Cleo steadied her stance in the overgrown lawn. She rolled her wrist and stretched her elbow. In a younger decade, she’d played South Georgia amateur softball. She bet she still had a good pitch left in her, and there’d be no missing Mayor Jebson “Jeb” Day and his smug, pink cheeks.
Catalpa Springs’ new mayor stood a few yards away, too busy smirking to notice Cleo’s ire. He plucked a dandelion, sun glaring off his prematurely thinning crown. Bermuda shorts revealed more pale leg than Cleo cared to see.
She smoothed her blouse and patted her soft white curls, half-expecting them to be as spiky as her emotions. She turned her mind and gaze to nicer things. The azaleas in the side garden were lovely this spring, flashy magentas against powdery pink crabapples. A cardinal flitted among the blooms. Cleo tried to follow the bird. However, her gaze kept catching on the horrible sight beyond: her beloved library, wounded.
Mayor Day straightened, beheading the dandelion with a flick of his thumb. “Yep,” he said. “Like I was saying, Catalpa Springs has more important needs than a library. I can’t authorize any repairs at present. You understand.”
Cleo most definitely did not understand. She couldn’t comprehend how this man—immature in years and character, not to mention lacking in manners and long pants—could be mayor of her charming town. She didn’t want to understand his words.
“More important?” she said, her drawl lengthened with aghast. “The Catalpa Springs Library is an institution. A historic landmark. A community treasure.” She waved toward the elegant folk Victorian structure, sorrowfully shrouded under blue tarps and wrapped in caution tape.
Several weeks ago a violent storm had brought down the great live oak that had stood beside the library for over a century. The trunk shattered the graceful curved porch. Branches pierced the roof, inviting in rain, hail, and an unhappy possum. The stately wood-paneled reading room suffered a soaking, as did many of its reference materials, including irreplaceable genealogies and local archives.
Cleo had wept at the damage. She could shed a tear now, but reminded herself again of important mercies. The oak had waited until after hours to give up its ghost. No patrons or employees had been present. The possum survived unharmed, as did the bulk of the collection. Only the roof needed fixing. And some soggy reference materials. And the porch and steps and entire east wing and staff room and possibly the electric and floors … and, most of all, their mayor’s attitude.
Cleo stood to her full five foot three. “We must repair our library. Why, without a library, what are we?”
“Richer?” Mayor Day offered. “A town with a world-class fishing pier? My pier project will make money. It’s a matter of priorities. I already have major investors.” He nodded toward an SUV idling nearby. A bald man snoozed inside, air-conditioning fluttering his shirt collar.
“Vegas big,” the mayor whispered, eyeing the slumbering man as if he were a prize bass on the line. “If we play our cards right, guess what? That’s a hint, by the way. Play our cards.”
Cleo folded her arms and pursed her lips.
“A floating casino!” Jeb Day bounced in his rubber sandals with boyish glee. “Can you imagine?”
Cleo was trying hard not to imagine. During his mayoral campaign, Jeb Day promised to make the slow, meandering Tallgrass River, just outside town, a world-renowned sport-fishing destination. Little Catalpa Springs would be on TV, he said. There’d be fishing tournaments and reality shows and everyone reeling in cash and record-setting bass. Cleo thought it was all fish tales, getting larger with every retelling. Now they’d grown as big as a boat?
“We have the insurance,” Cleo said, only to be cut off by the mayor. When he was done rudely likening the insurance policy to cow plops, she continued. “There’s also the upcoming fundraiser, remember? The Ladies League Gala? The library will receive all proceeds from the silent auction. We already have some exceptional donated items.” Cleo’s firmness faltered. One donation was a tad too generous, a collection of first-edition Agatha Christies that might reel in thousands but snag her in romantic strings.
Mayor Day shrugged. “You ladies have all the little benefits and bake sales you like. Maybe you can buy a floorboard or two. But, seriously, why should the town put up the money? What would we get back from our investment?”
What would they get? A library! Entire worlds. Eras both long gone and not yet seen. Fantasies and facts. Knowledge and escape and inspiration. Solace. Cleo fought a renewed urge to hurl her guide to Zen and diesel engines. She reminded herself that religion in any form should not be used for violence. Besides, she needed the book. Her only remaining library was an aging school bus. Words on Wheels had a fickle transmission and was sounding wheezy lately. Calm spirit and mechanical skill would be necessary to keep the bookmobile rolling.
“Anyway,” the mayor said, looking ready to leave, “I already met with some town council members.” He named a riverside bar and several men, all wheeling and dealing and fishing types. Cleo pictured fat fingers, greasy from hushpuppies and fried catfish. She frowned, thinking of those same fingers messing with her library, touching her books.
“The way we figure,” Jeb continued, “that tree did us a favor. Perfect timing too. Your other full-time librarian’s likely to give notice, and that part-timer, Leanna, isn’t a real librarian. Leanna’s cute and young. She can get another job. Then there’s you, Miss Cleo. You’re surely getting set to retire. You’re what, mid-seventies? That’s a decade overdue. Get it? The overdue librarian? Ha!”
Cleo clenched her purse straps—better those than Mayor Day’s throat.
He raised a placating palm. “Don’t give me that stink eye. I’m not counting your years. That’s wrong, right?”
It was all so wrong. “Why wasn’t I contacted about your meeting?” Cleo demanded.
The mayor winked. “I heard you were out of state. A little romantic jaunt down to Florida? Good for you.”
Cleo’s cheeks flamed. This is what she got for agreeing to accompany Henry Lafayette on his old-book buying trip. The owner of The Gilded Page Antiqu
arian and Rare Bookshop was the generous donator of the rare Agatha Christies. He was also a would-be suitor and sweeter than sugar on honey, although Cleo wasn’t ready to let him know that. Ten years a widow, Cleo was settled in her singlehood. She enjoyed late nights reading. She lingered in bed on Sundays and let visiting grandkids make all the noise and messes they wanted to. Best of all, she did the driving. Oh, how she loved captaining that bookmobile and her daddy’s vintage convertible.
A bee buzzed, snapping Cleo’s thoughts back. “I was in Florida,” she said, holding her chin high, “antiquing. Florida’s not that far away, as you know.”
Catalpa Springs perched just above the Florida line. Some Catalpa residents had Florida in their backyard and Georgia in the front, which Cleo thought must be unsettling. Florida was a lovely place, but not for Cleo. Their southern neighbor was for spring-breakers and sunbathers or—Cleo gave a little shudder—retirees. Cleo had tried retirement. Twice. It hadn’t suited her then. It certainly wouldn’t suit her now, especially with the library in danger.
“Antiquing?” The mayor raised suggestive air quotes. “Is that what you kids call it? All the more reason to retire. Just think—”
Cleo was thinking. Thinking that tossing her entire purse at the man’s skull wouldn’t make a dent in his sense or his manners. She turned to go. “Mayor Day, I will see you at the full town council and library board meeting next month and at the Ladies League Gala three Saturdays from now. Until then, I have a job to do. Words on Wheels is very busy.”
The mayor shot her an alligator’s grin. “Don’t get too attached to that clunker of a bookmobile either. What with the budget and your last speeding ticket and … well, don’t take offense…”
Cleo was already offended.
“I’m just saying,” the mayor said. “We had to hide the car keys from my Granny Day when she got to a certain age and started getting pulled over and finding herself in Florida unexpectedly. It was for her own good.”
For Mayor Jebson Day’s own good, Cleo removed herself and her pitching arm from his presence. She stormed up the block and across Main Street, barely noticing the tidy brick buildings and bustling downtown. She dodged a bicyclist and waved distractedly to the bank president and a clutch of Ladies Leaguers, as recognizable as flamingos in their signature pink hats. She didn’t stop until she reached Words on Wheels, sprawled across three parking spots by Fontaine Park, the heart of Catalpa Springs.
Rhett Butler, library cat, lounged on the bookmobile’s hood, leisurely grooming his fluffy orange undercarriage.
“Come along, Rhett,” Cleo called to the frowny-faced Persian. “We have an urgent delivery.” If Mayor Day could go fishing, so could she. Cleo was off to catch herself an ally.
* * *
Words on Wheels glowed in classic school-bus yellow, with a twist. Orange and red airbrushed flames fanned the front grill, tipped in icy blue. Over the windshield, “READ!” was spelled out in similar fiery colors, highlighted with stars. The name “Words on Wheels” sprawled in loopy cursive along each side. The bus was fun and flashy, and Cleo smiled every time she saw it. Here was another blessing, along with her grandson Sam.
Last year, the high school senior and some pals had repurposed the rusty bus into a mobile library as their Eagle Scout project. They swapped out most of the seats with handmade bookshelves, leaving the front and back rows for passengers and readers. They fitted rubbery jigsaw tiles on the floor and created a little kids’ reading nook in the back. The boys didn’t stop with carpentry. They also devised a program for providing mobile library services across Catalpa County.
Since the storm, Cleo had drafted Words on Wheels into full-time service. She made regular rounds, parking by Fontaine Park, schools, nursing homes, rural crossroads, and retirement communities. She even made home deliveries in special cases. Cleo thought of all the folks who depended on the bookmobile, how happy they were to see her pull up. How happy she was to hit the road.
“Mayor Day won’t take away our bookmobile or our library,” Cleo assured Rhett as they rounded the bus.
The Persian came to a claw-skidding stop, his tail puffed.
“I know—he is a rude man.” Cleo was distracted, searching her purse for her keys. Then she looked up and realized what actually unnerved Rhett. Her young colleague Leanna stood by the bus, wearing a most unusual outfit.
“Why, Leanna,” Cleo said, pushing back her bifocals and struggling for something nice to say, “don’t you look … interesting.”
Leanna wore black capri leggings, a matching T-shirt, sparkly silver flip-flops, and retro cat-eye glasses, all of which were normal and clear. It was Leanna’s middle that was muddled. Lumpy fabric ringed Leanna from thighs to midriff, like a short stack of squished donuts. Leanna’s expression was as droopy as her attire.
“Are you in a play?” Cleo asked encouragingly. This seemed improbable. Introverted Leanna dreaded public speaking and crowds, unless those crowds were quietly reading.
“I’m a biscuit,” Leanna mumbled. She sank to a lumpy slump on a nearby park bench. “Can’t you tell?”
Rhett approached warily, tail still puffed to double its usual size.
Leanna groaned. “I’m a monster. Hey, Rhett, sweet kitty, it’s just me. Come here, you beautiful boy.”
Rhett cocked his head, intrigued by the pretty lies. Truth be told, the oversized feline wasn’t looking his best either. A recent tangle with burdocks had necessitated a shave, nobly—foolheartedly—performed by Cleo’s hairdresser, Frank Kelly. Neither man nor cat had come out well, with poor Frank left googling cat-scratch fever and Rhett looking like a moth-chewed lion.
Rhett hopped on the bench and onto Leanna’s fabric-padded lap, where he began kneading. Making biscuits, Cleo’s mama would have said.
Cleo pointed that out. “See? Rhett knows you’re a biscuit. But, uh … why?”
“Tammy Temps.” Leanna said the name of her other part-time employer more bitterly than usual. “They assigned me to Biscuit Bobs. It’s awful. I stand in the median out on Old Coopers Highway and wave. People whistle and honk and laugh.” She dejectedly plucked at beige fabric.
Squinting, Cleo could discern layers, lopsided and heavy like the baked goods served up by the three Bobs who ran the diner/dive bar. “I’m sure folks are honking in support,” she said.
“Right.” Leanna sounded rightfully skeptical. “Stupid costume. I think I’m allergic to polyester, and I’m getting a rash and a sunburn and…” She took a deep breath and patted Rhett. “But it’s a job, isn’t it? I’ve gotta save up for college in the fall. Three years, and I’ll be an official, bona fide librarian!”
Cleo heartily agreed. She opened the bus and climbed the steps. Leanna had years of foster care and troubles behind her, but there was always a place she felt at home: the Catalpa Springs Public Library. She worked as a shelving assistant and was a natural whiz at library technology, which she planned to study at college. Cleo dreamed of Leanna eventually taking the library helm, leaving Cleo free to hit the road in Words on Wheels. How could she tell Leanna that Mayor Jeb Day wanted to toss to the curb the library and all those it helped? She hoped Leanna wouldn’t ask.
“How was your meeting?” Leanna stood, Rhett draped over her shoulder, nuzzling her ear and purring loudly. “I hustled right over here on break to hear. Are the repairs a ‘go’? Can we add in the wiring for the new computer station?”
“Come on inside, dear,” Cleo said. Bad news was best told in the comforting presence of books.
Leanna put Rhett down and steadied herself on the New Reads shelf, listening with only the tiniest quiver of her lip.
“We’ll fight it,” Cleo said.
Leanna’s quiver firmed. “Darned straight, we’ll fight!” She stomped a flip-flop and refused to return to Biscuit Bobs for the lunch shift. “They can take this biscuit costume and fire me! We’ll rally our allies! We’ll…” Her battle cry was muffled in the struggle to extract herself from the fabric layer
s.
Cleo tried to dissuade Leanna, who needed her jobs. When she couldn’t, Cleo said, “Then this counts as a work trip. We’re delivering books to an important library supporter.”
Leanna brightened. “Who? Where?”
“Krandall House. Interlibrary loans for Buford Krandall.”
Leanna suddenly didn’t look quite as eager.
“Mr. Krandall’s the longest standing member of the library board,” Cleo said, convincing herself as much as Leanna. “He has money and influence, although I know he can be a touch eccentric.”
“He’s weird,” Leanna said bluntly. “You never know what he’s up to, all those crazy do-it-yourself projects. Remember when he got into firecrackers and blew up that peach orchard? And those drones that chased people? He makes me nervous, like he can see through you and is picking out everything bad and taking notes.”
Cleo pointed to a bag of books on the front seat. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here. On the way, can you skim through his stack of interlibrary loans? I’ll admit, I’m a bit worried about the subject matter.”
Leanna buckled up. Rhett settled in his throne, a padded peach crate bolted to the floor beside Cleo. Cleo turned the key and waited until the engine sputtered to a steadier wheeze. She rolled down her window and adjusted her mirrors. Then Cleo Watkins put her bookmobile in gear and punched the gas. Tires squealed, Leanna whooped, and they were off, Cleo’s white hair whipping in the wind.
Chapter Two
Potholes peppered the long dirt drive to Krandall House. Oaks crowded in, their limbs so low and grasping, Cleo felt like ducking. Mossy statues—many missing arms, heads, or angel wings—peered out from the tangled forest to either side. They bumped along slowly, the windows open since the bookmobile’s air conditioner only managed to gasp cool breeze at high speed.
“Creepy,” Leanna said in a hushed awe. “Those statues remind me of graves, and what’s up with all the pinwheels up in the trees? They’re usually happy and pretty. Here they seem menacing.”