by Nora Page
Cleo agreed it was lovely. The park burst with blooms and their perfume. Happy laughter bubbled from the playground. Henry’s aged pug, Mr. Chaucer, snored in the grass, his jowly gray wrinkles puddling, his tongue lolling. Rhett Butler hid nearby in a patch of ferns. The fronds wiggled, suggesting an impending feline game of pounce.
“You’re distracted,” Henry said, not a complaint, but an observation. “Any news from Mary-Rose?”
Cleo admitted she hadn’t seen her friend since Wednesday at the Pancake Mill. “I think Mary-Rose is evading me. She finally called last night, but only after I left several messages, practically begging to hear from her. Then she claimed up and down that everything was perfectly fine.”
“Perfectly fine? That is disconcerting.” A wry smile twitched under Henry’s white beard, trimmed to a rectangular puff that curved around his chin and up to meet bushy tufts over prominent ears. Henry had well-hewn smile lines, round wire spectacles, and dapper if slightly rumpled good fashion. Today he wore a light linen suit with a paisley pocket square, purple to match Mr. Chaucer’s leash. He was on the short side of average height and somewhat padded around the middle, which Cleo certainly didn’t mind since she was too.
Cleo smiled in return, appreciating his understanding. “I know,” she said, forcing herself to slow her rocking. “It was such an obvious fib. Nothing’s ever perfect with Mary-Rose, is it?”
It wasn’t that her friend was a pessimist. Far from it. Mary-Rose was an aggressive optimist, always looking for ways to make things better for everyone. She plunged into causes, from saving tigers in the tropics to organizing food drives and preschool programs across rural Georgia. Mary-Rose won’t have to look far for problems to fix now, Cleo thought grimly. She voiced the list jostling around her brain. “There’s Pancake Spring, that awful drill, the library, the mayor, Buford Krandall … Then there’s Ollie. That boy can’t fool his grandmother. I know he’s up to something, and I think he has a girlfriend too.” Cleo took a breath and brushed a scone crumb from her blouse, blue to match the sunny skies.
Henry’s smile lines crinkled. “Well now, a girlfriend seems nice. Is it your neighbor Deputy Gabby, like you’ve been hoping?” He poured icy tea from a sweating thermos, watching as Rhett launched his faux attack. The cat jumped high over the snoring pug before skittering back to his fern lair for a repeat performance.
Cleo thanked Henry for the tea, though she was feeling slightly awash. “No, I wish it were Gabby. This young woman wears camouflage. She’s rather rude, and I don’t think she’s from here.” Cleo frowned, wondering if that last part was true. There was something familiar about Whitney Greene, something Cleo couldn’t place, yet left her feeling unsettled.
Henry, who’d moved to Catalpa Springs from Atlanta about two years ago, chuckled. “An outsider, you think? Some of us can be all right.” He sipped cold tea and arranged his pocket square to a perfect point. The point promptly wilted.
“It’s not that,” Cleo said quickly. She had friends and family from all over. Cleo rocked and mulled the possibility—ever so slight—that she might be biased by grandmotherly aspirations. She wanted only the best for her grandson. Like nice Gabby Honeywell, who was a lovely neighbor, a former beauty queen, clever and kind, and gainfully employed by the Catalpa Springs Police Department. Cleo knew Ollie fancied Gabby too. He blushed something silly every time he came within stammering distance of her.
Cleo turned the conversation to someone she knew she should worry about. “I wish Buford Krandall had told me more about his interest in those murder guides and plans for the mayor. If only he’d stop drilling too. I should have been more forceful with him on all accounts.”
Henry stroked his beard, the signal of a good idea taking form. “We could visit him and ask again. Maybe he’s ready to brag or move on to a new project. In any case, I’ve wanted to see Krandall House and its private library. Mr. Krandall has bought books from me. He’s reputed to have an outstanding collection.”
“I do have some books I could deliver,” Cleo said. Seeing Henry brighten, she added disclaimers so as not to raise his hopes. “I have a few more bookmobile stops scheduled and couldn’t go until this afternoon. You’re probably busy.”
“I’m completely free,” Henry declared without hesitation.
“I’ve never been invited inside. It’s a strange, disturbing place, and Buford Krandall can be odd and prickly.”
“Buford, odd? Ha! There’s an understatement.” The female laugh that followed bordered on a cackle and was punctuated in a booming woof. Rhett bolted for the nearest tree. Mr. Chaucer struggled to his feet, dazed. Cleo turned to see Kat Krandall-Stykes digging in her boot heels by the bookmobile, arms straining to hold back a mastiff the size of a pony.
“Beast, sit!” Kat commanded. “Stay!” The dog did neither, stretching a prodigious snout to within inches of their picnic. Kat, tall and sinewy, had to grab onto a slender redbud tree for support. “Heel! Good boy.” Beast continued to strain and pant. The sapling began to bend. Mr. Chaucer wobbled over to gape up at the giant dog with similar fawn coloring and a wrinkly black snout.
Cleo made introductions. When she got to explaining Kat to Henry, she hesitated. “Kat runs Paradise Landscaping. She’s … uh … related to Buford Krandall by marriage.”
“By separation, you mean,” Kat said. “Buford and I have the longest running divorce proceedings in Catalpa County. I married that loon when I was twenty, served him papers at thirty, and I’ll be rid of him—mark my word—by the time I turn fifty. I’ve got three months and five days to make it happen.” She chuckled and told Beast to sit. Beast remained firmly standing. Hunched low on a tree limb, Rhett twitched his tail, eyes pinched into a deep frown.
“Oh, that’s quite a record,” said Henry politely. “Mrs. Watkins and I were considering visiting your eventual ex this afternoon.”
Kat shook her head and the thick brunette braid reaching nearly to her waist. “Tell Buford I said ’bye, will ya? But seriously, why go out there? The driveway’s a minefield of potholes, the landscaping’s a hazard, and he’s wackier by the day.”
“I have books to deliver,” Cleo said, giving their official reason before asking Kat if she knew about Buford’s disagreements with the mayor and his secret and somewhat worrisome plans to raise library funds.
Kat was considering when a squirrel hopped past, sending Beast into a barking lunge. Mr. Chaucer sat back, eyes agog. “No,” Kat said, voice and arms strained with the effort of holding her dog. “Spring’s my busy landscaping season. I don’t have time to keep up with Buford. He’s always planning and plotting and after someone, though. Watch out for him. He likes the upper hand, and he’s conniving. He tricked me into marrying him. But you’ll see. I’ll be rid of that crazy Krandall soon. Soon!” Her chortle ended in a yelp as Beast launched at the squirrel, dragging her along too. “Be careful!” she yelled over her shoulder.
Henry and Cleo watched them plow through the playground, kids parting before merrily chasing after them.
“So, when shall I meet you?” Henry asked.
Cleo thought of Kat’s warnings and decided she was glad Henry would join her. “Three thirty,” she said. “I’ll pick you up.”
* * *
Cleo, Rhett, and Words on Wheels swung by The Gilded Page later that afternoon. Mr. Chaucer snoozed on a satin pillow in the bay window. Henry stepped out and turned the door sign to “CLOSED,” a technicality. Although rare-book collectors occasionally made the trip to Catalpa Springs, Henry did most of his business online. From what Cleo could tell, the shop was primarily for Henry’s own enjoyment, a showcase of his treasures and handiwork. He and Mr. Chaucer lived upstairs. In the back, he had a book surgery, where he meticulously repaired sagging spines, cracked covers, and worn pages.
The former pharmacy he occupied had also gotten a makeover when he moved in. The wide plank floors gleamed again, as did the tin ceiling, hidden for decades behind acoustic tiles. The refurbished exterio
r reminded Cleo of Old World bookstores, like she might see in Paris or London, if she ever got to go. Henry had chosen a stately slate blue for the wood-paneled front and glossy ebony for the door. Gold paint highlighted trim and scrollwork and announced the store’s name and vague hours: “The Gilded Page Antiquarian and Rare Books. Monday through Friday—when open. Weekends and holidays, nights, special occasions, and inclement weather—at whim.”
The weather was threatening inclemency now. Henry carried an umbrella, along with a parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“Bait?” Cleo asked, nodding to the parcel.
“The best kind of fishing,” Henry said. “Hooked by a book.”
As she turned down the dirt drive to Krandall House, Cleo warned Henry about bumps ahead, thinking both of the lane and Buford himself. The weather had turned to roiling gray, and the oak tunnel was as dark as dusk. Overhead, the whirligigs raced. Cleo thought of nightmares in which one ran faster and faster, getting nowhere.
“Good gracious,” Henry said. “This is not what I expected.”
Cleo wondered if Catalpa Springs was as he expected. Henry said he’d chosen the small town for his “working retirement” because it was so pretty and calm, a friendly place. Cleo, however, knew that sometimes—thankfully rarely—her beloved hometown could be anything but peaceful and peaceable.
At the house, she parked, warned Henry of noxious vines, and led the way to the back.
“Mr. Krandall!” Cleo called. She headed to the back porch door while Henry drifted toward the mercifully resting drill. Cleo’s knocks and calls got no reply.
“Perhaps he’s out?” Henry said, rejoining her. “Taking a walk? It’s cloudy, so he wouldn’t have to fear the sun, though a storm’s surely coming.”
Cleo tilted an ear. “Listen, did you hear that? Was that a thump inside? If it’s Buford, why isn’t he answering?” A burst of wind made them shield their eyes. In the forest all around, the leaves rustled restlessly.
Henry called Buford’s name, louder this time.
Amidst the murmuring breeze, Cleo heard what sounded like a door banging.
Henry heard it too. “Stay here,” he said. He hurried down the path before Cleo could stop him. When he returned, breathing hard, he reported seeing no one. “The screen door to the verandah was swinging a bit, but it could have been the wind.”
Or it could be trouble. “We should check on Mr. Krandall,” Cleo said. “What if he’s hurt?” She tested the door to the back porch. It opened with the squeak of rusty hinges, as did the entry to the kitchen beyond.
“What if it’s a robber?” Henry asked. “Or Krandall himself? I’ve heard he carries an antique pistol.” But he followed Cleo inside, keeping close to her heels. They crossed a kitchen of yellowed linoleum and cabinets painted in faded sunflowers. In a large foyer muffled by carpets and tapestries, they stopped and called Buford’s name. A winged chandelier hung high overhead. A grand staircase worthy of Scarlett O’Hara curved upward, and several doors opened to the verandah, darkened rooms, and a long hallway.
“Look, the library,” Henry said in hushed awe. He stepped toward a dim, cavernous room lined in bookshelves and dark damask wallpaper. “Oh my heavens!” He gasped and rushed inside.
Books lay scattered across the floor. Spines were cruelly cracked and pages folded and crumpled as if viciously torn and tossed from their shelves. Henry bent to attend to the wounded.
Cleo slipped by him. The vast room felt claustrophobic, the air heavy with a musty scent of old pages and faint floral perfume. Vines blocked the light, swarming the windows as if searching for a way in. Cleo adjusted her bifocals and tried to make sense of the disorienting scene. Statues like those in the forest lurked in the corners. Bits of stone limbs and small heads served as bookends. She squinted toward a far dim corner. A rocking chair was swaying, so gently it might have been shoved by a draft or her imagination.
Never leave a rocker rocking, her grandmother used to say. You’ll be sick within the year. Defiant young Cleo had left many a chair swinging, yet this one made her think her Grandma Watkins was right. She made her way across the room, careful to avoid books. A blanket lay on the floor in front of the chair, along with an upturned footstool. No, not a blanket, Cleo realized. Her heart jumped and adrenaline pricked her fingers. It was clothes. A loose dark suit. A pale hand.
“Buford? Mr. Krandall!” She rushed to the withered form. He lay on his stomach, limbs and books twisted about him. Cleo ignored the ache in her knees and knelt. Henry was soon beside her.
He started to turn Buford over. “CPR,” he was saying. “Compression, airway, breathing—”
“Wait.” Cleo placed shaky fingers on Buford’s still neck.
“He’s cold,” she said. She steeled herself to lift his wrist. Chilly and stiff. But if Buford was so long gone, who or what had they heard?
Henry helped her up. Her knees felt unsure, for more reasons than arthritic stiffness. Had she imagined the movement, the noises? Leaves rustled outside, like armies of small running feet. A shutter banged. Though it was warm, Cleo shivered and let Henry put an arm around her and pull her close.
“We have to go,” he said. “We have to call the police. Your phone, is it in the bookmobile?”
“Just a moment.” Cleo prayed for Buford. No matter what troubles he had—and had caused others—she hoped his soul was at peace and his death peaceful. She doubted the latter. Her eyes fixed on the book open at his side. Priscilla Pawpaw’s A Guide to Getting Away with Murder, Chapter Three: Bludgeoning.
Chapter Four
Cleo paced Words on Wheels, up and down the center aisle and back again, her sandals squishing on the rubbery tiles. As she went, she straightened books. In the cooking section, she paused, her thoughts turning to casseroles and logically on to death and funerals.
When folks passed on in Catalpa Springs, tactical teams of hospitality deployed, providing grieving survivors with enough food to last several lifetimes. There would be casseroles and salads. Sculptural molded aspics, whole hams, and platters of deviled eggs. Pies, cakes, cookies, and ambrosia fruit salad. Depending on the season and the deceased, Cleo gifted a nice peach cobbler or caramel cake or an easily freezable chicken divan (pronounced “divine” in her family).
She ran a hand over a cookbook compiled by the Ladies League. There’d be lots of good recipes inside, but who would be grieving? For that matter, who would do all the arrangements? There was the obituary to craft, so important and the first section of the Catalpa Gazette many Catalpa residents read, including Cleo. The funeral, a reception, tending the grave or scattering the ashes …
“The police sure are taking their time,” Henry said. He tapped his watch, as if that would hurry them on, and attempted to stretch legs pinned under Rhett. A picture book lay open beside him on the back bench seat. He’d already flipped through the illustrations of a cartoon caterpillar. Like Cleo’s pacing, the page-turning was for distraction.
Cleo felt bad for involving him. “They’ll be here soon, I’m sure,” she said. She wasn’t actually sure, nor was the 911 operator with whom she’d spoken.
The woman on the other end had warned Cleo of a possible delay. Local police, firefighters, and EMTs were holding a “joint terrorism, conflagration, and mass hysteria simulation,” the dispatcher reported in bored tones, each word squeezed between what sounded like loud and enthusiastic smacking of gum. Like any decent librarian, Cleo loathed gum. It was a vile substance, a destroyer of pages and marrer of desks.
Still, Cleo dutifully followed the dispatcher’s instructions. She locked the doors of Words on Wheels, pulling down the sash windows for a necessary breeze. Wind flew through, ionically charged by the threatening storm. Cleo watched the restless clouds and shivering trees. The more she stared, the more vine-smothered stone figures she detected. She imagined them coming to life, clawing their way free, and trudging off into the forest. Or coming for the bus. Mama always said, Cleo had way too
much imagination.
Cleo turned away, calming herself with the fuel of that imagination—a library stocked with good books.
“Henry,” Cleo said, jolting him from another distracted flip through the picture book. “Did you happen to notice the rocking chair behind Buford? I could have sworn it was swaying ever so slightly.”
Henry looked thoughtful. Instead of rubbing his chin, he scratched Rhett’s. The Persian was practically smiling. Rhett adored male attention. “No,” Henry said. “I’m sorry. I was blind to everything except those books on the floor. I should have paid more attention. It’s my fault you had to discover that … him…”
“It’s certainly not your fault,” Cleo said, her guilt building. If only she’d rebuffed his chivalry and friendship. He could be at his bookstore, enjoying a nice read or a nap or some leftover scones. “But … I’m glad you’re here,” she admitted.
Henry flushed. “I did notice something. I’m not sure if it’s relevant. That drilling machine, it looked broken.”
“That drill’s an oddball contraption,” Cleo said. “I saw it operating the other day. ‘Chewing,’ Buford called it. It did seem alive, like something from Frankenstein. His great-granddaddy made it.” She sifted her memory for the relative’s name. Aldridge, she thought, thinking she’d check the genealogy references to be sure. Then she remembered that most were stashed or laid out to dry in unharmed parts of the library. Henry had taken in the soggiest volumes and was treating them in his bookshop.
A siren as faint as a mosquito caught Cleo’s attention. She and Henry watched the oak tunnel light up in red and blue strobes. A police car bounced over the ruts.
“Thank goodness,” Cleo said. “Before they get here, tell me, what about the machine?”
Henry hesitated, frowning in concentration. “It wasn’t moving, as you say. But I’m interested in gears and how pieces fit together. I could see how it could move. That is, if someone hadn’t wedged a pole through it.”