Better Off Read

by Nora Page

  Bitsy’s husband, Vernon, was president of the local bank. A big man in height, girth, and status, Vernon Givens was known for his pastel suits, generosity with home loans, and chummy, chatty demeanor. His mother, Maybelle, was the sour, shriveled opposite. Cleo had known Maybelle since childhood and watched her transform from schoolyard bully to senior-citizen tyrant. Maybelle did love her only son, a good trait. She also loved complaining about her ailments and making doctor appointments, with Bitsy as her chauffeur. Cleo dutifully inquired about Maybelle’s health.

  “Hardy as a mule,” Bitsy said with a wink. “Let’s go in and get a cookie. Jasmine Wagner brought homemade marshmallow moon pies, and they’ll go fast.”

  Cleo decided watching her sugar was off the table for the night. She had suffered a shock. Besides, it was only polite to sample all the offerings, especially a moon pie.

  Her kitchen overflowed with excited chatting, steaming casseroles, fruit salad, a pie, and Jasmine’s famous graham cookies filled with marshmallow fluff and coated in chocolate. Rhett sat kingly at the table, enjoying kitty treats served up on a plastic plate.

  “Thank you again,” Cleo said to the ladies.

  “Our pleasure,” sang out a voice among the crowd. Laughter rose, a flask made the rounds, and clear liquid splashed in cups of orange juice and fizzy lemonade.

  Cleo made up a plate and took a seat at the table between Rhett and Bitsy.

  “A killer among us,” Bitsy said, shaking her head. “It’s awful. This sounds almost worse, but it’s bad for the library, isn’t it? Buford Krandall was our big supporter. I heard he was going after the mayor and gathering up major money somehow.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That mayor! Do you know he’s out celebrating in public?”

  Before Cleo could ask, a passing Leaguer provided the details. “Buying rounds of drinks at Biscuit Bobs. The merry widow Kat Krandall is out there too. We should stop by.”

  If anyone could justify merriment, Cleo thought, it was Kat, the long-divorcing spouse. But the mayor? How tacky. She tuned back in, hearing Bitsy evoke the mayor’s name.

  “Jeb Day’s been honeying up to my Vernon, trying to get support for that fishing pier. He invited Vern on a boys’ fishing weekend at the coast, dangling all sorts of temptations. Fishing pros, yachts, big money accounts for the bank…” Bitsy shrugged slender, tanned shoulders. “Vern likely won’t go. My honey can’t bear to hurt a bug, let alone string up a fish. He hasn’t said no yet, though. Vernie does enjoy folks flirting with his money.”

  There’d been gossip when Bitsy wed Vernon Givens. Some folks said she was flirting with the bank president’s fortunes. Bitsy was younger than Vernon—mid-thirties to his verging on fifty. She was also blindingly blond, a second wife, and a former employee. Cleo thought Bitsy had more than proved the gossips wrong. Bitsy worked hard, doing a lot of good around town. Then there was Maybelle. Maybelle occupied a wing of the Givens’s home. To Cleo’s thinking, any daughter-in-law who could tolerate that much sour and still come out smiling deserved every dime Vernon had.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Cleo,” Bitsy said. “We’ve got your back.” She raised her voice, “Right, ladies? To the Gala!”

  Cheers filled the room, and Cleo was regaled with details of fabulous auction items. The ladies eventually left in threes, one group heading to Henry’s, the other planning to stop by Biscuit Bobs. Bitsy lingered, helping Cleo clean up and waiting for her ride.

  A horn blared outside. “That’ll be Mama Givens,” Bitsy said with a little roll of her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe how fast she is, reaching from the passenger seat to slap that horn. I joke she was an urban cabbie in a previous life. That gets her mad. She wants to be a queen, even in make-believe.” Bitsy gave Cleo a long hug. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a big, huge favor to ask you.”

  Cleo was already nodding yes. She’d do anything for the Gala, anything to save her library.

  “Hummingbird cake,” Bitsy said in a low voice. Vernon was hopping out of their SUV, jogging around to offer his mother an elbow. Maybelle swatted him off.

  “Vernon’s birthday’s coming up,” Bitsy said, speaking fast. “Hummingbird’s his favorite cake. Mama Givens makes the very best, but she does hers by instinct, she says. She says I won’t do it right. She’s probably right. I’m not a baker. Or a cook…” The usually bubbly Bitsy looked deflated.

  Cleo felt restored. Here was a problem she could solve, and immediately too. “If I recall, Maybelle borrowed my Mama’s recipe.” More like swiped, Cleo mentally amended, recalling the day Maybelle Givens invited herself into Cleo’s kitchen and rifled through her recipe tin when Cleo’s back was turned. Cleo—and Mama—would have given her the recipe if she’d just asked.

  “Mama won the county fair cake contest many years running,” Cleo told Bitsy, smiling with the memory. “She called it her ‘hum with joy cake.’” Cleo ducked inside. She kept a folder with copies of her most requested recipes, the most popular being hummingbird cake. The tropical treat featured layers of pineapple and banana spice cake floating on great waves of cream cheese frosting.

  Back on the porch, she slipped the paper to Bitsy. “Cleo, you’re a lifesaver!” Bitsy said. She stashed the recipe in her purse as Maybelle stomped up the steps, Vernon hovering solicitously at her side.

  “My corns are aching,” Maybelle declared, making a beeline for the porch swing.

  Vernon made up for his mother’s lack of charm, politely inquiring about Cleo’s health. He asked after Rhett and Henry and Words on Wheels and expressed sorrow for Buford Krandall.

  “A good man,” he said. “He was passionate. Committed.”

  “Crazy as a peach orchard boar,” Maybelle said. “Let’s get going.” She kicked her feet, sending the porch swing precariously close to Cleo’s sunroom window.

  “We’ll go, Mama,” Bitsy said brightly. “You must be tired. You too, Vernon. You’ve had a long day.”

  “I have nothing to complain about, considering,” Vernon said. He smoothed a cornflower blue tie over a peach button-down shirt. His trousers and loafers were creamy white.

  “Yes, you do,” Maybelle said. “You griped all the way here about that assistant of yours quitting and leaving a mess.” She frowned at Cleo as if she were to blame. “He’s going to have to hire a temp. You can’t trust temps.”

  Cleo saw another chance to help. “I know just the person,” she exclaimed. She described Leanna’s temp gig as a walking biscuit advertisement. “Leanna’s a lovely young lady. She’s a fabulous library assistant, and she’s already signed up with Tammy Temps. She’s smart, efficient, great with computers—”

  “You said she dresses like food and tramps about on the highway,” Maybelle snapped. “Can’t be that smart.”

  Bitsy looped her arm around her big husband’s waist. “Vern, sugar, hire that girl. I know Miss Leanna from the library and Gala prep. She’s a working whirlwind and cute as a button. I’ll take care of it. I’ll call Tammy Temps and set up the interview for first thing Monday morning.” Bitsy got out her phone and made a note, verbally listing her schedule as she went. “Interview. Tammy Temps. Leanna … Oh, and Miss Cleo—I almost forgot! You said you wanted an unbiased estimate on the library repair costs? I’ve arranged for Vernon’s favorite contractor to come by the library Monday morning too. Vern, hon, I’m sending you reminders right now. First the interview. Then the contractor.”

  “I go where you and the phone tell me,” Vernon said with a chuckle.

  “I’m telling you I need to get home!” Maybelle snapped.

  When Maybelle got her way and the Givens drove off, Cleo hurried to her phone. She’d already told Leanna about Buford Krandall’s death. Now she wanted to report some good news and ask a favor of her own. Leanna was working at Biscuit Bobs tonight. Her young protégé had a librarian’s gift for reading people. Cleo hoped she also had a knack for spying, specifically on a partying widow and a fishy mayor.

  Chapter Six

 
Cleo stepped out into her garden early the next morning, soaking in warm dewy air and the symphony of birdsong. It was Sunday, a rest day for Words on Wheels, but still busy for Cleo. Friends and family were coming to lunch. The long-planned meal was casual but had taken loads of schedule juggling, especially for her twelve-year-old twin grandsons. Young people these days had busier schedules than adults.

  Cleo mulled the menu as she inspected her heirloom climbing rose. Rhett pounced after a bug and found himself in damp grass. The Persian flicked his paws with each step. Then he froze, a foot raised, ears pointed at alert.

  Cleo heard it too, a slight scuffling from the direction of Deputy Gabby Honeywell’s patio. She walked to their shared chin-high fence and peeked over. Gabby was face down on the flagstone. Her elbows bent outward. Her legs spiraled up and around in impossible angles. If Cleo didn’t know better, she might have called for emergency assistance.

  Cleo, however, knew Gabby practiced yoga. The young policewoman was also wearing Spandex, a clear tip-off of extreme exertion.

  Gabby pushed up into a handstand. Cleo watched with awe and a little trepidation, remembering her cousin Dot’s brush with yoga. It began in the library, like so many adventures and some misadventures. Dot borrowed a VCR tape featuring an attractive male yogi on a tropical beach. The man and setting were enticing, so much so that Dot fervently followed his every move. A few downward dogs and a corpse pose later, and Dot was nearly a corpse herself, prone in the ER with a viciously pulled back.

  Rhett jumped to a fence post, announcing their presence with a loud meow.

  “Hey, Rhett. Hi, Miss Cleo,” Gabby said cheerfully, still in a perfect pose.

  Cleo greeted her neighbor and waited for the invitation she hoped would come.

  “Want to pop over?” Gabby swung her legs gracefully to the ground. “I meant to stop by and check on y’all last night, but I got in late.”

  Rhett and Cleo circled around the fence to Gabby’s leafy back patio. Rhett ran to head-bump the again upside-down Gabby. The deputy laughed and lost her balance. “Rhett, you ruined a Pose Dedicated to the Sage Koundinya II.”

  “Goodness,” Cleo said. “The name is as impressive as your balance.”

  Gabby grinned. “I signed up for a fancy yoga class over at the college in Claymore. They’re big on long names.” She patted Rhett, and he flopped in a blissful-cat pose. “Coffee? Tea? Cold drink?”

  Cleo chose herbal tea, hot and peppermint. It was barely seven, but she’d been up for hours and had already had two coffees, double her usual single cup. Sleep had evaded her last night. She’d read—or told herself she was reading—until after midnight. She’d lain in the dark, woken frequently by worries and thoughts of Buford Krandall, and once by Ollie. Her grandson had returned to his backyard cottage at 1:36 a.m. Cleo had heard his laugh echo across the garden. There was other laughter too, accompanying a sharp female voice Cleo recognized as Whitney Greene’s.

  Cleo hadn’t heard Gabby get in, but then Gabby was a quiet neighbor. She didn’t slam screen doors like dear Oliver or broadcast her laughter, when she was laughing at all. Sometimes Cleo worried Gabby was too serious.

  “Did you hear?” Gabby asked, bringing two steaming mugs to the patio. “The chief got a search warrant for the Pancake Mill and grounds, including the spring. Everyone’s going out this morning. Everyone except me. I’m typing reports and following up on witnesses.” She sighed, watching Rhett lazily swat at a butterfly while still lying down.

  “A search warrant for the Pancake Mill? Why, that’s simply absurd.” Cleo kept her eyes on her mug, thinking it wasn’t actually so outlandish. Did the chief know about Mary-Rose confronting Buford and the gunfire that followed? She surely hoped not.

  “Just routine,” Gabby said, which didn’t sound bad until she continued. “Of course, everyone knows about the feud between Mary-Rose’s family and Krandall’s. Plus, witnesses overheard Mary-Rose at the Pancake Mill threatening to kill Buford.” Gabby gave Cleo an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I know she’s your friend.”

  “It’s only a saying,” Cleo protested. “‘I could kill so and so.’ It’s awful, but not meant literally. I was there when she said it. She was upset and venting. She’d had a lot of sugar.”

  “Yeah,” Gabby said. “I get that. But then another witness heard Buford Krandall say he was going to ‘bury that Garland woman for good.’ He could have been researching methods in those library books you took him. That gives her motive too, unfortunately. Self-defense.” Gabby stretched languidly. Rhett did the same, exposing his choppy-shaved belly.

  Cleo set down her mug, hiding the shake in her hand. “Do you know the cause of death?” she asked.

  Gabby hesitated. She leaned back in her patio chair, watching a hummingbird sip at her feeder. The little bird hovered, wings a blur. “I might as well say,” she said, as the hummingbird zipped off with a buzz. “Everyone will know soon enough. Mr. Krandall was dealt a fatal blow to the cranium by a blunt object. We’re still looking for the weapon. We checked all those weird bookends in his library and statues by the house, but no joy. No blood, I mean.”

  Cleo shuddered.

  Gabby continued. “What’s really weird is that book we found under him, open right to his cause of death. Did you worry, lending him those books like that? Who reads that kind of stuff?”

  Cleo gave Gabby an abbreviated version of her librarians-never-judge speech.

  “Well, I can see that in your profession,” Gabby said, twisting a curl around her finger. “But police have to judge, and fast if there’s a killer running around.”

  Cleo prayed they wouldn’t jump to judge Mary-Rose. “Any other brushes with death around town lately?” she asked.

  “Do you mean, did Buford try to murder someone else and miss? Not that I know of, but it’s a good angle to keep in mind. The chief says, the solution is usually simpler. It’s someone close. A spouse or relative … or neighbor.” Gabby smiled over her tea mug. “I’m lucky to have such nice neighbors.”

  Cleo returned the compliment and added a lunch invitation. “It’ll be friends and family. My cousin Dot and son Fred—Ollie’s father—and his wife and kids. Leanna. Ollie too, hopefully, and Mary-Rose…” Cleo’s guest list trailed off in uncertainty.

  “I’m sure Mary-Rose’ll be fine and eager to come to lunch,” Gabby said kindly. “She’s not supposed to touch anything during the search, anyway.” Gabby got up to pat Rhett. “I’d be over in a heartbeat too, but I doubt I can get away. The chief is pushing for evidence, the murder weapon, an arrest, any progress. ‘Critical first days,’ as he says.” She smiled grimly, ruffling Rhett’s fur. “My first big murder case. It’s not as glamorous as it looks on TV, is it Rhett?”

  “No,” Cleo said sympathetically, since Rhett was busy purring. “I don’t suppose so.” She and Rhett had to let Gabby get to work, but before leaving, she could suggest a more productive investigative direction. She described as much as she knew of Buford Krandall’s boasts of saving the library and besting Mayor Jeb Day. She added, “Did you know that our mayor was celebrating at Biscuit Bobs yesterday? So was Buford’s new widow, Kat. Like you said, the killer could be someone close. Money’s a powerful motive too.”

  Gabby frowned in thought. “Buford and Kat Krandall were the oddest couple. I think they liked their divorce fight. I saw them in court once, having a grand time lobbing insults and legal threats. They went out to lunch afterward. I don’t know if either truly wanted the divorce to end.”

  Cleo, feeling a twinge of tattletale guilt, reported on her recent chat with Kat. “Kat swore she’d be rid of Buford soon. By her fiftieth birthday, within three months.”

  Gabby took a note and promised to check into Kat.

  “Then there’s the mayor,” Cleo said, feeling much better pointing Gabby toward Mayor Jebson Day. “Mayor Day was awfully happy about Buford’s death. Buford was going to fight the mayor’s pet fishing projects and gambling boat.”

  Gabby ta
pped her pencil on the metal patio table. “Our mayor could be holding the murder weapon while jaywalking in the buff, and the chief wouldn’t let a lowly deputy like me confront him. I’ll keep an eye out, though. You really have no idea how Mr. Krandall planned to save the library and get at Mayor Day’s projects?”

  Cleo shook her head dismally.

  Gabby tapped some more. “Ooh…,” she said, pencil raised. “What if it was something with Mr. Krandall’s spring-water scheme? That sure would put you in a devil’s bargain, Miss Cleo. Save the library at the cost of your friend’s business and Pancake Spring?”

  Cleo shifted uncomfortably. Mary-Rose had already accused her of just that.

  * * *

  With lunch, Mary-Rose, and murder on her mind, Cleo strolled downtown a few hours later. Her cousin Dot, sixty-eight years young, ran Dot’s Drop By at the center of downtown. The little shop offered grocery and deli items and single-serve ice creams scattered treasure-hunt fashion in a freezer chest. Jumbled shelves in the back stocked miscellanea from stockings to lightbulbs, to faded postcards.

  This being Sunday, the Drop By would open briefly from about nine, when Dot got out of church, until eleven, when her devotions turned to supper. A blustery pastor once condemned Dot’s Sunday hours as sacrilegious. Dot set him straight. Sitting through sermons sparked revelations, Dot contended, including those regarding missing ingredients.

  As Cleo approached her cousin’s store, she thought Dot was both charitable and a shrewd businesswoman. A small line had formed, waiting for Dot to unlock the doors. Cleo spotted Wanda Boxer in the queue. Cleo’s gossipy neighbor to the north and the aunt of Mayor Day, Wanda could cast clouds over the sunniest of days. Cleo decided to avoid Wanda’s gloom and stroll around Fontaine Park until Dot opened.

  Sun filtered through long-limbed live oaks and their Spanish moss veils. The azaleas were as glorious as stained glass, translucent and glowing. Since her dear husband Richard’s passing, Cleo had improvised her Sundays. Sometimes she went to the early-bird service, when the organ player was at her most energetic and uninhibited. Other times, she found divinity in nature or her garden, or inspiration in a good book.