by Nora Page
Cleo walked slowly, savoring the beauty of the day and her hometown. Until she turned a corner. Mayor Day balanced on a ladder propped against a lamppost outside City Hall. Gold plaid shorts rode high up his pale legs. He was stringing something to the lamppost. Cleo discerned nylon fabric, green and speckled and shaped like a fish. The bald man from Las Vegas she’d seen snoozing the other day had his hand on the ladder. He wore a dark suit, too woolly for the weather. His skin was tight and speckled with moles, reminding Cleo of a potato.
“Ah, Mrs. Watkins,” the mayor said, beaming down from three rungs up. He flapped the fish flag. “What do you think? Looks just like a real bass, eh? These babies are top-quality windsocks. No other town has these!”
No other town would want them, Cleo thought. The fabric fish was terribly realistic, its mouth a gaping circle hooked on a metal lure and string. In the mayor’s enthusiasm, the ladder tilted. Potato man yanked it back, sending the ladder and mayor swinging. Behind them stood a large box filled with similar flags.
“Why are you hanging bass on our lamps?” Cleo demanded. “The fishing pier isn’t approved yet.”
Jeb Day grinned. “Nothing wrong with a little advance publicity. Isn’t that what you and those Ladies Leaguers are doing? Only difference is, I have loads of investor support.”
“The library has community support,” Cleo retorted, standing tall.
“Money speaks louder than books,” the mayor countered. “Speaking of which, I’ve been looking at the budgets, and the library fund is downright paltry, down to nothing. I don’t know if you could keep going even without that tree damage—am I right, Jimmy?”
The man, whom Cleo now knew as Jimmy, offered nothing, no words nor movement of his spud-like features.
Cleo summoned her Sunday-best manners. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, sir.” She held out a hand to Jimmy.
He let go of the ladder.
“Hold on tight, will you, Jim?” the mayor said shakily.
Jimmy ignored him and engulfed Cleo’s hand in a clammy grip. “Jimmy Teeks,” he said, his voice raspy yet surprisingly high. “Consultant.”
“Cleo Watkins, librarian. What do you consult upon, Mr. Teeks?”
“Call him Jimmy,” the mayor suggested.
Jimmy Teeks re-gripped the ladder and gave it a little shake. “Entertainment enterprises. Arrangements. Organizing. Enforcement.”
Somehow Jimmy made even activities Cleo adored—organizing and arrangements—sound a tad treacherous. “I could use help with arrangements,” she said, “for fixing our town’s library.”
“That so?” Jimmy said. He reached in his jacket and pulled out a card, which proved as vague as he was. It gave only his name and the embossed word “Consultant.”
“How do I get in touch with you?” Cleo flipped the card, imagining she could dislodge a phone number and clarification.
“You know people,” Mayor Jeb offered from above. “This is out of your league, Miss Cleo. Jimmy’s here to snag big money. He’s like a wedding planner for gambling enterprises. He’s a pro. A real family man, if you get my drift.” The mayor winked and snickered.
Cleo recalled a popular book from Words on Wheels’ self-help shelf: Disarming the Disrespectful. Smile, the book recommended. Appear calm and disinterested. Think happy thoughts. Jimmy Teeks certainly had his disinterested moves down. The bald man was yawning. Cleo turned her mind to her grandchildren, whom even in their most petulant toddler years had better manners than Jebson Day.
The mayor returned to his fish flag, which he tied up in a loopy bowknot. “There,” he said proudly. “Look at that. Isn’t she fine?”
Cleo changed the subject, hoping to catch him off guard. “Mayor Day, you were out at Biscuit Bobs yesterday, having quite a celebration, I heard. What was the occasion?”
A flash of mind your own business was quickly replaced by a sharky smile. “It was Jimmy’s birthday. We threw him a surprise party. Right, Jim?”
Jimmy’s spud features hardened. “Still waiting for my cake,” he said.
The mayor descended the ladder rungs shakily. “On to the next lamppost!”
Jimmy Teeks stood back, hands deep in his pants pockets, letting the mayor haul his own ladder and flags. Cleo walked on, pondering the presence of the mysterious consultant. Entertainment enterprises. A pro, a family man. Casinos … Las Vegas … She crossed Fontaine Park at a rambling diagonal. When she came to the namesake fountain, she noticed a familiar pug sniff-inspecting a sweet gum tree. She called a hello. Henry waved. Mr. Chaucer wiggled and woofed.
After cheery chitchat about the weather, Cleo veered to a less pleasant topic. “I think our mayor may have hired a mobster.” She informed Henry about the Vegas “consultant.”
Since Henry was such a good listener, she continued on, telling him about the search of the Pancake Mill. Henry nodded and murmured as they strolled slowly back toward Dot’s.
“My,” Henry said, when they were in front of the Drop By, “small-town life is more dangerous than I expected. Murder, potential mobsters, slain drilling machines.” He adjusted his straw Panama hat, reminding Cleo of a shorter, more rumpled Hemingway.
They peered inside Dot’s big storefront windows. Cleo’s cousin stood at the cash register, looking resplendent in her Sunday-best apron, a full-length affair of lacy ruffles and a bold peach print. Dot was adamant about aprons, which she wore for work, cooking, eating—even walking and driving. She had an extensive collection.
“Ah, Sunday supper supplies,” Henry said, eyeing the line of customers. “My mother used to make the most wonderful tomato pies.”
Cleo detected wistfulness. Henry had lost his parents a few years back and, tragically, his wife several decades ago. Their children and grandchildren lived far away, overseas and in Alaska, which might as well be the moon. Cleo thought of how fortunate she was. She should invite Henry to join them for lunch. Her palms went suddenly sweaty. How silly, she chided herself. They were mature adults, not teenagers.
“I’m debating between ham and fried chicken,” Cleo said. She forged on, explaining the guest list. “Will you join us? If you’re not busy…” Cleo realized, in all her years she’d never actually asked a man out. She rationalized that she wasn’t really asking Henry on anything resembling a date. It was a group lunch.
“I’d be imposing,” Henry said, gazing at his feet.
“No, no. It’s casual,” Cleo insisted. “Leanna will come and hopefully Mary-Rose and Ollie. Cousin Dot and my eldest boy, Fred, and his family. I invited Gabby just this morning, but she’s tied up with work.”
A broad smile broke through Henry’s beard. “I’d love to join you all. What can I bring? I make pretty good deviled eggs, if I do say so myself.”
Mr. Chaucer sat on his haunches and whimpered up at Cleo, his curlicue tail wiggling.
“Deviled eggs sound perfect, and of course bring Mr. Chaucer too.” She added, with a little prayer for good measure, “It’ll be a relaxed meal.”
Chapter Seven
Cleo’s kitchen smelled divine. A ham warmed in the oven, basted in brown sugar, mustard, and Coca Cola. Cornbread cooled on the counter, a big pot of green beans simmered on the stove, and potato salad chilled in the fridge. The dining table was set and dressed with a peony-print tablecloth and flowers from the garden.
Most of her guests would arrive in an hour or so. Cleo stepped out to sweep her front porch, mentally ticking off the confirmed visitors and their accompaniments. Dot with her famous mac and cheese. Henry with deviled eggs and Mr. Chaucer. Leanna with cheesy grits and hopefully no disreputable Biscuit Bobs baked goods. Fred and Angela—Ollie’s stepmom—and their twelve-year-old twins, Leon and Theo. Angela would probably bring something healthy, a salad or fruit. Mary-Rose, thank goodness, was still coming and early too, bringing pies, granddaughter Zoe, and news. Her husband William was staying home to rest his bionic knee. The peacocks would patrol the police at Pancake Spring.
&n
bsp; “It’ll be a full house, Rhett,” Cleo warned her cat. “Kids, a dog … you might not even get a chair at the table.”
Rhett enjoyed staring down diners during meals. He threw back his tufted ears and scowled hard. To cheer him up, Cleo let the patchy Persian out to stalk geckos. He was meowing at the screen door, hounded by a squawking jay, when Mary-Rose arrived.
Cleo’s friend managed a grim smile. Zoe streaked inside after Rhett, a book in one hand, a sorcerer’s wand in the other. Rhett was about to be turned into a magical cat dragon. They bounded off in kid and feline delight. Rhett adored games of hide and seek, and ankle attack, and Zoe could hold her own.
“Coconut cream and key lime,” Mary-Rose said, plunking a double-decker dessert carrier onto Cleo’s kitchen table.
“Perfect, lovely, gorgeous.” Cleo’s mouth was already watering. She heard claws skid around the corner and kid feet and laughter race up the stairs. It wasn’t clear who was chasing whom. Cleo pulled out two chairs. “Everything’s ready. We have a half hour or so to rest. Tell me, how are you?”
Mary-Rose ignored the chair and resting. She paced. “I’m fine.”
Cleo waited for a real answer.
Mary-Rose sighed. “I’m mad as a proverbial wet hen. That ridiculous Silas Culpepper has half the police in Georgia picking over my property. I was set to have such good business today too, what with the weather and, well…”
“And ghoulish gossips paying for pancakes with a view to a crime scene?” Cleo said, completing the sentence.
Mary-Rose sped up her walk and her words. “Folks are already talking. They might as well do it while enjoying pancakes. This search is a waste of time.”
Cleo got up to baste the ham. Mary-Rose was making her nervous, and not only because of her incessant circling. “I wonder if they’ll find anything,” Cleo mused, glasses steamed by the oven. Belatedly, she bit her tongue.
Mary-Rose stopped. “If they’ll find anything? Good heavens, Cleo Jane. Over seven decades of friendship, and you think I might be a killer?” Mary-Rose’s hands and voice shook, and she turned to stare out the French doors.
Cleo recalled other anxious times they’d weathered together. There was a winter long ago when Mary-Rose’s then toddler son had a fever the doctors couldn’t break. Poor Mary-Rose had been beyond worried and afraid, which came out as snappy and short-tempered. Maternal concern was understandable. Why was Mary-Rose so worked up now? Shock? Realization of a murder next door? Cleo refused to ponder less innocent possibilities. It was the stress, she told herself. Mary-Rose had been through a lot lately, between Buford’s threats and her husband’s surgery.
“Of course not,” Cleo soothed, shoving the glistening ham back in the oven. “I only meant it’s nerve-wracking, isn’t it? You don’t know what might be misinterpreted or found lying around. A blunt object covers a lot of ground.”
Mary-Rose sighed and sunk into a chair. “Is that what they’re looking for? I have loads of those. Fry pans. Mallets. Hammers. A baseball bat.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Cleo. I’m a tad on edge, if you couldn’t tell.”
Cleo poured Mary-Rose some restorative ice tea, the proper sweet kind.
Mary-Rose gulped half the glass. She put it down and traced lines in the condensation. “I wouldn’t have minded whapping that annoying Krandall upside the head, but I didn’t. You do believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” Cleo said firmly and truthfully. “This search is good, if you think about it. Chief Culpepper can get a silly idea out of his head and move on. I’m sure the killer will be caught soon.”
Mary-Rose scoffed. “Culpepper is methodical and clever, but I’ll feel better when he finds another suspect to hound. You don’t happen to know of any candidates, do you?”
Cleo detected another question behind Mary-Rose’s words: Was Cleo looking into suspects herself? Cleo’s skills in organization, research, and people-reading had proved useful for solving problems in the past. No, Cleo told herself firmly. She had a library to save. The police would do their job. She’d only asked Leanna to spy on the celebrations at Biscuit Bobs because Leanna was already there. Mary-Rose was innocent, and there were much better suspects. She informed her friend about the suspicious Biscuit Bobs celebration. “I told Gabby all about the happy mayor and widow. We’ll soon know more,” she said. “Leanna was there last night, keeping an eye and ear on the situation.”
As if on cue, the doorbell chimed. Leanna stood on the porch, looking pretty in a retro polka-dot dress and matching oven mitts that gripped a deep casserole bowl. Before Cleo could quiz her, Fred and family pulled up. They all piled out of their car, converging with Henry and Mr. Chaucer.
Ideally, Cleo would have made introductions, but the buzzing oven timer pulled her back inside. She returned to the porch to find Fred frowning. She recognized the stubborn ruffled-feathers look her eldest got when refusing to comprehend. Dear Fred was like his father in so many ways. Fred liked routines and knowing everyone at the dinner table. He preferred things to stay the way they were, and he surely didn’t think his widowed, senior-citizen mother might ever have a male friend.
Angela was covering for her husband’s grumpiness with bright small talk. “So you’re the owner of The Gilded Page, Mr. Lafayette? You’ve done lovely things with the shop’s exterior. We’ll have to stop in.”
“An antique bookseller?” Fred enunciated the words slowly, as if the concept—and Henry’s very presence—was incomprehensible. “So, you sell books to my mother’s library? Is that why you’re here, selling books?”
“No,” Henry said. “I’m an, um … acquaintance.”
Mr. Chaucer whimpered anxiously.
“He’s a friend,” Cleo said firmly. “Come in, everyone.” The kids loped in first. Cleo gave the boys hugs, knowing any day they might hit the age of resistance. For Fred that period had lasted from ten until well into his twenties. Angela had done wonders for Fred, revitalizing his happiness after a traumatizing divorce at a young age and even loosening him up a tad. Cleo smiled at her daughter-in-law, thinking her an unlikely role model for loosening. Angela was a lawyer, briskly efficient and polished.
Cleo then properly greeted Henry, who was hanging back bashfully. “Your deviled eggs look angelic. And Mr. Chaucer, aren’t you dapper?” The pug wore a silk bandana. The bit of fabric flair seemed to throw off Chaucer’s already precarious balance. The old dog listed on his way down the hall to the kitchen.
Dot drove up next, and Angela sent Fred out to greet her. “Fred’s a tad tense,” Angela said in the few moments she and Cleo were alone in the foyer. “The washer started shooting water this morning, and the dog got skunked. It’s an unfortunate combination.”
Cleo expressed her sympathy. “And it’s tax season,” Cleo said. Her eldest boy was an accountant, following in his father’s footsteps there too. Springtime filing deadlines hit Fred’s nerves and back hard.
Angela sighed. “Indeed. Then add in all the sports the boys signed up for. Soccer, fencing, tennis, track. Honestly, it’s exhausting. A nice low-key lunch will do us all good.” She nudged Cleo and grinned. “Your friend Henry’s a cutie. Don’t worry—Fred’ll come around.”
* * *
Fred escorted his Auntie Dot straight from the door to the dining table. “Okay, it’s noon. Food’s ready. Where’s Ollie?”
That Ollie was absent or late didn’t surprise Cleo. “He wasn’t sure if he could make it. We’ll start. If he arrives late, he can fix a plate. I’ll keep everything warm in the oven.”
Cleo gave Fred the task of carving the ham, to distract him. Like his father before him, Fred couldn’t stand mealtime tardiness and disruption. Dot plied the guests with aprons—Cleo owned dozens, thanks to Dot—and said grace. Everyone tucked in happily. Cleo gave thanks for family, friends, good food, and small talk that didn’t involve murder.
Theo and Leon outlined their sports regime. Fred grudgingly grinned through a tale of the broken washer and stinky poodle c
ombination. Henry impressed the kids with his knowledge of vintage comics. Leanna had everyone laughing about the woes of biscuit costumes and cheering for her interview at the bank. “Mrs. Givens is even going to help me dress the part,” Leanna said with a nervous giggle. “She’s going to lend me banker clothes.”
Dot suggested Leanna add an apron to her outfit. “Money is filthy,” the seasoned store owner said primly.
Ollie broke the jolly mood, strolling in as Fred was getting a second helping of ham and salty-sweet gravy.
“Where have you been?” Fred snapped.
“Sorry, Dad.” Ollie swiped at a wavy lock that fell immediately back over his eyes. His jeans had muddy, frayed cuffs, and his T-shirt could have used a good bleaching. “Hi, Gran. Hi, everyone.” He bounced on the soles of his sneakers, eagerly asking Cleo if it was okay to bring a guest. “Whitney,” he whispered.
“Of course, how lovely,” Cleo said politely.
“Whitney, this is everyone,” Ollie said, waving in the scowling young woman. He ran through names and relations, ending with Rhett. “… and Rhett Butler, library cat.… One of us will have to steal his seat. Sorry, Rhett.”
Whitney offered a bored “hi.” Frizzy curls obscured her face but couldn’t hide her surly expression. Cleo tried to think good thoughts. At least Whitney wasn’t wearing waders or camo. She had on short jean shorts and a tank top, from which various bits and pieces of tattoos peeked out. Cleo thought she spotted a manatee with a knife, which begged questioning, but she wasn’t about to ask. From mortifying past experience, Cleo knew guessing a tattoo incorrectly was as bad as misreading a little extra belly padding as pregnancy.
“Let’s get you plates,” Cleo said. In the kitchen, she directed the two twenty-somethings to the bountiful buffet. “Ham, cheesy grits, and mac and cheese in the oven. Green beans on the stove, and potato salad, fruit salad, and deviled eggs. There’s cornbread too and pie for dessert.”