Better Off Read

by Nora Page

  “Awesome,” Ollie said, beaming and blushing.

  Oh dear, Cleo thought. Ollie seemed head over heels.

  Ollie helped himself to big portions of everything. “Gran’s the best cook,” he said to Whitney, whose plate remained empty.

  “Meat,” she said with a curl of distaste to her lip.

  Cleo’s hostess smile faltered. “You’re a vegetarian? Mac and cheese then? Grits?”

  Whitney scowled down her prodigious beak of a nose. “Does the corn glop have exploited dairy products in it?”

  “The grits?” Ollie interpreted nervously. “Yeah, they probably have some butter.”

  Cleo didn’t bother mentioning the cheese, since Whitney was already wrinkling her nose over the green beans and muttering about hog fat. Cleo had no problem with vegetarians or vegans or those with allergies or special diets or who somehow didn’t enjoy bacon in their beans. What she couldn’t tolerate was rudeness.

  “I guess you’ll be having fruit salad then,” Cleo said crisply. She returned to the table, where Fred sawed at his ham in a sullen silence. Mary-Rose was discussing peacocks with boisterous overenthusiasm. Zoe seemed to be lecturing Henry and the twins on the ways of dragons.

  “So, Ollie finally has a girlfriend,” Dot declared in a volume that cut over the dragons, peacocks, and silence, and surely carried to the kitchen.

  Ollie and Whitney squished in at the end of the table, dislodging Rhett. Whitney picked resentfully at fruit and grudgingly gave spare answers to Dot’s questions. Was she from Catalpa? No. Nearby? No. Was she here for work? Kinda. Was she enjoying Catalpa Springs? A shrug.

  Cleo returned to the kitchen for more comforting mac and cheese. Henry followed, saying he was after grits and ham.

  “I apologize,” Cleo whispered. “I promised you a relaxing lunch.”

  Henry smiled and mock-whispered back. “These things can happen. I’m having a lovely time. I’ll need a nap after all this wonderful food.”

  Cleo thought a nap might be good in any case. She was just sitting back down when the doorbell rang. Fred huffed. Ollie kept eating. Angela, nearest the window said, “It’s a police car. A young woman. Your neighbor, Cleo?”

  Mary-Rose dropped her fork. Ollie stopped shoveling grits.

  “I did invite Gabby. Perhaps she found time after all.” Cleo got up, along with Whitney, who was suddenly enthusiastic about fruit.

  Gabby was in uniform, her cap in her hand and her face serious. “Come in!” Cleo said. “We’re all in the dining room. Will you have some lunch? Dessert? We’ll cut into Mary-Rose’s wonderful pies soon.” She felt oddly nervous in her own home.

  Gabby stopped at the dining room threshold. No one was eating except Fred, who was determinedly chewing, making his father’s point that meals should not be disturbed. Cleo realized how silly they must look, everyone decked out in aprons except the cat and dog, though Mr. Chaucer did have on a bandana. “We have an apron for you, Gabby,” she joked. Gabby didn’t smile back. She told Cleo she was sorry.

  “Mrs. Garland?” Gabby said looking beyond Cleo. “Would you please come outside with me?”

  Mary-Rose bristled. Red flared behind her freckles. “No. I am eating lunch with my friends. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  “It can’t.” Gabby’s expression breached no debate. “Ma’am, our divers found something in Pancake Spring. If you don’t come willingly, I’ve been ordered to arrest you.”

  Sergeant Tookey appeared at her side. “What’s taking so long? Oh…” The big baby-faced man rubbed his belly. His eyes lingered on plates and platters and glanced over guests, then snapped back to Zoe. Mary-Rose’s granddaughter slouched in seven-year-old boredom, fiddling with what looked like a string of small beads. “What do you have there, sweetie?” Tookey asked, taking a step closer.

  Mary-Rose’s complexion went from fevered to ashen. “Leave her alone.”

  “Pearls,” Zoe was already answering. She shot a scowl at Tookey. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Look, they’re yours, Nana. Look, I found them where you dropped them.” Zoe dug in her pockets and proudly produced more lumpy natural pearls.

  “What a nice surprise,” Tookey drawled with pointed sweetness. “We found some pearls too. In Krandall House. Where’d your granny drop these?”

  “In the library at Mr. Creepy Crankpot’s house after he shot at Nana.” Zoe said.

  “Who wants pie?” Cleo practically bellowed, clapping her hands.

  But Zoe’s words were out. Gabby produced an evidence bag. “It’s okay,” she told Zoe. “We’ll just borrow these. They’ll be safe. So will you. That man can’t scare you or your grandmother again.”

  “I know,” Zoe said, matter-of-factly. “Nana says he’s gone away. She means he’s dead.”

  “My lawyer will eat you for lunch for upsetting a child,” Mary-Rose declared, waving a chastising finger in the direction of Tookey. Her chair scraped against the floor planks as she stood and tore off her apron. She sweetly asked Cleo to watch Zoe, before striding out so fast, Gabby and Tookey had to jog to catch up. The front door slammed.

  “Who’s her lawyer?” Angela asked, breaking the stunned silence around the table.

  “Thurgood Byron, most likely,” Cleo said. “He does all their business paperwork and—”

  Angela was the next guest whipping off her apron and heading for the door with lawyerly urgency. “Bless his heart, but Thurgood Byron is not the man for a murder defense. I’ll just go and see if she needs any extra help.”

  Ollie looked around wildly. “Whitney?” He dashed to the kitchen. The back door slammed seconds later.

  Zoe slid under the table to sulk with Rhett. Fred threw down his napkin in frustration.

  “Pie?” Cleo asked. Only Theo and Leon took her up on it.

  Chapter Eight

  When the dishes were cleared and the kitchen tidied and all the other guests were gone, Henry and Cleo took Zoe and the pets to Fontaine Park. They chose a shaded bench near the fountain the park was named after. Clear spring-fed waters pirouetted up and over three fluted tiers into a shimmering stone pool. A soft breeze kept the heat at bay. Zoe swung across the monkey bars at the nearby play area, Mr. Chaucer snoozed flat out on his back, and Rhett perched on a low-hanging oak limb. It should have been relaxing.

  Cleo checked the time. Where was Angela? She stared beyond the dancing waters, eyeing the police station, willing her lawyer daughter-in-law to emerge with Mary-Rose in tow.

  “Honestly, you don’t have to wait,” she told Henry again when the church bells announced another half hour had passed. She felt bad for entangling him in yet more troubles.

  “I’m happy to,” he said. He stretched out his legs. “It’s a lovely day for the park. Angela and Mary-Rose will surely be out soon, and I have a feeling we’ll learn something interesting.”

  Interesting wasn’t necessarily good. Cleo noticed Rhett flattening his body to the branch. She understood why when a bark boomed over them. Beast, the mastiff, rounded the fountain, dragging Kat Krandall-Stykes behind him. The new widow looked far from merry. Her long braid hung limp, and her unheeded canine-obedience commands sounded half-hearted. Beast stopped at the fountain, seemingly aiming to lap up the entire pool. Mr. Chaucer belatedly awoke with a sneeze and wobbled over to watch in awe.

  “Kat, I’m so sorry,” Cleo said, noting the woman’s bloodshot eyes. She wasn’t sure if Kat was grieving or hungover or both.

  Kat sniffled and, to Cleo’s surprise, teared up.

  Henry offered his pocket square.

  “No thanks, that’s way too nice,” Kat said. She fished a crumpled paper towel from her overalls and swiped it across her reddened nose. “Why would she go and do that? Why kill him? He was mine.”

  Cleo and Henry exchanged a look. “She? Who, dear?” Cleo asked.

  Beast, showing uncharacteristic sensitivity, came over to drool on Kat’s boot. She rested a hand on his broad head. “The Garland woman. I heard she’s been hauled in
by the police. People are saying she killed my Buford. Why? They were just one-upping each other like he and I did. Like when she got those peacocks to scare him. That was a good move. He hated those birds. Said they sounded like alien wolves.” A half smile twitched.

  Cleo repeated her firm belief in Mary-Rose’s innocence. “You said yourself how Buford liked digging into dirty laundry. He got a lot of folks upset, not only Mary-Rose.” It seemed a terrible thing to say of the recently deceased, but it was true.

  “Yeah,” Kat mumbled. “I know. Honestly, I hope it isn’t the pancake lady. I like that place and her.”

  “We all do,” Cleo said. “Now, let’s think. Who else might have been upset with your husband?”

  To Cleo’s admiration, Henry produced a small notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket to record what turned into a lengthy list. There was the previous mayor, whom Buford also disliked with a passion. A dermatologist, sued for not removing Buford’s then benign mole. A mailman, fired for refusing to deliver to Krandall House, which he swore to be demonically possessed. A florist, teachers, strangers, several grocery clerks, children, boaters, a falconer … “Buford shot at the falcon,” Kat said. “You could put birds on the list too.” She sniffed loudly and teared up afresh.

  “You’ll miss him,” Cleo said, reading true sorrow in Kat.

  “Yeah,” Kat said, rubbing Beast’s floppy ears. “I will miss him. You’ll think it’s weird, but I’ll miss our divorce. It ended too soon. I was going to soak him for everything he had, so help me—”

  Church bells rang across the park, covering Kat’s lengthy outburst. She stuffed the sodden paper towel back into her overalls.

  “Won’t you get everything now anyway?” Henry asked gently. “You were still married.”

  Kat uttered a fresh string of curses. “I’ll be lucky to get a dime. He always said he was making a will and leaving everything to anyone but me.”

  Cleo asked, but Kat claimed not to know where the will might be or who would be the beneficiary. Kat flicked Beast’s leash, as if activating a stagecoach pony. “We should go. No time for moping. I have a funeral and reception to plan. A proper send-off. The coroner says he can spring the body by next Sunday. Save the date!”

  “Oh dear,” said Henry—Cleo’s sentiments exactly.

  * * *

  They sat for almost another hour. Cleo was drifting into a snooze, when Henry said, “Look, is that Mayor Day heading for the police station?”

  Cleo blinked. She focused in on gaudy Bermuda shorts, a flash of pale male leg, and a fishing rod. That was their mayor all right. She asked Henry if he’d mind watching Zoe and Rhett.

  Henry was happy to oblige. “Just don’t get in any trouble. There are already too many people stuck inside that station today.”

  Cleo had no intention of getting stuck. She intended to get answers.

  “Ah, Miss Cleo,” Mayor Jeb Day said as she climbed the police station steps. He stood at the top, stalled by his ever-present phone and looking too pleased for Cleo’s comfort. A fishing license dangled from a cord around his neck. “A big day for bluegill out on the river,” he declared. “I hear our Chief Culpepper’s landed an even bigger catch. Our killer. She’s your pal, isn’t she?”

  “Mary-Rose is merely helping the police with inquiries,” Cleo said crisply. “She is not a killer.”

  The young mayor smiled, more smug than sympathetic. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s upsetting when an old friend does something stupid like getting nabbed for murder. But everyone knows Mary-Rose Garland can get emotional. She was likely hysterical when it happened. A good lawyer could spin that as a psychotic breakdown. What this town needs now is to move on.” He turned and headed into the building.

  Cleo hustled after him, the foyer’s arctic air-conditioning doing little to cool her temper. She forced sweetness into her tone. “You’re right about moving on, Mayor. Now you can too. Mr. Krandall was pestering you, wasn’t he? What was that all about again?”

  Jeb Day spun so fast, his fishing license nearly bopped Cleo’s nose. “Me and Buford Krandall? I hadn’t spoken with that crackpot in ages.”

  Cleo held her ground. “It was something personal, wasn’t it? I’ll have to ask your Aunt Wanda.” As a neighbor, Wanda Boxer could be nosy and disapproving and downright disturbing in her gardening. However, she knew every bit of town gossip, especially regarding City Hall, where she’d worked for decades. She also loved to talk about her nephew, the mayor.

  “Aunt Wanda minds her own business,” Jeb Day sputtered, as truthful as claiming snow on fire. “You’d do well to mind yours too, if you want to keep that bookmobile on the road.” He stomped off, sneakers squeaking over shiny marble tiles.

  Had she just been threatened in the police station? Cleo gaped as the mayor stormed by reception and pushed through a door marked “Employees Only.”

  Cleo followed the rules. Usually. She approached the reception desk. A woman sat behind it, chewing gum with loud enthusiasm. The receptionist blew a bubble, sucked it in, and said, “Welcome to the Catalpa Springs Police Department. How can we assist your safety today?”

  Cleo recognized that bored tone. “I spoke with you the other day. You answered my 911 call reporting the trouble at Krandall House. You were so much help.” She hadn’t been, of course, but Cleo believed minor fibs were acceptable if complimentary and encouraging of better behavior. While the young woman chewed on that information, Cleo read her nametag: “Jayleen.”

  “Oh, yeah…” Jayleen said, stretching the words in slow realization, as if Catalpa Springs got so many murder calls they blurred together. “I was filling in that day. Reception’s easier but dull as dirt. Anyway, like I was saying, how may the Catalpa Springs Police Department help—”

  Cleo cut in, wondering how many times Jayleen would repeat the same line. “You can help me check on a friend. Two friends. Lawyer Angela Watkins and a witness giving a statement, Mrs. Mary-Rose Garland.”

  Jayleen blew a half-formed bubble. She sucked back the purple skin, frowning with mental effort. “The lawyer lady? Yeah, she’s in there. She snapped at me. Told me to hurry up.”

  Hurrying up sounded like Angela. Cleo wished she dared demand the same. “And the other lady, Mrs. Garland? I assume she’s still with her lawyers?”

  “Gray-red hair, freckles, kind of strung out and excitable, like?”

  It pained Cleo to agree to the description.

  “Last I noticed, she was getting hauled off toward booking.” Jayleen pointed toward the “Employees Only” door. She chewed vigorously, then followed with a gasp so loud Cleo worried she might be choking. “Hey, do you think she’s the murder? Doesn’t look the type, does she? You never can tell.” Jayleen narrowed her eyes at Cleo, seemingly assessing criminal intentions.

  “Booking,” Cleo said firmly. “Does that mean she’s under arrest?”

  Jayleen had fallen back into boredom. “Probably. Locked up, key thrown away, and all that.” The gum snapped and so did Cleo, who skirted Jayleen’s desk and headed for booking.

  “Hey!” Jayleen called, “Stop! You can’t go in there. I’m calling the police.”

  Inside, Cleo did stop. Striding up the disorienting, glossy-tiled hallway was her daughter-in-law. Angela’s sleek shoulder-length hair swung along with her shaking head.

  “Ridiculous,” Angela declared, as if finding Cleo was nothing to question. She caught Cleo’s elbow and spun her around.

  In the lobby, Jayleen was complaining loudly into her headset. “Wait,” she said, pointing to Cleo and Angela. “Forget it. The old lady just came out. No, not the murdering old lady. The short one with fluffy white hair. She must have gotten confused. That snippy lawyer lady’s helping her outside.”

  Cleo didn’t have time to be offended. Angela marched them out the doors, where she stopped, leaned on the railing, and closed her eyes to the sun.

  “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?” Cleo said.

  The usually unflappable Angela
snorted. “In all my time as a lawyer, I’ve rarely encountered such infuriating behavior.”

  Cleo guessed immediately. “Mayor Day. He is most infuriating.”

  Her daughter-in-law shook her head, engrossed in searching her briefcase-like purse.

  While Angela muttered about finding her cell phone, Cleo guessed again. “The chief? Silas Culpepper does drone on.”

  Angela had found her phone and was holding it to her ear. “Good guess. That man can be an explainer, but no, he was quite reasonable, considering.”

  “Thurgood Byron, then,” Cleo said. Really, who else was there?

  Angela apologized and tapped out a text message. “Sorry,” she said, dropping the phone back in her purse. “Fred left me four texts and two voicemails. No, not Thurgood Byron. He’s a dear, but bless his heart, he’s gotten downright distracted. He would not stop talking about cases he’s taken on at that gated community where he lives. What’s it called? Happy Trails? Sounds morbid. Like when you tell kids their hamster went to live in the country.”

  “Mostly it’s nice,” said Cleo, who was suspicious of Happy Trails for other reasons. For one, its full name was Happy Trails Retirement Village. And for another, part of the property crept over the border into Florida. “Thurgood means well.”

  Angela smoothed her hair, sleek and immaculate even under stress. “Yes, we heard all about his good intentions. He’s suing the Happy Trails homeowners association for a larger hot tub. He’s also representing residents who want cocktails served at three thirty so they can be good and toasted by the four-thirty early-bird dining hour. He had a client facing down a murder charge—murder!—and he was complaining the gin and tonics didn’t have enough oomph!” Angela pursed her lips. “Listen to me, meandering from the subject just like he was. You asked who was infuriating?” Angela smiled apologetically. “Mary-Rose Garland.”

  “She can be stubborn,” Cleo said, her heartbeat quickening.

  “She’s that. She let me stay as backup assistant to Thurgood. I completely respect that. I’d never, ever horn in on another lawyer’s client. But then, against both Thurgood’s and my advice, your friend confessed.”