by Nora Page
“Is that so?” Gabby had her pen poised for more notes. Cleo waved goodbye, hurrying to her house to collect her purse, cat, and the keys to Words on Wheels.
* * *
Cleo pulled the bookmobile over just a few blocks away, parking in front of the Catalpa Springs Public Library. She sat a moment, admiring the lush, though overgrown, garden and remembering Mondays past. How she loved her first step inside, when the foyer was still dark, and the air smelled of books, ink on paper, and fresh promise. Not today. The front door was blocked by hazard tape. The blue tarp slapped at the roof, as if mocking her.
Rhett meowed and pawed the door to be let out. “You wait a moment, Rhett,” Cleo said. She rattled a container of tuna treats, and he bounded back up the steps. While he was purring and crunching, Cleo slipped his harness around his shoulders. The library was still a hazard. That’s why they were here, to get an honest estimate from the Givens’s contractor.
At the click of the harness, Rhett stiffened and promptly collapsed onto his side.
“Come now,” Cleo said to the dramatic Persian. Rhett continued to play stricken. His legs and tail stuck out straight. His belly heaved, and his face pinched deeper into a resentful, sour frown. Bits of uneaten kibble lay at his whiskers. Rhett detested his harness and made sure those feelings were well known.
Cleo opened the doors to temptations of birds, green grass, and geckos. If Rhett didn’t budge, she’d scoop him up and carry him. Rhett’s tail twitched and nothing more. Cleo was bending to lift her cat when she sensed they weren’t alone. She looked up to see Bitsy Givens in a flowery sundress.
“My goodness, look at you,” Bitsy drawled in faux horror to Rhett.
“What’s wrong with that cat?” Maybelle Givens appeared behind Bitsy like a cranky shrunken shadow in a black tracksuit. “Is it a cat? What happened to its fur? Looks like it has termites.”
Cleo scooped Rhett up protectively. “He’s fine,” she said, grimacing as Rhett employed his claws to heft himself up so his chest balanced on her shoulder.
“I’m not fine,” Maybelle declared. “My corns are the size of peanuts, and I’m getting dragged out to a destruction site.”
Cleo hugged her Rhett closer, disturbed not only by Maybelle’s foot imagery but the sight beyond. Leanna teetered toward them, hobbled in tippy heels, a look of distressed determination on her young face.
Bitsy had the opposite reaction. “Isn’t Leanna looking darling? I dolled her up for her interview earlier this morning, and it worked. She got the job!” Bitsy clapped. Leanna wobbled faster, ankles turning such that Cleo cringed.
Leanna, a year-round devotee of flip-flops, wore spiky heels and a tight-fitting suit coat and skirt combination that looked more uncomfortable than her biscuit costume. Her honey hair hung in bouncy curls, and mascara obscured her eyes.
“Congratulations, Leanna,” Cleo said, happy for the job if not her unwieldy attire. “When do you start?”
“Tomorrow.” Leanna grabbed the bus and gripped onto the handrail as if for dear life. Once stabilized, she brightened. “I’m so excited. It’s perfect. I can’t thank Mr. and Mrs. Givens enough. It’s part-time, so I can keep up my shelving duties for Words on Wheels, and no more biscuit suits!”
“You are such a doll!” Bitsy patted Leanna on the shoulder, compromising her shaky balance. “Vernon should never have hired that former assistant of his. She was lazy and unorganized. His files are a mess.”
“She was cute,” Maybelle muttered. “Hot, actually.”
Bitsy’s beaming momentarily flickered. “You’re cute, Mama Givens. Let’s get you resting in the car so I can take Cleo over to the library. Vern’s already inside with our contractor, DeWayne Patterson. DeWayne will give you a good, honest estimate on your repairs.”
“I don’t want to rest,” Maybelle said, as pouty as Rhett. “I want a book.” Her mouth kept moving after the final word. Cleo smelled the cinnamon heat of gum.
“I want my library fines forgiven too,” Maybelle said, dark eyes gleaming. “You don’t have a real, working library. I shouldn’t have to pay.”
Rhett’s claws needled Cleo’s shoulder. Cleo took it as a warning. “Okay, we can forgive your fines,” Cleo said out of gratitude for Vernon’s and Bitsy’s generosity toward the library and Leanna. “But no more folding down pages to mark your place, Maybelle, or I’ll have to ban you for good. And absolutely no gum allowed on the bookmobile.”
Maybelle snorted. “You can’t ban me or my gum. My son’s bank president. He’s helping you out and hired your friend here who can’t walk right.”
“I’ll practice,” Leanna said in a small voice.
Bitsy intervened. “I’ll show her the ways of heels, Mama. It’s all a matter of believing you can, like anything.”
Cleo reached into her purse and handed Maybelle a Catalpa Springs Library bookmark and a tissue, the latter intended for the gum.
Maybelle defiantly decorated the bookmark in a gummy pink glob and folded the paper in half. “There,” she said, handing back the destroyed bookmark. “Let’s see what you’re hauling around in this old thing.” She made for the bus.
“Do you need a hand, Mama Givens?” Bitsy hustled to her mother-in-law’s side. Cleo held out a hand too, but Maybelle swatted them both away. “What are you implying, Cleo? I’m no invalid. I’m only five years older than you, and look at you, out working still. You have to work, I suppose. It’s sad.”
Cleo wasn’t sad. She loved her job, and she was downright thrilled to put Rhett down and let him tug her toward the library.
* * *
“Skunks,” DeWayne Patterson announced as Cleo and Rhett made their way up the makeshift plywood ramp at the back of the library. A slender man in coveralls, boots, and a ball cap, DeWayne pointed at a gap between what used to be Cleo’s cozy staffroom and the outdoors.
Rhett threw his ears back. Cleo sniffed and wrinkled her nose. Skunks were cute, and she enjoyed seeing them visit her backyard. They were, however, possibly a greater hazard to books than Maybelle Givens. Possibly.
“Must have wiggled right on in through this hole.” DeWayne’s voice was muffled, as he was on the floor, stuffing his head and shoulders into the same jagged opening. Cleo was glad she’d put Rhett on his harness. This is exactly the kind of situation she wanted her cat—and contractors—to avoid.
“They can get their heads tiny as mice,” DeWayne said. He kept on talking, a rapid ramble about rodent head sizes big and small.
Cleo imagined a furry black-and-white family on the outer side, tails twitching with anticipation. “Maybe you shouldn’t…” she started, but then decided DeWayne knew what he was doing.
“Yep,” he declared when he reappeared. “That there’s one of your problems.” He appeared unskunked and unscathed except for dirt on his forehead and his cap sitting crooked. Cleo eyed the embroidered bass and hook on the front of the hat, which looked newer than anything else on DeWayne. Fish—specifically fancy, expensive fishing piers and a fish-crazed mayor—were also her problems. She reminded herself that she didn’t begrudge all men who fished. Just one. Her thoughts turned to Mayor Jeb Day and whether Gabby would take the bait and investigate him.
In the background, DeWayne was listing the library’s many structural issues. She heard terms regarding plumbing, plaster, and stucco and then the heartening phrase “not so bad.” As DeWayne spoke of the intricacies of wiring, she let her mind wander to Ollie and Mary-Rose and that slain drill.
“I think it might be a good idea,” DeWayne was saying now. “I heard you might have to shut otherwise.”
Cleo snapped back to attention. DeWayne had pushed his cap back and was scratching at his forehead, the only broad part about the slender man.
“I’m sorry,” Cleo said. “What’s a good idea?”
“A loan from Mr. Givens’s bank. He gave me a nice little loan to redo my place and buy a new work truck, and the interest isn’t so bad. He’s a good man. You should go ask him.
He’s around at the front, I think, or inside somewhere.”
It sounded more fruitful than nosing after skunks. With Rhett back on her shoulder, Cleo went in search of Vernon. The library occupied the former residence of a town founder. The staffroom, once a summer kitchen in the back of the house, opened to a central hallway, short but grand, with tall ceilings, dark wood wainscoting, and fine bookshelves that used to display new acquisitions. Cleo ran a hand fondly over the librarians’ station, a U-shaped counter opening to both the hall and the main fiction room. How many enjoyable hours had she spent here? How many days, years, decades? From her station, she could see everyone coming and going and catch little glimpses into each of the four main rooms too.
She peeked into Fiction, which also housed the periodicals, newspapers, and comfy chairs for readers. The room had been mercifully spared from crushing and rain, but was currently stuffed with stacks of rescued reference materials and rolled-up oriental rugs from the hallway. Cleo walked slowly to the center of the hall, turning and taking in the rooms. Nonfiction occupied an airy space in the front, also serving as dry storage. Kids’ and young adult books were tucked in a small former bedroom in the back.
Then there was the reading and reference room, a compact but stunning separate wing, with wood paneling, fine hand-hewn bookshelves, and antique touches dating to the late 1800s. It was a treasure and sadly the most damaged. Opaque plastic sheeting had been taped across the doorframe, and Cleo was almost glad she couldn’t see inside. She breathed in heavily. The air no longer smelled fresh and bookish and full of promise. Mustiness pervaded, along with distressing whiffs of mold and skunk.
Setting down Rhett, she let him lead the way to Nonfiction. The cat headed for his favorite window seat, already occupied by Vernon Givens. The bank president wore pants the color of lime sherbet and a jacket of pale lemon. He was reading a book.
“Ah, Miss Cleo and Mr. Rhett Butler,” he said, extending a hand to Cleo and following up with a scratch of Rhett’s ears. “You caught me having fun when everyone else is working. These books were in your returns box outside on the porch. I brought ’em in. Didn’t want them to get misplaced or the borrowers to run up fines.” He chuckled and patted the small stack. Cleo noted a few thin picture books, a romance, a mystery, and two more of greater interest. One was a guide to the limestone geology of Catalpa County. The other was Priscilla Pawpaw’s Killings in Cotton Country. Both, if she recalled correctly, had been last checked out by Buford Krandall.
Vernon flipped through the geology book. “Who knew … we’re sitting on a stone sponge.”
The bank president shared his new knowledge of springs, sinkholes, and underwater caves. Cleo listened with interest and patience. As soon as he put the book down, she snatched it up and the true-crime book too. Cleo had told herself she didn’t have the time or sufficient reason to get involved in Buford Krandall’s death. However, now Mary-Rose was snagged in the official investigation, and Ollie might be caught up too. The police would look at the chain of events, details of actions, alibis, and physical evidence. Would they bother with books? Cleo gripped Killings in Cotton Country tightly. Buford Krandall had checked out Priscilla Pawpaw’s true-crime books for a reason. Perhaps the books could tell her why … and why he had been killed.
“I’d better go check on Mama and then get back to the bank,” Vernon was saying. He stood and dusted off his slacks. Rhett hopped down too, wandering to the end of his long lead.
Cleo thanked Vernon again for sending DeWayne and for coming by personally.
“I’ve missed the library,” the banker said. “I wanted to see inside. It’s pretty bad in the reading room, isn’t it? But wood and roofs can be fixed. With money…”
He’d given Cleo a perfect opening for her question. “What about a loan for library repairs? Of course the town owns the building, so it would have to be worked out with the town council somehow. I suppose it’s tricky.”
Vernon flashed his banker’s smile, chummy and sparkling. “You know, I do love to give out building and renovation loans,” he said, buoying Cleo’s hopes. “In fact, our mayor’s already been asking about that.”
“He has?” Cleo said. Was it possible that Mayor Day had come around? “That’s wonderful.”
But Vern was shaking his head now, and not in an encouraging way. “Good for the building, but not necessarily for you or library lovers. The mayor was thinking he might fix the building and renovate it back to a house. He says the town could rent it out to all those pro fishermen and sportscasters and big-time gamblers he imagines arriving.”
When Cleo managed to speak, she gasped, “What?”
Vernon looked apologetic. “Mayor Day says this place could rent for a lot. He says historic buildings and library décor are popular with well-to-do types.”
“Library décor?” Cleo sputtered. “A library’s popular with all types!”
“Don’t worry,” Vernon said soothingly. “I didn’t encourage him. You have Bitsy and her ladies on your side. Wait till Bitsy tells you her new idea. It could be a wild ride…” He grinned.
Cleo was up for any ideas, even wild ones. She went to scoop up Rhett but found his harness lying empty. The big cat was an escape artist. Where had he gone? Cleo was afraid she knew when DeWayne’s voice boomed from out back. “Skunk!”
The cry was followed by a familiar feline yowl.
Chapter Eleven
Five fluffy tails, black and white and curled aloft, bounced across the lawn like a feathered chorus line. One by one, they disappeared under a holly hedgerow. A puffy orange backside followed close behind.
“Rhett Butler!” Cleo cried. Her cat stopped just short of the shrubbery, halted not by Cleo, surely, but by the dense, spiky leaves. “No, no, you don’t,” Cleo fussed, hurrying after him, thinking of her son Fred’s skunked pooch. Dunking a poodle in the bathtub was child’s play compared to scrubbing an angry, clawed Persian. A darling but naughty grandniece once spritzed perfume all over Rhett, necessitating a shampoo and rinse. Cleo’s hairdresser stepped in then too. He likely wouldn’t make that mistake again, not with the wounds still healing from Rhett’s recent grooming.
Cleo grabbed Rhett, who was wiggling his tail end, plotting a pounce. “You’ve gotten in enough trouble already,” she said, expecting to be knocked off her feet by stink. Instead, Rhett’s fur smelled of fresh grass, his breath of tuna treats as he nuzzled her chin. The skunk scent grew, however, with the approach of DeWayne.
“Ha! Missed me,” DeWayne said, raising a fist in mock anger.
Cleo sniffed pointedly. “They may have gotten you a touch.”
DeWayne sniffed his arms and nose-reachable chest of his coveralls. He scratched his head and sniffed again. “Nah, I think they only got a bit of my head. Your cat alerted me just in time. They were hiding under the sink. You’re a hero, buddy.” He reached to pat Rhett. Cleo managed to inch away before DeWayne could bestow skunk-scented gratitude. “There’s some powerful soap in the staffroom,” she said.
DeWayne went in search of suds, promising he didn’t hold a grudge against the baby skunks. “They’re just little bitty things and don’t know any better,” he said. “Besides, Mr. Givens wouldn’t let me hurt ’em. He’s had me live-trap mice and carry them out of the bank.” The fix-it man headed for the library, whistling cheerfully.
Cleo and Rhett aimed for Words on Wheels, where Vernon was assisting his mother off the bus. Leanna and Bitsy were wrapping up Leanna’s walking-in-heels lesson.
“You don’t have any books I want to read,” Maybelle complained. “Lousy collection.”
“Not even a nice mystery, Mother?” Vernon suggested. “You like those.”
“Read ’em all,” Maybelle claimed. “Vernon, dear, I need to sit down. My feet hurt and my back’s twinged from leaning over those little shelves. We have my foot and skin doctor appointments later this morning. Your present wife is likely to make me late.”
Vernon escorted his mother to their vehicle
, opening all the doors of the tank-sized SUV, fanning out the heat with the flaps of his jacket.
Bitsy maintained a smile, tight with tension lines at the ends of her lips.
“She’s kinda mean to you,” Leanna said. “‘Present wife’?”
Bitsy waved it off. “That’s just her way. I love Mama Givens for loving Vern like she does. She’s a sweetie under that gruff. I feel like she’s my own mama.”
Bitsy wasn’t originally from Catalpa Springs, and Cleo didn’t know any of her relations. Bitsy’s mother might be awful or an ax murderer, Cleo thought. She’d have to be pretty terrible to make Maybelle Givens seem sweetly maternal. Cleo, of course, did not ask. She tactfully changed the subject, inquiring about Bitsy’s new plan.
“Ooh! I had the best idea!” Bitsy said, clapping her hands. “What if you took some of us Ladies Leaguers out for a spin in the bookmobile? I want everyone on board with the library cause. Ladies Leaguers love trips, and some are seriously wealthy too, and potential donors. All you’d have to do is drive us around to your normal stops. You won’t even know we’re here. Well, you might hear some ruckus, but it’s still okay, right?”
Vernon strolled past, chuckling. “Ever been on a party bus, Miss Cleo? Prepare yourself.”
Bitsy was twisting her fingers, looking so earnest, Cleo couldn’t have turned her down if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t. Cleo enjoyed showing off Words on Wheels. “It’s a wonderful idea.”
Leanna was agreeing. “I know a reporter at the Catalpa Gazette. Toby. I could call him, and maybe we’d get in the paper too—at least some photos.”
Bitsy beamed. “I told Vernon, you’re a go-getter, Leanna. Yes, you call and get your pretty faces in the paper! I’d better go. Mama Givens likes to get to her appointments an hour early so she can fuss about long waits.”
“Thank you all again,” Cleo said, a sentiment echoed enthusiastically by Leanna.