Better Off Read

by Nora Page

  “The library is not closing,” Cleo said. She never enjoyed public speaking, but suddenly she felt a swell of valor. She was among friends who loved the library as much as she did. “Write to the mayor. Call him. Show up at his door and let him know how much you value our library.”

  “Save the library!” a voice called from the front, soon joined by dozens of others. “Save Mary-Rose!” someone yelled, and that chant was picked up too.

  “What?” Jo-Marie asked. “Mary-Rose? What’s wrong with Mary-Rose?”

  Thankfully, the randomizer recovered, and so did Thurgood Byron, who called out letters in quick succession. The bingo fans hunkered down. Mary-Rose, Cleo, and a delighted Zoe slipped out.

  “Phew,” Mary-Rose said, adjusting a hairpin in her off-kilter bun. “That was close.” Inside, a strip chorus sounded again. Zoe joined in. Cleo glanced worriedly at the girl. Far be it for her to butt in on child-rearing decisions of others, but strip bingo? She ventured to ask what was going on.

  “It’s quilting bingo,” Mary-Rose explained, as she, Henry, Mr. Chaucer, and Cleo moseyed back to the bookmobile at elderly pug pace. Zoe skipped far out front, joining a small line of two men and one nosy Persian cat outside the bus’s doors. “The stripping refers to strips of quilting fabric. If you get bingo, everyone throws in a fabric piece. Big winners can make a whole lap quilt from their prizes. Mom doesn’t quilt, but she likes the competition and pretty fabrics, and I want to keep her occupied. She doesn’t know yet about, well, you know … I tried to convince the other residents to keep it quiet.”

  “We know,” Cleo said, and explained that Tamara had already warned them.

  “Tamara’s so sweet,” Mary-Rose said. “I should bring her a whole pie. And look at Thurgood, providing a bingo distraction right when I needed it. See? He’s a good lawyer.”

  When neither Henry nor Cleo responded, Mary-Rose chattered on. “If Mom knew I was hauled in to the police, she’d be a wreck of nerves, but really, there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

  Cleo felt otherwise. She opened the bookmobile and let Zoe play head librarian.

  “No gum,” Zoe told the visitors. “No loud talking,” she yelled. “No tearing pages or eating spaghetti. No cold drinks or milkshakes or ice-cream cones or dragons without leashes or…”

  Cleo smiled. Zoe was a natural and promised to yell whenever someone wanted to check out. Rhett returned to sunning on the hood, sensing no one would be doling out tuna treats. Henry, Cleo, and Mary-Rose settled on a shady metal patio table in view of the bookmobile. Mr. Chaucer put his head down on Henry’s feet and began to snore. Cleo considered her approach. Mary-Rose always faced problems head-on. She’d do the same.

  “Speaking of secrets,” Cleo said. “We know you’re keeping one, Mary-Rose.”

  “I confessed to the police on record, Cleo. That’s hardly keeping a secret.”

  “Yes, you confessed,” Cleo persisted. “You said you stuck a heavy metal pole through that drilling machine. Where did you get the pole? Did you carry it all the way over through the woods? Stuff it in your car?”

  Mary-Rose closed her lips tight, like she should have with the police.

  Cleo continued on. “I don’t think that’s what happened at all. If you’re lying, you’ll only make the situation worse. The police will be looking only at you. A killer could get away while you end up in prison. What would that do to your grandmotherly reputation? Your business? What would your family think?”

  Mary-Rose squared her shoulders. She was wearing her signature rosy colors, but her skin had a gray tinge under her freckles.

  Cleo grasped her friend’s hand. “Talk to me, Mary, please.”

  She was heartened when Mary-Rose squeezed back. “Oh, Cleo, you know I don’t want killers running around Catalpa. This is only about that silly drill. I have Mr. Byron. He’s a fine lawyer. Look, there he is now.”

  Thurgood Byron strolled down the walkway, a bottle blonde on one arm, a silver siren on the other.

  Mary-Rose waved, and Thurgood managed to extract a hand to wave back. His hair was an unnatural jet black, polished as shiny as his snakeskin loafers.

  “Ah, my favorite criminal defendant,” he declared when he got within a few yards. The ladies twittered obligingly and adoringly. Both looked on the young side of seventy, if not in their late sixties, and thus a good decade younger than Thurgood.

  “Alleged criminal,” Cleo grumbled, knowing this wasn’t a helpful distinction.

  Thurgood tipped his head and graciously repeated, “Alleged.”

  “My girlfriends,” he said, introducing the pair. They waggled their fingers hello and drifted off, tempted by the bookmobile and its treasures. “‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ as my daddy used to say,” Thurgood declared, watching them with a sly grin. He then issued Mary-Rose some too-late advice to keep on keeping silent. “This too shall pass. I’ve got it under control. You’re at the top of my docket.”

  “Before suing the caterer?” Cleo asked, testing the man’s priorities.

  Thurgood beamed. “The caterers settled. See? Success! Results! Cocktails will be served at three thirty with canapés and other suitable snacks, as demanded.” He whistled on his way to the bookmobile, seeking a book of cocktail recipes and his lady friends.

  “Success,” Mary-Rose echoed, sitting straighter, chin raised defiantly. “The man gives good advice too. Make hay and enjoy the sunshine, Cleo.” She winked in the direction of Henry. “One’s never too old for love.”

  “But possibly too distracted for criminal defense,” Cleo muttered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Words on Wheels was attracting good business. Cleo left Henry and Mary-Rose to chat while she and Zoe helped patrons. When she returned to the table during a library lull, she took another stab at getting Mary-Rose to open up.

  Her friend remained stubborn. “My spring. My problem,” she said.

  Cleo quizzed some more. How did Mary-Rose know where to impale the machine? Where had Buford Krandall been when she did it? Why hadn’t he heard and come out shooting again?

  “He was where he was,” Mary-Rose snapped. “It doesn’t matter how or where or when. There’s no doubt that I am responsible. Stop fretting, Cleo. I swear, you take after my mother more than I do. I have a successful lawyer, and I will be just fine.”

  Successful if Mary-Rose needs a stiff gin and tonic and early canapés, Cleo thought. She exchanged a look with Henry and was gratified that he got her drift immediately.

  “Mr. Chaucer demands his walk,” Henry declared. The pug lay on his back, fast asleep. “Walkies,” Henry said loudly. He gently roused the dog. Mr. Chaucer rolled, groaned, and reluctantly stood.

  “Walk?” Zoe bounded over from the bus. “Can I come? I can show you a secret. I know where there’s a pond with snapping turtles, and there’s a really big one we can pet if we sneak up behind it.”

  “Exactly what I wanted to do,” Henry said, unconvincingly to Cleo’s ears but thrilling to Zoe’s. The little girl took off at a run. Rhett joined in.

  “No turtle petting!” Mary-Rose called after them. “Her mother would have a fit if she knew what we’ve been up to. Rightfully so, for once. I had no idea Zoe followed me over to Krandall House.”

  Cleo suspected another young person had also followed Mary-Rose into Krandall trouble. “Ollie,” Cleo said shortly. “I know you, Mary-Rose. You’d put others before your own safety. You confessed because you’re trying to protect Ollie.”

  Color returned to Mary-Rose’s face, an angry flush. “What? How do you know that? Ollie promised he’d keep quiet.”

  “I just know,” Cleo said. Her suspicion was confirmed, but she felt worse for it.

  Tense silence ensued as both Cleo and Mary-Ruse rummaged in their purses. Cleo produced her folding fan, snapped it open, and employed it with vigor. Mary-Rose brought out a water bottle and a folded sheet of paper. She handed the latter to Cleo. “Tap water,” she said of the former. “I�
��ll never drink bottled again.”

  Cleo agreed. “It would have a bitter taste.” She took the proffered paper and realized she’d already read it. “S.O.S. Save Our Springs. I know about this. I met Ollie’s new friend, Whitney,” Cleo said. “She’s been staying at the cottage.”

  Mary-Rose groaned. “New friend … Darling Ollie. I think he’s infatuated, and she’s not. Poor girl—I feel bad for her too. I connected with S.O.S. I found them online, through some other environmental nonprofits I knew. They sounded perfect for my spring problems, so I emailed them, and Whitney got right back to me and raced straight up to assess the situation. I was so thrilled. Then Ollie got involved and now…”

  And now they’re all caught up in the ripples of murder. Cleo’s stomach clenched as she forced herself to ask. “Did Ollie and Whitney have anything to do with Buford Krandall’s death?”

  Mary-Rose’s silence hung heavy between them. After a few long moments, she spoke. “I don’t know.” Then she said, “No, of course they didn’t. Only the drill. We had a plan to stop that awful thing for good. All of us. Me, Ollie, and Whitney. Ollie and Whitney were scoping out our attack the day you visited. They went out the night Buford died. I had to stay home because William’s knee was acting up. I may not have been there, but I’m as much to blame as them, and I have a lot less to lose. They’re young. They can’t have a criminal record, even if it just ends up being trespassing. I already have a record for that. What’s one more?” She smiled.

  Cleo studied her sandals. When she and Mary-Rose were teenagers, they’d trespassed on Mr. Weber’s property. He was a mean man, the kind who threatened kids and pets, and they were mistakenly sure he’d trapped Mary-Rose’s cat. An off-duty deputy happened to be strolling by and spotted them crawling out his garage window. To this day, Cleo was certain that Mary-Rose ran slower so she’d be caught by the deputy and Cleo could get away. Cleo’s strict father would have blown all his gaskets and then some. Mary-Rose’s father was proud of her initiative. Her mother was worried, of course, but that wasn’t unusual for Jo-Marie, whose forever mantra was that her three daughters would be the death of her. Then, like now, Mary-Rose claimed the misguided mission was her idea, and thus she should take the blame.

  “That worked out,” Mary-Rose said. “Miss Kitty came back, and with all those adorable kittens too. Things were better than ever.”

  Cleo didn’t see baskets of kittens in Mary-Rose’s future this time. She noticed that more bookmobile patrons were approaching and got up to help them.

  Mary-Rose reached out and grabbed Cleo’s hand. “This is my fault. I will not have Ollie get involved any more than he already has. He has a bright future. Cleo, you have to promise—and I mean truly swear—that you won’t say anything about Ollie or Whitney or S.O.S. to the police, even your nice neighbor. That Buford Krandall was a thorn in all sorts of sides. If I take the blame for that silly machine, the police will have more time to concentrate on finding the killer, which isn’t me, Ollie, or Whitney. If that gives the killer more time to make a mistake, that’s fine too, right?”

  “Or more time to kill again,” Cleo pointed out darkly.

  Mary-Rose pleaded and invoked their friendship, which hurt, but Cleo stood her ground. “I can’t,” Cleo said. “I can’t because Gabby Honeywell already knows.”

  * * *

  Henry returned with the pets, all looking overheated and a tad frazzled. Cleo was alone, simmering in the heat and her thoughts. Mary-Rose had rushed off, saying she must get her mother to a hair appointment and lunch.

  Cleo noticed Henry was down one expedition member. “Where’s Zoe?” she asked.

  “Mary-Rose saw us on the way back and took Zoe along with her, promising ice cream. Sounds nice.”

  He eased himself down on a chair, extolling the cool shade.

  Cleo told him about Mary-Rose’s revised confession and the involvement of Ollie and Whitney. He shook his head. “As we expected. Zoe and I made a discovery too, although much more minor.”

  “A giant turtle?” Cleo asked.

  “Better. We located the residence of Priscilla Pawpaw, aka Vinogradov. Zoe is very clever with directions and peeking in patio windows. She’s clever around turtles too, thank goodness.” He held up his ten fingers and admired their intactness. “We also learned that Miss Pawpaw appears to be home.” He let Cleo take in this information.

  “Is that so?” Cleo considered their next move. “I have a little bit more time here with the bookmobile. But after that, we could drive by Priscilla’s place.”

  Henry agreed enthusiastically. “Perhaps she’ll offer us a cold drink.”

  “And a clue.”

  * * *

  Cleo knew Priscilla from the library. Unsurprisingly, the writer was a book lover and a good patron too. Priscilla had no fines that Cleo could recall, and kept her voice appropriately low in the reading room. Cleo approved of library quiet, although she feared it was becoming as outdated as rotary telephones and manners. She pictured the author. Priscilla was in her sixties and single, with wispy gray hair tinged a vague lavender. Aside from the purple, the true-crime author’s most distinguishing trait was her jumpiness.

  Knowing Pricilla’s titles and topics, Cleo could understand. She’d be jumpy too if she spent her days immersed in tales of murder, crime, and all manners of unnatural death. Cleo eased Words on Wheels to a stop on Sweetgum Court. Pricilla’s cottage had pale stucco and a door of goldenrod yellow, so glossy it appeared slippery.

  “Let’s be careful not to startle her,” Cleo said as they made their way up the front steps. With choppy-furred Rhett at her heels, Mr. Chaucer having a sneezing fit, and Henry issuing repeated “bless yous” in the direction of his feet, they might be a startling set of visitors.

  Her light knocking was met by a quivering “Yes?” issued through a crack in the chain-locked door. “If it’s the petition regarding happy hour, I’ve already signed.”

  “We’re here for less happy purposes.” Cleo moved her face in front of the crack and reminded Priscilla where they’d met.

  “Oh!” Priscilla said, eyes as round as Rhett’s. “Yes, of course—you’re the librarian. Sorry. I’m horrible with faces out of place. I remember your cat.” Her eyes narrowed, aimed at Rhett. “What happened to his fur? Was he attacked?”

  “Burdocks,” Cleo said. “He had to be shaved by my hairdresser.”

  “How dreadful!” Priscilla sounded truly horrified. Cleo imagined a new book idea taking form: cat-grooming disasters of southern Georgia and those who perpetrate them.

  Cleo introduced Henry as the town’s newest and only antiquarian bookseller. He tipped an imaginary hat, and they both apologized for the drop-in and the accompanying pets.

  “We just had a few questions,” Cleo said, “about Buford Krandall.”

  Priscilla fumbled with the lock. The door swung open, and it was Cleo’s turn to be startled. “Buford? What a charming man!” Priscilla exclaimed. “Come in, all of you. I adore cats and little funny dogs and anyone who’s a friend of Buford Krandall.”

  Charming? Buford? Cleo pondered the unusual description as Priscilla welcomed them in, still gushing that friends of Buford’s were friends of hers. She seemed to float in a long lavender dress. A yellow scarf, draped loosely on her thin neck, was printed in the pattern of crime-scene tape. Cleo had seen the same pattern under Priscilla’s logo on her books and business cards.

  They settled on Priscilla’s back patio, and ice tea was served. The pug and cat stretched out on shady tiles. Cleo, Henry, and their hostess sat in comfortable white wicker chairs around a matching coffee table with a glass top and lace coasters. The tea was syrupy sweet, as tea should be, and Priscilla gushed just as sweetly about Buford Krandall. According to her, he was intelligent, kind, and generous. A lovely gentleman.

  “You were friends?” Cleo asked, both marveling and sad. She’d never heard anyone speak of Buford in such admiring terms.

  “We are professional acquaintances
,” Priscilla said, cheeks reddening, back stiffening. “Mr. Krandall is a fan of my work. A huge fan. Rarely do I meet a reader who is so inquisitive and eager. He said he read every word of my books and the endnotes. Some readers complain, saying I include too many notes and parenthetical asides and details and diagrams and blood splatter patterns and whatnot. Not Mr. Krandall. He wanted to know more than space would allow in a printed book. He requested my notes. He even wanted my notes for my work in progress, Fatal Florida. I told him, he’d have to be a good fan and wait.” She gave a laugh that might have qualified as a girlish giggle. Cleo had a bad feeling that was growing worse.

  “He’s going to attend my book signing at the Ladies League Spring Gala,” Priscilla said. “I’ll be signing Murder and Mayhem in Mississippi and auctioning off a basket of books. The lucky winner also gets to take me out to lunch and pick my brain about murder. I bet I know who will win.”

  Cleo and Henry murmured how nice and other such polite affirmations. They shared a look of dread.

  Henry—in what Cleo considered noble chivalry—took the lead. “Uh, Miss Pawpaw, Miss Vinogradov … Priscilla, ma’am, you do know that Buford is … I mean, have you seen the news?”

  Priscilla’s whole body jerked. “The news? No, I’ve been out of town. Florida, for spring break.”

  Cleo was shocked anew. Was quiet, jumpy Priscilla really saying she’d been enjoying a Daytona Beach keg-and-bikini party? Cleo was glad Henry was doing the talking, because she couldn’t have uttered a sensible word.

  Henry leaned down and patted Mr. Chaucer. The pug sneezed. “Bless you,” Henry murmured to Mr. Chaucer, but more so to Priscilla.

  Cleo roused herself to assist. “Priscilla,” she said, wishing she had a condolence casserole or pie to offer. “It seems you haven’t heard. I’m afraid we have terrible news. Mr. Buford is gone. Deceased. Sadly. Unfortunately,” she added after an awkward pause in which she wondered if Priscilla had understood.

  “Unfortunately murdered,” Henry clarified further. “We are so very sorry for your loss.” He reached across the doilies, aiming to grasp Priscilla’s hand.