by Nora Page
“What?” Priscilla stood. The wicker chair tipped, and her voice wavered but was no longer quiet. “What? No!”
* * *
Mr. Chaucer jumped to his feet. Rhett, in feline defiance, pretended to sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Cleo said. “It happened just a few—”
“I knew it,” Priscilla interrupted. “I knew it when he asked for my notes. I never should have let him have them. I warned him. I told him and he didn’t listen. I said it clear as day—as clear as the sky is right now: ‘Don’t try to solve murders! You’ll get yourself killed!’”
Chapter Fourteen
On the drive back to town, Priscilla Pawpaw’s words buzzed Cleo’s brain like angry wasps. The anxious author had hustled them out her door, hoisting promotional crime-scene scarves on them as they went and locking the door chain as soon as they were out.
“Poking the truth is like jabbing a hornet nest,” Priscilla had said, eyes bulging over the chain. “You know you’ll get hurt. I told Buford. I told him.”
Cleo had already poked, but in this case, it had drawn out information. Cleo was anxious to tell Gabby about Buford’s visit to Happy Trails. His death might have no connection to his mucky spring-water business. Thus it might also have nothing to do with her friend and grandson.
“I feel awfully sorry for Priscilla,” Henry said, sitting on the front bench seat with the cat and dog lying to either side. “Her biggest fan, gone.”
Cleo felt bad for her too.
Henry continued. “We could bid on her auction offering at the Gala, win the prize of paying for lunch with her. Which reminds me, I have to round up some interested buyers in my Agatha Christies. Without Buford Krandall, I might have to bid against myself.”
“I’ll bid,” Cleo said. “Cousin Dot is interested too. She loves Agatha Christie. She’s always rereading her Poirots and Marples.”
“Well,” Henry said hesitantly, “these Christies are worth several thousand. There will be call-in bidders, I hope. I wouldn’t want Dot to pay a lot for books meant for collecting more than reading.”
All books were meant for reading, to Cleo’s way of thinking. She rolled down her window farther and let the warm breeze fluff her hair and clear her mind. The landscape sped by, spindly palms and piney thickets, graceful oaks and manicured lawns. The most manicured was the Givens’s home on the outskirts of town, just before the river. As they passed, a gardener was mowing precise diamonds in acres of grass. The modern Antebellum-style house was blindingly bright white, with columns ringing three sides. Cleo could picture Bitsy in another time, decked out in a hoop skirt, surveying the grounds and the river beyond. Another figure popped into Cleo’s mental picture: Maybelle Givens in a dowager’s dark dress, complaining about her feet.
Words on Wheels rumbled over the low bridge across the Tallgrass River, close enough to spot turtles sunning and a heron take flight. Near the turnoff to the public fishing pier and park, a bulldozer stood ominously in a gravel pull-off.
“What a shame to mess with such a pretty patch of riverfront,” Henry said.
The old wooden pier was perfectly solid and functional, set amidst shady oaks and mossy palms. The river rolled by peacefully.
Cleo said grimly, “Did you see the newspaper? There’s an opinion piece by the mayor, saying how this area will ‘develop.’ He envisions mini-malls and parking lots, like over in Claymore and everywhere else.”
“What about our downtown stores? Dot and her picnic supplies? The hardware store and bakery and florist? What happens to them in this plan?” Henry said.
The same thing that might happen to the library, Cleo thought. Shuttering. Her thoughts turned to her library troubles. She needed more allies, more funds, like Buford Krandall had promised. If only she knew what he was up to, she might help her library and the murder investigation.
As they neared town, Cleo spotted a banner fluttering overhead.
“What is that?” She squinted, trying to make out the words. Banners regularly announced big events in little Catalpa Springs. The Catalpa Flower Festival. Summer concerts by the “nearly world famous” town band. Pumpkins in the park in autumn and the lovely Catalpa Christmas fest. Was this banner announcing the Gala? Were those dancers on each end of the banner? How enterprising of Bitsy.
Cleo clung to that nice thought until the dancers turned into fish and too-clear lettering: “Catalpa Springs, Fishing Capital of the Universe.” Cleo read each word out with appropriate aghast. ‘Fishing capital of the universe’?
“A bit much,” Henry said dryly.
It was more than a bit much. Cleo stomped the gas in anger. Flashing lights appeared in her mirror. A siren chirped.
“Uh-oh,” Henry said. Rhett purred loudly.
Cleo eased off the gas, hoping the police car would speed past. She couldn’t afford a speeding ticket. Another speeding ticket. She pulled her bus into Speedy Auto Repair. She checked her hair, cleaned her glasses, and awaited the worst, hoping it wasn’t the chief.
Gabby Honeywell tapped on the door. Cleo’s law-enforcing neighbor had on her unreadable neutral expression, which could only mean one thing. Gabby was mad. Upset. Disappointed. Cleo’s stomach pitched, until she saw Gabby’s lip twitch, followed by a chastising finger.
“Cleo Watkins, you were driving like a bat out of Beelzebub’s den, as my Granny Mimms would say.” Gabby climbed the steps, greeted Henry and the pets, and smiled at Cleo. “What if you’d been flooring it like that out of town, and the sheriff’s boys had pulled you over?”
“They have pulled me over,” Cleo admitted. “They were very sweet and gave me a reduced ticket because I reminded one young man of his grandmother.”
“Ha! Well you remind me of Granny Mimms. A demon on wheels. She clocked in at eighty on the very same birthday. You don’t want to get a bad reputation like her, Miss Cleo.”
Cleo didn’t see a ticket pad. “I apologize. I was disturbed and distracted by that awful fish banner.”
Gabby rolled her eyes. “I know! ‘The universe’? Absurd. But I didn’t pull you over just because of your speed. I spotted you and wanted to tell you something. It’s about Ollie…”
Cleo clenched the wheel until her knuckles ached.
“Don’t worry,” Gabby was saying. “Ollie’s fine. He’s just over at the station answering some questions. I thought you should know. He’s not under arrest, and his lawyer stepmom is with him. I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t ignore what Ollie said this morning, how he knew details about that sabotaged drill.”
Cleo knew how he had those details. That silly, passionate boy! She hoped Angela was making Ollie keep his mouth shut about his involvement. She’d keep quiet too, except to assure Gabby that she wasn’t upset with her. “You were just doing your job,” she said.
Gabby stooped to pet Rhett. “I’m still sorry. I feel rotten, like I was snooping on my favorite neighbor. We already had doubts about Mary-Rose’s supposed confession, though, and Ollie knows his way around in the woods out by Krandall House. He grew up playing at the Pancake Mill, didn’t he?”
“A lot of people know those woods,” Cleo said. “Hunters, fishermen, hikers, me…”
The brothers who owned the repair shop, TJ and Joe, were headed their way. Gabby and Cleo waved, and the men raised their chins in unison. The brothers were both round and curly haired and given to wearing identical coveralls. Cleo was chagrined that she often couldn’t tell them apart. One brother veered off to inspect the front of the bus. The other approached the door. He had “TJ” embroidered on his pocket, which meant nothing. The brothers, Cleo knew from past mix-ups, didn’t bother to sort their uniforms.
“TJ, good morning,” Gabby said, sounding confident in his name.
Cleo was impressed, but not surprised, when Gabby turned out to be right. TJ greeted Gabby and looked worriedly past to Cleo. “You all right, Mrs. Watkins? Bus okay? I tell you, that transmission, it’s set to go on you any moment…”
Cleo put he
r hands to her ears. “I can’t hear such negativity, TJ. The bookmobile is feeling just fine. I have a book I’m studying—Zen and the Art of School Bus Maintenance. All I need is regular oil changes and a calm spirit.”
He snorted. “Right, Zen. I heard y’all meditating down the highway from a good half mile away. When’s that library of yours gonna get fixed anyways?”
Cleo decided not to sugarcoat the situation. She told TJ about the mayor’s library threats and fishing pier plans.
“Wait, you mean it’s either the fishing or the library?” TJ said, sounding satisfyingly shocked. “What kind of choice is that? We already have a pier out at the park, and everyone local has their own secret fishing spot anyways. What’s this new one supposed to do that’s better?”
Henry answered with quiet sarcasm. “Ah, this pier would attract world-class sport fisherman. International, intergalactic fishermen, as the banner over there promises.”
TJ snorted and muttered words inappropriate for a library—even one on wheels with a noisy engine. Cleo didn’t chastise him. She understood his sentiments.
“Professional sport fishers?” TJ sputtered. “Rich outsiders with sponsors, swooping in to reel in all our fish? Wait till I tell Joe. He’s gonna blow. Just like this bus.”
“Exactly—tell Joe!” Cleo said, ignoring the dig at her bus. “The mayor’s talking about a floating casino too. Imagine all the noise and disruption and pollution. All bad for fish. Warn all your friends, TJ.”
“I sure as heck will,” the mechanic promised. He glanced toward the back of the bus. “Hey, since you’re here, can I look real quick? I need a new book. I like history and biography, something exciting.”
Henry brightened. “I recently finished a wonderful account of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Unless someone else checked it out, it should be right back here.” He led the way to the biography shelf.
With the men occupied, Gabby lowered her voice. “There’s more, Cleo. Another reason the chief hauled in Ollie for questioning.”
Cleo took a cue from Mr. Chaucer and groaned.
“It’s his … uh … what do you call her? His houseguest? Colleague?” She nodded slyly toward the back of the bus. “Friend?”
“Whitney Greene, do you mean?” Cleo said, letting the “friend” innuendo slip straight past.
“Yes. What do you know about her?” Gabby wandered over to the first bookshelf, the New Reads. She looked through a cookbook, but Cleo could tell she was intently interested in the answer.
Cleo admitted she knew little. “She’s not from here. Ollie told me she’s moved around and works for an organization called Save Our Springs—S.O.S. She came up to help with the mud problem at Pancake Spring.”
“I know a bit more,” Gabby said, pausing in her cookbook perusal. “You should know too, since she’s hanging around your place. She’s not actually that much of an outsider. Her people are from Catalpa.”
“Her people?” Cleo sorted through faces and family trees. Whitney Greene … Cleo knew a Greenbriar family and some Greeleys.
Realization was beginning to take hold when Gabby snapped the cookbook shut and said, “She’s a Krandall.”
Cleo was glad she was sitting down. A Krandall. A Krandall in her cottage? A covert Krandall, cozying up to her grandson? “It was her hair,” Cleo said, attempting to justify her unjustifiable observational failure. “It covered her face. She looked down a lot, and there was the camouflage attire.” But now she saw hints. The prominent pointed nose. The eyes, small and inset. The penchant for stewing up trouble and stirring others into it. How had she not noticed?
“A Krandall?” TJ stepped up, holding a thick hardback. “Did I hear that right? There’s a new Krandall in town? Thought we were fresh out of those, and good riddance.”
Gabby leveled a serious gaze on TJ that had him standing straighter while simultaneously stepping back. She produced a folded flyer with a rather blurry photo of Whitney, face obscured by those frizzy curls.
Gabby handed TJ the paper. “If you see this woman, please call the Catalpa Springs Police immediately. She goes by the name of Whitney Greene.”
TJ took the page, worry wrinkling his broad forehead. “Yes, ma’am. Is she dangerous?”
Everyone eyed Gabby expectantly.
“She’s only wanted for questioning at this time,” Gabby said. “In the murder investigation of Buford Krandall, as well as criminal trespass and destruction of property.”
“Whoa,” TJ said, clutching his book tight. “I gotcha. That girl could be a dangerous head-thumping killer. I’ll put your flyer on our notice board. Joe and I will tell everyone to keep an eye out.”
Cleo checked out TJ’s book, and Henry accompanied the mechanic outside.
“Is Whitney dangerous?” Cleo asked, staring at a view of a raised yellow hood.
“Honestly? I don’t know,” Gabby said. She reached down to pet Rhett, who was back to fawning shamelessly at her ankles. “TJ’s right—there’s not a lot of Krandalls around. There’s Buford’s widow, but maybe Whitney as a niece would inherit something or hope to? But who knows, with an unpredictable guy like Buford. He could have made a will out to some cause. Like your library.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Cleo said primly.
“I’m assuming that,” Gabby said, poorly stifling a smile. “We need to talk to Whitney. I went to the station to run her license plate and information. By the time I got back to your place with Tookey, she was gone. Ollie won’t say anything. Last I heard, he’d only give his name and rank as a springs defender. It’s not helping the chief’s opinion of him.” She pursed her lips, her opinion clearly not high right now either.
“He’s loyal,” Cleo said, trying to explain Ollie’s lovable features and flaws. “He becomes enamored.”
“Uh-huh,” Gabby said, sounding unconvinced and unimpressed. “So, did he know about Whitney’s Krandall connection?”
Did he? Cleo replayed Ollie’s eager introductions and descriptions of Whitney. “I think he would have said. He’s not very good at keeping secrets. What’s her exact relationship to Buford again?”
Gabby’s pretty face squinched in thought. “Okay, so her father is Buford Krandall’s estranged half-brother by their father’s second wife. Whitney goes by the name of her mother’s second husband.” She threw up her palms. “Don’t hold me to that. It’s a very confusing family.”
Krandalls were confusing. Cleo’s thoughts swirled. She was careful about what she said out loud, so as not to get Ollie or Mary-Rose in more trouble. “Whitney came up here alone from Florida, Ollie told me. She supposedly rushed up to assess the situation at Pancake Spring before bringing in other S.O.S. members. What if she hurried up to Georgia by herself because she realized her uncle was involved? She might have been angry, embarrassed…”
“Greedy, opportunistic,” Gabby added. “Say she thinks she could inherit and/or save the springs.”
Poor Ollie. But Cleo saw a positive too. Now there was someone with much bigger murderous motives than Mary-Rose. Cleo added another possibility, telling Gabby about Buford’s visit to Priscilla Pawpaw. “He borrowed a dozen or so notebooks from her, research notes. She thinks he was a super-fan of her books, but I suspect he was looking for something specific.”
Gabby frowned. “Weird. I haven’t seen notebooks in any evidence we collected. I’m supposed to go back out to Krandall House and find Buford’s missing gun. I’ll look for the notes when I’m there.”
“What about Buford’s library?” Cleo asked. “Someone tore it apart. There had to be a reason. To hurt something Buford loved? Looking for something?” She’d like to search the library herself.
Rhett flopped at Gabby’s feet, and the deputy bravely ruffled his belly. “The chief thinks the books are a distraction.”
“A distraction?” Cleo huffed. “I don’t suppose he means books provide pleasant distractions from daily cares.”
Gabby’s snort was answer enough. “He still wants me to ca
talog all the books on the floor. See if there’s any pattern. Like I’d know! It’s more busywork.”
“If that’s the case,” Cleo said, seeing an opening, “I’d like to retrieve the library books Mr. Krandall borrowed. Another patron has requested them.” She gave thanks for Tamara, the Happy Trails gate defender, for expressing an interest in the books. “I could assist with your cataloging too. I am a professional librarian, and Henry is an expert in vintage books.”
Gabby clearly saw through Cleo’s intentions. She didn’t shoot down the idea, though. “I’d have to ask the chief. If he sees it as a way to keep us out of his way, he might just say yes. I’ll let you know.” Her radio squawked, a garbled voice announcing a fender bender and a meeting at the chief’s office. Gabby was adjusting her weapons belt, preparing to go. “Thanks for the tip about Priscilla Pawpaw and those notes,” she said. “Drive safe. No more speeding, and call me if you spot Whitney Greene.”
Cleo drove into town so slowly she got passed. Her mind, however, was racing. She spun through thoughts of Ollie and Whitney, Krandall House at night, the murky woods with its statues watching, the silenced drill, and a man lying dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Cleo dropped Henry and Mr. Chaucer off at The Gilded Page. Henry said he and the pug planned to have a nap, followed by a late lunch and a siesta. Perhaps a rare customer would come by, but hopefully not. Henry smiled warmly, “You do know how to make a Monday interesting, Cleo.” He asked her to call with updates about Ollie and if she needed anything and urged her to be careful.
“Let me know when you make your next move,” he added, his eyes bright with a twinkle and a wink.
“I only plan to read for now,” Cleo said. “I’m going to spend all evening in with Priscilla Pawpaw’s unsolved crimes. One of the books Buford checked out was dropped off in the library’s returns box: Killings in Cotton Country.”
“Doesn’t sound particularly pleasant.” Henry shuffled in his loafers. “Regarding, uh … pleasant things, when this is over, maybe we could have dinner? I’ll cook, a repayment for your delicious Sunday lunch.”