Better Off Read

by Nora Page

  “Staying home in your PJs today, are you?” Wanda asked, assessing Cleo’s outfit. “Must be nice. That’ll be a benefit of retirement, forced or not.”

  Cleo’s eyes snapped from a gnawed leaf to Wanda’s happily hostile face. “I am not retiring. I’m still the head librarian and—”

  “Can you be head librarian of a bus?” Wanda asked. A stem of Cleo’s climbing rose had recklessly strayed into Wanda’s air space. Wanda aimed her clippers. Cleo looked away.

  Wanda added sharp words to her clipping. “My nephew—Mayor Day, to you—says your whole library operation might have to be shuttered. No money. It’s too bad, but he knows what he’s doing. He has a master’s in business administration.”

  “There will be no shuttering,” Cleo said sharply, frustrated she’d willingly walked into Wanda’s web.

  Wanda turned her attention to her long-besieged privet. “Jeb has new and innovative plans. You’re either in with the new or mired in the old, like that rattletrap bus of yours. Did you see our new town flags and banner? Fish capital of the world. Now that’s something to be proud of.”

  “Capital of the universe,” Cleo muttered, thinking she should have listened to her cat and gone inside for breakfast.

  “See? Even you like the new motto. We have the best fishing in Georgia, that’s for sure. Jeb came over to visit last night and told me all about it. Poor man’s lonely, what with that wife of his off visiting her mother. Again.” Wanda shook her head at her niece-in-law’s daughterly devotions. “At least he has his projects to keep him busy. Jeb says there’ll be fishing workshops and pros everywhere, more than you can shake a flounder at. I might take up fishing. I think I’d be good at it.”

  Wanda was tenacious and, judging by her gardening, had no qualms about killing living things. Cleo got to the point. “Wanda, did you happen to see anyone come by my place? Maybe early this morning or late last night?” She noted the hungry gossiper’s glitter in Wanda’s eyes. “Someone left a box on my porch. A gift,” Cleo said quickly, hoping to dispel whatever lurid rumor Wanda might be spinning up. “I want to thank whoever left it.”

  Wanda looked unconvinced. She chopped at privet twigs, making Cleo wait. “Yes,” she said slowly, stretching the word and Cleo’s nerves. “Last night? I heard a visitor. It was late. The porch door squeaking woke me up. You need to get a man in to oil that hinge, Cleo. I considered calling the police, but what thanks did I get the last few times I called in crimes and nuisances? None—that’s right. None. Remember the drone? And that police car … how many times have I complained about that?”

  Wanda believed the presence of Gabby’s police vehicle made the neighborhood look dangerous, thereby—and most illogically—attracting criminals. The other thorn in Wanda’s side, the drone, was a toy owned by a man up the street. Any adult flying cameras in a little helicopter must be a peeping Tom, Wanda contended, a pervert set on spying through her second-story windows.

  Cleo summoned the dregs of her pre-caffeinated patience. “Did you see the person who left the box?”

  Wanda snapped along with her clippers. “No! What are you suggesting? That I’d be looking? Like some creep with a drone? No, I look away when you have that boyfriend of yours over. I don’t take notice when your grandson’s carrying on with a wanted woman.” Wanda had raised her voice. A man walking by with a small dog shot them a worried look. “Your own grandson, Cleo, shacking up in your own backyard with a Krandall!”

  The dog walker tugged his pooch away.

  Wanda bellowed. “Shacking up with a potential killer! An eco-terrorist!”

  “It’s a historic cottage,” Cleo retorted tartly. “There is no shacking involved.”

  Glowing with smug satisfaction, Wanda edged her clippers a smidge over their shared fence and gave Cleo’s rose another snip.

  Cleo gathered her robe and her temper and took her leave. “’Bye then, Wanda. Thanks so much,” she said with syrupy sweetness that a more perceptive neighbor would have pegged as extreme irritation. “Have a lovely day.”

  Mutters of lubbers followed her. Coffee and the mystery box called, but Cleo had another neighbor to visit first.

  * * *

  Gabby Honeywell didn’t answer her door. Cleo lingered tactfully in case the deputy was in the shower. She peeked at the back patio to see if Gabby was twisted up with yoga. Rhett meowed, but no one answered. Cleo was heading home when Wanda yelled down the picket fence lines.

  “She’s out! Left this morning in that nuisance police car of hers. Speeding, always speeding, that one. A menace. I should call the police.”

  Irritated, Cleo waved cheerily and hustled inside. She fed Rhett a can of smelly Tuna and Mackerel Delight, one of his favorites. She treated herself to coffee, pie, and more of both, and she thought. She thought some more over the dishes. Then she called Gabby’s cell phone. Her neighbor answered in a whisper.

  “Cleo, hang on…”

  Seconds passed and Gabby came back on in a low voice. “The chief is giving a briefing. I stepped out of the room but can’t be gone long. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” Cleo said automatically. “No, not quite,” she clarified, and quickly told Gabby about the box. “I think it contains some of Priscilla Pawpaw’s notes. It can wait.”

  Gabby politely disagreed. “That could be important. Someone must have left it for you for a reason. There was no note with it? Nothing?”

  A male voice rumbled in the background. “Something you want to share with the class, Deputy Honeywell? Secret notes?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Gabby said, sounding admirably unflappable. “A tip has just come in. I’ll follow up when we’re done with our briefing.”

  “We’re done,” the chief said. “What’s this big tip?”

  “Cleo Watkins is calling, sir. She—”

  Insults to Cleo’s age and gender ensued. Cleo advised Rhett not to listen.

  “What’s Cleo Watkins meddling in now?” the chief said, when he’d settled down.

  Gabby calmly reported the facts. “Someone dropped a box off on her porch overnight. It appears to contain notes by that true-crime author, Pawpaw, the one Mr. Krandall was so interested in. She’s my neighbor. I was going to go over and—”

  Again the chief interrupted. “You’ll do what you were assigned, Honeywell, which you’d know if you hadn’t skipped out in the hall to chat. You and Tookey are to search for—and find—that blasted Whitney Krandall woman. Whitney Greene, whatever she’s calling herself. While you’re at it, track down Buford Krandall’s lawyer. We need his will, if there is one. Ask his widow again. She’s sounding too happy, claiming he wrote her out. And don’t forget the inventory of Krandall’s library. I’ll visit Mrs. Watkins myself. Tell her to expect me and not to touch that box.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gabby said. Silence consumed the line for a bit, during which Cleo scratched Rhett behind his ears and he purred loudly. Gabby came back on with a long sigh. “Sorry. Did you hear all that? The chief’s in a mood. It’s this case. Hope I didn’t throw you under the bus, so to speak.”

  A man in a mood was not Cleo’s preferred start to a sunny morning, but she’d already withstood Wanda gardening. The chief could hardly be worse. She assured Gabby she’d be fine. “I’ll be ready,” she said. She would be. She’d don some fresh rubber gloves and snap a photo of every notebook page before Chief Culpepper arrived. Thank goodness for her children and grandchildren giving her a phone with a camera.

  * * *

  Silas Culpepper stomped inside, heady with cologne and bluster. He looped his thumbs through straining suspenders and surveyed the corners of Cleo’s tidy foyer as if the mystery box’s owner might be lurking behind the umbrella stand. He peeked among jackets on the coat rack and began to elaborate on the chain of evidence.

  “Coffee?” Cleo asked.

  He frowned at the disruption. “Sure. But as I was saying, the police should have received this evidence, not you.”

  “Oh yes,” Cleo said agr
eeably.

  The man was especially petulant and pugnacious in the morning. Bless his wife’s heart, Cleo thought, but then Mrs. Culpepper got to scoot the chief out the door to work each day.

  “I didn’t ask for the box. It just appeared,” Cleo said, leading him through to the kitchen. “Rhett found it.”

  “Who?” the chief said. “Who’s Rhett? You have another boyfriend?”

  Cleo focused on positive thoughts, like how wise she’d been to stash her lovely pie in the fridge. She’d felt petty doing it. Hiding pie was selfish, childish, even gluttonous, and not at all the act of a good hostess. Yet, now she felt justified. Silas Culpepper didn’t deserve pie. He likely would have found something questionable about it anyway.

  “Rhett Butler is my—” Cleo started to say. She stopped short, seeing where the naughty Persian was. Rhett was on the forbidden kitchen table and—worse—in the box, foot raised and enthusiastically cleaning his back leg.

  Cleo regrouped. “Pie?” she asked brightly. “Coffee?” She pointed toward the fridge and coffee maker, both in the opposite direction of the table. “Help yourself. Pie’s in the refrigerator.” It was hardly polite to ask a guest to fetch his own food, but it worked.

  While the chief poked about the fridge, Cleo scooped up Rhett. She plunked the Persian on a chair and, using a dishtowel in lieu of gloves, moved the box to the counter.

  “Here are the notes,” she said, putting out a plate and fork for the chief.

  “Wait … Was that the box your cat was just sitting in? Was that flea-bitten cat washing his privates on my evidence?”

  “What?” Cleo said, with feigned confusion, a deflection trick she’d learned from her grandchildren. “Rhett’s been recently groomed. No fleas.” The insult! She petted Rhett, who rightfully glowered at the chief.

  Oblivious to Cleo’s and Rhett’s disapproving gazes, Silas Culpepper tucked into a hefty slice of pie. Cleo added flattery to the menu. “I am so very glad that you personally came to examine this box, Chief. I said to Deputy Honeywell, the chief will know exactly what to do, and she agreed. Such a smart young woman.”

  The chief puffed his chest and his overstretched suspenders, which today were gold with a measuring tape design. “Forensics. We’ll look for fingerprints and any trace evidence. Handwriting analysis. DNA.” He expounded on DNA analysis for the rest of his pie. Then he pushed his plate aside and snapped on latex gloves. “You did the right thing, calling us. Keep on doing the right thing, and stay out of my way. I understand, it looks bad for your grandson and friend, but if they’re killers—”

  “They’re not,” Cleo said firmly. She’d been about to inform the chief of a crust crumb on his nose. She let it go.

  “If—I said if,” the chief said, adjusting his suspenders. “But you should prepare yourself. You being a civilian and a lady of a mature age, you don’t think the way we professionals do. We know the worst in people, what they’re capable of.”

  Cleo smiled and let him go on explaining the ways of the world. Her smile faded as soon as the door shut behind him. Cleo was neither rosy-eyed nor sheltered. She knew what people were capable of. Heavens, she’d just spent two nights with the works of Priscilla Pawpaw. Cleo shook away the foggy remnants of her reading hangover. She had to focus. She had to be sharp. Do the right thing, Chief Culpepper said. Well, she’d keep on doing just that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Oh dear,” Henry said. It was later that morning. He and Cleo stood on the curb, the wounded library to their right, Words on Wheels to their left, and Mr. Chaucer panting between them. It was only ten, but heat waves wiggled through humidity as thick as clouds. The air was heavy and still. Cleo’s bus, however, was rocking.

  Henry and Mr. Chaucer stared at Words on Wheels with wide-eyed worry. “My,” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Cleo said, thinking she had been warned. Vernon Givens had asked if she’d ever been on a party bus. Well, now she’d be driving one. Words on Wheels was filled with jubilant and likely tipsy Ladies Leaguers. Pink hats fluttered like happy birds. Laughter rolled out the open windows, punctuated by an occasional “Whooo!”

  “They’ll settle down,” Cleo said, hopefully. “I’m glad they’re so excited.” She was also happy she’d made Rhett stay home. Rhett didn’t approve of rollicking.

  Seven members of the Ladies League, led by Bitsy Givens, were squished aboard the bus, along with questionable accompaniments. Thermoses and flasks contained Bloody Marys and hot coffee. Baskets of buttery cheese straws made the rounds. Then there was Maybelle.

  “Come on!” Maybelle yelled. She sat up front, within griping distance of the driver and the door. “Quit your flirting, Cleo Watkins, and let’s get rolling.”

  “Godspeed,” Henry said gravely. Mr. Chaucer turned mournful eyes to Cleo and moaned.

  Cleo climbed into her captain’s seat and waved to Henry, who gave a jaunty salute. The engine protested, coughing, then wheezing, and finally roaring to a belch. The stop sign flew out, an occasional malfunction. Cleo wrenched it back in and revved the engine until the sputtering steadied. Her passengers cheered, and Cleo raised the handy microphone and made sure everyone was buckled up, drinks stowed.

  “Our first stop is the…” Cleo paused. She’d planned to visit the elementary school, but young children probably shouldn’t be exposed to rowdy philanthropists. She thought fast. “Happy Trails Retirement Village,” she announced. The Happy Trailers approved of early cocktails and were always happy to see Words on Wheels.

  “Woo-hoo, Florida!” someone yelled from the back of the bus.

  “I don’t want to go to Florida,” Maybelle Givens grumbled.

  Cleo smiled. Yes, there was always common ground. “We’ll be sticking to the Georgia side,” she assured Maybelle and herself.

  Bitsy, decked out in a lacy pink confection of a sunhat, a matching sundress, and a sunny mood took a seat beside her mother-in-law. “Oh, Mama Givens, this is gonna be such fun. I’m so glad you let me twist your arm into coming along. We’re all honorary librarians for the morning. It’s thrilling, Cleo! Just thrilling.”

  It was a delight to have such happy passengers and vociferous support. Cleo felt a surge of hope. She gave the bus a boost of gas. Her passengers whooped again, and they were off.

  At the Happy Trails guardhouse, Cleo pulled up and introduced everyone to Tamara. Tamara showed off her latest reading, praised Cleo’s literary advice, and got everyone cheering to the chant of “Save our library!” Cleo’s thoughts flashed to Save Our Springs and the missing Whitney Greene. They rolled on to the Social Hall, where another rollicking group was steaming out, waving strips of colorful fabric.

  “Strip bingo,” Cleo intoned, tour-guide-like, into her microphone. Her intended explanation was cut off by cheering. When her passengers quieted down, Cleo continued. “Strip bingo awards strips of fabric to quilters. Words on Wheels has a selection of crafts books, including several on quilting. Happy Trails is also home to a prolific local author, Priscilla Pawpaw.”

  An idea sparked. “Would you all like to meet her?” Cleo asked, seeing a proverbial two-birds-with-one stone opportunity. She could entertain the Leaguers and ask Priscilla Pawpaw about the anonymous box of notes. Her guests enthusiastically agreed.

  “Wonderful. I’ll pop over and see if Miss Pawpaw can spare a moment,” Cleo said. “Who would like to be the honorary librarian while I’m gone?”

  Hands shot up. The basket of cheese straws was passed around and thermoses opened. Cleo tactfully suggested that snacks should be enjoyed outside on the patio tables.

  “I’ll have to do it,” Maybelle grumbled. “Cheese makes me bloaty. Tomato juice gives me heartburn.”

  “Lovely,” Cleo said. “About volunteering, I mean. If anyone wants to borrow a book, just scan their library card on this handy little device, like at the market and—”

  “I get it,” Maybelle snapped.

  “Mama always uses the self-checkout at the supermarket,” Bitsy s
aid. “No matter how many groceries she has.”

  “I’m no idiot,” Maybelle said. “I don’t want people touching my food.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Cleo promised. Bitsy assured her it was their pleasure. Maybelle griped it was better than sitting around bored.

  Who could be bored around books? Cleo decided Maybelle was just trying to get a rise out of her. Taking a shortcut across the Social Hall’s lawn, Cleo arrived at Sweetgum Court slightly out of breath and dewy, Mama’s euphemism for sweating buckets. She employed her folding fan and headed for the row of stucco cottages.

  Cleo was stepping up to Priscilla’s glossy goldenrod door when she realized she wasn’t alone. Shrubbery shuddered. Heavy breathing and muttered cursing followed. Chief Silas Culpepper pushed through the leaves, a petal on his prodigious belly and a frown on his red face.

  “Mrs. Watkins? What are you doing here?” His frown deepened.

  Cleo attempted to look innocently befuddled. “Doing? I have Words on Wheels parked at the Social Hall, with guests from the Ladies League. We’re hoping Miss Pawpaw can pop over.”

  The chief snorted and brushed vegetation from his belly. “Yeah, right. Like I believe that’s all you’re up to. What did I tell you just this morning?”

  Cleo sped up her fanning. “You said to keep to my own business. I am. I’m in the library business, and Priscilla Pawpaw is a prominent local author whom I’d like to invite to speak with patrons. What are you doing? Checking to see if she wrote those notebook pages and dropped them at my house? How clever.” Cleo hoped flattery might prompt the chief to give up some information.

  He didn’t bite. “I’m doing police business, and neither of us will be doing business with Pawpaw. She’s gone. Seems our local murder expert has flown the coop.”

  Cleo thought his assessment a bit extreme. Priscilla could simply be out running errands. Or maybe she was inside, hiding behind her computer screen, determined to write without interruption. It was presumptuous of the chief—and herself, Cleo acknowledged—to appear without warning, demanding the author’s attention.