Better Off Read

by Nora Page

  “Hang on,” TJ grunted from somewhere underneath the chassis.

  Cleo leaned toward Bitsy. “Who is that woman with the mayor?” she whispered.

  Bitsy gave a little snort. “Her? Our town’s new public relations maven, Mimi Cantor.” She examined her glossy peach nails and added, “The Catalpa cougar. Our mayor’s her plaything, if you get my drift.”

  Leanna sucked in a breath. “No! The mayor? Fooling around? His whole campaign was about family and fishing.”

  “Aren’t those always the ones,” Bitsy said dryly.

  Leanna continued to tsk while Cleo’s mind moved to motive, at least for the mayor’s delight in Buford’s death. Had Buford found out about the family-man mayor’s fling?

  TJ scooted out from under the bookmobile. He brushed off his backside. Grass stains and mud remained. “Well,” he said reluctantly.

  Everyone except Jimmy Teeks drew closer in anticipation. The Vegas consultant hung back, hands in his gray suit pockets, small brown eyes assessing.

  “Well?” Jeb Day demanded, impatient for a man who could wait hours for a bass to bite.

  “Well?” Thurgood Bryon parroted. “Is my client correct in asserting that that bus was a rolling death machine?”

  TJ shot a befuddled look at Joe. Then he turned to Cleo. “Ma’am, your brake lines broke.”

  “I knew it!” Maybelle crowed. Vernon threw a protective arm around his mother, who was cackling about faulty maintenance. “I could sue the town.”

  “Good idea!” Thurgood said heartily. “Emotional and physical injury. Post-traumatic shock.”

  “Sue the librarian,” Mayor Day muttered. Mimi Cantor put a soothing hand on his arm. He fussily yanked away.

  “No, no, wait.” TJ raised oil-stained hands. “Will all y’all listen? The brake lines broke ’cause they were cut halfway through, just waiting to go. If you ask me, someone messed with them. It’s a good thing Miss Maybelle here wasn’t going highway speeds like, uh…”

  “Like our speed-demon librarian?” Mayor Day said, ever callous.

  TJ stood straighter, frowning. “Listen up! Someone was aiming for this bus to crash.”

  Cleo stepped back, chills creeping up her arms.

  “Someone could have gotten hurt,” TJ continued. “Real hurt.”

  Jimmy Teeks was suddenly at Cleo’s side. “Someone like you,” he said, his voice high and gravelly. “Better watch your back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After a day and a half of watching her back and locking her front porch door and distracting herself with chores such as organizing closets and pantry shelves, Cleo was bored. If this is what retirement was like, she was reaffirmed she wanted none of it. She told her Cousin Dot as much at the Drop By’s deli counter. “I haven’t even been able to focus on a book!” Cleo added, desperately.

  “This is different,” said Dot, ever sensible, right down to the blunt pageboy hairstyle she’d sported since kindergarten. She scooped some potato salad with sweet pickles and mustard into a takeout container. “You might have someone trying to kill you. It’s hard to relax or set priorities or read in such circumstances. If you were truly retired, you’d have a nice routine. You could come here every morning, get the newspaper, and walk home and read it.”

  “That would be nice,” Cleo said, thinking it did sound perfectly pleasant, though dull as sticks. Besides, she had a gripe with the Catalpa Gazette for featuring such ghastly, personal pictures of wounded Words on Wheels.

  She wanted her bookmobile fixed and back. She wanted the same for her library. She wanted action, purpose, work, resolution …

  Dot asked if she wanted fried chicken.

  “I suppose,” Cleo said, morose.

  Dot tightened her apron and gave her cousin a stern finger-wagging. “Now, Cleo Jane, you know what our mothers used to say: it’ll all come out in the wash. Be patient.”

  Cleo didn’t want to upset Dot. She certainly would never question her Mama and Auntie. However, she knew full well that things didn’t always work out. Or wash out.

  “You need something to take your mind off your troubles,” Dot said. “I’ll get you started. I’m giving you enough salad and chicken for a picnic luncheon for two or three. Invite Oliver or Leanna, or Fred and Angela … or a charming bookstore owner.” Dot wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Leanna was at her bank job. Ollie was spending his Friday and upcoming weekend at Pancake Spring, pulling invasive pondweeds as penance, and pining for the still-missing Whitney. Cleo’s son and daughter-in-law would be working, as would Henry. “Henry has books to sell and fix,” Cleo said, eyeing the daunting picnic being packed. “I’ve already bothered that man enough.”

  “I hardly think that’s possible. He’s besotted with you, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Dot added a half-dozen deviled eggs to Cleo’s tower of takeout. “Enjoy!” she said in a trill that bordered on a command, and ducked in the back to check on a batch of biscuits.

  Cleo went to collect Rhett, who was sitting in the sun in Dot’s doorway. As part of Cleo’s precautions, she’d put Rhett’s harness on for the walk downtown. Rhett, realizing more leash walking was expected, flopped to his side on the wide-plank floor, his tail twitching resentfully.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Cleo gently chided. “Rhett Butler, I can’t carry you and all this food.”

  Rhett remained unmoved and unmoving.

  “I’ll have to get you a baby snuggie,” Cleo threatened. “I’ll carry you right on my front, and won’t you feel awfully silly then?” Rhett scowled and twitched his tail harder. Cleo put down her bags, lifted the Persian to his feet, and watched him flop over again, limp as a furry rag doll.

  She heard a chuckle. “Tough work being a cat.”

  Vernon Givens stood outside the doorway, looking springy in pastel peach and minty sage green. “Here, allow me,” he said, stepping gingerly over Rhett and picking up Cleo’s bags. “Are you headed home? I’ll carry your groceries, and you can get the cat. I’m on my coffee break. Just don’t tell the bank president I’m playing hooky.”

  “I don’t want you to go out of your way,” Cleo said, as manners dictated. She was glad when Vern insisted it would be his pleasure.

  “Gives me more time out of the office. Your friend Leanna is a stickler for work and order. She’ll wear me out.” He smiled and held the door for Cleo and Rhett. Cleo lifted up Rhett, who revived to drape over her shoulder and purr happily in her ear.

  “How is your mother?’ Cleo asked.

  A cloud fell over Vernon’s sunny features. “Her neck still hurts. She’s seeing a specialist this afternoon in Valdosta. Bitsy’s taking her up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cleo said, intending a general sorry for Vernon’s worries, Bitsy’s chauffeuring burden, and Maybelle’s neck, if it truly did ache. Cleo had called Bitsy yesterday and was assured Maybelle was fit as a fiddle and calming down about suing. More unsettling was Bitsy’s other news, reluctantly relayed. The Ladies Leaguers were holding a special meeting on Sunday to “sort out” the Gala plans. Bitsy swore they weren’t backing away from supporting the library, but her tone was so sugary sweet and bubbly that Cleo immediately became suspicious. She hugged Rhett a little closer.

  “I don’t blame you or the bookmobile,” Vernon said. “I blame whoever messed with those brakes. I’m just thankful Mama wasn’t hurt worse. She’s frail, always has been.”

  Cleo bit her tongue. Maybelle Givens was as frail as old jerky and had been for as long as Cleo had known her.

  “I hope you’re okay too,” Vernon was saying. “You must be shaken.” He looked down at her worriedly. “I mean, no one would have guessed my mother was driving that bus. You’re the main driver, and you have a reputation for, well, looking into things.”

  Cleo understood what Vernon was skirting around. Buford’s killer might have sent her a warning or tried to permanently take her out of circulation. But why? All she had was a longer list of suspects than when she’d started. On
the other hand, there was also someone who wanted to shut down her library program for good. Cleo thought of the mayor. Would he do something so awful, thinking it was a prank, not realizing the danger? She considered Jimmy Teeks, his cold potato face and warning to be careful.

  “I hope you’re taking a little time off,” Vernon continued. They reached a side-street intersection, devoid of cars. Vernon made sure they stopped fully and looked both ways twice.

  Cleo smiled up at the big man, as fretful as her Fred. “I don’t have a choice,” she said. “I’m on a forced vacation with both of my libraries wrecked.”

  It was Vernon’s turn to say he was sorry. “Sign up for the Ladies League. They’ll keep you busy.” He regaled Cleo with tales of Leaguers manufacturing thousands of pink crepe paper flowers on his kitchen table. “Ladies are in and out of the house all the time, planning, fussing, Bitsy running every which way. She wants everything perfect, and I understand that. I’ll be glad when it’s done.”

  Cleo would be too, hopefully with everyone having good fun and profits going to the library. They turned up Magnolia, her quiet lane, and Rhett wiggled to be let down. “Oh, now you can walk,” she said. Rhett pranced before her. She offered to take the groceries from Vernon. “It’s just a few houses away. You’re so kind to help.”

  “I always escort a lady to her door. What a lovely street this is. It’s always been one of my favorites. Uh-oh, trouble.”

  A police car passed, moving fast. A few yards beyond, it came to a tire-squealing halt. Gabby Honeywell backed up and rolled down her window.

  “Cleo!” Gabby said. “Just the library expert I was coming to find.” She greeted Vernon and inquired about Maybelle.

  Vernon gave the Maybelle report again and added gravely, “At least Mama’s not the easily scared type, but Bitsy and a lot of the bank customers, they’re worried. We’re all anxious for the police to put an end to this.”

  “Believe me, we want that too,” Gabby said. “Cleo, I know it’s nearly lunchtime, and it looks like you have plans—”

  “No plans,” Cleo interrupted eagerly.

  Gabby said what Cleo hoped she would. “I’m going out to Krandall House and got permission to bring a book expert or two along to help with the library assessment.”

  Vernon chuckled. “Back to work after all, eh? Don’t forget your groceries.” He raised the paper bags and with them the tempting scent of Dot’s chicken.

  Gabby sniffed the air. “Is that Dot’s Friday fried chicken? Cleo, you do have special plans! Do you have a date?”

  Cleo scooped up Rhett again. “I do now,” she said. “I’ll drop Rhett off at home. You said an expert or two. Can Henry join us? We can take this food along. Dot insisted I go on a picnic.”

  Gabby said Henry was more than welcome, as was the picnic. “If Dot insists…” She chuckled.

  Cleo offered Vernon some of the goodies, but he politely declined. “I’ll extend my break and see if I can round up my own lunch date.”

  Cleo thanked him again for his help with her groceries and the library. “I’ll tell Bitsy she’s married a perfect gentleman.” She hurried home, plied Rhett with placating treats, and called another gentleman, who was eager to join them.

  * * *

  Cleo had never picnicked at a crime scene before. It didn’t seem entirely proper, but it was pleasant. That is, so long as she avoided eye contact with the statues lurking in the woods and didn’t think about her last visit. Cleo, Gabby, and Henry dusted off some lawn chairs and a rusty table on Buford’s patio. From where they sat, they could see the backside of Krandall House and the disabled drill and the overgrown forest all around. Cleo laid out the takeout cartons and the big box of chicken. She held the paper napkins down with a bottle of lemonade she’d brought from home.

  “This is good actually,” Gabby said, surveying the scene. “I couldn’t get an overall feel for the place before. I was too concentrated on minutia. Here, you can get a bigger picture. Think of Buford, all alone out here, stewing about his neighbor and his health, collecting and stitching up everyone’s bad secrets, messing with that machine.” She helped herself to potato salad and a deviled egg and glanced warily at a whirligig swirling from a branch above.

  Cleo selected a drumstick. Although eager to study the library, she was famished. A sense of purpose had restored her appetite, and the chicken was perfect picnic temperature. Not too hot, not too cold, and still crispy and juicy with a buttermilk tang. Dot made the best fried chicken.

  Henry complimented the meal. In between bites, he said, “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Krandall’s book collecting. In my dealings with him, he sought out some fine first editions and some unusual texts—obscure works by inventors and a bit of Machiavelli. Nothing too controversial.”

  Gabby raised an eyebrow at Machiavelli. “Wasn’t he into manipulation?”

  “Machiavelli or Buford Krandall?” Henry said with a twitch of his mustache. “I suppose it doesn’t matter which. Both liked manipulation, deceit, gaining power.” He raised a crispy chicken leg. “But Mr. Krandall hadn’t ordered any Machiavelli in some time, or any books from me. It appears he was more interested in the library and Priscilla Pawpaw.”

  Cleo told Gabby about her and Mary-Rose’s two-woman Priscilla Pawpaw book club. “I hope we’ll find the rest of his library books today so Mary-Rose and I can read them too. I have no idea why Buford was so interested, but each book features various places and crimes. It may be that only one or some of the books are relevant. When I delivered his last set of books, he said something like how he hoped they’d be what he was looking for. To clear things up.” Cleo wished she could remember the exact words. The drill had been pounding and her nerves jangly. She glared at the infernal device now, sitting silent and still. Had it started all these problems? Or had her library books?

  Gabby, nibbling delicately on a wing, said, “If you find anything—anything—in those books or the library, I’ll consider it. Don’t laugh, but I had this fantasy we’d come out here and catch the culprit. Whitney Greene, making off with her uncle’s treasure. Priscilla Pawpaw, armed and crazed, typing up her next true crime book. Case closed.” She grinned. “Rookie fantasies, right? But a picnic is nice too.” She was reaching for another deviled egg, when she froze. “Hear that?”

  Cleo listened. She heard leaves rustling but felt no wind. The sound was coming closer. Something running, crashing through the woods. Henry stood. Cleo did too, her heart thumping. Gabby was already up, hand on her gun, jogging toward the house, around the side, and out of sight.

  “Should we follow?” Henry asked.

  Neither of them moved. “It could be a deer,” Cleo said. “There are a lot of deer out here.”

  “A big one,” Henry whispered.

  A peacock called out from the direction of Pancake Spring. Its wavering cry was overlaid by another and then another, both human and female.

  “Stop!” Gabby yelled. “No! Get off me!”

  Henry grabbed a big stick. Cleo hoisted the lemonade bottle and flexed her pitching arm. She prayed that Gabby’s wish would come true, that they were about to catch a killer, not become the next victims.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cleo swung the lemonade bottle behind her hip, preparing for an underhand launch. She could imagine the feel of the pitch, see the bottle flying true. Henry held his stick out straight like a jousting ram.

  Gabby’s voice came from a thicket of saw palmettos. The sharp leaves and toothed stalks rustled and shook. Cleo spotted the beige of Gabby’s uniform. Gabby was down on the ground. Limbs, feet, and leaves moved in a blur.

  “Gabby!” Cleo cried. “We’re coming!”

  Henry yelled, “We’re armed!”

  “Hold your fire!” The voice was female, but not Gabby’s. It was followed by a woof and then Gabby, groaning and pleading. “Ugh, stop! Stop licking my face, you beast!”

  Cleo put a hand on Henry’s still-raised stick. They rounded the palm to find Gabby, smoth
ered with a slobbering, wiggling mound of mastiff joy.

  “Beast, bad dog! Good boy! Sit! Stay! Stop!” Kat Krandall-Stykes declared uselessly. She grabbed Beast’s back half and tugged him a few inches away, enough for Gabby to crawl out. Gabby wiped her face, scowling at the doggy drool and dirt, rubbing at scuffs and scrapes to her arms. She stepped back to stand by Cleo and Henry and said in a low voice, “Please tell me no one made a cell-phone video of that. The guys at work would never let me live it down.”

  “You’re safe with us,” Cleo said. If she had to guess, her phone might be in her purse back in the patrol car. Henry declared his phone was at the bookstore. “Where phones should reside.”

  “Sorry,” Kat called out, holding onto Beast with one hand and a tree with the other. “Beast likes ladies. Nothing makes him happier than discovering a new gal.”

  Beast strained at the end of the leash, panting feverishly, drooling a river.

  Gabby smoothed her uniform, and Cleo saw the wisdom in beige polyester. No wrinkles, same color as dirt.

  “Ms. Stykes,” Gabby said, regrouping, “you and your, er … dog … surprised us. What are you doing here?”

  “Mrs. Krandall-Stykes,” Kat corrected, raising her chin haughtily. She was wearing her usual landscaper’s uniform of boots and overalls. “I could ask you all the same. I’m the grieving, bereaving widow, remember? I’m here to reclaim my rightful home and chase off intruders. I hoped to pick up some stuff for the funeral too. Are those good enough reasons? So, what are you all doing here?”

  Gabby started to explain that they were inventorying the library. She stopped and frowned. “Why didn’t we hear you drive in?”

  Kat shrugged. “Parked at the road and walked in. I don’t want to ruin my suspension on that pothole driveway.”

  Beast suddenly swung his head, his nose straining in the direction of the picnic.

  “Our food,” Henry whispered. He backed away and around the corner. Cleo excused herself and hurried to help him.