by Nora Page
“They’re Buford Krandall’s,” Leanna said. “From the library.”
Bitsy picked up the top book on the stack, Killings in Cotton Country. Henry had marked the missing page with a bookmark. Bitsy opened and flipped a few pages. “There’s a page missing,” she said.
“We should have had you here earlier,” Henry said. “It took Cleo and myself an entire afternoon to find that.”
Bitsy shrugged. “I only noticed because you had it marked. I’m lost when it comes to numbers. I sometimes think Vern married me so I’d stop messing up as a teller at his bank.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle and twined her fingers anxiously. “I had another reason for dropping by. Can I ask you all a big, big, big favor?” Her “you all” was aimed singularly at Cleo, who was already enthusiastically nodding.
“I need hummingbird help,” Bitsy said.
Cleo looked to the red glass feeder, where a single bold little bird braved the storm.
“The cake,” Bitsy clarified. “I read that hummingbird cake recipe you gave me over and over, and I’m sure I’m gonna mess up, and Mama Givens and Vern will be disappointed, and they’re already worked up. It’s Vern’s birthday on Tuesday. The big five-five, but don’t tell him I told you so. He likes to say he’s as young as his current wife.”
She laughed and added, to assuage Henry’s shocked look, “He’s kidding! It’s our joke. He’s stuck with me, and I’ll always be younger.”
Cleo enthusiastically agreed. “Absolutely. I’d love to. We’ll make a little extra cake too, so you can taste it and make sure it’s just right.” She’d welcome a taste too. Cleo loved a good hummingbird, and it wouldn’t defeat her low-sugar diet if Bitsy was taking most of the cake home.
Bitsy beamed, checked her watch, and said she had to run. Before she did, she hugged them all in turn and Cleo twice, a towel between them to keep from getting damp. “Thank you, thank you, you’re the sweetest!” She ran out, back in her heels, into a break in the storm.
“Poor Miss Bitsy.” Leanna gave voice to their thoughts after Bitsy was out of sight. “She’s so worried about doing stuff right and what people think and being perfect. It’s gotta be stressful.” Leanna produced a hairband from her pocket and tied her hair up in its usual messy bun. “Now, for some fun work! What’s going on with these books?”
Cleo could have hugged her young protégé. She told Leanna what they’d been doing and how Henry found the missing page.
“A clue!” Leanna exclaimed when they showed her the book. She beamed at Henry. “You found a clue.”
He ducked his head modestly. “Perhaps,” he said. “But we don’t know when the page was removed or by whom. It could have been years ago. Or been a printing mistake, though I don’t think so. If you look closely, you can see the slice.”
Leanna inspected the book. “Maybe Buford did it. I mean, he had the book checked out, and who else would bother? Anyone normal would make a copy or take a photo. I bet it was him.”
“Or his killer,” Cleo said.
* * *
Cleo convinced Leanna to stay for supper. She’d already easily persuaded Henry.
“But I’m interfering with your night together,” Leanna whispered. They stood in Cleo’s foyer beside the coat hooks that Cleo’s husband Richard had installed when he and Cleo first moved in decades ago. Vernon Givens’s “big” birthday of fifty-five seemed young indeed. From the kitchen came sounds of bowls clanging and snorty woofs. Henry was making a salad, and Mr. Chaucer had a surprising enthusiasm for lettuce snacks.
“It’s not a ‘night together’ or a date,” Cleo said. “Henry came over to help read all those books.” It was all very proper and only polite to invite Henry to stay.
Leanna grinned wider. “I should leave you two to your murder books then.”
Cleo resorted to mild begging. “Please, Leanna. I want you to stay. You’re family here. Ollie’s been staying at his dad’s, but if he comes back to his cottage, we’ll invite him too and Gabby as well, if she’s ever out of work.”
Leanna relented. “Okay, I’d love to join you all. I’ll be your wingwoman.”
Cleo returned to her kitchen, wondering what a wingwoman did exactly. Whatever it was, it was unnecessary, since she was not a date.
Later, Cleo thought it was a very good thing it wasn’t a date. Her refrigerator revealed miscellaneous bits of leftovers and a dearth of staples. She managed a humble version of tomato pie, remembering Henry’s fondness for it. Her mother would have deemed the ready-made piecrust she used a sin, but neither Leanna nor Henry seemed to care. She had some nice hothouse tomatoes from Dot’s and lots of cheese—a constant among her bachelorette staples. Henry’s salad was a perfect accompaniment, as was Leanna’s sparkly punch of lemonade and tonic water and fresh peppermint from the garden. They kept the dinner conversation to lighter topics than murder.
Leanna spoke enthusiastically about organizing Vernon Givens’s mess of files, so much better than tromping along the highway dressed as a biscuit. Henry had gotten in a new shipment of old books. He raved in his quiet manner about a lovely illuminated manuscript, so fine he was stashing it in his climate-controlled safe. He had a few repairs to make, a touch-up of gold leaf, a dab or two of paint and glue. He already had an interested buyer from overseas.
Cleo struggled to come up with something positive to share. She settled on her peach tree. Peach prospects looked good so far, better than last year’s peach disaster of a too-warm spring and late killing frost. They listed their favorite peach dishes: peach pies, peach crisp, peach cobblers, dumplings, and dump cakes, and the many peaches Cleo and her mother used to preserve.
“I still put up some jars most years,” Cleo said. “I have a few left from the year before last. We could have some for dessert.” Her mother would have definite thoughts on serving—no, on revealing that one was serving—two-year-old peaches to guests. Mama’s thoughts wouldn’t be good ones, but the peaches would still be fine and sweet.
“Delightful,” Henry said. “Can I help you?”
Cleo thanked him but said she could manage. She kept extra supplies and jarred goodies in a pantry at the back of the house. She wished she had a basement, but those were hard to come by in Catalpa Springs.
Cleo selected a jar. As she was turning out the lights, she glanced out the row of paned windows that lined the little porch. They looked onto her back garden and the gone-to-wild orchard beyond her fence. She remembered that she hadn’t gone after that potato vine. It was probably creeping toward the fence right now. Cleo glared toward the grove, half-expecting to see tubers inching toward her house.
To her shock, she did see movement. A figure was crawling in a back window of Ollie’s cottage. A boot carelessly stomped the flower bed beneath. The person’s back was turned. Cleo took in the bare legs and camouflage shorts, the lean torso and pouf of frizzy curls. Whitney! Cleo dithered for a moment—should she run to the phone and call Gabby or confront the so-called spring saver? In another moment, she’d decided. A jar of peaches in hand, pitching arm again twitching, she quietly opened her back door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cleo wore sunglasses the next day, big ones, along with her broadest, floppiest brimmed sunhat. The glasses were appropriately dark. The hat was butter yellow, good for shading her eyes, inappropriate for a Sunday post-funeral reception. Fortunately, the entire affair at the Pancake Mill was inappropriate. Judging by the raucous live music and laughter, it was gleefully so.
Cleo stood just off the path to Pancake Spring, eyes not on the festivities, but on the packed parking lot beyond a leafy screen of palms, ferns, and flowers.
Henry had insisted on chauffeuring, driving absurdly safely and slowly. To bide her time in the passenger seat, Cleo had pictured how they could have arrived, zipping along the curvy road in her daddy’s 1967 Ford Galaxie, the top down. Henry was also taking a long time to park. Cleo held a picnic basket heavy with a peach cobbler. She shifted the handle between hands and mar
veled at the crowd. Heavens, half the town was here, and then some. Most wouldn’t be friends or bereaved. They’d have come for the spectacle, the event. They wanted gossip, a potluck, and a party. Kat Krandall-Stykes had placed a half-page ad in the Catalpa Gazette, inviting all, offering up free music, dancing, and open-mic eulogizing, as well as cash bars for both drinks and pie.
Among the crowd, Cleo spotted beloved faces coming her way. Her eldest son, Fred, was accompanied by Angela, Ollie, Leon, and Theo. The twins jogged by carrying inner tubes, giving Cleo jog-by greetings. Angela and Ollie hung back to speak with a friend.
Fred didn’t take long to notice her face. “Mom! Is that a bruise? Why do you have a Band-Aid on your chin? What happened? What did you do?” His tone was more accusatory than sympathetic.
Cleo bristled. What did she do? Well! She’d attempted to apprehend a murder suspect by inviting said suspect in for dessert. When that failed, she’d tried to physically stop Whitney Greene from escaping over the back fence. In return, she’d gotten scuffed by a boot (likely accidental) and rudely pelted with air potatoes (absolutely intentional). Cleo thought it best not to tell Fred any of this. Her son would only worry and fuss. Plus, they were at a reception. Funeral receptions were like weddings. One should never upstage the bride or the deceased.
“It’s nothing,” Cleo said, shifting her picnic basket to her other hand.
Angela came their way, carrying a casserole dish on a cookie tray. Ollie dragged behind, shoulders sagging in a wrinkled dress shirt worn over dark jeans. He blanched when he saw Cleo.
“Gran?” he said, when he got within cheek-kissing distance of Cleo. “Are you okay?” He turned to his stepmom. “See? See, I was right, wasn’t I? I should have been home to help Gran.”
Angela gave a little shrug and nodded toward Fred, the paternal worrier, who’d insisted that Ollie return to the safety of his childhood bedroom.
“I am fine,” Cleo insisted. “A little shiner. I was hoping no one would notice.” Only once previously in her life had she ever had a black eye. Back in her softball days, she’d been struck by—but still caught—a wicked fly ball. But this, from an air potato! The indignity! She supposed she should give Whitney some credit. The girl did have a firm throw and could scale a fence as quick as a fox.
“Did something, someone…?” Ollie asked, shuffling anxiously.
Cleo couldn’t say much in front of fretful Fred. Thankfully, Angela had not only a lawyer’s efficiency but good intuition. “Fred, will you go set down this squash casserole? It’s getting heavy to hold. Take your mother’s basket too.”
Fred scowled and peered in close to Cleo’s face. She firmed her posture. “Fred, dear, take the casserole from your wife. It’s hot. Mine’s a peach cobbler. Just tuck the basket under the desserts table.”
Fred would not be diverted from his fussing. “Was it him, your friend?” Fred sputtered. “Is that why you’re not saying? There’s domestic violence among elderly couples too.”
Cleo issued an indignant gasp, loud enough to attract the attention of the peahens, which raised their feathers in a rippling shimmer. She added a sharp “No,” since Fred seemed in a bullheaded mood. The birds warbled.
“Greetings,” Henry’s cheery voice cut in. He would surely have tipped his fedora except he was holding a casserole, funeral potatoes, one of Cleo’s favorite dishes, being that it was often more cheese than potatoes.
Fred greeted Henry with a glare.
“Sad day, of course,” Henry said, clearly sensing the chill. “The weather seems too nice for a funeral.” He turned to Cleo. “Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s a traffic jam out there. I had to park halfway to the road. I feel like I’m back in Atlanta.” He added a mumbled, “Except I never encountered so much crime there.” He adjusted his grip on his Pyrex dish. “Don’t worry—I’ll fetch the car and pick you up when we leave.”
Men! Cleo thought, feeling frustrated affection for all three gathered anxiously around her: Ollie for his puppy-dog obliviousness, Fred for his bullheaded worries, and Henry for bordering on being too chivalrous.
“I am fine,” Cleo said, drawing out her drawl for emphasis. “Fred, I had a run-in with an air potato, if you must pry.”
Fred gave an exasperated sigh. “Mom, how? That garden is getting to be too much anymore. Ollie, why aren’t you helping your grandmother more?”
Ollie’s tone reverted to a teenage whine. “You said I had to stay at your place.”
“Casserole!” Angela cut in. “Cobbler! Fred, go put these dishes down for us. Get them on the right buffet tables, savory and sweet. We’ll catch up in a minute.”
They watched Fred trudge toward the already overladen tables. People were picnicking on the lawn. Many had brought blankets and chairs. The male peacock strutted amidst the swing dancers and, except for all the dark attire, it could have been a wedding or the Fourth of July.
Angela said. “Okay now, what happened to your eye? I sense I should know, as lawyer and legal backup to people who tell me nothing.”
Cleo half-wished Ollie had gone with his dad. “Ollie, I caught Whitney sneaking into your cottage last night, through a window,” Cleo admitted. She reached out and took Ollie’s hand. “Whitney and I had a … a disagreement. She tossed an air potato, and it caught my eye. Did you know she was staying at your place?”
Ollie’s furious face was enough of an answer. “No!” he sputtered. “I can’t believe she winged a potato at you, Gran! She’s been lying the whole time, hasn’t she? She doesn’t care about Pancake Spring or the environment or…”
Or him. Cleo squeezed her grandson’s hand tighter.
Angela gave him a sturdy slap on the back. “Go get some food, Oliver. And take Mr. Lafayette’s dish over to the tables.”
Ollie looked grateful for the small task. He took Henry’s hot pads and dish. Before he left, he said, “I’m sorry, Gran. I won’t let Whitney get away with this! If I find her, I’ll–I’ll…”
“Oliver,” his legal stepmom cautioned, but not before Gabby had come up beside them.
Ollie flushed, from his anger or the sight of Gabby, Cleo wasn’t sure. The young deputy wore a sundress printed with ruby roses that highlighted her curves and cleavage. Her long hair was down in loose, springy curls.
Ollie gulped and hurried off to the buffet tables.
Cleo complimented Gabby’s dress.
“I’m undercover,” Gabby said.
“Oh.” Cleo had to smile, for Gabby was hardly going to go unnoticed. “What are you watching for?”
“Killers returning to the scene of the crime?” Henry asked.
Gabby responded seriously. “Yeah, actually. Look at all these people. If I took down everyone laughing, dancing, and toasting, my suspect list would stretch halfway across Georgia. I mean, look at Mary-Rose—she’s not doing herself any favors.”
Cleo spotted Mary-Rose sparkling behind the cash pie table. They all went to visit.
“Ten dollars a slice?” Cleo asked, reading the chalkboard menu. “That’s highway robbery, Mary-Rose.”
Mary-Rose admitted she might have to lower her prices. “That darned dessert potluck table is filling up fast with hefty competition. The florist brought caramel cake, and one of those Ladies Leaguers made a Lane cake. I haven’t had a good Lane in years. It’s like a county fair dessert competition over there.” She shook her head but quickly brightened. “But I’m selling my pies for a good cause. All proceeds go toward environmental restoration of Pancake Spring and the cypress grove sullied by Buford Krandall’s hostile actions.”
“That’s what he would have wanted,” intoned a somber voice. Widow and party organizer Kat couldn’t keep up the sorrowful act for long. She burst into a cackle and raised a plastic flute of bubbly. “You’re a real peach for hosting,” she said to Mary-Rose, handing over a ten-dollar bill for a slice of coconut cream.
“It’s what Buford would have wanted,” Mary-Rose repeated, and they both laughed some more.
“This is the most disturbing funeral reception I’ve ever attended,” Henry said, when he, Cleo, and Gabby were out of earshot of the pie table. “And we’ve only just gotten here.”
Gabby was scanning the crowd. “Let’s hope it’s the most informative too. Tell me if you hear anything particularly suspicious. I’m going to check out those camouflage wearers over there. Maybe some S.O.S. types finally decided to come up and look for their missing colleague?”
She headed toward a group of young people in grungy shorts and tees. Cleo half-expected to see Whitney’s frizzy hair appear among them. “I can’t believe she was living in my cottage and I didn’t notice,” Cleo said.
“You had no reason to check the place again,” Henry said. “Ollie was at his dad’s. It was quiet and dark. Besides, Gabby said Whitney was probably just bunking down for the night, not making house and home.”
Still, Cleo thought, I should have sensed something. She prided herself on her senses, observational and intuitional. Lately, they’d failed her.
She waved to Leanna, who was over by the band with Bitsy, Maybelle, and Vernon Givens. For once, Maybelle’s dour dress looked perfectly appropriate. Bitsy had confined her pink to a belt around a black dress. Leanna resembled a mini-Bitsy, except her belt was a silk scarf with a retro cat print on it.
Cleo heard Maybelle evoke “aching corns” and “whiplash.” She touched Henry’s arm and whispered, “Let’s keep moving.”
A few yards on, Mayor Day was jollying it up with his good-old-boy friends. Jimmy Teeks stood off to the side, looking straight at Cleo with no reaction. Cleo was relieved to spot her cousin Dot and some ladies from church. Dot wore a black apron and a disapproving expression.
“This isn’t right,” Dot said, smoothing her already smooth front. “What’s gotten into Mary-Rose that she’d allow this kind of debauchery and on a Sunday?” The other women bobbed their heads, scandalized, but titillated too, Cleo suspected.