by Nora Page
“She has us to talk about,” Henry said.
In the rearview mirror, they grinned at each other like two teenagers.
Cleo turned on a route that would take them around Fontaine Park. She planned to let Henry off at his shop and then loop around again to stop by the library. Even though she’d be going inside soon, Cleo couldn’t resist admiring the building as they passed. The Victorian cottage that was the library’s home sported palm-frond-green paint and a shiny metal roof, fresh with last year’s renovations. The lawn was neatly trimmed, and a young redbud bloomed against a lacy backdrop of dogwoods.
A little farther on, Cleo’s head swiveled to the park, where the azaleas were downright gaudy. In fact, all the colors seemed especially bright this spring, even the chartreuse glitter of oak pollen. They rounded the corner, and the ebony panels and gold trim of Henry’s shop came into view.
The Gilded Page Antiquarian and Rare Books occupied a former pharmacy. Henry had restored the building from its plank floors to the tin ceiling. Best of all, he’d packed it with shelves and cozy reading spaces.
The shop was his “working retirement,” as he called it. In the back, he operated a book surgery, a workshop where he mended cracked spines and brought new life to ancient illuminated manuscripts, often donating his services. He and Mr. Chaucer lived on the second floor in an apartment with views over the park.
Cleo’s mind shifted to their plans to meet for dinner, if not sooner. They could go to Dot’s Drop By for a picnic lunch and check-in. It wouldn’t be pushy if Cleo was there to buy lunch …
“Let me know if you hear from Dot,” Henry said, reading her mind. “Perhaps we could stop by for a bite. It’s the biscuit-sandwich special at the Drop By today.”
Cleo murmured agreement. Her attention was divided between the street ahead and the sidewalk to her left. A toddler raced up the walkway, giddy and wobbly and waving at the bookmobile. Cleo waved back. The little boy’s father jogged to catch him, swooping him up in his arms.
Cleo smiled and loosened her grip on the wheel. But when she turned back to the street, she gasped and stomped on the brakes.
“Hold on!” she cried. Her heart thumped, the brakes moaned and wheels skidded, and the big bus jolted to a stop.
Dot had run into the middle of the street. She stood, feet planted, arms waving frantically. Apron ruffles poked out from under a spring jacket the color of mint ice cream. Her bangs were askew, and the hem of her jacket looked dirty.
Cleo flung open the door and wrestled to release her seat belt. In her urgency, the school-bus stop signs flung open. Cleo let them be. Dot was already at the bottom of the steps.
“Oh, Cleo! It’s that awful man, Hunter Fox!” Dot’s voice wavered. She gasped and staggered back. “No, no, I’m the awful one. He’s dead!”
Chapter Five
“Dead?” Cleo stepped back, bumping against the supportive padding of Henry. He rested a steadying hand on her shoulder.
A terrible prayer passed through Cleo’s mind and heart. Oh, please, let it be an accident or natural causes. Cleo knew from unfortunate experience that her pretty little town was not immune to crime, including murder. Last year, Cleo had discovered several victims of unnatural demise … and their killers. Henry had been at her side then too. It was a wonder the dear man dared spend time with her, she thought wildly. But she hadn’t stumbled on death this time. Dot had, and that was worse.
Her cousin’s face was gray and slack with shock.
“Dot, come up into the bus,” Cleo urged. She imagined swinging the door shut behind Dot and speeding away. Cleo sighed heavily. They couldn’t do that, of course, and Dot wasn’t getting on board anyway.
Dot edged back, pointing with zombie-armed stiffness toward Wisteria Street, which ran along the side of Henry’s store. “Hunter’s all alone. In the alley.”
Cleo grabbed her purse and rooted around for her cell phone. Her kids and grandkids had given her the phone for emergencies. They’d likely imagined crises no worse than a flat tire or a forgotten grandmotherly birthday call, not reporting corpses.
Cleo brought up her contacts screen, which included her deputy neighbor. Gabby’s face smiled out from a little round photo. Cleo’s finger hovered and then moved on. She didn’t want to get Gabby in trouble by breaking emergency protocols. She should call 911, but what would she say? Who would she ask for? Only an ambulance, or the police too?
Cleo dropped the phone back in her purse. To be most helpful, she needed to see the scene. Dot was backing that way, mouthing something that Cleo interpreted as “I’m sorry,” right before she disappeared around the corner.
Sorry … Yesterday, Dot had said the word in a much different context to Hunter Fox. You’ll be sorry! Awfully sorry!
* * *
The pets were safe in Words on Wheels. Henry was at Cleo’s side, and Hunter Fox was as Dot had reported: alone in the alley.
And dead. Cleo could see that from a few yards out. The book scout sat in a low slump against a telephone pole, surrounded by an exuberant patch of thistles. His face was dipped but unmistakable, despite the grim pallor behind his tan.
“I checked,” Dot said in a small voice. “I went to touch his neck for a pulse, but then …”
Then she would have seen his neck.
Henry inhaled sharply.
A red stain blossomed under Hunter Fox’s collar.
Cleo looked away, to anywhere but at the man. To her right was Henry’s back patio, mostly hidden behind a lattice fence woven thick with honeysuckle vine. They’d sat out on many an evening, snug at a café table tucked in a mesh-netted gazebo. Henry Lafayette was as attractive to mosquitoes as he was to Cleo.
To the left stood the tippy carriage garage and wild garden of Madame Romanov, the self-proclaimed “premier psychic seer” of Catalpa Springs. Cleo granted the “premier” label. As far as she knew, Madame Romanov was the only psychic in town. However, Cleo didn’t quite believe in Madame’s seeing abilities. She had even more doubts now. A light glowed behind lace curtains in Madame’s home/psychic center. If the psychic was in, how had she failed to sense a death inches from her own backyard?
Dot hovered at Cleo’s shoulder. “When I first noticed him, I was irritated. How awful of me! I thought he was sitting out here drunk or sleeping.”
“How did you notice him?” Cleo asked. From the street, she hadn’t, even knowing he was there. A row of trash bins blocked the view, one tipped and spewing out shredded paper.
“The psychic’s little dog,” Dot said swiveling around. “He’s always getting out of that fence. I was walking by and saw him in the alley. He shouldn’t be out alone on the streets … we should look for him.”
Cleo knew the dog, a chubby dachshund named Slim. Despite his double-wide size, Slim managed to slip out of his fence and often pranced around town, getting treats, which explained his escape urges and his girth.
“I wanted to catch him and get him back home, but he ran off back down the alley. I followed a little way, and then I saw …” Dot bit her lip.
Cleo fished for her phone, which always managed to wiggle back to the depths of her purse. She pressed 911 and half listened as Dot fretted about a tipped trash can, litter, and Slim.
Suddenly the dispatcher spoke in Cleo’s ear, asking what her emergency was.
“A body!” Cleo blurted. “A man has been murdered.” None of them had said that word yet, but it was clear that neither a medical condition nor an accident had taken Hunter Fox’s life. With her free hand, Cleo tugged her sunny cardigan tight.
Dot was reaching for the tipped trash can.
“Dot, no,” Cleo called over. “Don’t touch anything!”
Dot yanked her hand back as if shocked.
“Sorry!” Cleo said. “It could be evidence.”
“Hello?” the dispatcher said, more stridently. “Miss Cleo, is that you?”
Cleo blinked. She recognized the voice of her favorite neighbor and deputy. “Gabby? I’m
sorry, I thought I called 911.”
“You did. I’m covering dispatch for a spell. Did you say body? You didn’t find another, did you?”
“My cousin Dot did,” Cleo said, explaining briefly and assuring Gabby they were all safe.
“The chief is already out on another call,” Gabby said. “I’ll send him right over. I’ll be there too, as soon as I can get someone to take over the phones. You’re right—don’t touch anything. Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”
Cleo politely declined. She wanted to talk to Dot before the chief came blustering in. He wouldn’t be happy to see Cleo at another crime scene. He’d be even less happy with another murder.
* * *
“I was walking to work,” Dot said. She and Cleo stood at the corner of Henry’s shop, waiting to flag down the chief. Henry had nobly volunteered to keep watch at the end of the alley so that no one else stumbled into a shock.
“I have a lot to do at the Drop By,” Dot continued, hands nervously twisting her jacket tie. “I wanted to go early, to get inside before a lot of folks were around downtown.”
Gossiping folks like Wanda, Cleo interpreted. “And you spotted Slim,” Cleo prompted when Dot fell silent.
“Yes,” Dot said, managing a weak smile. “He’s a little teaser. He let me touch his head and then ran off. I went down the alley after him. I hope he’s okay.”
Cleo assumed she meant Slim. Hunter Fox certainly wasn’t okay.
“And there that man was,” Dot said, her tone suddenly calm and chilly cool. “That awful man who stole my books.”
This time Dot didn’t chide herself or say she was sorry. She firmed her jaw and folded her arms across her chest. Cleo chalked it up to shock.
Chapter Six
A silver pickup the size of a small yacht pulled up in front of Words on Wheels, one tire bumping up over the curb. Cleo would need a stepladder to get to the wheel. Chief Silas Culpepper had many inches on Cleo’s five foot three, but even his boots dangled in empty air before he slid down to the pavement.
Back on solid ground, he puffed his chest and stretched out his suspenders with both thumbs. Suspenders were the chief’s indulgence, Cleo thought, like books were for her. The man likely had enough for a new print every day of the year and then some. Today’s featured crawfish dancing beside their boiling pot. They were joined by fellow culinary victims, grinning ears of corn and wide-eyed potatoes.
Cleo felt her eyes widen in surprise as she approached the truck. The passenger door had opened, and slender legs in gold strappy heels emerged. The chief let his suspenders snap back and hustled to assist as the Marilyn figure of Kitty Peavey flowed out.
The “purveyor of southern delights” wore another formfitting red dress. The hem rode up as she slid down. Kitty steadied herself on the chief’s shoulder. “Such a big, tall truck,” she said breathily.
Red spots blossomed on Chief Culpepper’s cheeks as sunlight flashed on his wedding ring. Bless her heart, Cleo thought for the long-enduring Mrs. Culpepper. The chief’s wife was a stout and stolid woman who preferred her books in audio form. Better for filtering out her husband, Cleo assumed, whose utterances ranged from blustery orders to exhausting explanations.
Cleo sensed one such bluster coming her way. She shifted protectively in front of Dot and got in the first question. “Why is Miss Peavey with you?”
The chief huffed. “I’ll ask the questions here. Who’d you find dead this time, Mrs. Watkins?”
“It’s not Cleo’s fault,” Dot said. “It was me!”
Cleo clarified. “Dot was walking by, noticed someone in trouble, and as a good Samaritan, tried to help. Seeing he was … deceased … she ran to summon assistance. I happened to be driving by, and together we called you.”
“Of course you drove right into another death,” the chief muttered. He glanced back at his truck, where Kitty practically reclined on the fender. She appeared engrossed in her cell phone.
The chief grumbled on. “Finding bodies is all in the family for you, isn’t it, Mrs. Watkins? Let’s hope you’re wrong and this one’s a simple accident. Let’s hope it’s nothing to do with books too. This fair’s already taking up too much police time with crime, and it’s barely started.”
Crime? Another crime? Cleo opened her mouth but quickly decided against asking. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of denying her information. She’d find out from Gabby. “I’m afraid this is a murder,” she said.
“If that’s true, then what’s the public doing messing around my scene?” The chief pointed a thick finger at Henry, who still stood staring glumly down the alley. “You there,” the chief bellowed. “Clear the scene.”
“You too, Miss Cleo,” the chief added. “Go wait on that book bus of yours. We only need the witness who found him.” He jerked his head at Dot. “Ma’am, come with me.”
“Me?” Dot said, sounding less certain of her role.
“Yes, ma’am. You said you found him, correct?”
Dot liked to be helpful. Sometimes she was too helpful for her own good. Cleo moved to hold Dot back, but her cousin slipped away and hurried toward the alley. The chief held up a mitt of a palm.
“Nope. Not this time, Miss Cleo,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”
Worry gripped Cleo. It was Dot who might need her help. Dear, kind Dot had threatened a man in anger and in public. Now that man was dead, and Dot had discovered his body.
The chief would surely hear about the argument and swindled books. When he did, he was apt to overreact. In past cases, he’d suspected Cleo of murder, and Mary-Rose and Cleo’s grandson Ollie and other innocent members of the public too. Cleo had helped in those cases. She would step in again if she needed to protect Dot.
Henry trudged toward her, hands deep in his pockets, head dipped. “I’ll go check on the pets,” he said, his voice a dull monotone.
Cleo pitched her response to perky. “Great idea! I’ll be right there to join you all. I just want to talk to someone first.”
A throaty Dodge Charger was pulling up, sporting the logo of the Catalpa Springs Police Department. As Cleo had hoped, Gabby Honeywell hopped out. Her glossy curls swung in a ponytail, and she managed to make the beige polyester uniform look stylish. The style was no surprise. Gabby, a former beauty queen, was a yoga enthusiast, brimming with poise and polish. In her midtwenties, Gabby was also the youngest member of the Catalpa Springs Police Department, the only female, the sole African-American officer, and Cleo’s favorite neighbor, not counting Cleo’s grandson Ollie, a recent college graduate who was currently residing in Cleo’s backyard cottage.
Gabby gave Cleo a quick hug. “Are you all okay?”
“Honeywell!” the chief boomed. “This isn’t a social call. Get this scene secured. Close off the street and both entrances to the alley. Move it! You’re already late.”
Chief Culpepper puffed his chest importantly and glanced toward Kitty. If he’d hoped to impress Kitty, she hadn’t noticed. Her focus remained on her phone. After heaving a sigh of disappointment, the chief stomped off down Wisteria Street.
“I think Dot’s pretty shaken up,” Cleo said, following Gabby to her vehicle and explaining what she knew as Gabby rummaged in the trunk. Gabby emerged with a large roll of crime-scene tape and sympathy for Dot.
“Dot was just walking by,” Cleo stressed. “It’s bad luck, that’s all. If she hadn’t found him, someone else would have. She’s in shock. She’s not thinking—or talking—straight. I should get her home.”
Gabby gave her an assessing look and seemed to read Cleo’s concerns. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get Dot back to you as soon as possible. You should all stick around, though. We’ll need to get statements from everyone. Are you sure it’s murder? Not that I doubt you, Miss Cleo, but I don’t want another springtime crime spree.”
Neither did Cleo, but she saw no way of sugarcoating it. “I’m certain,” she said, wrapping her arms tight to her middle. “He was stabbed, I’d
guess. Look for something sharp.”
Gabby hoisted out a duffel and looped the roll of crime-scene tape around her wrist. “Did you recognize the vic?”
All too well, Cleo thought. “Yes, his name is Hunter Fox.”
“Should I know him?”
Yesterday, Cleo had definitely thought Gabby should get to know Mr. Fox, by way of arresting him for bad book behavior. She didn’t want to bring that up yet. “You wouldn’t know him, probably. He’s in town for the book fair.”
Gabby groaned. “The chief isn’t going to like that. A visitor, killed? It’s not even a half year into his safety campaign.”
After last year’s murders, the chief and the tourism board had gotten together and designed a new campaign to boost the town’s image. Mostly it consisted of glossy photos and a logo of questionable factualness: Catalpa Springs, Safest Little Town in the South. The statement was prominently endorsed by the chief, who’d look bad if it wasn’t true.
“Mr. Fox was a book scout,” Cleo said. “I think he came to town about a week ago, in preparation for the fair.”
“A book scout? Like a Boy Scout?”
“Not quite,” Cleo said diplomatically. She briefly explained Hunter’s job, how he hunted down books and sold them on to collectors. “Like a middleman, a finder.”
“So kinda like that reality show about garage-sale pickers?” Gabby said. “But with books? That sounds fun! I can’t see him making enemies by discovering and selling books.”
Cleo could. She was still deciding how to politely explain Hunter’s slippery practices when Culpepper bellowed again.
“Honeywell, stop your yapping and secure this scene!”
Young Gabby had an admirable ability to turn serene under the chief’s outbursts. Cleo watched, taking it as a lesson, as Gabby centered her already perfect posture. Gabby inhaled, exhaled, smiled calmly, and said, “We’ll talk later.”
“We will,” Cleo said, already dreading it.