Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  Chapter Seven

  Cleo glanced at Words on Wheels. Henry stood inside the bright, happy bus, staring glumly out toward his shop. Rhett Butler sat atop the next shelf down, grooming a rear leg for all to see. If anyone had been looking at the bookmobile. To Cleo’s dismay, the crime scene was drawing keen attention. Cars drove by at rubbernecking pace. Pedestrians stared. Some turned away and hurried on. More clumped in little groups at the caution tape strung across Wisteria.

  “What is going on?” Kitty Peavey had finally detached from her cell phone. She breezed over to Cleo with a wave of perfume and a scowl. Her lips matched her cherry-red dress, and her golden hair was set in stiff curls, slightly flattened on one side.

  Before Cleo could come up with an answer teetering between truth and outright fib, Kitty struck a pouty pose. “The chief wouldn’t tell me. He said he didn’t want to upset me since I’m a lady and already shaken up.”

  Kitty inspected ruby-red nails and a chip on her right index finger. She fussed at the imperfection, giving Cleo time to assess her state, which hardly seemed shaken at all. Then Cleo remembered what Gabby had said when she’d called 911. The chief was already out, responding to another call. Did that call involve Kitty?

  “Did something happen to you earlier?” Cleo asked. “Are you okay?”

  Kitty gave up on the nail. Her hand fluttered at her heart. “My room was ransacked! While I slept!”

  Cleo’s hand slapped at her own heart. Female solidarity overcame any previous suspicions of Kitty. She pictured a prowler, creeping into Kitty’s room in the dark. How terrifying! “How awful!” she exclaimed.

  “I know!” Kitty said. “My room was a mess and a half this morning. Some of my inventory is missing too. Thank goodness I had my best treasures and cash in the safe. Of course, the safe was too tiny for all my southern delights.”

  Ransacking and book theft? Cleo’s hand remained firmly at her breast.

  “That bed-and-breakfast looks pretty enough, doesn’t it?” Kitty said. “But the security is atrocious. What if I had been in my bed in my negligee? The thought gives me the chills. I’m thinking of suing for emotional distress. Chief Culpepper says I’ll have a better chance if I make out a police report. That’s where we’re going, to the station. He’s offered to hold my hand through it. He’s such a gentleman.”

  Cleo’s sympathy slipped. A robbery was a violation, and how upsetting to lose books. But then Kitty hadn’t shown any concern for Dot’s missing books, and suing the Myrtles Bed and Breakfast seemed extreme. Cleo knew the hardworking owners. The Flores family took care with every amenity, and Henry had told her about their above-and-beyond efforts to accommodate the demanding antiquarians.

  “It’s upsetting, most certainly,” Cleo soothed. “But criminals strike. Sometimes there’s nothing that good, honest folks can do to stop them.” She knew all about that. “Unless you think it’s someone who works there? But then it would be that person’s fault, and the police would charge them.”

  “Like the maid? I can’t see a housekeeper caring about books, can you?”

  Yes, I can, Cleo thought, but she occupied herself with cleaning her glasses.

  Kitty rattled on. “Those innkeeper people say it’s my fault for forgetting my room key at a bar. Well, I say it’s still their establishment and their key! When I discovered the mess this morning, all they did was offer me a free stay and condolences and a fruit basket! Fruit hardly makes up for theft, does it? I won’t be letting housekeeping in after this, just in case.”

  Cleo had been having a pretty wrought morning herself. Thus it took her a moment to work out the situation.

  “You weren’t in your room when it happened?” Cleo asked, guessing the answer as soon as she spoke. “Oh, of course, you were probably with your fiancé. Thank goodness!”

  Kitty twisted the glittery diamond on her ring finger. “Oh, right … I guess I shouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss. I wasn’t exactly with my Dr. Dean. I think I mentioned, he’s my pre-fiancé, if you know what I mean?”

  Cleo didn’t, but she firmly believed in letting others love as they liked. She nodded and smiled, but a new worry was growing.

  “Deany’s a good man,” Kitty continued with a touch of defensiveness to her tone. “He knows his books and takes care of me and supports my collecting interests, but he’s no fun on trips. Can you believe, he brings his own food? He goes to bed by nine o’clock sharp too, lights out and quiet hours. That’s why I have to get a separate room, so I can conduct my own business.” She giggled. “And a single gal at a book fair should have some fun too, don’t you agree?”

  Cleo continued her polite nodding. She was all for fun around books, and how Kitty spent her evening was none of Cleo’s concern. Unless it included a certain book scout.

  “Did your fun or business happen to involve Mr. Fox?” Cleo asked, careful to keep her tone neutral.

  “Now, that’s my business,” Kitty said in mock chastisement. However, her sly smile and the rosy glow blossoming on her cheeks suggested the answer.

  Kitty tapped a foot impatiently. “Speaking of business, what is taking that policeman so long? I suppose it’s a sign I should forget the whole thing. You’re probably right.”

  She made it sound like Cleo had twisted her arm. “Now I’ll have to walk all that way back to the bed-and-breakfast. I don’t suppose y’all have Uber here?”

  Cleo had no idea. She did know that the Myrtles was just a few blocks away and a pretty walk through the park and downtown.

  “They better have some carb-free breakfast items by the time I get there,” Kitty was saying, in the same ominous tone she’d used to threaten the Flores family with financial ruin. She turned on her gold heels to go.

  “Wait,” Cleo said.

  Kitty spun back too quickly, catching Cleo in indecision. It wasn’t Cleo’s place to inform Kitty of Hunter’s death. Such awful news should be handled by professionals. On the other hand, Kitty might have helpful information, for the police and for Cleo too. If Kitty cared about Hunter Fox—which Cleo was certain she did—then she’d surely want to help bring his killer to justice.

  “When did you last see Mr. Fox?” Cleo asked.

  “Why?” Kitty’s eyes narrowed under mascara-heavy lashes. “Oh … I get it. This is still about your cousin and her old books, isn’t it? Well, you tell her to stop bugging him. Honestly, did you know, she was pounding on his door in the middle of the night? Rude!”

  Cleo felt her mouth open. No words came out, being stuck in the worries whirling in her head. Dot had gone to the Myrtles and banged on Hunter’s door? And Kitty knew. At the very least, Kitty had spoken with Hunter Fox last night.

  “That’s right, your cousin was making another fuss,” Kitty said, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Since you’re so determined to pry, I’ll tell you. Yes, I was over at Hunt’s room, talking books. He didn’t open the door to your cousin. He said there’d be no way to reason with her. I mean, you saw what happened at the fair yesterday. She made a scene.”

  Kitty’s cheeks remained rosy as she talked on about Hunter Fox, how sweet-talking was in his nature. How it got him the best deals.

  Cleo felt a pang of sadness, for Kitty and for Hunter too. He’d been devious and underhanded—possibly criminal—but he hadn’t deserved death.

  A huffing sound from Kitty cut into Cleo’s thoughts. “This is taking forever,” Kitty said. “I’m leaving. Maybe Hunt’ll turn up for breakfast. That man, I swear; you can’t trust him any farther than you can throw him, but that’s part of his charm, isn’t it?”

  Cleo’s head spun in a should-she, shouldn’t-she dither.

  Another police car pulled up, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  Kitty pressed her palms to her ears. “What a racket! What did you say is happening? It looks kind of serious.”

  “There’s been an … incident,” Cleo said obliquely.

  “Must be some incident if it tops my room-invasion robbery. Thi
s town isn’t as sweet as it seems, is it? Safest Little Town in the South, ha! Hunt keeps telling me, this is the most innocent place around. Wait till I tell him. A robbery and an incident. He better watch his backside too!”

  She poked at her phone. “Why won’t that man respond? What’s he up to so early?”

  “Oh, Kitty,” Cleo said, deciding she had to say something. She took a breath, but someone else let the words out first.

  “Murder … a murderer is among us …” Madame Romanov, premier psychic, spiraled toward them, moaning in watery tones. Palms outstretched, she spun in a slow circle. She wore a shimmery purple robe that brought out the lavender streaks in her long, black hair. Bells jingled from bangles as thick as barnacles. A dusky scent of incense hovered around her.

  “The chimes of the beyond call. A man calls to me. His spirit cries out. He cries to be heard.” Madame waved her hands and bangles clanked.

  “Murder? A man?” Kitty wrinkled her nose and jerked back as Madame Romanov jangled a hand close to her ear. Then she gasped. “Oh. My. Gosh! Was it another room invasion? Thank goodness I was with Hunt. I could have been killed! I should sue.”

  “Hunter,” Madame Romanov intoned. “The huntsman. The fox in the henhouse. His body lies on the earth, but his spirit waits overhead. Waiting for justice …” Her eyes rolled back, flashing wild whites. She muttered on about angel bells.

  Kitty stepped back, mouth agape, eyes aimed at Cleo. “Hunter? What is this weird woman talking about?”

  “Kitty, dear, I’m so sorry,” Cleo said, reaching for Kitty’s hands. Kitty yanked away. This wasn’t how Cleo would have broken the news, but now it was out. “It’s true. Mr. Hunter has been …”

  “Slain! Knocked down … down, down, down, dead,” Madame Romanov supplied, her eyes popping open.

  Cleo quickly said, “I am so very sorry, Kitty. The police will tell us more soon, and they’ll want to talk to you.”

  Kitty backed away, pointing at Cleo. “You! They need to talk to you, that’s who. You and that cousin of yours! That’s why you were asking all those nosy questions. You’re looking for someone else to blame! Well, he was alive and happy with me. Oh, Hunter!”

  “The hunter in the great beyond,” Madame Romanov intoned, eyes slithering upward.

  “Shush!” Kitty spat.

  “Kitty, please,” Cleo said. “You can help bring him justice. When did he go out? Was he meeting someone?”

  “Leave me alone, both of you!” Kitty shoved by Cleo and the chanting psychic, running toward Wisteria. Cleo followed, rounding the corner in time to see Kitty smack into Chief Silas Culpepper.

  Wailing, Kitty gripped the chief’s suspenders, releasing a hand only to point toward Dot, exiting the alley. Gabby was at her side. A chubby dachshund panted at their heels.

  “She did it!” Kitty wailed. “She threatened Hunter—everyone heard her!”

  Slim barked sharply and ran off. The clumps of onlookers had coalesced to a blob rumbling with sounds of scandal. Cleo recognized locals—friends and patrons. She saw strangers too, visitors with tote bags, antiquarians with name tags, and the toddler and dad who’d waved to the bookmobile.

  “A killer is among us.” Madame Romanov approached in a slow, jangly waltz. “The killer walks with us.”

  “Is that so?” Chief Culpepper said, his gaze following Kitty’s pointing finger and narrowing in on Dot.

  Chapter Eight

  An hour later, Cleo sat with Dot, Henry, and the pets in the Gilded Page. In other circumstances, the bookshop would have been a lovely place to while away a morning. Mr. Chaucer snored on his window-seat bed. Rhett was curled up beside him, methodically kneading his pug friend’s back. Beyond were pretty views of Words on Wheels and the park, a fluttering postcard of new greens and rowdy floral magentas.

  Cleo reached for her coffee cup and sipped the tepid brew, mainly for something to do. She wanted action, information, and assurances. They were waiting to give statements. Waiting wasn’t action.

  Beside her on the green velvet love seat, Henry flipped through a photographic history of the great Okefenokee Swamp. Black-and-white blurs of nubby cypress knees passed by. Men in coveralls and brimmed hats forever fished from flat-bottomed boats.

  Buddy Boone had been drawn to the book, and Cleo could see why. It was the kind to enjoy again and again, picking out details and imagining the scents and sounds at the moment the photographer clicked the shutter.

  Henry wasn’t savoring the words or the images. He flipped pages in rapid succession. In rigid contrast, Dot sat as upright as her armchair. A book lay open on her lap, but she hadn’t turned a page.

  A rap at the door gave them all a jolt. Faces appeared in the picture window, fingers cupped to the glass. Mr. Chaucer woke with a confused woof. Rhett threw back his ears and swished his tail. The rapping intensified.

  Henry groaned. “Oh no, the workshop tour. I called the bed-and-breakfast and left a message with Mrs. Flores to cancel it. She said Professor Weber was in the breakfast lounge and she’d tell him right away. Maybe he left or she forgot.”

  “Or maybe no one listened,” Cleo said, getting up and peering out the far side of the window. Bookdealers in name tags were descending on the door. They looked a tad too buzzed, even for a bunch of antiquarians about to talk about bookbinding. Red flashed across Cleo’s view, and she saw Kitty hurtle toward her colleagues. Kitty threw herself, sobbing, into their collective arms.

  The rap came again, sharp and loud.

  Henry stood and smoothed his light tweed jacket. “Professor Weber,” he said, unlocking and opening the door. “I’m sorry, I tried to send a message canceling the tour, and—”

  “We got your message.” Dr. Dean Weber stepped inside, with the other bookdealers and Chief Culpepper streaming in behind him. The chief stepped aside to a dim corner and leaned against a shelf, watching.

  The professor wore his undertaker attire again, dark and gloomy and now entirely appropriate. “We’re not here for your tour,” he said. “Obviously, we came to show support for Kitty.” He added, belatedly, “And Mr. Fox too. Most unfortunate.”

  “Of course,” Henry murmured. “It’s terrible. I can bring out tea or coffee, cold or hot, or—”

  “There she is!” Kitty burst in. She rushed to the professor and grasped at his sleeve. “I told you she’d be here, guiltily hiding. Mr. Lafayette is aiding and abetting her. I hear he’s in cahoots with her cousin the librarian.”

  Dot staggered up from her armchair. “Henry’s not abetting. We’re all just waiting to give our statements. We’re awfully sorry for what’s happened and want to help.”

  “Do you deny you threatened Mr. Fox?” Kitty demanded.

  “No, I didn’t intend to threaten,” Dot stammered. “Oh, it might have sounded like that. If it did, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for him to get hurt.”

  Cleo murmured shushing sounds to her cousin, but dear Dot barreled on.

  “I meant that he’d be sorry for hurting others. Later, at the end of his life, if he looked back and took stock of how he’d treated folks and books, he’d be sorry. That’s all I meant.”

  “At the end of his life?” Kitty said, her voice rising with each word. “You hurried that on, didn’t you?” She threw her hands over her face. Her shoulders heaved, and she sobbed in loud, dramatic gulps. “Poor Hunter. Our beloved colleague.”

  A few bookdealers moved in to comfort her with awkward pats. The professor put an arm stiffly but protectively over her shoulders.

  Only Buddy Boone backed up Dot. “I heard you yesterday, Miss Dot. I get what you’re saying. You meant, like, he’d be sorry if he had to account for his actions, facing the afterlife and repentance and whatnot. That’s what I’d think about.”

  “Oh, what do you know, Buddy?” Kitty spluttered, hands parting so she could cast a look of utter disdain. Her mascara had held firm, but her lipstick smeared up on one side, giving her a half-clown grin. “You collect trinkets and garage-sale pap
erbacks. You wouldn’t know the allure of a true delight, the tingle of holding a rare treasure in your hands. I bet you don’t even understand the power of Gone With the Wind and the passions it arouses. Like driving this woman mad to murder.” She seemed to remember that she’d been passionately weeping. She hid her face again and wailed through her hands, “Rest in peace, Foxy!”

  Dot had backed up into a wall. Fortunately, it was the front wall by the picture window and pets. Mr. Chaucer toddled over to pant up at her. Dot patted his wrinkles. Rhett held down the satin bed. From his newly claimed throne, he scowled at the gathered bookdealers. Cleo silently cheered on his guard-cat instincts.

  “I know Gone With the Wind,” Buddy said, shuffling his boots. “It’s one of my own personal favorites, and I sell a bunch of copies too. ’Course I do. It’s real popular.” He shot Dot a twist of a smile. “I understand …”

  Cleo saw a grim opportunity. She’d intended to ask Dot gently and privately about her rare, signed book. But Kitty had alluded to it, and Kitty was bullying as much as grieving. “Did Mr. Fox give you my cousin’s signed copy of Gone With the Wind, Ms. Peavey? If so, it was not intended for sale, and you’ll have to return it.”

  Cleo glanced over at Dot. From Dot’s crumpled expression, Cleo knew she’d guessed right. It also meant that Dot had a twenty-five-thousand-dollar motive for murder.

  Kitty hesitated, her lip quirking until it rose in a smug smile. “Y’all weren’t listening. I told you to imagine such a treasure. If you’re imagining something, it’s not real, is it? I will say, I bought your cousin’s movie edition of GWTW fair and square. I did it a favor too, chopping it up and making it relevant again. Now loads of folks can enjoy it, hanging on their powder-room walls. Right, hon?” She patted the professor’s stiff arm.

  A hint of a sneer cracked his stoic expression. “Gone With the Wind? Popular pulp. Much too dated for modern sensibilities. If that’s the book at the heart of this trouble, it’s even tawdrier business.”

  Kitty covered a flash of irritation with a syrupy giggle. “Darling, have you even read Gone? You should. It’s a romance and a thriller. A saga!”