by Nora Page
As he strolled back to work, Cleo buckled up and revved her engine. Word was already spreading: news that Cleo Watkins was out looking for clues, missing books, and a killer.
Chapter Eleven
“Strawberries and apologies.” Henry hustled up Cleo’s front-porch steps with a paper sack in one hand and Mr. Chaucer panting at his heels. The sun was setting in dusky peach hues. Cleo had been sitting out on her porch, watching the colors change and listening to a nightingale warming up its vocals.
“You shouldn’t have rushed.” Cleo patted his cheek and found it dewy warm. His hair tufted out, mad-scientist style.
Henry handed over the bag. He’d called earlier, saying he was in line at a pop-up farm stand selling berries.
“Heavenly,” Cleo said, sticking her nose in and inhaling the promise of long, sweet summer months ahead. In honor of the berries, Cleo had made buttermilk biscuits for shortcake. On her own, she might have made a meal of just that. However, she had invited Henry for dinner, not just dessert.
“I’m sorry to make you wait,” Henry said, as Mr. Chaucer panted up at Cleo.
Cleo understood how he felt, having made similar apologies all afternoon. After the nursing home, she’d zipped through some home deliveries. She’d heard more talk about a handsome man sniffing around for books. She’d collected names and spoken with two women who’d met Hunter Fox.
One of the women had wisely refused to let him inside. To Cleo’s horror, the other woman had given him cash, a down payment for selling her books, which he’d promised would make her ten times her investment. Cleo hadn’t had the heart to say so, but she feared the woman’s books were worth far less than the down payment. Now that the scout was gone, there would be little chance of retrieving her money.
Cleo folded the strawberry sack closed, keeping her dark thoughts away from the tender berries.
“I was running late all afternoon myself,” Cleo assured Henry. “But you shouldn’t worry. I’m not the one who cooked dinner. You did. We’re having your leftover chicken and rice. All I did was slice up cucumbers and dill for a salad and whip up biscuits for dessert. Easy.”
Henry remained ruffled, more anxious than simple lateness would account for, Cleo thought.
“I was leaving the fair when Gabby stopped by,” he was saying. “She wanted me to look at some papers and books and—”
“Sit,” Cleo urged. “Let’s sit for a spell and watch the sunset. It’s lovely out. Tell me what Gabby found.”
Henry didn’t need further prompting. He unleashed Mr. Chaucer and sank into a padded wicker porch chair. Mr. Chaucer trotted to the porch swing, where Rhett lay. The cat reached down a paw, pushing off his pug friend’s head, sending the swing gently swaying. Mr. Chaucer lopped onto his back and pawed back, mostly missing.
Cleo smiled at the four-legged friends and more worriedly at her gentleman friend. “Tea?” Cleo offered, gesturing to the pitcher sweating on the side table. “It’s not the good kind, I’m afraid. It’s my afternoon brew.”
Henry would understand that meant tea tragically lacking both sweetener and caffeine. Age did have its drawbacks, among them low-sugar diets and owl-worthy insomnia if Cleo sipped so much as a drip of caffeine after noon.
Henry accepted a glass and downed the bitter brew like it was nectar. “Ahhh,” he said. “That’s better. Thank you, for waiting and for the company.”
“My pleasure,” Cleo said. “Thank you for joining me. Now, you were saying … Gabby had some books?”
Henry kicked off one loafer and then the other and stretched out socked feet. “Gabby wanted me to look at books collected from Hunter Fox’s room at the Myrtles. There’s some good news. One was Dot’s. It’s an unexceptional edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, but it has her bookplate and her name penciled in.”
“That’s wonderful,” Cleo said. “It proves what she said. Hunter Fox took her books. But only one was there?” She knew Henry had seen Dot’s list of lost books. Hopefully, all the bookdealers had studied the list after Professor Weber distributed it.
“Only one, unfortunately,” Henry confirmed. His fingers rapped the wicker armrest.
His tapping was contagious. Cleo’s fingers danced too, thinking about Dot. Her cousin had again neglected to return Cleo’s calls, and when Cleo had gone by the Drop By, a Closed sign dangled from the door.
Cleo mentally recited her vow. She’d give Dot time. But not much more time.
Henry stopped tapping and said, “It’s odd. He only had a few books, and nothing worth much. No treasures, like Kitty said he’d been finding around town.”
“Perhaps he sold most of the books?” Cleo said. “Buddy said Hunter offered a sale the night before the fair opened. That’s when Buddy acquired Dot’s bird illustration.”
Henry suggested that selling his entire inventory seemed unlikely. “Unless he gave it to someone else to sell …”
“Kitty,” Cleo said, in darker tones than she’d ever uttered a word associated with cats. “She praised Hunter’s book-finding abilities and mentioned having her own personal scout. She said she was sharing the proceeds of that ‘imaginary’ Gone With the Wind too. If she had Hunter’s books—valuable and basically stolen—that’s a lure for a robber.” But if a thief had been after the books, why kill Hunter? Why in the alley behind Henry’s shop, with Henry’s tool?
Cleo decided a comforting dinner was in order. “Let’s go inside and enjoy your home-cooked meal.”
* * *
Cleo’s dearly departed husband Richard hadn’t been a man of the kitchen. Richard, bless his heart, couldn’t boil water without setting off a smoke alarm. His rare culinary efforts were confined to the barbecue, where he’d incinerate hot dogs, hamburgers, marshmallows, and the stray vegetable.
Henry was a meticulous cook, adventurous in his tastes but rarely deviating from recipes. Cleo likened his cooking style to his book restorations. When replacing a cover or restitching a spine, the best restorers didn’t leave their mark or add flair that wasn’t in the original.
Henry followed the same principles with recipes: if the great Julia Child or Edna Lewis considered a recipe good enough for their cookbooks, then Henry Lafayette followed it to the letter. He’d made Edna’s simple but stunning recipe for chicken and rice last night, a perfect comfort food.
Cleo first served a demanding Rhett Butler a can of “Chicken and Gravy Delight.” Henry doled out kibble to Mr. Chaucer. Unlike Rhett, the pug savored his meals one nibble at a time. Finally, Henry and Cleo took the seats she’d begun to think of as his and hers.
Hers was closest to the stove and sink. She’d claimed it over five decades ago. His, she’d previously considered the “visitor’s” seat because it had the clearest view of the back garden.
Cleo peeked outside. A light glowed in Ollie’s cottage, warming her heart. She’d offered the little single-bedroom house to Ollie after he graduated from college, knowing he adored his parents but wouldn’t relish a return to his childhood bedroom. Besides, Ollie’s dad—Cleo’s eldest son, Fred—was forever pressuring Ollie to get a “real job,” fast. Ollie wanted to take his time and find a career he felt passionate about. Cleo supported that, having found her calling in library work.
Ollie’s passion was for the environment. The young man had recently returned from temporary gigs saving oil-soaked shorebirds in Louisiana and leading educational tours along the Mississippi River. He was on the lookout for similar jobs locally.
Cleo hoped he’d stay close and in her cottage. Her grandson was helpful with gardening and opening stubborn jars. He was also delightful company, which Cleo considered more valuable than any rent, which often Ollie couldn’t pay.
“Ollie is organizing a benefit for the sandhill cranes at the nature preserve,” Cleo said now, since a good dinner required pleasant topics. “The wetland park out by the river, where the old tobacco farm used to be. They’re hoping to build a blind for bird watchers and a boardwalk that won’t disturb the nesting sites
. Ollie’s excited.”
“How nice,” Henry said and passed Cleo the pepper without her asking. The dish was perfectly seasoned, but she always added a little more pepper.
“It’s a dance party at the tobacco barn they restored for events,” Cleo continued. “I think Ollie’s working up the nerve to invite Gabby.”
This got a genuine smile out of Henry.
It was obvious to grandmother and gentleman friend and anyone else with eyes that Ollie was smitten with Deputy Gabby Honeywell. Unfortunately, infatuation turned the usually articulate young man into a blushing, stammering fool in the deputy’s presence.
“I hope Ollie manages this time,” Henry said. “Do you think she realizes he’s trying?”
“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Cleo said. “Gabby is a professional detective. I think she might even entertain a date if Ollie worked up the courage to speak a coherent sentence to her.”
Rhett joined them. He sat in a chair across the table and stared down whoever raised a fork, his attempt at feline mind control. The food was lovely, but Cleo noticed that the pleasant small talk kept withering. Henry finished his meal without his usual relish. Don’t push him either, she told herself.
“Seconds?” Cleo asked brightly. Rhett perked up and twirled in his seat, suggesting he’d happily have some chicken.
Henry leaned back and stared out the window. He sighed heavily before turning to look Cleo in the eye.
“Ollie’s not the only one scared to talk to Gabby Honeywell. I need to tell her something, but first I need to work up the courage to tell you.”
Chapter Twelve
Cleo got out the sherry, the good bottle she reserved for holidays, celebrations, or bad news. She guessed she was about to hear something she wouldn’t like.
“Should we go out to the porch?” she asked. She preferred unpleasant words out in the open air, not bottled up and bumping around her kitchen.
Henry carried the glasses and the bottle. Cleo followed, thinking they hadn’t even had dessert. They’d have shortcake afterward. Surely anything was better faced together and with strawberries.
The sky had turned blue-black, dotted with sparkles. They settled into comfy wicker seats. Rhett jumped on Cleo’s lap, while Mr. Chaucer leaned against Henry’s shins. Cleo fortified herself with some sweet sherry and waited.
Henry took a deep breath and let it out with a gust of words. “I’m a fool, Cleo. I should have said something right away. I got flustered. There was my awl, in that evidence bag, and all the bookdealers watching …” He turned stricken eyes to her. “Most of all, I worry you might doubt me. That’s my greatest fear!”
Cleo reached over and squeezed his hand. “Doubt you? Never! Tell me what’s going on.” She thought they each might need a double helping of shortcake, with a mountain of whipped cream, maple syrup, and a cherry on top too.
Her gentleman friend rubbed his eyes, sending his wire-rim glasses askew. He left them sitting sideways and turned to her. “You gave me the finest alibi in town. But … I wasn’t actually here all night. I went out.”
Mr. Chaucer whined. Henry scooped the little dog up to his lap.
“Out?” Cleo thought of Kitty, presumably sleeping away the night, believing Hunter was there beside her. There was no comparison, she told herself. Henry’s explanation would be innocent. As he spoke, her pulse returned to normal.
Henry smiled grimly down at his pug. “I should say, we went out. Neither of us has an alibi. Chaucy here insisted on a visit to the garden a little after midnight. I’d already been half awake. My mind kept going over all the things I needed to do for the fair.”
“Understandable,” Cleo said. Some nights her mind made lists on constant repeat. Such nights tended to fall before big events or after difficulties, like a tree crushing her library, or a patron found dead in her library … or Henry out at midnight without an alibi?
If she hoped to shut her eyes tonight, she’d need to follow the sherry with chamomile tea and the most sleep-inducing book in the house. One of her library patrons swore by Anna Karenina for insomnia. Cleo, unfortunately, liked Anna.
She tried to soothe Henry. “That’s nothing to worry about. So you and Mr. Chaucer went out to the garden for a spell? That’s okay. My alibi still holds.” She forced her smile up to beaming bright.
“Well,” he said, tugging at his beard. “We didn’t stick to the yard.”
“Down the lane, then?” Cleo said hopefully. Her section of Magnolia extended two blocks up and two down before intersecting other streets. Anywhere along it was almost in Cleo’s front yard.
Henry’s head shook side to side. “We walked to the park. The moon was out, and it was quiet. Since we were that far along, I dropped by my shop. You know how you get a worry stuck in your head in the night and you can’t shove it out? I’d been lying in bed, thinking I’d left a jar of glue open. Isn’t that silly?”
Cleo let him chatter about the glue, expensive and archival, necessary for a restoration he was doing. He’d imagined it hardening up, a slow-motion book-repair emergency in the making. Now there was a bigger problem.
“The glue turned out to be fine,” Henry said, looking abashed. “It’s me who froze up. When you said I was here all night, I didn’t know what to say.”
“You were in shock,” Cleo said gently. She leaned over and reached for his shoulder, tugging him into a partial hug. Rhett joined in, hopping to Henry’s armrest and bumping his head to Mr. Chaucer’s.
Henry smiled, for a moment at least. He rubbed Rhett’s ears as he said, “After I stayed quiet, I felt worse. I know it looks awful too. I’ve been terrified, thinking you might suspect me in Hunter’s death. Heaven forbid!”
“I’d never think that!” Cleo nodded to her cat, purring so hard he was drooling, the silly boy. “Neither would Rhett, clearly.” She waggled a mock chastising finger at Henry. “How could you even think such a thing?”
Henry’s shoulders relaxed. “You’re the sleuth. It would be logical to suspect me. Wouldn’t Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot say so too?”
“My intuition says no,” Cleo said firmly. “Miss Marple would agree with following intuition. So would Poirot. Oh, what was it he said about intuition? Intuition comes from logical deduction or experience? Feelings? I can’t recall exactly, but I know it was clever. I should look it up and reread the book that passage comes from … Now, which book was that?” She knew she was delaying, as Henry had earlier with his talk of glue.
Cleo sighed and said, “I suppose we have to tell the police?” A devilish idea brushed by. They could keep it to themselves. Everyone already believed her. Even Wanda Boxer had backed up the alibi. But she knew the answer.
“We do,” he said. “No, I do. I wanted to tell Gabby earlier, but I had to talk to you first. I can’t bear to keep lying by omission, and it’s wrong to let Dot shoulder all the suspicion.”
The wicked voice in Cleo’s head noted that that’s what honesty brought: trouble doubled—two people she loved, now vying for prime suspect. She tugged some of the blame to herself. “I’m the one who insisted you were here all night. I guess I’m a heavier sleeper than I thought.”
Henry eyes had a little twinkle as he said, “You were snoring ever so slightly, my dear.”
“Never!” Cleo finished her sherry and was about to propose shortcake. Gabby wasn’t home yet, and if it got too late … well, surely, confession could wait until morning. Perhaps the police would nab the killer by then and there’d be no need to say anything. Then she noticed Henry had out his rarely used cell phone. “I’m texting her,” he said, chewing his lip in concentration.
Cleo didn’t have to ask who.
“She says she’ll be back soon.”
Within moments, a car door slammed. Too soon, Cleo thought, and hunkered down in her seat.
* * *
Confession got a delay. The heavy, scuffing footsteps that followed belonged to Ollie, returning home from a meeting at the nature center. Seeing Cleo a
nd Henry, he bounded up to the porch and settled in to enthuse about the record number of sandhill cranes.
“Wonderful!” Cleo exclaimed, feeling she had to exaggerate her responses lest Ollie realize that his grandmother wasn’t fully listening. She was trying to pay attention. Cleo adored cranes and Ollie even more. “Marvelous birds,” she said, dropping this affirmation rather randomly amid Ollie’s words.
“They’re awesome,” Ollie agreed. He whipped out his phone and played their calls at high volume. Clacks and yodels filled the porch and wafted out into the night. Rhett’s ears went flat, and his furry face swiveled with feline predator instinct.
“You’d run away if you saw a bird that big,” Cleo told her cat.
Ollie played another soundtrack, this time with video. The birds were fascinating and pleasantly diverting. Henry made polite sounds but looked distant.
“They sound so prehistoric,” Ollie said with awe. “It’s great there are so many out at the preserve, right in time for the fund raiser. Are you coming, Gran? Henry? There’ll be dancing.” He added, “We’re getting a bunch of bands—punk, country, bluegrass, swing … something for everyone. I need to learn how to do the swing. Could you teach me, Gran? Henry?”
Cleo was happy to have a reason to chuckle and share a smile with Henry. “We’re not that old, Oliver,” she said. “Swing hit its heyday in the twenties and thirties.”
Ollie grinned back. “Just seeing if you guys were listening.” He returned to his phone, instantly engrossed and entertained.
Cleo thought her grandson might be more perceptive than he’d let on.
* * *
They knew all the songs of sandhills by the time Gabby strode up the walkway.
Ollie fumbled to mute his phone. “Hey, Gabby,” he said.
“Hey, Ollie,” she replied. “Hi, Miss Cleo, Henry.” She bent to greet the pets. “You had something you wanted to tell me?”
Ollie blushed furiously. “I was going to tell you about the crane benefit. I’m on the organizing committee. There’s a party, a dance out at the restored tobacco barn.”