by Nora Page
“Okay,” Mary-Rose said, rejoining Cleo. “Let’s get this intervening going!” She pushed open the door and they stepped out. Mary-Rose set off toward the gravel parking area, tucked from view by a dense screen of palms and ferns.
“I know you’re worried, Cleo,” Mary-Rose said. “That’s why this is good for you too. Your worry might be worse than the reason. For all we know, maybe Dot’s selling books and shutting up shop because she’s aiming to retire or take a vacation down to Florida.”
Cleo shuddered. Those sounded like awful reasons to her. Still, either was preferable to Cleo’s worst-case scenario of Dot needing cash for something truly terrible, like a health problem.
“You don’t believe that,” Cleo said. “I’ve never heard Dot say she wants to retire.”
“No,” Mary-Rose admitted. “I don’t believe that. But we’ll find out. We have to be direct, no dancing around. It’s like flipping a pancake: fast, decisive, no hesitation.” She glanced over at Cleo. “Oh, don’t give me that look, like I’m terrorizing kittens. I’m just warming up. Some verbal stretching.”
“I did give her time,” Cleo reasoned again. “But now …”
“Now you have two loved ones who are prime murder suspects,” Mary-Rose said. “You’ve been more than reserved, Cleo.” Mary-Rose grinned. “Ha! The reserved librarian! You’ve been on hold. Overdue to intervene.” She swung the pie carrier. “It is too bad that Dot had to go and threaten Hunter in public and that Henry had to stroll over to the crime scene without an alibi. Oh, and somehow lose track of a murder weapon.” Mary-Rose made a tsking sound.
Cleo kicked gravel, sending it rolling to the dark shadow of a fern.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Cleo said, “The day of Dot’s argument at the fair. When Henry and I chased after her, you and Mr. Chaucer stayed back at Henry’s stand. Did anyone come by?”
“To steal a murderous awl, you mean?” Mary-Rose said. She tapped her forehead. “I’ve been thinking of that. I’ve been hanging around you too much, Cleo. I’m developing a suspicious mind, but I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me,” Cleo said, covering preemptive disappointment. “Why?”
“That sweet little pug got all sad, seeing you and Henry run off. Mr. Chaucer and I followed after you. We would have caught up too, except he met a Great Dane he had to greet.”
Cleo filled in the blanks. “So you weren’t watching the stand.” She added quickly, “Not that you should have been.”
Mary-Rose sighed. “I wish I had stayed. I did see a bunch of those bookdealers gathered outside the doorway when I looked back that way. Does Henry think that’s when the awl went missing?”
Cleo kicked some more gravel. “He’s not entirely certain he had that particular awl at the demo. He has entire walls and shelves of tools, you know.”
“I’m the same way with whisks,” Mary-Rose said supportively. “Can’t resist them. Can’t keep them straight.”
They waited for a car to drive by, waving to the occupants. Puffy clouds floated overhead, and a peacock sang out its wild yodel. Cleo wished they could spend the afternoon reading beside the spring, like the peaceful picture on Mary-Rose’s bookplate.
When the car passed, Cleo said. “Henry hosted the bookdealers in his shop the night before the fair opened. The awl could have been swiped then too. Which suggests premeditation.”
“Meaning it had nothing to do with Dot or Henry or Catalpa Springs,” Mary-Rose summarized. “I never thought I’d hope for premeditated murder.” She pointed up the drive. “I assume we’re taking your ride?”
Cleo had parked Words on Wheels just off the berm, facing out. “If you don’t mind,” Cleo said. “You know I love to drive.”
“There’s nothing I love more than getting driven around in a bus full of books!”
Cleo’s ride had a cat lounging on the hood, fluffy belly aimed at the sun. Rhett never strayed far from the bus at the Pancake Mill. Cleo suspected he feared the wandering peacocks. She called his name and clicked her tongue. Rhett slid an eye open, like an alligator considering its options. Cleo knew he’d come running when she rattled his treats and started the engine.
Mary-Rose buckled up. “Last one in,” she sang out as Rhett bounded up the steps. He hopped into his crate for his treat. Mary-Rose held the pie carrier in her lap. It was milky opaque, but Cleo sensed there was something besides pie inside.
“So what did you bring?” Cleo asked as she navigated up the gravel drive. Branches hung low overhead, a tunnel of glorious green.
“It’s a secret,” Mary-Rose said.
Cleo smiled, betting this was a secret she’d like.
* * *
Dot lived in a white clapboard cottage with cornflower-blue shutters and a riot of rhododendrons.
“Okay,” Mary-Rose said, stomping up to Dot’s door. “On the count of three, we start pounding.”
“We’re not a SWAT team,” Cleo protested. “Gentle, remember?” She held Rhett Butler on her shoulder. His claws poked through her cardigan. He could use the gentle reminder too.
“Okay, you know best. For now.” Mary-Rose scanned the shrubbery with suspicion and added darkly, “I’ve got your back.”
“You have whatever’s in that pie carrier,” Cleo said. “Be prepared to thrust your secret dessert at her as soon as she opens the door. Rhett and I will be right beside you.”
When Cleo knocked, she feared Mary-Rose’s storm-the-cottage tactics had rubbed off on her. The knock sounded too loud and reverberated through her fist. Rhett tensed, digging in his claws.
“Good,” Mary-Rose whispered.
Not good. “Yoo-hoo, Dot?” Cleo called out in a merry trill. She raised her fist again, planning a light, happy tapping to the beat of shave and a haircut, two bits. She knocked out the melody twice, and her mind wandered, wondering about the origin. A more important question was how she’d evict the song from her head.
“I have an earworm,” she was saying as the door swung open. Dot stood before them in a ruffled sunflower-print apron. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair smooth.
“Dot!” Cleo and Mary-Rose exclaimed simultaneously.
“We came to—” Cleo stopped short. Did one announce an intervention?
“We came to bring you swoon pies,” Mary-Rose said, stepping past Cleo and over Dot’s threshold. “Come along, Cleo. Thanks for having us in, Dot,” she said, although Dot hadn’t managed to utter a word. “I’ll take these to the kitchen.”
Relief swept Cleo over the threshold too. Dot wasn’t in shambles, in her personal upkeep or her home. And Mary-Rose had brought her famous “swoon pies,” her version of moon pies, marshmallow-filled chocolate-cookie sandwiches.
“I … ah …” Dot said.
Cleo let Rhett down and gripped her cousin in a hug. She was so glad to see Dot, she wasn’t even bothered by her cousin’s obvious fluster.
Rhett trotted after Mary-Rose, knowing the route to any kitchen. Dot’s graciousness came back with a gush. “Where are my manners? Come in. I’m so sorry. I was going to call you, Cleo! I was! Time slipped away, and now I’m entertaining and—”
“Entertaining?” Cleo’s emotions mingled. There was relief that Dot appeared well. But there was also a dash of hurt mixed with vexation. Dot was entertaining instead of returning her cousin’s worried calls?
Dot’s hands flew to her apron ties. She lowered her voice. “It’s the president of the Georgia Antiquarian Book Society. I’m so honored! He took time away from the fair to personally bring me some news and a book. One of my books! Come say hi.” Dot bustled down the hallway, leaving Cleo gaping behind her.
Cleo caught up with Dot just outside the kitchen. Rhett had made himself at home, staring expectantly at the fridge. Mary-Rose stood beside Dot’s small kitchen island, introducing herself and her swoon pies to the stony face of Professor Dean Weber. Cleo reached for Dot’s elbow.
She drew her cousin back into the hall and
whispered, “What is he doing here? He could be a murder suspect!”
Dot’s eyes widened.
Mary-Rose’s voice boomed from the kitchen. Cleo recognized the tone as creating a cover. “So,” Mary-Rose proclaimed. “I take two big old chocolate-cake cookies and fill them with a whole mess of marshmallow and then dip half in chocolate glaze! Swoon!”
The professor turned toward the doorway. Behind his back, Mary-Rose shot Cleo a shushing gesture.
Cleo decided she didn’t care if he’d overheard. The man was a suspect on her list, and here he was, suspiciously in her cousin’s kitchen.
Professor Weber eyed Cleo stonily. “Mrs. Watkins,” he said. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
He didn’t elaborate, so Cleo only smiled. Maybe he’d heard of her lovely bookmobile or how she’d solved several recent murders.
Dot bustled in and began tidying her immaculate kitchen. She whisked a dishcloth over the counter, her nervous tic. Her words were just as brisk. “That nice Buddy Boone found my other bird book—the Audubon—at the professor’s book stand this morning. Of course, Professor Weber didn’t realize it was mine. Buddy only noticed because of my bookplate. I feel like I owe you some payment, Professor. Buddy too. He should have come with you so I could thank him as well. Please tell him I’d love to give him a finder’s reward or cookies or—”
“No payment necessary,” Professor Weber said. “It’s hardly an exceptional copy of Birds of America. Once Mr. Boone pointed out the book and your pencil signature—which is not a good permanent identifier, by the way, and not a benefit for resale—I felt it my duty as society president to return it to you personally. Provenance and legitimacy are the cornerstones of the antiquarian business, as I’ve often said. I’ve distributed your list of missing books to all the dealers. Now that I know even more details about your supposedly missing volumes, we have a better chance of identifying them.”
Dot blushed and gushed thanks, then explained to Cleo and Mary-Rose. “The professor asked about any identifying markings, especially for my most valuable book, so if—when—it’s located, I can get it back.” Dot’s voice had risen to nervously hopeful. “See? It’ll be fine. Just fine.”
Fine except for a murder inquiry. And Dot and Henry being suspects. And a more likely suspect dropping by Dot’s house. Cleo wondered about the professor’s intentions, both in visiting and in inquiring about Dot’s book. The polite, southern lady side of Cleo’s brain argued for nice and noble. Her sleuthing side countered with just the opposite. Identifying details could help him find Dot’s books. They could also help him—or Kitty—hide them.
“How did you acquire that Audubon book?” Cleo asked him. Mary-Rose nodded strenuously, suggesting intervening in the professor’s business was going well.
He looked down his nose at her. “Miss Peavey gave it to me as a thoughtful gift, knowing I enjoy natural history. I was unaware it had problematic origins. She was surely unaware too. Mr. Fox is—was—responsible for acquiring it.”
Encouraged by Mary-Rose’s bobbing head, Cleo said, “Did Miss Peavey acquire many other books from Mr. Fox?”
His face didn’t move, except a narrowing of his eyes. “Miss Peavey’s business with Hunter Fox was none of my business.”
And he didn’t like that one bit, Cleo guessed. She’d been right in thinking he knew of Kitty’s flirtations with the book scout.
“Tea?” Dot said too brightly. “Coffee? Some of these lovely swoon pies?”
“No,” the professor said. “I have to return to the fair. I’ve spent too much time on this unnecessary trouble already.”
“Sorry!” Dot said.
Not sorry, Cleo thought.
He left with a stiff “Good day” and a haughty refusal of swoon pies for the road.
“He is a chilly one,” Mary-Rose said. They watched out Dot’s front window as he drove off. “I thought so the other day. Now I know it. No tea? No swoon pies? Not caring that his fiancée was swooning after a hot con man?”
“Pre-fiancée,” Cleo murmured. “Or he’s pretending not to care.”
“Pre,” Mary-Rose said huffily. “If he gave her that big diamond ring and she took it, I bet he doesn’t see much distinction.”
Dot had locked up and was leaning with her back against the door. “I’m sorry!” she blurted. “I should have called you both earlier. I was about to, truly, when Professor Weber stopped by. I’m sure he was just being nice, and you all are being so kind. Thank you for the swoon pies. They’re my favorite, and here I was being so rude! I don’t deserve them.”
Mary-Rose led the way back to the kitchen. “You’re never rude, Dot. We, on the other hand, have an ulterior motive. The swoon pies are to sweeten the blow. Cleo here is going to ask all about books and money, and we’re not leaving until she gets answers. This is an intervention.”
Chapter Fifteen
They returned to the kitchen. Mary-Rose served sweet tea and swoon pies while Cleo revealed her greatest worry.
“Are you okay?” Cleo asked. Her heart raced as she asked, “It’s not your health, is it?”
Dot hung her head. “No. Not my health. It’s the Drop By.”
Cleo was relieved, but only momentarily. The shop was Dot’s heart and soul, like the library and bookmobile were for Cleo.
Dot said, “Remember when the air conditioner at the store broke back in March? Fixing it revealed trouble with the vents and the furnace and then more trouble with the plumbing and refrigeration, which popped up some code violations that need fixing—fast—and then the taxes came due and …”
Dot paused for a breath, slumping back in her seat. “I got behind on everything, and it all snowballed,” she said. “I couldn’t think how else to catch up other than to sell some stuff.” She cast worried eyes around her kitchen. “I didn’t want to take a loan out on the house and end up in trouble here too.”
They sat around the rectangular table tucked in Dot’s breakfast nook. Dot’s father had made the table to fit. Dot had sewn the yellow gingham café curtains for the three walls of windows. Outside, hummingbirds zipped between a syrup feeder and the rhododendrons.
Cleo reached to grip her cousin’s hand. Mary-Rose pushed the platter of swoon pies closer. Even Rhett abandoned his refrigerator watch and trotted over to hop on Dot’s lap.
“Thanks, Rhett,” Dot said. “Thank you all. I needed to get that off my chest.” In what Cleo took as a good step forward, Dot accepted a swoon pie.
“Dot,” Cleo said gently. “You could have told us. Everyone would want to help. Me, April, all of the family—”
“Me,” Mary-Rose chimed in. “You know what our mothers would say: a trouble shared is a trouble halved. Or cut in thirds in this case, or tiny crumbs once everyone gets involved.” She brushed up cookie crumbs to make her point.
“That’s exactly why I couldn’t tell you all!” Dot said, so forcefully Rhett threw back his ears. “I don’t want to go lending anyone else my problems. April has the kids’ college tuitions to worry about and the cost of living in California. You both have your own work and bills. This is my problem. I’m the one who had my head in the sand and didn’t look up until things got too dire.”
Cleo had been raising a swoon pie to her lips. She put it back down. “How dire?”
Dot took a deep breath and exhaled the spiraling troubles. “If I can’t fix the code troubles by the end of the month, I’ll have to close the Drop By. If I can’t open the shop, I can’t pay the repair bills or the taxes.”
Mary-Rose and Cleo hurried to make sympathetic sounds and platitudes. It will be okay, they said.
“No,” Dot said, with uncharacteristic brusqueness. “I’m thinking it’s a sign. I’m getting to that age. Besides, no one needs a downtown grocery anymore.”
Cleo mostly managed to cover her horror. She took a large bite of swoon pie so she wouldn’t have to talk.
“Close the Drop By?” Mary-Rose said, expressing Cleo’s feelings for her. “Do
t, that would be a tragedy for the whole town! Is it what you want?”
Dot shook her head so vigorously, her hair batted at her eyes. “No, not at all. I love that shop, and I’d hate letting my kitchen and clerk helpers go. They’re like family. But I won’t take out more loans, from the bank or anyone else.”
Cleo put down her cup. Intervening was more wrenching than she’d anticipated. She decided it was time to get it all out. “So you tried to sell your signed copy of Gone With the Wind.”
Dot raised sad eyes. “Yes. Hunter Fox said I could get nearly thirty thousand for it. Can you imagine? He’d take about six thousand and I’d get the rest, he said. It would have solved all my troubles and then some. I enjoy Gone With the Wind—you know that, Cleo. Margaret Mitchell’s signature is a true treasure. But I don’t need a rare or expensive book to love the story just as much. The way I figured, I found that book for a reason. It was going to help me. Hunter seemed like he wanted to help too, but then at the fair he pretended we’d never had a deal at all.”
Cleo reached out and gripped her cousin’s hand.
Dot sniffled. “I made a fool of myself at the fair. Then I compounded it. I went to the Myrtles that evening and tried to reason with Mr. Fox. I know he was in his room. I heard him and a lady talking and laughing right before I knocked, but then they wouldn’t open the door.”
Kitty, Cleo thought grimly. Kitty had claimed it was Dot who couldn’t be reasoned with. Dot who was “pounding” on Hunter’s door. Cleo’s look must have betrayed her concern.
Dot squeezed her hand back and said, “Yes, I know. It looks like I was crazed for those books, doesn’t it? I tried to explain to Gabby when I gave my statement. I didn’t want to hide anything, and I knew the police would find out I was there. I’m a fool …”
“No, you’re wise to tell Gabby everything,” Cleo said and told her about Henry’s revised statement.
Dot’s eyes widened. “So Henry doesn’t have an alibi either? Oh, but it’s okay. Henry doesn’t have a motive.” She shot Cleo a wry smile. “Unlike me.”