Read or Alive

by Nora Page

  Cleo explained. “Madame Romanov knew the name Hunter.”

  Gabby raised an eyebrow. “She wasn’t doing that psychic guessing thing? You know, how they pick up on little things you don’t realize you’ve dropped and run with them?”

  “Possible. Kitty mentioned Hunt. It’s not hard to guess the name Hunter from that, I suppose, but thinking back, Madame also mentioned fox. ‘Fox in the henhouse,’ I think she said. It could be a coincidence …”

  “Or not. I’ll look into her some more.”

  Footsteps fell on the porch, shoes and little pug feet. Mr. Chaucer and Rhett were going to have a pet play date while Henry and Cleo were out.

  Gabby pulled the door open and stepped back with it. Mr. Chaucer trotted in, Henry fast at his heels. “So sorry I’m late,” Henry said, making a beeline to Cleo. “I was, ah … delayed. Speaking with someone. A little trouble. Nothing to worry about.”

  Cleo hugged him, holding back her desire to pepper him with questions. They’d talk when they were alone and the dear man had a cocktail in his hand.

  He kissed her cheek. “Ready for our sleuthing date, my dear?”

  At a muffled chuckle, Henry spun around.

  Mr. Chaucer waggled his back end at Gabby, stepping out from behind the door.

  “Sleuthing date?” Gabby said. “I knew you’d be looking into this, Miss Cleo.”

  Cleo stiffened her stance, preparing to issue rousing justifications. Every moment the chief spent falsely accusing Henry was a moment of investigation wasted. She’d scour the county for clues. She’d—

  Gabby held up a palm. “I’m not stopping you. All I ask is that you kids be careful tonight, okay? And Miss Cleo? Let me know if you find out anything.”

  * * *

  The Myrtles Bed and Breakfast occupied an antebellum Italianate mansion as pretty as a layer cake. Delicate porches and lacy balconies trimmed three stacked stories. Elegant crepe myrtles lined the walkway. By summer, the trees’ graceful limbs would bend with frothy confections of pink, lavender, and magenta blooms, with wedding parties vying for bookings and photo shoots. The building, with two wings to either side and a ballroom in the back, was large enough to host extended families, as well as small conventions.

  Cleo and Henry entered arm in arm, holding on tighter as they tipped back their heads to admire the eighteen-foot ceilings and glittering chandelier.

  They were greeted by Nina Flores, one of the current owners. Usually bubbly, Nina looked twitchy and frazzled.

  “They’re in the ballroom,” she said, with a jerky gesture toward the back.

  “Is everything going well?” Henry asked.

  Cleo noted a pulse thumping under Nina’s eye.

  “An innkeeper loves all her guests,” Nina said in a monotone. She lowered her voice. “My husband Karl and I appreciate the business, Mr. Lafayette. We truly do! But these old-book people are a handful.” She clutched thin arms to her chest and shivered.

  Cleo realized it was chilly. No, downright cold. She was glad she’d worn a sweater.

  Nina said, “The air conditioning is down as low as it will go. Professor Weber insists it has to be arctic for book preservation. I went out and bought dehumidifiers for his and Ms. Peavey’s rooms because they claimed it was ‘dangerously humid’ in here. I’ve upgraded her to the penthouse suite, but she’s still going on about suing us.”

  “Kitty’s upset about the break-in?” Cleo asked, pitching her tone to sympathetic, fishing for information.

  Nina’s exhale heaved her sideways. “I’m not saying she wasn’t robbed, but she won’t tell the police exactly what’s missing, which is strange, isn’t it? She did leave her key in a bar for anyone to swipe. She can’t blame us for that.”

  Cleo leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you think it was one of the other bookdealers who swiped the key?”

  Nina Flores scanned the grand foyer, eyes roving from the green velvet drapes to the grand piano. She didn’t bother to whisper.

  “I do! A whole bunch of them were out together. Who else would know Kitty’s room number or care so much about used books? I even have a theory about which one of them could have done it.”

  Cleo’s hopes rose. She held her breath.

  “Who?” asked Henry.

  “Any of them!” Nina crowed. “They’re all crazed. Crazed for books. They even have a term for it. They were laughing about it over breakfast. Bibliomania.”

  She spun and stalked back to guard the front desk.

  Henry and Cleo held their chuckles until they were away from Nina’s twitchy ears.

  “I shouldn’t be laughing,” Henry said. “But ‘any of ’em’? That doesn’t narrow the suspect field, does it? Or clear me.”

  “Or me,” Cleo said. “Bibliomania. It’s a real condition and we’re stricken.” She was glad for the laugh. On the way over, Henry had “confessed” about his trip to the police station.

  “I did make a misleading statement,” he said, ever diplomatic.

  “I’m the one who misled first,” Cleo said ruefully. She gave the heavy oak doors to the ballroom a solid shove, and she and Henry paused at the threshold, taking in the ornate space. Red wallpaper embossed in stripes covered the walls. Cloud murals soared high on the coffered ceiling, and the marble floor had so many ripples it seemed to move. Nina’s husband Karl manned a backlit bar, polishing a glass and warily watching the chatting antiquarians.

  “Everyone seems well behaved,” Cleo said, noting that the bookdealers were dutifully wearing name tags and keeping their voices at a low rumbling level. “I was telling Mary-Rose the other day, book people are good people.”

  Henry sighed. “I’m sorry one might be proving you wrong. The bad apple …”

  “Or two bad apples.” Cleo’s gaze landed on Kitty, convicted library-book thief. A half-dozen men, including her pre-fiancé, stood around her. She was laughing theatrically at something one of them said. She threw a hand to his arm, gripping the speaker while batting her eyes at the rest. Professor Weber stood stoically at her side.

  “What do those two see in each other?” Cleo mused.

  “A love of books?”

  Cleo squeezed his hand. A shared love of books was a lovely thing. “Yes,” she said, still dubious. Kitty loved “southern delights,” but the professor had scoffed at Gone With the Wind. “What’s his specialty?” she asked.

  Henry listed French and German philosophers and nonfiction, particularly natural history. “Opposites attract?” he suggested.

  They made their way to the bar, where Karl scowled suspiciously and persisted in polishing the glass.

  Cleo wondered about opposites attracting. It was such a common saying, one took it as truth. But was it? In her experience, folks bonded more over their commonalities.

  “He’s very wealthy,” she murmured to Henry.

  “She’s very … vivacious,” Henry said.

  “Flirty and gorgeous,” Cleo translated. Wealth and beauty seemed more than enough attraction for some folks, although not for Cleo.

  Karl greeted them with a sharp nod. “Bet you need a drink,” he said. Henry ordered a glass of red wine for himself as well as Cleo’s request of sparkling water with a slice of lemon. “Heard you got an escort to the police station this afternoon.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  Henry flinched.

  “Henry was helping the police gather information,” Cleo said in her most authoritative librarian’s tone.

  “They’ll need help.” Karl handed over their glasses. “This is bad business. I’m seeing it right here at the inn. Robbery. Complaints about the breakfast. Fights. Not that I’m blaming you, Henry.” He added, in the same rote monotone his wife used, “We appreciate you recommending us as Catalpa Springs’ premier bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Fights?” Cleo asked. She rattled her ice cubes, hoping to tame down the bubbles.

  Karl pointed with his chin. “That Marilyn Monroe woman, Kitty Peavey, and Professor Weber got bickering
over breakfast.”

  “What happened?” Henry asked.

  Karl raised his chin. “An innkeeper never gossips,” he said stiffly. He picked up the glass and resumed over-polishing.

  Cleo repeated what Gabby had said to her. “It’s not gossip if it’s true. Like you say, the police need help.”

  Karl regarded her solemnly. “Are you on the case too?”

  Cleo nodded just as seriously.

  He leaned across the bar. “The professor, he said something along the lines of, ‘I know what you were up to with Hunter Fox.’ Well, I think we all guessed what she was up to with Mr. Fox, if you get my drift.”

  Cleo did. “Interesting,” she said to be encouraging. She took a sip of her drink. The bubbles fizzed at her nose.

  They all looked over at Kitty, who was fluttering a hand at her cleavage. “She tried that Marilyn Monroe act on me,” Karl said, scowling. “She sounded all out of breath, saying I could be her ‘hero’ if I gave her the key to Hunter Fox’s room after it was sealed by the police.”

  “Very interesting,” Cleo said again, more truthfully this time. What would Kitty want? Perhaps it was as innocent as removing evidence of their relationship. Or evidence of a criminal kind?

  Henry said, “I’m guessing you didn’t let her in?”

  “You guess right!” Karl said. “I had to put a padlock on the door since his key wasn’t with his … you know.”

  Body, Cleo thought with a shiver. Another missing key. That was interesting too.

  Karl polished the glass furiously. “I thought, if some killer thief still has that key, I don’t want anyone going near there, Miss Peavey included. That and if I’d given in to her request, it wouldn’t just be the police after me. Nina would kill me, assuming I succumbed to flirtation temptations. We’d have another murder on our hands.”

  He laughed. Cleo drew her cardigan closer.

  “Sorry about the air conditioning,” Karl said, misinterpreting her shiver. “Seems that penguins and old books need the same temperature.”

  Cleo smiled. “Did Kitty say why she wanted to get in the room?”

  “Books,” Karl said, with a disgust Cleo would have paired with palmetto bugs or book butchery. “What else is there with this group? She claimed she’d left some of her ‘valuable inventory’ in his room.”

  Cleo glanced at Henry. Her gentleman friend was frowning.

  Henry said, “She wanted books from Mr. Fox’s room? Cleo, remember how Gabby asked me to look at the books found in his room? There were hardly any. I wonder if he was robbed too?”

  “Hey, now,” Karl protested. “My wife and I run a secure establishment.”

  Henry was rubbing his beard, his prelude to an idea taking form. Cleo expected him to inquire about access to keys, rooms, or books. His question surprised her and made her glad he was her sleuthing date.

  “The argument at breakfast,” Henry said. “When Professor Weber told Kitty he knew what she was up to. What did she say?”

  “Ah,” Karl said, actually putting down his sparkling glass. “I’m glad you asked. That’s the best part. She said, ‘I know what you’ve been up to, darling.’ Then he said, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a—’”

  Karl cut himself off abruptly and reached for the glass. Giggles bubbled behind Cleo. Moments later, Kitty Peavey appeared at her side.

  “Drinks all around, barkeep,” Kitty exclaimed breathlessly, waving her diamond dangerously close to Cleo’s nose. “We’re celebrating. I said yes! My Dr. Dean and I are now officially engaged!” She lowered her eyelids seductively at Karl. “If you offer us a sweet deal, we’ll consider coming back here for our wedding.”

  Karl shuddered, and Cleo doubted it was from the penguin-appropriate chill.

  Cleo glanced over at Professor Weber. He stood stiffly as colleagues raised congratulatory toasts around him. He wasn’t joining in. He wasn’t professing or boasting or even looking pleased. To Cleo’s eye, the newly engaged man looked stunned.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I guess that argument between Kitty and her professor wasn’t that serious after all,” Cleo said.

  She and Henry stood by a potted fern as large and flouncy as a peacock. Cleo edged behind a frond, feeling it gave her permission to gawk at the assembled bookdealers. She needn’t have bothered to hide. All eyes were on Kitty and her lusty rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

  Professor Weber accepted congratulatory handshakes, still looking somewhat dazed. “Maybe the argument was serious,” Henry said, surprising Cleo. Usually, Henry was the more optimistic and rosy-eyed between them. “What if Kitty feared Professor Weber was going to break up with her? Now she’s made a big public announcement about saying yes. He’d look bad if he called off the engagement.”

  Cleo considered that. “Kitty seems like someone who likes to get her way. But what if it’s the opposite? Professor Weber got his way, didn’t he? His romantic rival is out of the way, and now the engagement he wanted is finally official. Karl could have misinterpreted their argument. It might have simply been a heated discussion about books.”

  Henry grinned. “Books do arouse passions, as you’ve often said.”

  Cleo nodded seriously. She had said it before, in past murder investigations too. “I’ll say it again.” She told him about Bernice Abernathy, her missing Poirot Investigates, and the atlases lacking maps.

  Cleo said, “When I hinted that Hunter Fox might have ‘borrowed’ her valuable Poirot, Bernice said she’d like to kill him herself.” Cleo sipped her drink. Much of the fizz had gone out of it. “Of course, that’s just a common, awful saying. I certainly don’t suspect Bernice. Not that she’s not capable—Bernice’s knees are more limber than mine and she does aqua aerobics—but she’s legally blind these days. She couldn’t have driven into town at night, let alone catch a man unaware in the alley. It goes to show, though. Hunter Fox got around town and made enemies over books.”

  Henry’s shoulders slumped. He took a gulp of wine. “I hope Bernice’s atlases are intact. They’re gorgeous. I spent a lot of time assessing her library. I’d hoped she’d let me sell some of her books. I have a buyer who collects Agatha Christies and would treasure Poirot Investigates. Does that make me sound mercenary too? I worry that all of us bookdealers will look bad to you because of this business, Cleo.”

  “Never,” Cleo said firmly. “You’d be helping her book find a worthy new home. Bernice would still have the book—or the money—if she’d gone through you. So would Dot. What still perplexes me is how Hunter found them.”

  “I certainly didn’t give him their names and addresses,” Henry said.

  Cleo patted his arm. She knew he hadn’t. “There’s another visit I don’t like.” She reported on Professor Weber’s visit to Dot’s home.

  Henry had already heard. News had spread around the fair. “Professor Weber made quite a show of going to return that book, calling it his presidential duty. I don’t think he was happy about it. The bookdealers were mixed about Buddy’s role too. Some praised Buddy’s keen eye. Others were saying … well … that he was nosy and should have minded his own stall.”

  Cleo sided with praising Buddy.

  “Look,” she said, nodding toward the doorway. “There’s Buddy now. I’d like to thank him—and pick his brain.”

  “A fellow snoop,” Henry said. “Our sleuthing date is back on track.”

  * * *

  Buddy beamed at Cleo’s thanks. The collector of Georgia books and ephemera was looking jolly but pinched in an out-of-date blazer a few sizes too small. The royal-blue sleeves ended above his wrists and tightened around his shoulders. Strangely, the matching slacks ballooned too large and long and flopped over his well-worn boots.

  He held a cocktail glass filled with bright-blue liquid, festooned in a little paper umbrella and orange slices. He’d raised it in greeting, calling it “something special to celebrate the happy couple.”

  Cleo glanced at the happy coup
le. Professor Weber appeared to be professing. Kitty had an arm looped through his and was sipping a massive blue drink similar to Buddy’s.

  Cleo shifted closer to Henry, who was asking Buddy about his day at the fair. A comforting list of book talk went by: items Buddy had sold, happy customers, nice conversations, intriguing items he meant to look for. Cleo let herself drift into bookish thoughts.

  “I went by your cousin’s store this afternoon, after the fair closed,” Buddy said, snapping Cleo back to attention. “It’s a real cute place. I’d have gone in, but it was packed! So many people, I thought it must have been a private party.”

  Cleo smiled. “That’s a good way of putting it. It was a party of sorts, a show of support for Dot and the Drop By.”

  Buddy frowned. “Because of her troubles, being suspected of murder and all? Boy, this is a real nice and supportive place you’ve got here.”

  “No!” Cleo said and then felt bad when Buddy flushed and apologized.

  “Sorry,” Cleo said. “I mean, no one who knows Dot would ever suspect her of murder.” Cleo felt her fingers cross in a fib. If Chief Culpepper could suspect Henry, he could suspect Dot too. She hurried on. “Dot’s having a little bit of financial trouble at her store.” She wasn’t spilling any secret. People all around town knew now, and once Ollie launched his online funding campaign, anyone on the Internet could know too. “People came out to shop in a show of support.”

  Buddy approved. “I’ll be sure to drop by and buy something myself. Miss Dot seems like a fine, upstanding lady. A lady who loves books is the best kind of lady in the world. In my humble opinion.”

  Cleo caught Henry giving her a mushy look. She blushed and reminded herself that they’d come on business.

  “Tell us about finding Dot’s book,” Cleo said. “She’s so happy to have it back. How did you happen to come by it?”