by Nora Page
Buddy was attempting to sip his drink. The glass was fishbowl shaped and the floating orange slices and paper umbrella blocked access. Cleo idly wondered what the concoction was. She bet it was sweet and fruity, and she half wanted to try one herself. Once again, she reminded herself of their purpose. A killer could be among them. At the very least, clues could be. She had to stay alert.
Buddy managed a side slurp. A bit of blue dripped on his boot. “I was taking a little break, that’s all. Kitty said she’d look out for my books and any buyers who might come by while I was gone. We’re stall neighbors, you know, and I’d been watching hers quite a bit. She likes to go get coffee or chat with folks. This was the first time I asked for the return favor. I don’t like leaving my stuff, but I wanted to go see what everyone else had. The big dealers, you know?” He twirled the little paper umbrella. “Like yours, Mr. Lafayette. I was heading for your display of gilded and illuminated pages.”
Cleo never tired of looking at those either. Henry had a minor specialty in medieval manuscripts, full books but also partial pages and covers. He had some on display in a glass cabinet similar to her bookmobile case.
“Those pages are amazing, aren’t they?” Cleo said. “To think of a scribe touching the parchment so long ago. It always gives me a thrill.”
Buddy’s eyes lit up. “That’s the word. A thrill. I like to think of the paper too. Paper’s so fragile, right? Yet it’s rugged as all get out. Think of the hundreds of years those pages have been around.” He flushed. “I’m sounding silly, aren’t I?”
“Not at all!” Henry and Cleo said simultaneously.
They all found themselves grinning like giddy kids at book prom. “The fair really is a special event,” Henry said. “I do hate to see it marred by tragedy and …”
“Bad behavior,” Buddy said, filling in the blank. He looked sadly into his cheery drink.
Cleo felt bad for bringing him down. “You helped my cousin immensely,” Cleo said. “She’d been really down, feeling tricked and misled. The return of that book helped her remember the goodness in folks.”
Buddy flushed and mumbled something that sounded like “Aw, shucks.”
Cleo couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t heard an aw shucks in years.
“It was nothing,” Buddy said. “Really, truly, nothing. Like I said, I was just browsing. When I got to Professor Weber’s stall, he was busy talking to real customers, so I could take my time perusing without feeling like I was in the way. I saw that there book of birds and gave it a look. I remembered it was on that list the police gave out, the list of Miss Dot’s missing books. Then I noticed the bookplate. I collect those, you know. Where’d Miss Dot get that plate done? It’s beautiful.”
Cleo explained the foreign-exchange student and their personalized bookplates. “I have my own and so does my friend, Mary-Rose. Our library does too. We all have the original plates for making more copies as we need. I could get you some if you like.”
“That would be real nice,” Buddy said. “I’d pay you—”
Cleo cut in with a refusal. “You’ve already paid us in kindness.” She prompted him on with his story. “When you showed the book to Professor Weber, what did he say?”
Buddy shrugged. “To be honest? He looked kinda mad. It’s subtle with that guy, but he got chillier, you know. He tried to brush it off too. When I showed him Miss Dot’s signature, he told me it was in pencil and didn’t mean anything. But then some local lady came by and confirmed it was Miss Dot’s. Said she had been in a book group with Dot and knew it for sure.”
Cleo gave silent thanks to diligent local booklovers and Buddy too.
Buddy shrugged. “I said I’d track down Miss Dot and have her come look at it. The prof, he said he’d handle it. He must have felt bad or embarrassed or whatever to take it back in person.” He shoved aside an orange slice and sipped his drink. “I wish I could’ve looked through more of his books,” he said. “He closed up his shop after that, threw a cover over everything, and basically told me to skedaddle.”
Cleo turned to frown at the professor. A jolt shot up her middle. He stared straight back, at her and her little group.
Trying to cover, Cleo smiled brightly and raised her glass in a celebratory salute. He looked away, and she did too, unnerved by his reaction.
“Buddy,” Cleo said. “I have some titles to add to that list of missing books, from other ladies around town. If I gave an expanded list to you, could you keep an eye out?”
“Sure could,” Buddy said. “I’ve got a good memory for books.” He began listing everything he’d seen on Professor Weber’s stand to prove it. Cleo’s hopes sank as the titles droned on. None sounded like the books she sought.
“And then a few about the afterlife and a real old book about medical astrology and another about communicating with the dead and magic and stuff,” Buddy said, wrapping up. “That’s sure not on Miss Dot’s list. Doesn’t sound like Professor Dean Weber, for that matter, although I guess they’re kinda philosophy.”
He and Henry chatted some more about the professor’s collection. Other bookdealers joined them, medievalists who gabbed about Old English until Buddy drifted off, making excuses. Cleo didn’t mind staying on the sidelines of the conversation. It gave her time to people-watch and mull over a possibility.
As the evening wore down, she and Henry congratulated the mismatched couple and commiserated with the twitchy innkeepers. They were on their way back home, Henry driving at his usual tortoise speed, when Cleo put her thoughts into words.
“Those astrology books that Professor Weber has … they sound like something Madame Romanov would like, don’t they?”
Henry got her hint immediately. “Something she lost to a con man? Do you think that’s how she knew Hunter Fox? I did talk to her about books once. She said she has some that might be valuable in magic circles. It’s not my area of expertise, but I told her I’d be happy to do some research. We could ask her.”
Cleo had her arm out the window, her hand waving in the warm night air. “She’s unlikely to tell us. She’d be a suspect, just like Dot, if Hunter conned her out of valuable books.”
Henry parked in front of Cleo’s picket fence. They walked arm in arm to the door, where claws and paws scrabbled on the other side. Cleo was tired but reluctant for the evening to end.
“It’s late,” she said. “I think you should stay. You live next to a possible suspect.”
“I’m a possible suspect,” Henry said. “With a misdemeanor charge.”
“All the more reason for me to keep an eye on you,” Cleo said, reaching out and patting his soft, bearded chin. “Besides, your shop is haunted and you wouldn’t want Mr. Chaucer to become possessed.”
Henry smiled and pressed his hand to hers. “I gratefully accept.” He followed her in and greeted his waggling pug. “I promise that Chaucy and I will not go walking at midnight ever again.”
“At least until the killer’s caught,” Cleo said, locking the door behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
A ringing interrupted Cleo’s dream. An insistent buzz followed closely by another and another fast after that. For a moment, she felt relief. Her dream had morphed into a terror but with no apparent monster, nothing visible or obviously scary. Like the murderer, she thought drowsily, someone ordinary. The buzz continued. Cleo’s eyes popped open as Rhett stomped on her stomach and meowed.
On the other side of the bed, Henry mumbled and shifted. A pillow half covered his head. Was it the buzzing he was blocking, or had she been snoring again? Cleo glanced at the bedside clock. Six fifty-five.
On a typical Thursday morning, Cleo would be up by now. However, she and Henry had stayed up late talking. Ollie had dropped by too. He’d seen her kitchen light on and stopped in, excited about his online fund raiser. He’d already raised several thousand dollars in his Donate to the Drop By campaign. He swore that Dot was about to go viral. Cleo found that somehow disturbing. Viral had never seemed like s
omething she’d want.
Downstairs, the buzz turned to noisy knocking.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Cleo whispered. She threw on a bathrobe and didn’t bother with slippers. Rhett beat her down the stairs. He was sniffing, flat eared, at the door when she reached the foyer.
Cleo ran through possible visitors as she positioned a bifocal lens against the fish-eye peephole. Mary-Rose would wait quietly for a decent hour. So would Dot and other friends. Ollie wouldn’t get up this early unless he’d stayed up all night. He’d never rudely buzz and pound.
Blurry beige filled the peephole. The police uniforms were beige. Gabby?
Cleo blinked to refocus. The beige blur continued to block her view. Someone was standing too close. Cleo looked down at Rhett. His ears remained back. He had a bad feeling about the visitor. So did she.
“Who is it?” Cleo called out, keeping the door solidly locked.
“Police!”
Cleo recognized the blustery bellow of Chief Culpepper.
“Open up! I know he’s in there!”
Cleo repeated a whispered, “Oh, for heaven’s …” She didn’t bother to smile when she opened the door. She stood firm, fists on her hips, Rhett swishing his tail at her feet.
“Chief,” Cleo said crisply. “This is awfully …” Rude came to mind. “Early and abrupt,” she finished, filling the entrance so he couldn’t barge in.
Over the years, she’d learned that Chief Culpepper awoke on the petulant side of bed. Bless Mrs. Culpepper’s heart—but then the chief’s wife got to hustle her grumpy husband off to work in the morning. The big man looked particularly grouchy this morning, wearing a pouty expression and suspenders resembling crime-scene tape.
Beyond his broad shoulders, Cleo noticed a welcome face. Gabby shot Cleo an apologetic look and mouthed, “Sorry.”
“Good morning, Miss Cleo,” Gabby called out, craning over the chief’s shoulder. “We’re sorry to bother you so early. We’re looking for Henry.”
“We have some more questions for your no-alibi boyfriend,” the chief said. “And this.” He waved a paper at Cleo’s nose. She fought the impulse to bat it back.
“Henry’s sleeping.” However, as Cleo said this, a snuffling pug wobbled down the stairs. Mr. Chaucer reached the door, woofed, and then sneezed on the chief’s boot. He was followed by shuffling slippers and a yawning Henry.
“Who is it?” Henry said, sounding drowsy. He sharpened up when he saw their guests. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “The shop? Is someone hurt?”
Cleo realized that annoyance had overridden what should have been her rational reaction to police at the door. Thank goodness no one was hurt. Other than Henry’s spotless reputation.
“The chief has some questions,” she said to Henry.
“And a warrant,” Culpepper said. “Deputy, let’s get a move on. Show them the court order.”
Cleo accepted the paper, only because Gabby was the one extending it, again with that sorry look.
“It’s a search warrant,” Gabby explained, although Cleo had gathered as much. “To search the Gilded Page.”
“Let’s get back there,” Chief Culpepper said. “We will build this case nail by nail, rock solid, and I didn’t get up early to stand around waiting.” He turned and stomped off down Cleo’s steps.
Gabby hung back. She whispered, “He wanted to burst into the bookshop on a ‘raid.’ I’m really sorry to rat out your location here, Henry, but I didn’t want the chief to get more worked up and break down your shop door.”
“Deputy!” the chief bellowed from the driveway.
“Hush!” an angry female voice bellowed back. “Quit your yelling before it’s seven!”
A humbled “Sorry, ma’am,” came from the chief.
Wanda Boxer! Cleo had to smile. Wanda had managed to find a sentiment they shared. Everyone did have something in common.
* * *
“Why did they rouse me out of bed and drag me down here if they don’t want me inside?” Henry said, peering inside the Gilded Page. He sounded a tad grumpy. Cleo empathized. She felt on edge too. First her dream, then the unpleasant wake-up call, and now the weather.
Wispy mare’s tail clouds raced across the sky, riding a wind that felt like hot breath. Pollen clogged the blustery air. Everything, from the air to Cleo’s mind, seemed hazy.
Mr. Chaucer sneezed. Cleo’s nose twitched too, and her hair batted at her eyes. She’d be happier inside, but as soon as they’d gotten to Henry’s shop, the chief had evicted them.
They weren’t the only ones waiting outside. A police SUV stood prominently at the curb, siren silent but lights flashing. Passing pedestrians stopped to inquire. A ladies’ walking group paused to wonder if Cleo had found another body.
The wind gusted again, and Cleo nudged closer to the shop and Henry, who was staring through the window. He and the nosy pedestrians had a clear view, with all the lights shining inside.
Cleo said, “It’ll be okay. Gabby’s in there and …” Suddenly her shoulder was open to the wind. Henry was going inside. Cleo and Mr. Chaucer hurried after him.
“You can’t do that,” Henry said. His voice sounded strained, and Cleo guessed he was struggling to keep calm. She saw why. Chief Culpepper held a book by its covers, splayed open, as he gave it a vigorous, upside-down shake.
“Why not?” the chief asked. “Because you’re hiding something?”
“Because you’re hurting that book!” Cleo exclaimed. “You’ll break its spine.” She rummaged in her purse and found her cell phone. When trying to take a photo, Cleo often messed up and pressed video record instead. This time she wanted video. She aimed the lens at the chief.
“Hey,” he said. “Shut that off, Miss Cleo.”
“I won’t,” Cleo said firmly. “I’ll call a lawyer if I have to.” Her daughter-in-law Angela was a lawyer, and a good one too. Unfortunately, Angela was out of town on a family vacation. If Cleo needed legal help, she had no doubt Angela would hurry back. Angela loved her work, and she wasn’t a big fan of vacations. Cleo understood both. Whenever someone suggested that Cleo retire or take a cruise or an extended trip down to Florida, she could only think why? Why leave when she loved her job, home, family, friends, and cat?
But Angela was far away in North Carolina. Cleo thought of another threat, more immediate and possibly more terrifying too. “My grandson is an expert in viral online causes. He’ll share this video to the worldwide web of booklovers, and you’ll be in trouble.”
Chief Culpepper’s small eyes widened. He righted the book and made a show of flipping delicately through its pages, page by page, with the flick of his thick index finger, until the same finger moved toward his lips.
“No! No, no, don’t lick your finger!” Henry exclaimed, waving his hands.
Cleo moved in closer with her camera. Her hand was shaking, but she figured that was fine. Horror flicks these days prized shaky camerawork.
“Ah, Chief?” Gabby said. “This warrant only permits us to look for the possible murder weapon. A hammerlike object? I don’t think it would fit in a book, but how about I check all the shelves just in case?” She added, “The boring grunt work. You’ll understand the workshop better than I will …” While the chief’s back was still turned, she shot Cleo an exasperated look.
Cleo appreciated her intervention and appeal to the chief’s self-importance. He stomped off toward the back, agreeing that of course he’d understand the tools better.
“Thank you,” Cleo said softly when they heard him clattering around the workshop.
“I am sorry,” Gabby whispered back. “I can’t argue with the chief’s rationale for a search, though. We’re missing a murder weapon. We have to look.”
Henry was tending to the book Culpepper had left sprawled on top of a shelf. He ran a hand over its cover before carefully easing it back among its book companions. He joined Gabby and Cleo. “But I thought you had the weapon. My awl.”
A bang came from the b
ack, followed by an “Ow!” and cursing.
Gabby bit her lower lip. “We’re looking for a hammerlike object now. Something blunt, with this size head.” She indicated a circle the size of a walnut.
“But Mr. Fox was stabbed …” Cleo said.
“Not before he was whacked on the back of the head.” Gabby grimaced. “The medical examiner just completed the autopsy. There was a double homicide in Claymore. We had to wait in line.”
Cleo’s first thought was that awful things happened in Claymore, the sprawling, restless town to their west. She quickly corrected herself. Awful things happened in Catalpa Springs too. She took Henry’s hand and squeezed.
“I’m missing a hammer,” Henry said quietly.
Cleo felt the same urge she’d had with Dot. To hush the dear man up. He was already in enough trouble. Both he and Dot were too helpful for their own good.
“How do you know?” Gabby asked.
Instead of answering, Henry led the way to his workshop.
The chief’s ample backside greeted them. He was bent over, pawing through a box of the dense cardboard used for covers. “Bunches of junk everywhere,” he mumbled. “How’s anyone supposed to find anything in here?”
Henry pointed to the pegboard wall, where the white paint outlines marked each tool’s proper place. He’d tidied recently. Tools filled all the outlines except one: a hammer with a long handle, bulging head, and viciously clawed end.
* * *
“I noticed when I was putting up my tools the other night,” Henry said. He and Cleo sat on one side of his workbench. Gabby and the chief were on the other. Mr. Chaucer was under the table, snoring. “I kept thinking it would turn up, but it hasn’t.”
Cleo was grateful that the chief seemed to be losing interest. He’d accepted coffee from Henry and was letting Gabby ask the questions. Gabby always asked good questions.
Gabby led Henry through a timeline of the hammer’s last-known whereabouts.
“I’m quite sure I had it before the social I held over here,” Henry said. “That was the night before opening day. It’s tradition. The hosting shop owner—that’s me—invites all the antiquarians to come by. I displayed some of my favorite antique tools on my table here. I didn’t put most back on the pegboard afterward. I just stuffed them in my carrying box to take to the demonstration the next day.”