by Nora Page
Cleo admitted she’d been conked out on the sofa with the TV on. “Infomercials are the only thing that puts me to sleep recently. I’ve tried boring books—”
Gabby interrupted. “Wait, you think there are boring books? Which ones?”
“I’ll never tell,” Cleo said primly. Actually, she hadn’t found any sufficiently boring. She remembered Buddy’s fly-fishing book. Maybe she had something similar in the bookmobile, no offense to fly-tying enthusiasts …
The sun had moved beyond the porch, prompting Rhett to rise and stretch. Cleo patted her lap. He hopped up and head-bumped her chin.
Cleo said, “Infomercials are the only thing that bores me to sleep. The only trouble is, I wake with a neck crick and strange urges to shop. This morning, I felt I had to have a motion-detecting light for my toilet bowl. I stopped myself, but barely.”
“No, just no,” Gabby said, chuckling. She curled her long legs up under her and breathed in deeply. “Ah, this is nice. I needed this, Miss Cleo. I was getting a little too obsessed by our Madame Romanov, disappearing like she actually has some supernatural ability. We have a trace on her phone, but it’s off. Her relatives claim they have no idea where she is. You ask me, if she’s not hurt—which I dearly hope she isn’t—then she’s guilty of something.”
Cleo rubbed Rhett’s chin and mused aloud. “Blackmailer or killer?” Rhett purred equally loudly for both.
“That is the question,” Gabby said.
The Weedwacker at Wanda’s faded, suggesting she’d moved on to annoy the neighbor on the far side.
Cleo tried to relish the relative peace, but another question buzzed around her brain. “What about Madame Romanov’s video cameras? Did you find any recordings yet?”
Gabby’s heavy sigh gave the answer. “The camera system was a great find on your part, Miss Cleo. That and Madame’s unknown whereabouts got us a warrant to search her cottage. Unfortunately, her surveillance isn’t as high-tech as it looks. It records on DVDs. Crazy, right? Talk about old school.”
Cleo could talk about old school. She still used her old record player. She kept her grandmother’s working Victrola in her sitting room and housed unknown numbers of her sons’ eight-tracks and tape cassettes in the attic. DVDs sounded high-tech enough to her.
Gabby was talking about the cloud and cell phones. “Tech guys can usually dig that stuff out even after it’s erased,” Gabby said. “But with a DVD, all you have to do is pick it up and take it with you or toss it in the landfill and it’s gone. There’s a gap in her DVD library for the day of the killing. Either she took it or someone else did.”
Cleo stuck on a word. “Her library … Did you check out that empty spot on her shelves?”
Gabby smiled wide. “I did. You were right. There was dust all around, except for an outline of books. I asked the niece. She said her aunt kept ‘special’ magic books up there. The niece knew for sure because ever since she was little, she’d wanted to see those books. Her aunt kept them up high, out of reach, claiming they were too ‘dangerous’ for little girls to read.”
Cleo tsked. “What’s dangerous is discouraging reading, especially in little girls.”
Gabby crunched an ice cube and added, “Yep. That and messing with a killer.”
* * *
Later that evening, Cleo sat at her kitchen table with Ollie and Rhett. A gentle breeze wafted in the open windows, carrying a chorus of courting tree frogs.
Henry was out at a Georgia Antiquarian Book Society board meeting. Cleo wondered if Sergeant Tookey had tagged along, surveilling. If so, the sergeant was likely enjoying a good long nap. Henry had said the meetings went on for ages, with tedious readings of procedures and expenditures. He’d wished he could join Cleo for her planned Friday-night-leftovers feast.
Cleo wished so too. She was happy to have another lovely dining companion, though, both for company and for emptying the fridge.
“This is amazing, Gran,” Ollie had said, as Cleo hauled out every leftover in the house. He’d already happily finished off the chicken and rice, a slice of ham, cold asparagus, two deviled eggs, and a few token leaves of lettuce, the last straight from Cleo’s garden.
The sweet boy had also come bearing pie, an entire black-bottom pecan pie, rich dark chocolate topped in caramelized pecans. The pie was now down to nearly half.
Cleo had taken a sliver and then another for evening-up purposes. It was wrong to leave a pie lopsided. Ollie had consumed two massive slabs, with a double side of butter-pecan ice cream. He’d gotten the pie from Dot, who’d received it amid a flood of supportive treats.
On the phone earlier, Dot had joked with Cleo, “There are so many dishes showing up on my doorstep, it’s like I’m hosting my own wake, except it’s just the opposite.”
Mention of a wake had sent a chill up Cleo’s arms, but she knew Dot intended joy. With the help of donations and volunteers, the Drop By would live again.
Ollie put down his fork and rubbed his flat belly in contentment. “Ah … that hits the spot.”
Cleo noted that he had a spot on his forehead, a smudge of mud. He’d been helping Mary-Rose’s contractor friends dig a plumbing line at the Drop By. Cleo smiled at him, warmed by the pie and her kind grandson.
“You’ve been such a help to Dot,” Cleo said, with a twinge of guilt. For all her driving around in search of clues and victims, she hadn’t found any of the missing books, let alone the killer. Ollie, on the other hand, had been doing literal heavy lifting, digging through muck and mud and root-clogged clay pipes. His heavy lifting continued online. Cleo inquired about his fund-raising site.
“It’s going awesome,” he said. “We hit fifteen thousand this afternoon. Fifteen! There should be even more now. It’ll snowball, and then, Auntie Dot, viral cause!” He waved his fingers like a magician conjuring.
It did sound like magic to Cleo. “Fifteen thousand … ah … viewers?”
Ollie issued a happy guffaw. “Dollars, Gran. Plus change.”
Cleo’s hand flew to her heart. “My gracious, Ollie. Who in Catalpa Springs has that much money?” Her little town had a smidgen less than three thousand residents, counting those in the rural reaches. That number included children and retired folks and those with no Internet and little money to spare.
“It’s not just Catalpa Springs,” Ollie said, nibbling a bit of the cookie pie crust. “It’s everywhere, anywhere. Strangers will give to causes they believe in, even if it’s nothing they’re ever going to see. Like me, I just gave a few dollars to protect pika in Colorado.” He swiped back the loopy locks always falling over his eyes.
“Pika?” Cleo said, deciding she needed another extra sliver of pie to help her digest all this information.
“They’re these small montane animals. Picture a high-altitude hamster. They’re in trouble from their mountains getting too warm. I’d like to see one someday. I want them to stick around. But they’re nowhere near here.”
Rhett purred loudly.
“No mountain hamsters for you, Rhett Butler,” Cleo said. She praised her grandson for his generosity and gave silent thanks to all the donors, friends and strangers alike.
“This is a good reminder for me,” Cleo said, getting up to clear the table.
Ollie jumped up to help.
“I get caught up in suspicion in times like these,” Cleo continued, head shaking with disappointment in herself. “I’ve been going around ranking folks on likelihood to commit premeditated murder.”
Ollie laughed. “Gran, you wouldn’t be a very good sleuth if you thought everyone was innocent. Besides, online benefactors wouldn’t give money to faraway critters or endangered downtown shops or strangers’ medical bills if everything was going great. We’re righting wrongs! Only you’re braver. It’s a heck of a lot safer to give ten bucks to cute animals or Auntie Dot’s store.”
As soon as Cleo placed clean plates in the dish drainer, Ollie plucked them out and wiped them dry. Cleo had never seen the need for a dishwasher, e
xcept after big holiday meals, when she secretly coveted one. Then, however, she’d miss moments like this, time slowed down with her grandson.
Ollie reached for another plate as Cleo scrubbed silverware. “Can you imagine what Granddad would have said about you chasing after killers?”
“Your granddad was a lovely man,” Cleo said. “But, yes, he might not have approved.” He definitely wouldn’t have, just like he wouldn’t have approved of her speeding down the roads in a big yellow library on wheels.
He wouldn’t have stopped her. Richard wasn’t a bully, and she would have put her foot down firmer if he’d tried. He would have grumbled, though, and still expected his dinners on the table, promptly by five fifteen. Cleo glanced at the clock ticking above the sink. It was past seven, way beyond dear Richard’s appointed dining hour, to be completed in time for the six o’clock news.
Her landline rang, startling Cleo from a haze of memories.
“I’ll finish the dishes,” Ollie said. “You get that antique technology on the wall.” It was their running joke, Ollie’s young-person marveling at phones on cords.
Cleo answered with a laugh in her voice and was rewarded by joy in return.
“Good evening!” Dot exclaimed.
Dot would be at her landline in her kitchen. They’d be linked by curly phone cords and the lines running across town.
“You’ll never believe it,” Dot said, her voice high with excitement. “It’s my books, Cleo. My books have come home!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A dark feeling pressed at Cleo. She couldn’t explain it. Nor could the bright lights and happy chatter in Dot’s kitchen shake it away. Cleo covered with a smile. Heaven forbid she turn into the family downer. They already had one of those in a second cousin, a man so morose he could bring down a party with cupcakes and kittens.
“This is a wonderful development,” Cleo said brightly to reinforce the positive facade. The words sounded too sharp to her ears. Something’s not right.
“It is wonderful.” Dot clattered around her kitchen in a ruffled peach apron and a whirl of excitement. Seemingly simultaneously, Dot brewed decaf, got out the nice china cups and saucers, arranged a plate of freshly baked cookies, and wiped and tidied her sparkling counters. Dot kept cookie dough in her freezer, ready in perfect portions she could pop in the oven in the event of guests and good news.
“But not your Gone With the Wind? That wasn’t in the package of books?” Cleo had to ask. She ran her finger down the small stack of texts, although she’d already checked twice. The books, left in a bulging bubble-padded envelope beside Dot’s front steps, now sat atop Dot’s kitchen island, carefully arranged on a fresh tea towel beside a potted hyacinth.
Gone was definitely not among them.
Dot’s counter cleaning picked up speed. “No. Not yet. Not in this package, but it’s still very nice of someone to return these books, isn’t it?”
“Really nice,” Ollie agreed, munching on his second chocolate-chip cookie. “This cookie’s the best, Auntie Dot.”
He was right, of course. It was nice, and Dot did make the best chocolate-chip cookies. The cookies were as large as tea saucers, soft in the middle and buttery crispy on the edges. Chocolate chunks jutted out like little mountains, dusted with glittering crystals. Salt on cookies still shocked Cleo. As in, how shockingly good it was.
Cleo, having already indulged in black-bottom pecan pie, had broken off a third of her cookie and given the rest to Ollie. The third still lay on her plate. It wasn’t only her doctor’s sugar-avoidance prescription that kept her from enjoying it. The anonymous return of the books was odd. Unnerving. “So there was no return address or note or anything identifying who left the package? You found it by the steps?”
Dot nodded happily.
Cleo asked, “May I see the envelope?”
Among Dot’s many fine traits was the patience of a saint. She fished the envelope out of the trash bin tucked under her sink. She even indulged Cleo’s request for paper towels to handle the envelope without leaving fingerprints and a fresh ziplock bag to store it in.
“Freezer-safe or regular ziplock?” Dot asked, always accommodating.
Cleo chose freezer, the thicker the better to seal in what she was sure was evidence.
“I’m going to call Gabby,” Cleo announced.
“Cool!” Ollie said, his cheeks flushing on cue.
“If you must,” Dot said, with uncharacteristic resignation.
* * *
Gabby showed up in the company of Sergeant Earl Tookey. Cleo was glad to see that the young sergeant wasn’t pinned to Henry. Perhaps this meant the chief had moved on to other suspects.
Tookey’s eyes lit on the platter of cookies. “I worked up an appetite tonight,” he said.
Gabby rolled her own eyes. “Snoozing at that book meeting?”
“You have no idea,” Tookey countered, yawning as if in Pavlovian response. “That book board could bore a person to death.” He glanced guiltily at Cleo. “No offense, Miss Cleo. I’m sure it’s thrilling if you’re into that kind of thing. Your boyfriend was very well behaved. No criminal activity.”
“He always is well behaved,” Cleo said crisply, but Tookey was distracted, edging toward the cookie platter.
“Please,” Dot urged. “Eat up.” She pushed the plate toward him and bustled off to wipe down her faucet. Scents of bleach and chemical lavender mingled with sweet baking aromas. The counters gleamed. Dot’s kitchen must be as sterile as an operating room, Cleo thought, frowning. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Dot cleaned when she was nervous. She must be concerned about the anonymous package too.
Cleo could empathize. She’d been the recipient of an anonymous box of clues once. It had shaken her, the thought of someone sneaking onto her porch, dropping the box, and fleeing. For a while, she hadn’t known if the sender was good or bad, which had been even more unnerving.
Tookey was engaged in the serious business of choosing the perfect cookie. His hand hovered over the plate. He finally selected one with a round middle and lots of chocolate chunks.
“Good choice,” said Ollie, who’d been watching. “That’ll be a softer one.” He blushed and added, “Hi, Gabby. Deputy Honeywell. Neighbor. Nice to see you. I mean, not nice, ’cause this is business, but it is nice that Auntie Dot got her books …” Wisely, he grabbed another cookie and joined Tookey in munching.
Cleo showed Gabby the package as Dot bustled about, pouring glasses of milk for Ollie and Tookey and spritzing the refrigerator door with cleaner.
“So you have no idea who left this, Miss Dot?” Gabby asked. “You didn’t see anyone drive by? Hear anything?”
“No,” Dot said, putting down the spray bottle. “Other than it was someone awfully nice.”
“Or the killer,” Tookey said, his bluntness muffled by a mouthful of cookie.
Dot gasped and clutched her cleaning towel.
Cleo was glad he’d said it. Better Tookey than her. Dot wouldn’t fault the sergeant, who was just doing his job and clearly under the influence of cookie bliss.
“Oh,” Dot said quietly. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
Gabby caught Cleo’s eye, and Cleo read the deputy’s rueful smile. Cleo had thought of it that way, and Gabby knew it.
“Best to be abundantly cautious,” Gabby said, as Dot pushed the cookie plate closer to Sergeant Tookey.
He obligingly took another. “Yeah, good idea.”
“We’ll have to take the books with us as evidence,” Gabby said. “I’m sorry, Miss Dot. It’ll just be temporary until we can get them checked out. We’ll give you a written receipt listing each one.”
“Checked out?” Dot said. She reached a hand to the stack. “Oh, but Gabby, they’re fine. Just fine. All these books are perfectly intact, unlike my movie edition and my bird book. That’s so upsetting, such fine books chopped to bits and sold off in pieces. But I’m choosing to move on. I’m concentrating on the good.”
Gabby shot Cleo a pleading look.
“Dot,” Cleo said tenderly but firmly. “These books are evidence that could help stop a killer. The police have to have them checked for fingerprints and other evidence. Right, Deputy Honeywell?”
“Yep,” Tookey answered before Gabby could. He licked melted chocolate from a finger and drank down his milk.
Gabby was busily writing out a receipt, her head tipped to read each spine.
Cleo kept on. “Of course, whoever sent these books might be completely innocent.”
Gabby ripped off the receipt and handed it to Dot. “That’s right. It could be just a nice, anonymous Good Samaritan who didn’t want to get officially involved in a murder investigation.”
“Completely understandable,” Cleo said, although not to her. She was drawn to investigations. It was the puzzle that intrigued her most. And justice.
Dot tugged her apron tie loose and retied it tight. “I’d rather …” she said hesitantly. “I don’t really want to …”
“You don’t want to let them go again,” Gabby said kindly. “I understand. But like Miss Cleo said, you could be helping us solve a crime, a robbery or maybe even the murder. As you know, Kitty Peavey reported a robbery on the morning of the murder. Perhaps the robber took some of these books.”
And killed Hunter Fox, Cleo mentally filled in.
“You think a thief took the books and then sent them back to me? Why?” Dot asked, her tone high and incredulous.
Put that way, it did sound unlikely, Cleo thought. Why wouldn’t the robber simply keep the books? Or not take them to begin with? Cleo considered the titles: A couple of Walt Kelly’s Pogo comics from the 1960s. A Faulkner in fine condition and a handful of other southern authors: Zora Neale Hurston, Flannery O’Connor, and Eudora Welty. The books looked like the library’s copies, common editions suitable for a pleasant read.
“Robin Hood did stuff like that,” Tookey offered. His round face glowed. Cleo took it as sugar overload until he brought up books. “My grandparents had a whole huge set of Robin Hood books,” Tookey said. “I read and reread ’em all the time as a kid. Come to think of it, they might’ve influenced me to become a cop.”