by Nora Page
After everyone had inspected their new items, Cleo said, “You all know, I’ve been wrapped up in some trouble lately.”
“We know you wouldn’t date a killer, Cleo,” a voice called out.
“Not knowingly,” another qualified.
“Nothing wrong with kicking up your heels at a club, either,” still another said. Others agreed, and a call went up for Franklin to take them clubbing.
Cleo felt her brow furrow, but she thanked them for their support. “I need all the help I can get,” she said, hoping to shift the conversation away from Henry and clubbing. “Remember how I asked you about victims of the book scout?”
“The con artist,” came a mumble.
“Had it coming!” declared one of the men.
The preacher’s wife issued a loud “Rest in peace!”
“We’ve been keeping our ears out,” Franklin said, when the din settled. “You know about my G-mom. Good thing she doesn’t drive, or she’d likely be a suspect too.” Tsking tongues and sympathy rose when he told them about Bernice’s missing Poirot.
More names flew around the room, relatives and friends of the residents. Cleo already knew about most of them.
“This is all very helpful,” Cleo said. “But here’s what’s puzzling me most. How did Hunter Fox know whom to visit? He’s not from here. What’s the connection among all these good booklovers?”
Silence fell for long moments before one of the card-playing men thumped the table. “A mole! The scout had an insider, a local. Yeah, and the spy killed the scout and ran off with all those valuable books!”
The group eyed one another with some suspicion, as if the murderous local might be among them.
“What about a book group?” the preacher’s wife suggested, with excessive brightness. Names of local book clubs circulated. The Who-Done-Its, Dante’s Devotees, Babes and Books. A few names on the list of Hunter’s victims intersected. None overlapped entirely.
Another resident, a lady with proper pearls, raised her hand. “I have it! He sensed ’em! He’s a psychic, like the lady the police are looking for. That’s it! He and that psychic woman Madame Bovary—”
“Romanov,” someone corrected.
“Like I said,” the speculator continued. “What if she fed him the info and then knocked him off and ran off with all the books?”
The cardplayer grumbled that she was stealing his theory.
Cleo liked the idea of Madame’s guilt. However, she had no belief in Madame’s psychic powers.
Chatter bounced around the room. Mrs. Slater, the woman who’d come in with Cleo and Franklin, coughed pointedly. In a raspy, birdlike voice, she said, “I know what I’d do if I wanted to find out something. I’d go to the library.”
All eyes turned to Cleo.
That’s exactly what Cleo would do. Her stomach clenched. It was an equally good and horrible idea. To think the library—her library—might be involved. Cleo quickly talked herself out of the possibility. “Hunter Fox did visit the library. My wise colleague, Leanna, turned him away. We have a strict privacy policy.”
“What about all the free talks and programs at the library?” Mrs. Slater persisted. “Remember when we all went to see that local author, the true-crime lady? She scared me silly! We had our photos in the paper afterward. We all looked blurry, probably because we were shaking like leaves in a tornado, we were so terrified.” She laughed happily at the memory.
“That nice man at the bookstore did a workshop before Christmas too,” another lady said. “Oh, but wait … is that your friend, Cleo? The man with the bookstore and the murder weapon and no alibi and …” The woman fell silent.
Cleo was speechless too. She half heard words fly around the room.
Shhh … she’s trying to remember.
She can’t remember which boyfriend? Does she have so many, she can’t keep ’em straight? Like Lady Lucy and the lord!
“The newspaper,” Cleo said aloud.
“There’s that,” the preacher’s wife said kindly.
“The newspaper printed a photo of one of Henry’s workshops.” Cleo remembered that Henry had objected to the headline, deeming it tacky. “Local Booklovers Eager to Cash In on Their Shelves,” Cleo murmured. It was something like that. Cleo had attended an earlier workshop, so she hadn’t gone to the one featured in the newspaper. Dot had, though. So had another lady on the list …
“Yeah,” Franklin said, squinting out the window as if he might catch sight of the memory. “I drove my G-mom to that. She clipped out the photo. First time she’d ever been in the newspaper.”
Other names filled in. Cleo would check at the library to be sure, but she feared they’d found the connection. Henry! The poor man would feel awful.
“The mole,” the cardplayer said.
“The bad-boy boyfriend,” someone else whispered.
“Well!” the preacher’s wife exclaimed loudly. “Let’s get back to that lusty lord, shall we? Remember, when last we knew, it was a gusty day for a kilt …”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They were being watched. Cleo felt the gaze pressing on her back. Goose bumps crawled up her neck.
“They’re getting closer,” Cleo whispered. She could swear she heard footsteps. Beside her on the gently swaying glider bench, Mary-Rose seemed unconcerned, gazing out at the sparkling spring waters and the rippling reflection of the Pancake Mill.
“Ignore them,” Mary-Rose said. Against her own advice, she twisted. “Shoo! Go on, you’ve had your pancakes.”
Low chuckles and feathers ruffled in response.
Cleo glanced back. The Pancake Mill’s trio of “guard peacocks” stopped, like children playing a game of freeze. If birds could look offended, they did. They gradually unfroze. The male fanned his tail and stomped. The females waggled their fancy fascinator-hat feathers.
Cleo had to chuckle. “Their expressions! I swear, we’ve offended them.”
Mary-Rose turned back. “Don’t let them see you laughing. They get petulant when their feelings are hurt.”
“Shooing doesn’t count as rude?” Cleo said, relieved to see the birds strutting off down the bank.
“They’re spoiled rotten,” Mary-Rose said affectionately. “They think they deserve unlimited pancakes anytime I’m out here walking.”
Rhett demanded tuna treats every time he trotted into Words on Wheels. A little spoiled rotten wasn’t a bad thing.
The bench settled back to a gentle sway. Cleo had come straight from Golden Acres, disturbed by the events of the morning. Mary-Rose had offered up her listening ear, butterscotch pie, and a stroll around Pancake Spring.
“I can see how it could look bad for Henry,” Mary-Rose said, returning to the topic they’d been discussing before the guard-trio appeared.
Cleo stared at the rippling waters. It did look bad. She’d called Leanna at the library when she arrived at the Pancake Mill. In a few clicks of her keyboard, Leanna had found the newspaper photo, a dozen smiling participants and Henry, and all their names handily listed in the caption.
“The chief might even say this is Henry’s missing motive,” Mary-Rose continued. “Say Henry was angry or jealous that Hunter Fox swooped in and got to those local booklovers and their valuable books first.”
“Mary-Rose!” Cleo sputtered. Down around the curve of the spring, the peacocks cackled in response.
Her best friend held up a placating palm. “Now, Cleo, I’m only playing devil’s advocate. Or Chief Culpepper’s advocate. Besides, if we weren’t talking about Henry, this is what you’d be saying as our town supersleuth.”
Some sleuth. All Cleo had managed to do was get Henry into deeper trouble. Just like Ollie’s good deed with the fund raiser had backfired for Dot. She said so to Mary-Rose, aware of the whine in her tone.
“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” Mary-Rose said, as sagely as if she’d just come up with the saying herself.
Cleo kicked her feet. She was aware she was wallowing. Som
etimes one needed a good wallow with a friend. And with pie too. Cleo was about to suggest that they continue their walk and thus justify a second slice.
“So what are we going to do about it?” Mary-Rose said briskly. “It’s not like you to sit about, Cleo. Let’s sum up. What do you know for sure?”
“That Henry and Dot are innocent,” Cleo said.
“Yes, okay,” Mary-Rose said patiently. “What do you know for sure about the crimes?”
Cleo considered. “I’m certain Kitty Peavey took my library book. I’m sure she has Dot’s book too. Or that she did have it before her room was burglarized. I wish I could get in there and look around.”
“So what’s stopping you?” Mary-Rose said. A sun hat shaded her eyes but not their sparkle.
What indeed? Cleo had already asked, nicely, and Kitty had denied having the book. The chief had probably asked nicely about Cleo’s missing library book too, which Kitty had also denied. Dot was wrong, Cleo thought. Sometimes it did hurt to be too nice. Not that Cleo would ever tell her sweet cousin that.
“You’re right,” Cleo said. “What are we waiting for?” She hopped off the bench on an upswing.
Mary-Rose stood too, smoothing her sundress, printed in bright abstract florals. “I’m glad you said we, Cleo. Otherwise, I was going to intervene again.”
* * *
“She’s on the move,” Henry whispered.
From her bench in the park, Cleo pictured Henry a few blocks away, deep in the Depot, the cell phone pressed to his fluffy beard. He was a good spy.
Henry had called to report that the fair was closing up for the day. Kitty and the rest would likely be on their way back to the Myrtles for afternoon aperitifs and snacks.
“Cat’s on the prowl?” Mary-Rose said when Cleo ended the call.
Cleo was glad to have Mary-Rose with her, lifting the mood with spy talk. Mary-Rose checked her watch, announced that it was “zero five hundred,” and settled in to wait for ten minutes precisely before heading to the bed-and-breakfast.
When they arrived, they found Nina Flores slumped in a seat behind the reception desk.
“Is Kitty Peavey in?” Cleo asked.
“We have an appointment,” Mary-Rose added firmly.
Cleo decided that wasn’t a lie. She was overdue to speak with Miss Peavey.
“Upstairs,” Nina said, making Kitty’s presence sound as welcome as a termite infestation. Dark circles underlined Nina’s eyes, and she wore a puffy winter jacket. Frigid air blew from the air-conditioning vents.
“How have you been doing?” Cleo asked.
Nina shivered. “As well as can be expected. At least we haven’t had another robbery at the inn. These bookdealers, they attract trouble! I’m counting the minutes until they all check out. I’m praying their final soiree tomorrow night won’t end up in some kind of crime too.”
Mary-Rose smiled. “Cleo’s looking forward to the soiree. She and her gentleman friend have been taking ballroom dance lessons for the occasion.”
Cleo flushed. “We haven’t had time to practice,” she said. What with murder and thefts and unfounded accusations hogging her dance card. “I tend to step on toes,” Cleo said.
“It won’t matter,” Nina said darkly. “They’ll be tipsy. Miss Peavey’s ordered extra liquor. She’s the self-appointed organizer. She nixed the flowers I ordered, saying they had too much pollen. She nixed the band too, since they didn’t know any Marilyn Monroe–era music. It’ll have to be a DJ, I told her.” She pointed in the vague direction of up. “She’s in the penthouse. Room three A. Take either stairway and you’ll get there.”
“Party planning,” Mary-Rose groaned as she and Cleo made their way up a grand marble staircase. “I feel for Nina. I adore a soiree, but can’t stand all the decisions. In fact, that’s why I stuck to two menu items at the Mill. Hard choices: take ’em or leave ’em.” Mary-Rose stopped on the second floor. “Which way?”
Cleo laughed. “I hardly see how pancakes and/or pie is a hard choice.” She looked around. She’d never been to the “penthouse” third floor. The stairs on the main, second floor ended in two dim hallways stretching out to either side. “Nina said either way. There must be back stairways at both ends?”
Mary-Rose grumbled about the low light of the candle-mimicking sconces and potted-plant forest as they followed a dogleg hallway to the left. Each door was bordered by sizable potted palms. Cleo touched one, confirming it was silk. A backlit Exit and staircase sign looked out of place in the antique decor. The stairs led up to the third floor and back down to the first. By the top, Cleo was more out of breath than she cared to admit.
They stepped out to a hallway done up in dizzying floral wallpaper and a chaotically swirly carpet. In her flowery dress, Mary-Rose was almost camouflaged.
“Here,” Cleo whispered. A clump of potted palms marked Suite 3A. Cleo aimed her fist to knock but froze when voices filtered out. She leaned an ear toward Kitty’s door. Mary-Rose joined her.
“Professor Weber,” Cleo whispered, as a male voice spoke on the other side.
“I love you,” he was saying. “You know that’s why I try to protect you from doing something … foolish. No, dangerous.”
Mary-Rose raised an eyebrow.
“Foolish?” Kitty’s voice was so sharp it seemed to slice through the door. “Is that what you think of me and my collecting?”
“It’s what I think of collecting that could land you in jail.” His voice rumbled too close to Cleo’s ear.
Cleo reared back, picturing him so close they might be touching.
“You need to stop such extreme collecting,” he continued. “We’re engaged now. This could get embarrassing for me. For us.”
“Oh?” Kitty’s voice rose in indignation. “Shouldn’t I be embarrassed about your naughty behavior? What if word of your little trouble gets around? Mmm? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing for you? For both of us?”
A slap hit the door.
Cleo’s heart jerked. She tugged at Mary-Rose and mouthed, “Let’s go.”
Mary-Rose dug in her sandals and held up a finger. “It’s just getting good,” she whispered and put her ear back to the door.
Cleo was about to do the same when the door flung open. Professor Weber stepped out, face hardened, a muddy flush high on his cheeks.
“Oh,” Cleo said, stuttering the first thing that came to mind, which also happened to be the truth. “Professor Weber, you startled us. We came to see Kitty. Is she in?”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We’re just stopping by for a visit.” Cleo turned her tone to bright with a touch of befuddled that younger folks—even those a decade or two younger—never failed to fall for. “Did we get the wrong room? Oh, dear …”
“She’s in there,” he said, and without another word, strode down the hall and down the stairs.
Kitty appeared in the door, her golden curls as stiff and perfect as her posture. “Ladies,” she said breathlessly. “Have you come to apologize for calling me a robber? Bless your hearts! I forgive you.” She made to shut the door in their faces.
Mary-Rose slapped a palm on the wood. “What a pretty room,” she said, pushing the door farther open.
Cleo smiled and added cutting sweetness. “Apologize? Why, no. We came by to make a deal. Shall we come in?”
Kitty’s face hardened, but then her eyes glittered, and Cleo guessed she’d said the magic word. Deal.
* * *
The penthouse was more of an attic, with dormered ceilings slanting to within a few feet of the floor. Although wide, the room felt crushed and close. The chaotic decor of the hallway continued, with added conflicting touches of floral armchairs and throw pillows. However, it was Kitty’s additions that made Cleo’s head spin.
A mountain range of clothes rose from the king-sized bed. Where did Kitty sleep? Perhaps she had stayed with her fiancé last night, Cleo thought. Shoes littered the floor, and a brigade of massive suitcases crowded the wall
s. Then there were the books.
“My, you do have a lot of books,” Mary-Rose said, a diplomatic understatement. While Kitty’s clothes seemed confined to the bed, books were stacked on every other smooth surface including the floor.
Cleo stared, scanning one stack and then another. Locating the books she sought would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Or a book hidden in a library.
“Looking for something?” Kitty asked.
Cleo kept scanning. Her eyes caught on familiar covers, on classics and books she’d seen at Kitty’s stand at the fair. She didn’t see Into the Waves or Gone With the Wind.
“Looking to deal, you said?” Kitty asked, tapping a high-heeled foot impatiently.
Cleo and Mary-Rose had planned their tactics earlier. They’d fib, for the greater good. “I want my library book returned,” Cleo said. “In return, I won’t tell the police how I witnessed you breaking into my bookmobile.” Cleo forced her fingers to remain still in her lap. Lying—even for the good of wronged books—wasn’t her strong suit.
Kitty sauntered to the squat windows looking out over treetops and on toward the Depot.
She was still gazing out when she said, “I think you’re bluffing. A lying librarian.” She turned, flashing a bright smile that stopped at cold eyes. “I like that. I’m going to have to disappoint you, though. I don’t have your book. I got my own copy, and it’s not for sale either. I’m sure you understand that.”
Kitty strode to the far side of the room. She shoved apart the line of suitcases, revealing a partially open safe.
“Isn’t this a delight?” Kitty said, holding up a book. “To think of Shirley Macon James touching this page with her tragic fingers.” She clasped the book to her chest before holding it out to Cleo.
Cleo took it, her fingers trembling. Instantly, she knew, like she’d know her own child or cat. “This is the library’s copy,” she said.