by Nora Page
“No,” Cleo said. “He did none of those things.”
“So you say. The police don’t agree. I’ll do my best to see that he’s kept in jail.” The professor began pulling out books and cracking them open. He flipped pages and shoved them back in.
Cleo inhaled sharply. “He didn’t malign or blackmail you,” she said, working to keep her voice steady and calm. “He never told anyone—”
Professor Weber swung around, his face lurid. “Ah, but he told you, didn’t he? I knew he’d break his promise. See? He’s that sort of man. Untrustworthy.”
Mr. Chaucer woofed and growled.
Cleo wanted the professor gone too. He was taking books from the upper shelf, flipping through them, and shoving them back with little care for their safety and placement.
“You have to leave,” she said again. “If you don’t, I’ll have to call the police.”
He didn’t respond. His nose was stuck in a book. He turned a page and held it close, frowning. He flipped some more and then reached for another book on the upper shelf. His hand froze in the gap. He raised himself to the tiptoes of his leather loafers and then pulled the ladder over. He needed to climb only a rung to be eye level with the top shelf. When he turned back, his expression chilled Cleo.
Professor Weber was smiling.
Cleo lurched forward and grabbed up Mr. Chaucer, cradling him close to her chest.
“Go ahead and call the police,” Professor Weber said, stepping down and pulling a cell phone from his pocket. “We’ll see which one of us gets through first.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chief Culpepper held up an evidence bag, swinging it back and forth with clear satisfaction. “Well, well, well, looks like I have nail number four in my lock-tight, rock-solid murder case,” he said. With his other hand, he raised a stubby index finger, its nail chewed to the quick. “One, owning the murdering awl. Two, lying to police. Three, shoving a nice lady down the stairs.” He swung the bag faster. “Four, attempting to hide this hammer, which appears to have traces of blood.”
Cleo couldn’t take her eyes off the horrible hammer. Her head moved back and forth with the evidence bag as if hypnotized. In her arms, Mr. Chaucer was doing the same thing, only his head swung with a slight delay. She cuddled the little pug closer, unsure which one of them was trembling.
The chief thrust the bag at Gabby, who took it with a look of reluctance and a shake of her head.
“This is all wrong,” Cleo said, forcing her eyes to the chief’s. “Professor Weber could have planted that. He entered the shop without permission when I was feeding Mr. Chaucer. He—”
“See what I mean?” Professor Weber said smoothly. He stood a few yards away, giving his “witness” statement to Sergeant Tookey. “This woman is desperate to pin the blame on someone else.”
“It’s true, Chief, we don’t know—” Gabby started to say, but Professor Weber interrupted.
“Chief Culpepper, let me add a fifth nail to your solid case,” he said. “Two of the books hiding that hammer are forgeries, although Mr. Lafayette has them highlighted on his website as restored historic gems. They’d sell for a lot of money. If they were real …”
Cleo’s stomach did double flips. “No,” she said softly.
“You’ll see I’m right,” Professor Weber said. “Hunter Fox must have discovered what was going on here. We’ve had trouble with forgeries showing up after our annual fairs. Now I know why. One of our own members was passing them off. Mr. Fox must have realized. He was clever when it came to books, I’ll give him that.”
Tookey kept writing in his notebook, studiously avoiding Cleo’s eye. The professor continued on, elaborating on the “tells” of a fraud.
Only the chief looked impressed. “You’re a fraud expert, then? I want every book in this place checked. Would you be able to stick around and lend us your expertise?”
Professor Weber sighed heavily as if burdened by greatness. “My pleasure,” he said solemnly.
“He can’t—” Cleo stammered. “He shouldn’t. It isn’t right.”
“Tookey,” the chief bellowed. “Take this place apart. Book by book.” The chief yanked a handful of aged tomes from their shelves.
Cleo gasped. She wanted to throw herself in front of the shelves.
“Perhaps I should take Miss Cleo’s statement somewhere private,” Gabby said, touching Cleo’s arm gently.
“Get on that, Deputy,” the chief said. He yanked out another thick handful of books, looking pleased. His smugness faltered when he addressed Cleo. “I am sorry, Miss Cleo. I know you’re close to Mr. Lafayette. This has to be a shock. Heck, must knock you off your feet, but you know, it’s hard to know people’s true natures. Lafayette hasn’t lived here but what? Four years? Five? What do we know about him? Next to nothing, really.”
Cleo knew Henry. He was a good, honest man. Her throat had closed up.
The chief brightened. “The good news is that your cousin’s in the clear. Right? That’s great for you. I hated to think it, but it was looking bad for her for a while.”
Gabby cut in gently, “How about we go to the station, Miss Cleo? Then I can run you home.”
Cleo numbly agreed. She couldn’t bear to see Henry’s store upended. Still carrying Mr. Chaucer, she followed Gabby. At the end of the aisle, Gabby stopped so abruptly Cleo and Mr. Chaucer bumped into her.
“Go around back,” Gabby said. “I’ll bring the car around.” She slipped out the door quickly, but not before Cleo caught a glimpse of the crowd outside, a mini-mob of antiquarians, friends, neighbors, and a bearded man wielding a mic.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In Catalpa Springs, the depth of personal trouble could be measured in food. Namely, the kind and quantity of consolation treats appearing at one’s door. By the time Cleo returned home from the station, Henry had been charged with murder and her porch resembled the buffet table at a funeral.
Two semi-frozen casseroles, a pie carrier full of cookies, a coconut layer cake, and a ham in a cooler waited at Cleo’s front door. Cleo surveyed her porch in dismay. What were folks thinking? The worst, clearly.
“How’re you going to eat all that food now that you’re by yourself?” Wanda’s voice rasped over Cleo’s raw nerves. Mr. Chaucer growled.
“Go inside, quickly, quickly,” she whispered, scooting the little dog in. She pushed the cooler in after him, with the casseroles and cake on top. Cookies defensively in hand, she turned to face her neighbor. Wanda wielded clippers and a more wicked tongue.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Cleo said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Misunderstood by who?” Wanda demanded. Grass clippings coated her boots. A flower petal withered on her sleeve.
Wanda went on, raising the clippers for emphasis. “Who misunderstood, Cleo? The police? The president of those old book nerds? You?”
The last word stabbed at Cleo’s heart. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. Issuing her mother’s favorite polite brush-off, Cleo said coldly, “I shouldn’t keep you.”
To Cleo’s relief and shock, Wanda swung around and headed back down the walkway. It was rarely so easy to get rid of her. But Cleo hadn’t. She soon realized that Wanda was only gathering reinforcement.
“Yoo-hoo, over here!” Wanda called, trotting to Cleo’s gate with a beckoning wave of her clippers. “You’re just in time. Hurry! She’s on her porch, with a haul of sympathy food.”
Cleo glimpsed a mic and a sculpted beard.
“I’m here at the home of the killer’s significant other,” the podcaster said breathlessly, jogging up Cleo’s walkway. “Her neighbor tells me there have been warning signs for months now.”
“Years!” Wanda crowed.
“Oh!” Cleo huffed. Gripping her cookies, she stumbled inside, slamming the door behind her. She stood looking down at the small mountain of food, an anxious pug, and a frowny-faced Persian.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered to the pets as
questions and knocks beat at the door. Two pairs of round eyes stared back, with just as many answers as she had.
* * *
By late afternoon, Cleo had received a strawberry sheet cake, two plates of cookies, another ham, several salads, and a bottle of bourbon. She’d stashed the extra ham in her freezer and the bottle in her china cabinet and now sat at her table, grimly picking at a plate of salad selections.
Mary-Rose and Dot had come by to “keep Cleo company” and help her eat up the food. They’d barely made a dent in the culinary department. Mary-Rose helpfully helped herself to an oatmeal sandwich cookie. Dot, in a somber, heavy-duty canvas apron, whirled around Cleo’s kitchen, sanitizing the counter tops to surgical-room levels. Henry was still with the police.
Cleo stared out to her backyard. Rhett Butler sat in a patch of grass, furry face turned to the fading sun. Ollie ran wide, loping circles around the patch, attempting to engage Mr. Chaucer in a game of catch. The little pug would trundle a few wobbly steps and then plunk back down, always facing the house and the street beyond.
“Mr. Chaucer’s waiting for Henry,” Cleo said. “He knows something’s wrong.”
Mary-Rose clicked her tongue. “Tragic little guy!”
Dot wondered again if Mr. Chaucer needed another biscuit and if Cleo needed a snack.
They’d all be food-logged if the sympathy gifting and comfort eating kept up. Cleo appreciated the treats. However, the underlying sentiment irked her. She had strong suspicions that her friends and family weren’t offering up indignation that an innocent man was being wrongly accused. Just the opposite. They clearly felt that Henry could be guilty of terrible crimes and that Cleo, in believing in him, was a fool in love. She could tell by the pitying looks and shaking heads and the patronizing there, theres.
Then there were the more blatant statements, like “One never knows with the dating scene these days.” Cleo doubted many of her friends knew anything at all about the dating scene these days, but they should know that Henry Lafayette was a good and honest man!
Cleo shoved at a chunk of broccoli with her fork and voiced her vexations. “I don’t know why everyone’s rushing over to console me. Henry’s innocent! Can’t everyone see that? They should all be out looking for clues, not whipping up sympathy casseroles.”
Cleo bit her lip, fighting a pang of guilt. She should be scouring the county for clues. For once, she didn’t know where to start.
Mary-Rose and Dot shared a look.
“What?” Cleo said, frowning at her cousin and best friend. Not them too! Could they actually doubt Henry?
“Professor Weber doesn’t like Henry,” Cleo said, giving the broccoli a vicious stab. “The man is paranoid. A few years back, he tried to blame Henry and Henry’s friend when he was the one who’d been tricked by a forgery.”
“Yes,” Mary-Rose said soothingly.
“The professor could have pushed Kitty,” Cleo continued on, feeling belligerent. She didn’t want her friend and cousin to soothe and comfort. She wanted them filled with indignation on Henry’s behalf. “Kitty was flirty at the soiree. Jealousy is a prime motive.”
“That hammer—” Dot said.
“Easily planted,” Cleo declared, jabbing her fork at an evasive cherry tomato. “The killer could have slipped into the Gilded Page during business hours or a workshop. Professor Weber could have planted it right before he supposedly found it. He was in the shop for who knows how long before Mr. Chaucer heard him and alerted me. Henry would never …” Cleo paused to inhale and caught sight of her friend and cousin.
They had identical pitying looks. Dot reached over and patted Cleo’s hand.
Cleo pushed back her seat.
“Motives,” she said, standing to let Rhett in. The cat happily took over her seat at the table.
Cleo paced around the table, ticking off means, motives, and opportunity, as the chief had earlier. “Professor Weber had motives. Jealousy. Hunter Fox was his romantic rival. Perhaps Hunter even sold him a forged book? Embarrassment. He was angry and desperate to save face on professional and personal fronts.”
“Those are fine motives,” Mary-Rose said supportively. “He could have gone to Kitty’s room the night of the killing, realized she was out, and guessed where.”
Picking up her pace, Cleo said, “Yes, she was selling Hunter’s books on consignment. More jealousy. He could have taken those books from her room and then killed Hunter.”
Dot shivered but agreed it was a fine idea. “Professor Weber did have my bird book, but then he returned it.”
“Only after Buddy discovered it,” Cleo pointed out. She wanted Professor Weber to be guilty. Anyone but Henry.
“That gives me chills,” Mary-Rose declared. “To think, Dot, he showed up in your kitchen.”
Dot frowned.
Mary-Rose continued on. “It’s a nice theory, but how can you prove it, Cleo? And what about Kitty? She was your prime suspect before she got shoved down those stairs. Could she be faking her injuries?”
“No, she couldn’t have been faking that fall,” Cleo said with grim certainty. She’d heard those awful cries.
Mary-Rose persisted. “Is Kitty still claiming she has no memory of what happened? Sounds awfully convenient to me.”
“The doctors said memory loss was possible with a head injury,” Cleo said. “Or she doesn’t want to admit who pushed her. Like her fiancé?”
Mary-Rose clicked her tongue. “The romantic partner is sadly often the culprit.”
Dot coughed and looked away.
They grew quiet. After a few minutes, Mary-Rose announced that she should be off on errands. Out on the porch, she hugged Cleo tightly and said, “Follow the books, Cleo. That’s what you always do, and you always get the answer.” She released Cleo and offered to drop Dot off at her shop or home.
Dot politely declined. “I need to walk off all this food,” she said, although she’d eaten little. After Mary-Rose left, Dot lingered on the porch, petting Rhett, who’d followed them out. She looked like she had something she wanted to say.
“I should go,” Dot said finally, although she still hesitated. She was halfway out the screen door when she turned back and gripped Cleo by both hands. Cleo was shocked to see tears floating in Dot’s eyes.
“Oh, Dot,” Cleo said. “I am sorry! I’ve been awfully insensitive, thinking only of Henry and my worries. How selfish! There’s still a chance at finding your book, and I know you don’t want us to, but the family can help pay those bills for the Drop By. It will all work out.”
Dot’s head shake sped up.
She’s so stubborn, Cleo thought. She vowed to call Dot’s niece. If anyone could talk Dot into accepting a family loan, it was April.
“I’m not worried about that anymore,” Dot said, gripping Cleo’s hands tighter. “I’m worried about you. I’m only confessing this because I love you, Cleo.”
Cleo’s heart jumped at the word confessing.
Dot barreled on. “I was sweet-talked by that awful man Hunter Fox. He flattered me and my books. I regressed to a silly teenager, charmed by his attentions. I invited him to my house, to look at my books. I was a fool!” The tears had disappeared. Her eyes were sharp.
Cleo held tight to her cousin’s hands. “Dot, what are you saying?”
In the beat of silence that followed, Cleo’s suspicious mind whirled. A confession. Foolish teenage emotion? What is Dot confessing to? Murder? No! But he tricked her, toyed with her heart … stole her books and her hope and pride and …
“I’m saying,” Dot said slowly, “we’re never too old to get fooled in love or blindsided by our emotions. How well do you really, truly know Henry, Cleo? He hasn’t lived here all that long. We don’t know his people or his business or life before coming here, only what he’s told us.”
Cleo yanked her hands back and gaped at her cousin. Thankfully, her mother’s warning of words in haste whooshed back to her. Cleo counted to ten and then ten again. She scooped up Rhett and le
t him purr calmingly in her ear. Hurt, more than anger, made her cheeks burn.
“I appreciate your concern, Dot,” Cleo said, glad she could keep her voice mostly steady. “But you’re wrong. Henry is innocent and a good man.”
Dot nodded. She didn’t apologize. “I hope so. Please don’t hold it against yourself—or me—if I’m right, Cleo.”
“She’s wrong,” Cleo whispered to Rhett, as Dot hustled down the walkway. “She has to be.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
In the darkest hours of night, just before dawn, a storm rolled up from the south. Branches scraped at the clapboards of Cleo’s home. The big magnolia groaned. Lightning strobed through the curtains, sending Rhett scrambling under the bed. Mr. Chaucer nestled in closer to Cleo’s side.
Cleo had been awake long before the storm. Now she gave up, flipping on the light. Mr. Chaucer blinked.
“Sorry,” Cleo whispered, although she didn’t need to keep her voice low. She and the pets were alone. Poor Henry was more alone.
Cleo glanced at her bedside clock. It stared back in big red numbers: 5:38. Cleo shut her eyes, wishing she could go back to sleep, but all she could think of was Henry, locked up. She wanted to see him and tell him she believed in him. Most desperately, she wanted to clear him.
But how?
Images of knives and ripped books and Kitty lying at the bottom of the stairs swirled in Cleo’s mind. When the alley popped into her mental scene, Cleo fumbled to turn on her bedside lamp. Clearly, there would be no more sleep. Cleo got up and put on both her robe and a bright tone for the pets.
“Let’s go get breakfast,” she said. “Doggy biscuit? Kitty treats?”
Mr. Chaucer woofed and trotted off down the hall. Cleo suspected she’d find his nose to the door again. She called to Rhett in singsong tones of “Pretty boy, pretty Rhett. Let’s have breakfast.” After a few more calls and a lull in the thunder, her cat slithered out from under the bed and raced downstairs, fur mussed and tail puffed.