by Nora Page
Cleo put on her robe and slippers and grabbed the top book on her stack of new purchases. The Wizard of Oz. Perfect. She needed a distraction from her thoughts and the storm.
Mr. Chaucer bravely dashed out to the backyard, returning to shake off the rain with such force he nearly tipped over. Cleo doled out breakfast for the pets and put on a large pot of coffee for herself. Out back, the palms lashed the flashing sky. No lights shined at Ollie’s.
“Youth, when we could sleep through anything,” Cleo said. She helped herself to an oatmeal cookie, part of the consolation bounty. Oats made it breakfast appropriate, she rationalized, and it would be delightful with coffee. While the pot burbled, she opened her new book.
“Follow the books,” Cleo murmured, thinking of Mary-Rose’s parting advice. Rhett hopped to the seat beside her and scowled. Cleo had to agree. The book paths all led to Henry. Henry’s workshops, which had inadvertently led Hunter Fox to local booklovers. Henry’s tools. Henry’s shop and the forgeries on his shelves.
“Supposed forgeries,” Cleo said to Rhett. “Supposedly found, by the professor.” She practically hissed the last word.
Thunder boomed. Rhett bolted from his seat, and pug claws scampered under the table. Cleo flipped through The Wizard of Oz, her nerves so ragged she could only admire the illustrations. She paused at a favorite. Toto pulling back the curtain, dashing Dorothy’s hopes that Oz could help her. Oz the great and powerful was a sham, a fraud. Dorothy would have to save herself.
The chief—and Dot, of all people—had implied that Henry might not be who she thought he was. But Cleo knew Henry. She did! She was as sure of this as she was of her love for Rhett and books. But someone else could be the charlatan …
Cleo mentally sorted through the antiquarians she’d met. Henry’s friends the medievalists seemed like true booklovers, with their geeky talk of gilded pages. Buddy collected what he loved. He’d been tricked by a forgery too. Hunter Fox had sold Buddy the forged letter. Had Hunter known it was a fake?
“Surely,” Cleo murmured. Kitty had boasted that Hunter never sold anything for less than it was worth. Even Professor Weber had admitted Hunter was clever with books.
Cleo turned her thoughts to the professor. She suspected he was just who she thought he was: an intense, insecure man terrified of looking foolish. A man who wanted Kitty all to himself.
Then there was Kitty, who wore her Marilyn Monroe personality like armor. To protect against what? Cleo helped herself to another cookie. She’d read somewhere that oatmeal promoted brain health.
She took a bite and answered her own question. Kitty was an admitted book thief. Her beautiful cover might distract the other bookdealers, but they’d keep their distance if they realized how far she’d go to get a book she wanted. Like breaking into a bookmobile!
Cleo finished her cookie, thinking of another known deceiver, Madame Romanov, hiding behind her curtain, spying on her clients. Had she seen one of the bookdealers on her surveillance video? Someone she knew?
Cleo cycled through the names again, automatically connecting them with the books they favored. Follow the books. Someone is not who they seem …
The storm crackled. Cleo’s hair prickled, not from the electricity in the air but an unlikely idea, an odd incongruity. She closed her book and thought hard. She paced her kitchen for what seemed like miles. The idea wouldn’t budge. She waited as long as she could for the first light to break and the storm to wring itself out. Then she dressed, threw on rubber boots and a raincoat, and grabbed an umbrella with a pointy tip. She kissed her cat on his frowny noggin and patted Mr. Chaucer’s worried wrinkles.
“You two stay here,” she said. “There are too many puddles out.” And too much danger.
* * *
The Myrtles was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes and pans. Scents of coffee and cinnamon buns filled the foyer. Nina and Karl would be busy fixing breakfast, which was fine with Cleo. She’d called ahead to get a room number, muffling her voice when Nina answered and pretending to be a relative of the guest in question. She felt bad for the deception, but she didn’t want Nina worrying about more trouble. The innkeepers had let the antiquarians stay an extra night for free, considering the “unfortunate accident” at the soiree and their assistance in the investigation.
But now that Henry was charged with the murder and Kitty’s assault, most of them would be heading home. Cleo didn’t have time to wait. If she was wrong, she’d apologize. No harm done. Cleo hurried up the stairs, her wet rubber boots squeaking on the marble tiles.
At the spot where Kitty had come to rest, Cleo paused. What if she was right? No harm done wouldn’t apply then. All sorts of harm had already been done, and more could come to her. She had to take the risk for Henry’s sake. Cleo glanced quickly over her shoulder and hoisted her purse. Then she took a deep breath, gripped her umbrella, and hurried up the steps.
The room she sought was at the end of the hallway where Henry had been waiting for Kitty the night of the soiree. Cleo tiptoed across the carpet, holding her breath and listening before tentatively knocking. Her gentle tap brought no response. Urgency compelled her to knock harder. Nina might have been wrong that the occupant was still inside. The guest might have left overnight.
The noise of her pounding bounced down the hall. She imagined all the doors opening and the bookdealers staring out, whipping off masks, revealing faces and desires she hadn’t detected.
She raised her fist once more, but before it reached the wood, the door inched open.
Buddy Boone’s ruddy face peeked out. “Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “Cleo. I thought you might be the cleaning lady, come to kick me out early. I think we book collectors might be overstaying our welcome.” He opened the door a fraction farther and gestured toward his attire, a bulky bathrobe of fluffy fabric, embroidered with pink crepe myrtle flowers. “I’m glad I get to say good-bye to you, but I’m afraid I’m not fully dressed yet. Can I meet ya downstairs in a jiff?”
He started to close the door before Cleo could answer.
She was ready for such a move. She wedged her shoulder in the doorjamb, her purse along with it, and a shoe and her umbrella over the threshold. The purse contained her cell phone and a tiny canister of pepper spray, but it was the umbrella that made her feel like an armed Mary Poppins.
“I won’t keep you,” Cleo said, issuing silent apologies to manners.
“Ah …” Buddy stammered. “Okay. I guess.” He stepped aside, then peeked out to the hallway before closing the door firmly behind Cleo.
“What a lovely room,” Cleo said brightly. It was small but had pretty antique furnishings from the four-poster bed to a dresser sporting an attached oval mirror and stacks of books.
“I suppose you have all sorts of books to pack up,” Cleo chatted on, stepping toward the dresser. “Did you sell a lot?”
“Enough,” Buddy said, scratching his head and frowning at her.
If she was wrong, Cleo knew she must seem like a madwoman, bursting into a man’s hotel room before breakfast, before he was even dressed.
“Is there something I can help you with?” He moved around Cleo, blocking her path to the dresser. He looked different in the fluffy bathrobe, she thought, and not just because she’d only seen him in denim and folksy bandannas. There was something …
Cleo didn’t feel right staring at a man in his robe, arms modestly folded over his middle. She swung her eyes around the room, scanning for more books. Several rested on the nightstand. Cardboard boxes stood in a leaning stack, presumably packed up with his inventory.
“I hope you can help me,” Cleo said. “I have a question about Gone With the Wind.”
Buddy’s frown deepened. “Okay,” he said, drawing out the word to suggest his confusion. “You still looking for your cousin’s book, is that it? It’s a real shame that, but maybe when Kitty gets her wits back, she’ll be able to help. Shame about her, too, and Mr. Lafayette’s … ah … troubles. Shame all around.�
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Cleo forced herself not to get distracted by talk of Henry’s troubles. “You said you’ve sold some Gone With the Wind copies?” Cleo asked mildly.
“Sure. Is that what you want? A replacement for Miss Dot? I’m kinda packed up, but I could mail her something later. If that’s all …” He gestured toward the door, and suddenly Cleo realized what had been bugging her.
His belly. Or rather, the lack of it. The man who’d filled out his coveralls was suddenly slender. She covered a surprised gasp with a cough and moved back toward the door.
“How kind,” Cleo said. “I’m looking for the edition Dot had. A first first. You know, the 1945 version?” She’d just given the wrong date by over a decade. She watched his face and read vexation.
“Sure, sure. I can look for that. No problem. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get going before that cleaning lady comes by.” He chuckled and waved again toward the door.
Cleo debated. He’d given nothing away but ignorance of a book that, as a supposed Georgia-themed collector, he should know. Was that enough to accuse him of murder? She wished she could see behind him. He hadn’t moved from his spot, blocking her view of the books.
“Wonderful,” she lied, and hefted her purse higher on her wrist. She imagined tossing it at him, making him catch it. Or she could do the next best thing.
“Oh dear,” Cleo said, letting her purse drop to the floor. “Oh, my knees.” She nudged the fallen purse with her foot, tipping out its contents: lipstick, sunscreen, a slender paperback for unexpected reading opportunities, pens, cat treats, a comb, a compact, and a shopping list. Fortunately, the pepper spray stayed wedged in a pocket.
Buddy knelt down and began gathering it all up.
“Thank you! Let me just get out of your way,” Cleo said. “So kind!” She dodged around him and planted herself in front of the stack of books. Her heart sank when she read the titles. Fish of the Chattahoochee. Oak Trees of Georgia. A Gentleman’s Guide to Groupers.
Buddy had managed to stuff everything back in her purse. He looked up at her with a sharpness that quickly melted back to geniality. “I don’t think you’ll be interested in those books,” he said with a chuckle.
Cleo was about to reach for the proffered purse. At his words, she froze. Ever since childhood, there had been two phrases that made Cleo Watkins instantly rebel. One began with any version of young ladies shouldn’t. The other was any assumption that Cleo Watkins wouldn’t be interested in a certain type of book.
Young Cleo might have fallen for Gone With the Wind, but she’d loved Tolkien and Tolstoy too, even more after adults insisted she wouldn’t. You won’t like this was a challenge. Coming from a man who’d seemed set on guarding those books, it was also suspicious.
Cleo reached for the top volume, A Gentleman’s Guide to Groupers. To her horror, the contents slipped out and she was left holding only a cover.
“I’m so sorry!” Cleo gaped down, imagining she’d see torn pages. Instead, another book lay at her feet. The burgundy cover was cracked with age. Gold gilt glittered on the edges.
She looked from the book to Buddy. Slender Buddy, whose face was no longer affable.
Simultaneously, they reached to grab the fallen book. He was faster, but when he gripped it in front of him, Cleo could read the title. It was the same as one of the forged histories Professor Weber had discovered at Henry’s shop.
“Sorry about the book,” Cleo stammered again. “I mean, books. I should be going. I’ll get out of your way.” Her heart pounded hard, almost drumming out his next words.
Buddy Boone stood between Cleo and the exit. He tightened the robe sash around his slender waist. “I don’t think you can now,” he said.
* * *
“I’m only here to help Henry.” Cleo gripped her umbrella, her last line of defense now that Buddy had tossed her purse aside.
“You’re a good woman,” he said, stepping closer.
Cleo moved back until her knees bumped into the hard shoulder of the radiator.
“So is your cousin,” he continued. “Dot’s a fine woman with a true love of books. I respect that. I understand that. That’s all I understand in this world. Love of books. I’m a simple man at heart.”
Everyone has something in common, Cleo thought, trying to calm herself. “I understand that sentiment,” she said. “So does Henry. He’s devastated that the other antiquarians think he’s a book forger.” He was surely even more devastated to be seen as a killer, but Cleo didn’t want to bring that up.
Buddy shrugged. “Unfortunate that Weber discovered those forgeries at the Gilded Page. Mr. Lafayette would surely have detected them before selling them on to anyone else. He’s a skilled authenticator. Deauthenticator, I should say. He questioned my lovely Oglethorpe letter after one look. I should have offered that letter to Professor Weber instead. I bet he would have snapped it right up. I got reckless … The events of this fair unsettled me.”
Events? Like a murder he committed? Cleo tried to look suitably sympathetic. “It was a lovely letter. I was truly inspired seeing it.”
He brightened. “Yes. You were happy, weren’t you? Others could have been as well. My letter could have been in a museum. It could have brought me a tidy sum too, to enhance my collecting.”
Carefully, tenderly, he placed Henry’s gilded book on the bed, caressing the cover before turning back to Cleo. “Like I tried to tell you before, I have to be going. As much as I’ve adored your town, it’s brought me nothing but difficulties. That irritating scout and absurd psychic and you, Mrs. Watkins. I’m sorry you had to be so clever and persistent. What are we going to do about you?” He moved closer.
Cleo told the truth, mostly. “I won’t say anything. Please, just leave something, some evidence clearing Henry, and I’ll wait until you’ve left town to alert the police.”
Cleo inched toward the window and glanced down. They were on the second floor. There was a recycling bin below, jutting with cans and bottles.
“Evidence pointing to Buddy Boone?” he said. “Would that work for you?”
Cleo froze, fearful of stepping into a trap. Perhaps he meant it. “Yes?” Cleo said tentatively. “You aren’t really Buddy, are you?” Her voice had a thin tininess to it, even to her ears. “Is that why you had to kill Mr. Fox? Did he recognize you?”
The man who wasn’t Buddy seemed to consider the question. When he spoke again, his folksy drawl had been replaced by unaccented steeliness. “Fox recognized a thief. It takes a thief to know one, to see the sleight of hand. It’s like a magic trick. Once you know how the illusion is done, you see every move.”
Cleo wasn’t sure what he meant, but she tried to keep him talking. He was unmasked now. Maybe he’d want to brag. “Hunter Fox saw you stealing?”
His eyes shifted toward the book on the bed.
“Swapping,” Cleo said quickly. “Collecting?”
“No harm would have been done,” he said. “Fox thought he could blackmail simple Buddy Boone. The psychic made the same mistake.”
“Madame Romanov,” Cleo said. “Is she okay?”
He smiled easily. “For now. Until she tries to make another swap. She thinks I’m a good-old-boy collector of Georgia memorabilia and cheap books. Everyone does. Except you.”
Chills crawled over Cleo’s arms. She grasped for ways to appeal to his good side. He must have one, she thought desperately. He liked books. “You found Dot’s book at Professor Weber’s stand. That was nice of you. Did you send back her other books too?”
“I did,” he said, smiling. “I had the opportunity to … retrieve … some books from Kitty’s room, items Mr. Fox had given her. I’ll admit, I probably got greedy, taking all those books, but the man had insulted me. I felt it only right that he paid me back. Retroactively.”
After Hunter Fox was dead, Cleo interpreted. Buddy had broken into Kitty’s room and taken the books Hunter had “scouted” from Dot and other victims.
“Dot was kind to me, so I repaid
the favor,” he said.
“Dot does love books,” Cleo said. “She was thrilled to get them back. Henry loves books too. He’s a good man. He never laughed at Buddy Boone.”
The fake Buddy Boone gave an elegant roll of his shoulders. “I know. He has an excellent shop. That’s why I came to this fair, to collect from it. No one was supposed to get hurt or even realize what happened until I was someone else and somewhere else.”
In three quick steps, he moved to a jacket hanging on a door hook. He reached into a pocket. When his hand reappeared, metal flashed, thin and sharp.
“You came here alone, Mrs. Watkins. How brave of you. Noble. Foolish.” He pointed the metal at Cleo. “The awl,” he said. “A bookmaker’s friend. A useful tool. I am sorry, Mrs. Watkins, but how can I continue my collecting if I am always looking over my shoulder, waiting for you to appear?”
He moved closer, and Cleo knew words would no longer work. She grasped her umbrella and thumped the spike down three times, loud against the floorboards.
For a moment, nothing happened. Cleo’s thudding heart seemed to clog her throat. She feared she really was alone. Long seconds passed before the door burst open and with it Gabby Honeywell, gun drawn and yelling for Buddy to drop his weapon.
The fake Buddy swiveled, lunging at Gabby, who dodged left and managed to grab his arm. The awl fell to the floor. He howled as she twisted his arm behind his back.
“You are … under … arrest,” Gabby said, through the effort of hauling back his other hand.
He yanked it away and looked ready to strike Gabby. Cleo didn’t have time to think. With both hands, she gripped the umbrella and pulled it back to shoulder height. Decades ago Cleo had played South Georgia softball. She’d always felt she had a mighty swing still residing in her. Just like riding a bike, Cleo thought, as she whipped the umbrella forward, hitting his wrist with home-run strength.
He yelped and grabbed his arm, giving Gabby the upper hand. The deputy had wrestled him to the ground when Sergeant Tookey lumbered in.