Read on Arrival Page 7

“It’s odd the police haven’t located Luck and Lore,” Cleo said. She searched all the spines. No luck. Where would Dixie keep a treasured lucky book? By her bed? Under the mattress? A grand staircase wound up from the foyer. Perhaps they could sneak up after Jefferson got through greeting guests and collecting words.

  Henry had been tipping his head to read titles. Still sideways, he grinned at Cleo, smile lines fanning.

  “I am not obsessed,” Cleo said, lest he suggest so. “The book’s absence is a clue, isn’t it? Even if Dixie were about to play a trick on me, she always kept Luck and Lore close. She liked to dangle it in front of me and then snatch it away.” Cleo checked the shelves again. “It should be somewhere in the house, but Gabby looked and couldn’t find it. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “So, say Dixie had the book, ready for your arrival,” Henry said, picking up the speculation. “But the killer arrived first.” He straightened and rubbed his beard in such deep thought that his plate tipped. A cheese straw rolled toward the edge. He righted the plate just in time. “Perhaps we should sit.”

  Cleo saw the perfect place nestled in the curve of a turret. The half-moon space included two padded armchairs, a little coffee table between them, and low built-in bookshelves under the window. A perfect reading nook. Cleo imagined the view in daylight, across the gingerbread-trimmed porch to the pretty gardens and peach orchards.

  They settled in. “So the killer comes by,” Cleo continued, waving a cheese straw. “He—or she—somehow gets Dixie into that pantry and locks her inside with the bees.

  “With that note too, and apparently her medicine,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Was it a prank that went too far?”

  Cleo had considered that. “But why take the book? Unless Dixie had it somewhere else. Her car? Oh, but Gabby said they searched there too.”

  “The returns slot at the library?” Henry suggested, chuckling.

  Cleo smiled. “That would be just like Dixie. I’ll check.” She made an effort to enjoy her food, tasting a little bit of everything, from cheesy quiche to a marvelous cheese-straw hybrid filled with pimento cheese. She’d be cheese-logged if she finished every crumb. She put her plate down, dropping her plastic fork in the process.

  “I’ll get it,” she and Henry said, simultaneously ducking under the coffee table. They bumped foreheads, blocking each other’s reach, hands sweeping blindly. They lingered a moment, heads together, until Cleo cleared her throat and Henry found the fork.

  “Got it,” he said, reaching and then straightening. But Cleo had noticed something else. She leaned down farther to investigate. It was a bit of paper, nearly shoved under the bookshelf. A bookmark? One of those pesky magazine inserts? No one—certainly not the homeowner—would care, but now that Cleo had seen it, she wanted to retrieve it.

  When she did, she dropped it like a hot potato on fire. It landed between their plates.

  Henry drew back with a sharp intake of breath. “It’s just like the coffin note left with Dixie, except it’s blank.”

  “Unless …” Cleo used a clean napkin to gently turn it over. White text in jagged capital letters filled the space. Cleo read the words aloud: “Dixie Huddleston, Lady Unlucky, this will soon be your new home.”

  Henry said what Cleo was thinking. “That sounds like Dixie’s real estate billboards: ‘Welcome to your future home.’ ‘Come home with Lady Luck.’ ”

  They stared at the ominous note, Henry anxiously tugging at his beard, Cleo’s heart thumping. “No wonder Dixie was afraid. We have to show this to Gabby,” she said. She folded the napkin around the piece of paper. She found a glossy real estate booklet in the bookshelf and tucked the napkin inside for further protection.

  “A clue appeared when we weren’t even looking,” Henry said. “That’s some kind of luck.”

  Cleo prayed it would turn out to be the fortunate kind, and Dixie’s killer would soon have a new home: a prison cell.

  Chapter Eight

  Neither Cleo nor Henry had height on their side. They stood in the kitchen doorway, facing a sea of people. Cleo took a deep breath, as if readying for a dive into the deep end.

  Henry suggested they split up. “I’ll go right. You go left?”

  Right passed by the pantry crime scene. Cleo squeezed his hand and made a plan to meet back up at the dessert table if they lost track of each other. She watched the crowd swallow Henry up. Then she headed in too, gripping the real estate booklet tightly, spine down, so the coffin wouldn’t slip out. She didn’t get far. Iris Hays spotted Cleo approaching and waved a plastic cup filled with pink bubbly liquid. “A toast to you, Cleo! Woohoo! To Cleo, our finder of bodies!”

  The artist wore a red mini-dress over black leggings, a departure from her watery grays. She lurched into Cleo’s airspace, her breath vaporous and suggesting that at least one of the punch bowls—or Iris’s personal cup—was seriously spiked. Iris looped her other arm around Cleo’s shoulder, where it lodged hot and heavy. Cleo fought the urge to step back and free herself. It would be impolite. Besides, she couldn’t. A group of realtors, talking loudly and clinking beer bottles, filled in the space behind her.

  Cleo reminded herself that she wanted to speak with Iris, and the artist seemed more than happy to talk.

  “You’re amazing, Cleo,” Iris slurred. “At your age … still working, driving, managing us Who-Done-Its, finding bodies … I heard you might have done more … Did you? Did you kill her? You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Iris!” Mrs. K., stern principal of the Who-Done-Its, stepped up and informed Cleo of the obvious. “Our Iris has had a touch too much to drink.”

  Iris laughed and leaned heavily on Cleo’s shoulder, her teased bird’s-nest hair brushed Cleo’s cheek. “I have. I’m celebrating.”

  “Why are you celebrating, dear?” Cleo asked, leaning her head away.

  Mrs. K. sighed and rolled her eyes. “Please, don’t get her started again,” she muttered.

  “Why, you ask?” Iris said. “I’ll tell you why!”

  Mrs. K. groaned. Cleo smiled encouragingly.

  “Because she ruined my life—that’s why—and now she’s dead, and that’s why I’m celebrating!” Iris’s voice had risen to a sharp pitch that cut across the white-noise chatter. Cleo could feel the group of realtors shifting behind her. She glanced back and saw that they were all tuned in to Iris.

  “Perhaps we should go outside,” Cleo said. “For some quiet and privacy.” If Mrs. K. cleared a path, Cleo could guide the artist out the back door. Cleo took a step that way.

  Iris wobbled but didn’t budge. “I want everyone to hear,” she boomed. “Dixie Huddleston sold me a house that ruined me. I’m glad she suffered. She got what she deserved!”

  Jefferson had been setting up a microphone by the back door. He stopped and gawped open-mouthed at Iris. At the buffet table, Chief Culpepper put down a serving spoon. The realtors made sounds of ooh and mm-hmm.

  “Iris, we’re at a wake,” Mrs. K. chastised in a tone that surely made her students tremble. It had no effect on Iris.

  “Mold,” Iris breathed into Cleo’s face. “She sold me a house and studio with toxic mold. Ruined my health and my career. Ruined me!”

  Mrs. K. was briskly saying that this was a long time ago. “No one knew about the mold then. Your health is better now, living at your folks’ house. Your painting is going well. We love having you teaching at the school.”

  Iris shot the principal a thunderous look, and for a second Cleo worried Iris might take a swing at Mrs. K. Instead, she took a swig of her potent punch.

  “You know the words I used at the door?” Iris said. “I doubled up. Good and riddance. Ha!”

  Chief Culpepper was coming their way. Mrs. K. was apologizing on Iris’s behalf.

  “I’m not sorry,” Iris slurred. “Do you know, when Dixie Huddleston showed up, begging for my forgiveness, she ended up blaming me? She said I was ‘too sensitive’ and that if I’d had a tougher composition like her and
spritzed some bleach around, then the toxic mold wouldn’t have bothered me.”

  Cleo murmured appropriate sympathy, thinking that sounded like Dixie through and through.

  Iris raised her voice to booming. “I’m not the only one either, am I? I bet half of all y’all here had troubles with Dixie Huddleston. She was a cheater and greedy and a bully. Am I right?” She pointed in the direction of the realtors, who quickly turned away. “You …” she said, her hand wavering toward half the room. “I know you did!”

  “I’m taking you home,” Mrs. K. said. With firm efficiency, she swiped Iris’s drink, took the drunken artist by the elbow, and tugged. The heavy arm slipped from Cleo’s shoulder, leaving her lighter and cooler and more than a little suspicious. Iris certainly had a grudge, a big one if she thought Dixie ruined her life.

  “Woooo,” Iris cheered as she was being half-led, half-dragged away.

  The chief switched direction to follow the departing pair. Cleo was glad. She wanted to show the paper coffin to Gabby first. Gabby would take both it and Cleo more seriously, and she hadn’t rudely accused Cleo of murder. Cleo resumed her search for her favorite deputy, but before she could move far, a bell chimed. A sharp ding-ding-ding, like an oven timer gone angry. Cleo covered an ear with her free hand, looking toward the stove before realizing the noise was coming from Dr. Jacquelyn Ames’s cell phone.

  Dixie’s drama-professor daughter-in-law stepped up onto a spindle-backed chair, holding the phone high. Jefferson clambered up on another chair beside her. He gripped a crumpled page in both hands. His face was wax-makeup white, but his ears flamed in a natural blush. His wife had foregone any mime makeup, which Cleo considered wise for any occasion. A white carnation corsage decorated the front of her black dress.

  Jacquelyn stopped the chime and tugged down her dress. Cleo’s thoughts on her softened. Perhaps Henry had been right about shock and grief causing her previous snippiness. Jacquelyn and Jefferson had certainly done up the house. They’d reached out to the community and welcomed a crowd.

  “Attention!” Jacquelyn clapped her hands. “We are here today to remember a woman of unusual character, Dixie Oakley Huddleston. In her memory, my husband and I will be announcing a new venture here at her—our—treasured family home.

  Cleo’s head tilted in curiosity. A new venture?

  Jacquelyn waved her arms expansively. “But first, Jefferson, Dixie’s first and only son, will give a dramatic reading composed of the many fine words you provided today. Jefferson is an award-winning poet and mime trained in the French classical tradition and specializing in slam poetical performance. Considering the solemn occasion, we did not bring an applause meter—the traditional judge of slam poetry contests—but I know you will join me in clapping the house down when he is finished. Let’s practice now.”

  A smattering of tentative claps ensued.

  “You can do better than that!” Jacquelyn chided.

  Mary-Rose slipped through the crowd, reaching Cleo’s side with a relieved “Whew.” She leaned close and whispered. “This is how much I care about you, Cleo. I spotted you having trouble with those Who-Done-Its, so I came to check on you. I abandoned the dessert table, which heaven knows is prime territory now that there’s homemade poetry on the menu.” She glanced at Cleo with concerned affection. “Are you okay? You have your color back, but you’re looking a tad twitchy.”

  Cleo felt ready to burst. Of course, she enjoyed poetry. What lover of words did not? However, she needed to find Gabby, and she suspected Jefferson’s poems might not be her favorite variety. He was alternately yelling, whispering, and singing out words. Jacquelyn had turned on background music, an acoustic-guitar version of the “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  “Tall. Realtor!” Jefferson proclaimed. “A woman! A winner. Mid-sixties. Determined. Blonde. Ambition.” He lowered his voice. “Blonde ambition.”

  Mary-Rose groaned. She wasn’t the only one. The room rumbled with whispers and movement. People shifted, some inching for the door, others edging toward the food. Still others stood frozen, as if stunned.

  “I’m looking for Gabby,” Cleo said. “Have you seen her?”

  Her friend’s eyes narrowed. “Deputy Gabby? That’s another reason I left the dessert table for you, Cleo. You had that look in your eye. You’re onto something, aren’t you?”

  Henry was making his way through the crowd, pointing behind him. “I found her,” he said when he reached them. “Gabby’s in the pantry. She was on the phone, but I indicated that we needed to talk to her.”

  Up on the kitchen chair, dear Jefferson waved solemnly toward the heavens. “Competitor,” he pronounced darkly. “Worthy opponent.” The sniping male realtor from the reception line gave a whoop.

  Henry led the way, with Cleo and Mary-Rose following single file behind. Crime tape hung loose at the pantry door. Cleo hesitated, remembering the bees and Dixie, telling herself neither would be here anymore.

  “I’ll keep guard,” Mary-Rose announced. “I don’t like small spaces or crime scenes.”

  Cleo didn’t either, but Gabby was waving them in, her phone still pressed to her ear. She flashed a quick, tight smile at Cleo and Henry, raised an index finger, and mouthed, Just a moment.

  “Yes, I see,” Gabby repeated several times. “Okay, I’m looking for that right now. Yes. I know … like a plunger. Like the other one we found.” A male voice that Cleo couldn’t make out droned on the other end. Cleo might have guessed Chief Culpepper, but she knew he was nearby and probably wouldn’t call.

  Cleo looked around the little room, noting that Dixie had kept a nice pantry. The shelves were glossy white and neatly covered in contact paper in a four-leaf-clover print. Dixie had baking goods on one shelf, divided into dry goods, sugars, and canned fruits and extracts. Pickles—cucumber, green bean, okra, and watermelon rind—formed a pyramid in a corner.

  Once again, one of Cleo’s firmest beliefs was confirmed. Everyone, even opposites and nemeses, had something in common. She and Dixie kept tidy, well-stocked pantries. They shared a passion for books too. Especially Luck and Lore. Cleo vowed that after she handed over the clue to Gabby, she’d sneak upstairs and look around. It wouldn’t hurt to search again.

  Gabby was making signs of trying to wrap up her phone conversation. “Okay,” she repeated. “Yes, okay.”

  Cleo busied herself. There was a bit of grime on an upper, opposite shelf. She tugged down her sweater cuff and reached up, prepared to wipe it away. The sweater stuck. So did her hand when the cuff slipped. A sticky substance coated her sleeve and hand. She sniffed.

  “Honey,” she whispered to Henry. The shelf held cereal boxes, neatly arranged in a row. As she reached for a box of granola nearest the honey smudge, a hand touched her shoulder. Gabby gently pulled Cleo back, her head shaking “no.”

  After more hurried “okays” and “thank-yous,” Gabby slipped her phone into her back pocket.

  “That was the coroner,” Gabby said, her eyes stuck on the sticky substance. “Well, look at that. The crime techs said they checked the pantry. They must not have checked every item. You have an eye for detail, Miss Cleo.”

  Cleo tried not to preen. “Any decent librarian does,” she said modestly.

  Gabby extracted latex gloves from a slender cross-body purse that didn’t look big enough to hold a crime-scene kit. She stood on tiptoes, her nose to the shelf.

  “Yep, definitely honey,” Gabby said, moving cereal boxes slightly. Two resisted with a sticky squish. Gabby carefully took them down. One box advertised a healthy honey-pecan granola. Its top was open, the box filled to the brim, but not with anything healthy. “A honeycomb,” Gabby said, tipping the box to reveal a sticky frame. “This must be where the bees were.” She laid out an evidence bag and put the box on top. “I’ll need a bigger bag and a thorough search,” she said. Her gaze turned downward. “I came in to look for another epinephrine injector. They’re big, kind of tubular, you know what I mean?”

  “Didn�
�t you already find that?” Cleo asked.

  Gabby confirmed they had. “The coroner found several puncture marks. He wondered if there was another syringe. The one we found was, uh … defective.”

  “Defective?” Cleo prompted.

  Gabby, a yoga enthusiast, was putting her hobby to good use. She crouched low, chin to the floor, aiming her eyes and a mini flashlight under the narrow space between the bottom shelf and the floor planks.

  “Dust bunnies,” she murmured. “A clothespin. Ick … is that a mummified mouse?” She swiveled and began searching the other row of shelves. “Aha! Miss Cleo, can you reach in my purse and get me an evidence bag?”

  Cleo found a packet of evidence bags tucked in beside some lip gloss, an eyeglass case, and a Taser. She handed a bag to Gabby, who dropped in her evidence with a satisfied look that dimmed as she inspected her find. The stubby syringe was encased in a plastic plunger, wrapped with a prominent prescription sticker.

  “Looks used,” Gabby mumbled. “Now I just need to find one more of these. Dixie’s most recent prescription was for three injectors. Seems like a lot.” She reinspected all the dusty spaces and the vent too.

  “It seems like she didn’t have enough medicine,” Cleo ventured. “It couldn’t save her. Were there too many bees? Was it faulty? Out of date?” Cleo wasn’t ill often, thank heavens, but that meant she sometimes let her medicines expire. She promised herself she’d do better.

  Gabby’s lip twisted. “This isn’t for spreading around,” Gabby said. “I’m telling you because I want you to be extra careful, Miss Cleo. The perp is beyond cruel. The syringe we found before—it didn’t actually have medicine in it. It was pure liquid disaccharide.” She sealed the bag. “Sugar syrup. We’ll need to get this one tested.”

  Cleo’s mind stuck on the word “sugar.” For a moment, she wildly misinterpreted. She corrected herself aloud. “The sugar didn’t kill her.”

  Gabby shook her head. “Nope, but it sure didn’t help save her from anaphylactic shock.”

  “Good luck saving yourself,” Cleo murmured, reciting the note left in Dixie’s clutched hand.