A Body at Bunco (2 page)

Myrtle grudgingly said, “I suppose I
could
copyedit for you, Sloan. Although that’s not really what I was planning on doing with my free time. If you needed me to. And, naturally, for a fee.” She got up and moved across from Sloan at his desk, her cane propped up against her, prepared to do business.

Sloan said hurriedly, “And you know that I’d love for you to. That paper would be a hundred percent error-free. But the problem, you see, is that
The Bugle
is going through some hard times. I wouldn’t have the funds to pay you. When I told Tilly that I’d have to cut her pay, she walked right out that door.” He shifted his bulk again and his chair made that high-pitched squeak.

“I might be bored, but I’m not that bored. I couldn’t take on a job like that without compensation and I’m sure that Tilly was unwilling to do so, too. What’s happening to the paper, Sloan?” asked Myrtle.

“I’m losing subscribers left and right, which means that I’m losing advertisers left and right. I have a meeting next week with Roger’s Automotive. You know that’s our biggest advertiser. If we lose them, I don’t know what will become of the paper. They usually place a full-page color ad in every issue. Roger’s Automotive practically pays for the entire production,” said Sloan glumly. “I may have to sell my house and move in with my mother again.”

“What’s at the bottom of it, do you think? Why would longtime subscribers suddenly unsubscribe?”

Sloan said, “I’m sure it has to do with the fact they can find their news on the internet anytime they want to.”

“Yes, but the internet has been around for a while now, Sloan, and you’ve had plenty of readers before. What’s changed? Have you changed the content? Focusing more on stories off the newswire and less local stuff?” asked Myrtle. It was most definitely the content. People had been muttering about Sloan’s changes for months. Half the time now, the paper had the tone of a tabloid instead of a family newspaper in a small town. But she knew if she came right out and told Sloan that, he’d probably not listen.

“I’ve had some bad luck with staff,” admitted Sloan. “My horoscope writer left, I’ve lost Frannie, who did our recipes, to health troubles. I tried to handle the Good Neighbors column myself, but it was such a pain that I gave it up.”

Myrtle shook her head. “You’ve named the three most popular features in the paper, Sloan. If you don’t have those articles, no wonder you’re losing readers.”

Sloan bit his lip as if he very much wanted to disagree, but didn’t want to cross Myrtle. Instead he said in a diplomatic tone, “I don’t know, Miss Myrtle. I’m thinking that maybe it’s more that people are ready for some
real news
. You know? Maybe they’re tired of hearing about Ginny Peters’s prize-winning zucchini and Becky Trimble’s quilting tips and where the Comptons went on vacation. Maybe they want an in-depth exposé of the new testing over in K-5th grade. Or an in-depth investigative report on whether the oil change place is ripping people off.”

“Are they?” mused Myrtle. “I think that’s where Red takes the police cruiser.”

Sloan’s eyes were reproachful for Myrtle’s going off topic. “I’m wondering if I need to revamp the whole paper and make it a really newsworthy tool for readers.” He threw his hands up in the air and there was a cacophony of chair squeaking. “Who knows? Maybe I need to take it in a
completely
different direction and have it be a tabloid. Stories like: ‘It’s One A.M. Does Mrs. Smith Know Where Mr. Smith is’?”

Myrtle had never seen Sloan so worked up. Not even when he’d made a thirty on that English test in tenth grade. “I really believe you’re overthinking this, Sloan. Seriously. I haven’t heard a single person say that they didn’t like the paper’s content until recently.”

But Sloan had stopped listening. “Miss Myrtle, I need your help. My understanding is that Luella White knows everything going on in Bradley and is the town’s biggest gossip. That sounds like the perfect combination. Only problem is that I don’t think she wants to work for the paper. Besides, I couldn’t afford to pay her, even if she
did
want to work for me. What I really need is for someone to go undercover and use Luella as a source. Then we should be able to get all the news that’s fit to print.”

Myrtle wrinkled her nose. “And quite a bit of news that’s
not
fit to print, too.” She paused and then continued suspiciously, “You said you need my help. You’re not proposing that
I
go undercover and use Luella White as a source, are you?”

Sloan said meekly, “I sure am, Miss Myrtle. I’d do it myself, except I’d probably stand out if I were trying to hang out with Luella White. I figure you’ll be perfect. You can sort of blend into the background when you need to and listen in on Luella’s gossip. Then we’ll write it in the paper like:
a little bird tells us that Teresa Johnson is leaving her job at the ice cream shop to marry tire salesman Roy Burton. Better get your ice cream while you can! The shop will be closing soon.
Something like that.”

“If I did that, Sloan, I’d stand out, too. What are you asking me to do? Flip open a notebook and jot down every salacious thing that comes out of her mouth?”

Sloan smiled hopefully.

“That’s not going to work. Besides, where am I going to run into Luella White? She and I hardly run in the same circles,” said Myrtle. Myrtle, truth be told, didn’t run in
any
circles anymore. “I can’t exactly drop by for a visit and hang out on her sofa.”

“It should be easy-peasy, Miss Myrtle,” said Sloan quickly. “You just cozy up to her at one of her clubs. Since she’s new to town, she’s joined everything. And if there’s one person who has her finger on the pulse of the raging metropolis of Bradley, North Carolina, it’s her.”

“
She
,” corrected Myrtle. Whatever was to become of the
Bradley Bugle
with no copyeditor? “And I don’t do clubs.” She tapped the floor with her cane to emphasize her point.

Sloan’s large face fell comically. “Not garden club?”

“I’m on hiatus.”

“Not book club?” asked Sloan rather desperately.

“I haven’t read the last few selections. On purpose,” said Myrtle firmly.

“Altar guild?”

“I’m Presbyterian.”

“Women of the Church, then?” asked Sloan, perspiring a little. “I can’t remember if Luella White is Methodist or Presbyterian.”

“Women of the Church meet at an inconvenient time,” said Myrtle. Right smack in the middle of her favorite soap opera,
Tomorrow’s Promise
.

The dismay on Sloan’s face made Myrtle relent a little. “Sloan, I’ll keep an eye out for her. I’m sure there’s a better way. I’ll get the
Bradley Bugle
’s subscribers back—and that’s a promise.”

It was a testament to Myrtle’s iron will and complete self-confidence that Sloan slumped in relief at her words.

Chapter Two

Back at home, Myrtle realized it seemed unlikely that she would simply happen to run into Luella White. As she’d told Sloan, they didn’t run in the same circles and Myrtle didn’t want to start running in Luella’s.

She was pulling out pasta sauce, olive oil, and noodles for an early supper when there was a frantic pounding on her front door.

Myrtle cautiously peeked out front, saw her daughter-in-law Elaine holding toddler son Jack, and opened the door. “Mercy, Elaine! Whatever’s the matter?”

Something was quite obviously the matter. Elaine’s eyes were wild. Upon closer inspection, Myrtle saw that one contributing factor to the wildness was the fact she had half her eye makeup on and half off.

“I’m hosting Bunco tonight, Myrtle. And all our plumbing is backing up! There’s water all over the floors. It’s coming out of all the sinks, tubs, toilets. We had to shut off the main valve. The toilet was making a percolating noise like a coffeepot. It’s a disaster.”

Jack reached out to Myrtle, clearly ready to escape from his distraught mother and Myrtle absently pulled the nearly-three year old into her arms before quickly giving his chubby cheek a kiss and setting him down. He’d gotten far too heavy for her. Jack immediately launched into a babbling monologue about trucks and Myrtle nodded, listening to him carefully for a few moments, asking him about the color and type of the trucks. Finally he decided to pretend to
be
a truck and Myrtle had a chance to talk to her daughter-in-law again. “Elaine, what on earth is Bunco? The plumbing I understand.”

“It’s a game—a dice game. And there are a group of women who play the game once a month at alternating houses,” said Elaine.

“Sort of like a bridge club?” Myrtle was trying to follow along, but Elaine was speaking so quickly and seemed so panicky that it was hard.

So it’s my turn to host and we’re having a plumbing crisis.” Elaine blinked hard and Myrtle was suddenly very concerned Elaine might cry. Myrtle didn’t handle tears well unless the crying person in question were a compatriot of toddler Jack.

Myrtle saw Red leave his house and head in their direction. “Okay, well, here’s Red. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems, Elaine.”

But apparently it was. Red’s freckled face was grim as he said, “I’ve called the plumber. It’s got to be a main sewer line clog for all the sinks and toilets and tubs to be backed up the way they are. This is going to be a major repair job.”

“What could have caused it?” asked Elaine.

“Probably something like a tree’s roots growing into the line. We’ve sure got lots of old trees. And it’s been pretty dry lately. It could be that a tree was sending roots farther down looking for moisture,” said Red as he absently picked up Jack. He then gave Jack a thoughtful look. “Unless Jack here put something in the toilet that backed up the main line.”

Jack beamed at him.

“At any rate,” said Myrtle. “It sounds as if you’re not going to be having company over tonight—is that right?”

Red looked startled. “Oh no. That’s right—you were hosting Bunco tonight, weren’t you, Elaine? There’s no way we can have those ladies over tonight. Not without restrooms.”

“It’s all right,” said Myrtle. “
I’m
going to host the party. The game. Whatever. Bonkers. I guess we’ll need food, right?”

Elaine quickly jumped in. “I’ve actually got all the food prepared, Myrtle. Well, everything but the hot stuff. I’ve got veggie dips and some other hors d’oeuvres. So you don’t have to fix a thing.”

“But no hot foods? I can make something hot to serve, you know. It’s no trouble.”

Red and Elaine darted uneasy looks at each other.

“Really, Myrtle, it’s not necessary. There’s no need to cook anything,” said Elaine.

“I’ll run across the street and get the food that Elaine’s prepared,” said Red. “You’ll see that there’s plenty of it, Mama.”

Myrtle gave a tight smile. “Anybody would think you were trying to keep me from cooking.”

“Of course not!” said Elaine, flushing revealingly. “It’s only that we don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“I’ve already said it was no trouble.” Myrtle was starting to get annoyed.

Red had set Jack down and was turning around and striding down her walkway to retrieve the food from his house when he stopped. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like you’ve got an angel in disguise pulling up in front of your house, Mama.”

Myrtle stepped out on her front porch and squinted. Then she made a face. “That’s no angel. That’s Puddin. And it’s about time, too.”

Elaine smiled in relief, either from the change of subject, or Puddin’s arrival, or both. “That’s good. So now you won’t feel like you have to clean up.”

Myrtle snorted. “That remains to be seen. You know the level of nonsense I have to deal with from Puddin.”

Sure enough, Puddin was moseying up to the front walk, as slow as you please, with a sour expression. Elaine seemed to be trying to keep a straight face. “Hi Puddin,” she said to the dumpy, pale housekeeper. “How are you? I haven’t seen you around for a while.”

Puddin narrowed her eyes as if trying to figure out if that were a knock at her lackadaisical cleaning schedule. Apparently deciding otherwise, she said slowly, “I ain’t been doin’ too great, truth be told. Been poorly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Puddin. Are you better now?” asked Elaine kindly.

Myrtle rolled her eyes heavenward. Puddin didn’t need any encouragement to discuss her real or imaginary health issues. It was for this reason that Myrtle didn’t see a flash of black sneak around the backs of Puddin and Elaine and into her house.

“Nope,” said Puddin succinctly. She slowly moved into the house.

“Where are your cleaning supplies, Puddin?” snapped Myrtle.

“Supplies?” asked Puddin, half turning around. Her round eyes were perfectly guileless, but Myrtle knew better.

“Yes. Glass cleaner. Floor cleaner. Spray polish. Paper towels. The tools of your trade, for heaven’s sake!” She was on the verge of losing her religion over Puddin. Next time, she was going to hide her bleach and ammonia, there was simply no other way around it.

“I done run out, Miz Myrtle. That last cleanin’ at your house done finished off my supplies.” Puddin conveniently disappeared inside before Myrtle could point out that the cleaning supplies Puddin had depleted during her last visit were originally from Myrtle’s cabinet…before Puddin had gone home with them.

“Good luck with all that,” said Elaine in a low voice. She picked Jack up and swayed back and forth with him as she frowned at Myrtle. “Are you sure this is okay? I could call everybody and just cancel.”

Red was walking toward them with a couple of brown grocery bags of food. Elaine called out to him, “Did you get the alcohol?”

“That’s going to take a separate trip. Or two,” he said pointedly. He swept past them with the bags and muttered to Myrtle, “This is a heavy-drinking group of game-playing ladies.”

“I have sherry,” said Myrtle to his retreating back.

“Oh, this event will require a lot more than a half-empty bottle of sherry, Mama,” said Red. “Fortunately, they all live close enough to walk home. I think.”

Elaine gave Myrtle an apologetic wince. “I’ll be here to help you out tonight. I think Red can handle the plumber and Jack. It should be a really easy night. We just pull the food out, set out the drinks, and we’re ready to go.” She bounced Jack absently and moved to the side as Red walked by to get the alcohol.