A Body in the Backyard (10 page)

Really! Roy seemed in league with everyone else in town who thought she couldn’t host a simple funeral reception. This made her even more determined to have everything go smoothly and catch the murderer simultaneously. She thumped down the sidewalk toward her house, thinking about the case as she went. It must be time for Miles’s aunt to come by for the visit by now. Maybe she should stick the ham in the oven before she went over there. She would be very close by, after all.

At home, she put the ham on the table and looked at the label. Slightly over fifteen pounds. From what she remembered from the last time she’d hosted Thanksgiving (another occasion when no one appeared to accept that she knew what she was doing), she’d had a bird a pound or so bigger than this ham. It had taken much longer for the turkey to cook than she’d planned on and she’d had to come up with reasons for the delay that didn’t involve the fact that the turkey wasn’t cooked. Myrtle wasn’t about to make the same mistake of underestimating the cooking time again. At least it wasn’t frozen…that was a bonus, especially considering the fact that the reception was tomorrow afternoon.

 Myrtle thoughtfully considered the oven. Had it been 375 degrees that she’d cooked that turkey on?  She thought so. She preheated the oven and unwrapped the ham and placed it in a pan. It seemed to come with a glaze. How convenient! Would that taste good in the biscuits, though? It should, shouldn’t it?  She mixed up the glaze according to the directions and never saw the directions that came for warming the ham.

Once the oven preheated, she put the ham in and picked up the phone to call Miles.

“Is she there yet?” asked Myrtle, still breathless from the exertion of going to the store and manhandling the ham.

“Not yet,” said Miles with a sigh. “I’m really not up to seeing her now.”

“Are you planning on mentioning Wanda and Crazy Dan to her?”

“Why would she even care?  It was something her father-in-law did ages ago,” said Miles.

“Okay. I’m heading over,” said Myrtle, hanging up. She picked up her cane and glanced at herself in the mirror. Her white hair was standing up like Einstein, so she impatiently patted it down before walking out the door.

She and Miles were on their second glass of wine and still no aunt.

“She did say she was coming, didn’t she?” asked Myrtle. “Our waiting is causing me to drink more wine than I’d planned on doing.”

Miles shrugged. “It’s not like we’re driving anywhere. It’s been a long day for me.”

“It’s been a long day for me, and I still have a bunch of stuff to do,” said Myrtle. “Cleaning and cooking. And I need to take a couple of magnolia blossoms off your tree for my memorial in the backyard.”

Miles gave a choking chortle that was most unlike him. Myrtle raised her eyebrows and wondered if Miles had started with the wine before she arrived. “The memorial, right,” he said. “Can you reach the blossoms on the tree?  I was just thinking about you climbing trees at your age.”

Myrtle shot him a cold stare. “I’m very tall, as you know, so I’m sure I won’t have any problems. For heaven’s sake, Miles.”

It was probably fortunate that the doorbell rang at that moment. She was starting to get really irritated with Miles but she didn’t have the luxury of stomping off in a huff.

Miles’s Aunt Connie looked to be in her late fifties and bore absolutely no resemblance to him whatsoever. She had a dissatisfied mouth, a weak chin, and small eyes that right now glanced around Miles’s house suspiciously, as if speculating that he housed many family mementoes that should be in her home, instead.

“Oh Miles, isn’t it terrible?  Our poor, poor Charles! I just haven’t even absorbed the news at all. To have his life ended so young and when he was so full of promise!”

Miles frowned doubtfully at both the youth and the promise of his cousin, but he was too polite to do anything but give a hesitant nod. “Is everything coming together for the funeral?” he asked stiffly, motioning to his aunt to take a seat.

Connie plopped down on Miles’s leather sofa, putting a hand out subconsciously to run along the expensive surface. “It’s all right. There really wasn’t much to do—just coordinate with the funeral home and plan the graveside service. They’re taking it from there.”

Miles said, “You know that Myrtle is hosting the reception after the funeral.”

Connie’s forehead furrowed in confusion.

“Myrtle. Right there,” said Miles, gesturing at Myrtle.

Myrtle tried to smile graciously, despite just having been grievously ignored.

“Is she?” asked Connie doubtfully, tilting her head to one side. “Where does she live?”

Myrtle was unused to being talked about as if she wasn’t in the same room. Her forced smile became more of a grimace as she gritted through her teeth. “I live only a few yards away. As a matter of fact, it was in my yard that your son met his untimely demise.”

A spark of interest finally shone in Connie’s eyes. “Did you happen to see anything? That night, I mean?  Or hear anything?”

Myrtle cursed herself for the twentieth time for having such an unusual lapse of acuity the night of the murder. “I’m afraid I didn’t. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

Connie sniffed, thinking again of her recent tragedy. “Thank you. It’s kind of you to host the reception.” She paused. “I’m not sure how many people will be there. That makes it hard to plan.”

Miles said, “I’m sure the ladies from my church will be bringing by some extra food the day of the funeral. We’ll be fine.”

Myrtle shifted restlessly. She was ready to get in the driver’s seat with some questions herself. Connie had had control of this conversation long enough. “Miles was quite surprised that Charles was in town, Connie. Did you know that he was in Bradley?”

Connie blinked at her and quickly said, “Naturally. He came to visit me and then wanted to catch up with old high school friends who still lived in Bradley.”

Myrtle got the distinct impression that she actually hadn’t had the vaguest clue that he was in town. “Where had he been living before coming back to Bradley?” she asked.

“Oh, here and there,” said Connie with a vague wave of her hand to demonstrate that Charles had sort of floated around in the ether.

“He was a drifter, then?” asked Myrtle innocently.

“Certainly not!” said Connie with a gasp at the word. “He was an adventurer. Charles loved experiencing
life
. That’s why his death is such a tragedy.”

“He was a world traveler?” asked Miles, sounding quite surprised. “I’ve done some traveling in my time—work-related, most of it. Where did he go?” Miles leaned forward on the sofa, looking at his aunt intently. His voice wasn’t at all snarky. He couldn’t possibly believe this tall tale of Connie’s could he?  Or, was Miles perhaps just a little bit tipsy?

“Charles was a very independent young man,” said Connie stiffly. “He didn’t find it necessary to discuss all his travels with his mother.”

Which meant these travels were likely confined to North Carolina.

“What industry was Charles in?” asked Myrtle in her very sweetest tones. “Did business bring him to Bradley, or was his visit strictly to catch up with you and his friends?”

Connie pressed her thin lips together. Miles took another good-sized sip of wine and continued to forget to offer his aunt any. This was quite a stunning lapse for Miles and another sign of how shaken he was from the events of the day.

“He was an entrepreneur,” said Connie. “He worked with start-up businesses. Very cutting-edge things that you and I wouldn’t really understand.”

In other words, he was chronically unemployed and constantly asking acquaintances to invest money in various shady operations.

“So he might have been in town to drum up support for a new business opportunity?” asked Myrtle.

Connie didn’t make a snappy reply this time. There was, in fact, a distinct hesitation before she said, “No, remember?  I said he was in town to catch up with me and with friends.”

Miles said, “Do you have any idea why he’d be coming to see me so late at night, Connie?”

She raised her penciled-in eyebrows. “Was he coming to see you, Miles?  I didn’t know that.” She looked at him suspiciously now.

“Well, he never
told
me he was coming to visit me. In fact, I had no idea that he was even in town. It does seem very late to be paying a visit,” said Miles, backtracking now.

“Maybe he was coming to see me,” said Myrtle with a shrug. “After all, he was in my yard, Miles, not yours.”

“Why on earth would he have been coming to see you?” asked Connie with a short laugh. “No, he was probably meeting Miles. He might have realized he was finally being remiss about seeing his cousin.”

Myrtle and Miles didn’t point out that it was very odd timing finally to reach that conclusion.

“Did he tell you there was anyone in particular in Bradley that he was trying to catch up with?” asked Myrtle.

“No, I hadn’t talked to Charles in a couple of weeks,” said Connie.

“I thought you said that Charles had visited with you before his murder,” said Myrtle, frowning.

Connie flushed an unattractive shade of crimson. “He was planning on coming by, of course. But circumstances obviously made that impossible.” She sniffed again and looked as if the waterworks were in imminent threat of turning on again. “My poor Charles! Misunderstood and taken to heaven in the prime of his life!” She studied the ceiling as if looking for answers. “I wonder if I’ll ever know what truly happened to him. Maybe I should offer a reward for information relating to his murder. It’s simply so awful not knowing what
happened
.” She rummaged in her patent-leather pocketbook and found a tissue, blowing her nose with gusto.

It was at this point that Myrtle decided that she should probably check on her ham. There was no way there was going to be anymore information gotten from Miles’s Aunt Connie. When she made her way out the door, an apprehensive-looking Miles was listening to his aunt wax poetic on what a dear boy Charles had always been. And she was pawing through her large pocketbook for photographs.

Myrtle was so eager to escape from Miles’s house and his aunt’s unfortunate predilection for son worshipping that she completely forgot about her nemesis. Naturally, Erma Sherman hadn’t forgotten about
her
. When Myrtle had glimpsed her, it was already too late.

“Myrtle!” said Erma in a pleased voice. “I saw you go in Miles’s house but I figured you probably wouldn’t come back out for a while. I know how it is when you two visit each other. Although I still say you’re taking your life in your hands just being around Miles.”

“Sorry, Erma, I’ve got to run back to my house. I’ve got to get everything ready for the funeral reception tomorrow,” said Myrtle.

She bit her wayward tongue fiercely when Erma said, “You’re hosting the reception?  Perfect! Of course I’ll be there—I’ve got to support my neighbor. How is Miles holding up?  Considering he’s responsible.”

 “He’s not at all responsible and he and Charles weren’t close, so he isn’t particularly devastated.” She fished in her pocketbook for her keys, which apparently were determined to elude her desperate clutches.

Erma sniffed at the air with her well-developed nose. “Is that something burning that I smell?  Yes! Yes, something’s burning. You didn’t leave something on the stove, did you?” She gaped at Myrtle’s house and stepped back a notch as if concerned that the entire building was going to blow up.

Chapter Nine

Myrtle finally found her keys, thrust one into the lock, and pushed at the door. The inside of her house was foggy with smoke. She muttered imprecations and hurried to the kitchen.

Erma had a tissue over her nose and screeched, “Myrtle! Whatever you’re getting out, leave it! It’s not worth it! Save yourself!”

It wasn’t as if the house was burning down. But the ham was not turning out the way it was intended to. She yanked on the oven door and clouds of smoke billowed out. What had made the thing burn?  She’d only had it in there a couple of hours or so—it shouldn’t even be cooked yet. Myrtle frowned ferociously at the uncooperative ham, pulling it out of the oven and turning off the appliance.

She turned to tell Erma that everything was once again under control and she was sure that Erma had other things to do. Erma, however, was already gone. Myrtle felt a niggling bit of worry that this might mean trouble.

Myrtle studied the ham. Could it be salvaged at all? It looked like that glaze had burned for some reason. What if she cut off the glaze and then sliced the ham up?  She hesitantly drew closer to the ham and examined it. It looked pretty dry and smelled smoky. But wasn’t there smoked ham, after all?  People were always drooling over smoked ham, weren’t they?

To her horror, she saw Red burst through her front door with a gaping Erma behind him.

“Mama!” he exclaimed. “Is there a fire in the oven?  Get out of the house!”

“There’s no fire! Just smoke.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” said Red, opening up the oven door and peering inside. He coughed. “This smoke can’t be good for you, either.” He unlatched her windows and pulled them up as high as they would go. “Don’t you have a fan somewhere?  Maybe we can blow some of the smoke out.” He disappeared into the back of her house.

Myrtle looked irritably at Erma. “Did you have to get Red?  He already thinks I’m completely incompetent.”

Erma said, “Myrtle, you can’t play around with fire. Fire is deadly!”

Myrtle glared at her. Next, she’d be told not to play with matches, and that only she could prevent forest fires. Although imagining Erma in a Smoky the Bear outfit was a nice diversion.

But Erma was continuing on with her lecture. “It’s dangerous occurrences like these that make retirement home living look so much easier and better.”

“Amen to that!” said Red, lugging in a fan and plugging it in. “What were you doing, Mama?”

“I was cooking a ham for the funeral reception tomorrow,” said Myrtle irritably. “I guess some of the glaze must have burned off the bottom of the oven.”

Erma peered at the ham. “No, it looks like the glaze
on
the ham burned. It should only be on there for like fifteen minutes or so. How long did you have it in the oven?”