A Body in the Backyard (19 page)

Miles was very quiet as he drove away from the barbershop. He’d insisted on driving his own car, even if it meant blowing his cover. Myrtle’s teacher radar had gone off as he followed her to his car—she was sure he was making faces at her back.

Miles courteously, or out of habit, pulled up into her driveway instead of making her walk from his. Reviewing the case would be better than this silence. She did want to get Miles’s opinion on some of the things that had happened. But it seemed as if he were waiting for her to get out of the car.

Myrtle cleared her throat. “I thought that was a very interesting field trip, Miles. Buddy sure made a case for Hugh Bass having a motive, whether he thought he was doing that or not.”

Miles didn’t respond, so she hurried on. “I still like Silas Dawson for the murderer, too. After all, crimes of passion happen all the time and he sure is wild about Annette. Then we have Peggy Neighbors, who is another crime of passion example. She must have been devastated when her advances to Charles were rejected; it must have reminded her of when she was back in high school and he left town without ever looking back.”

Miles made a grumbly sound that Myrtle could distinguish as agreement or disagreement.

She kept talking. “Peggy’s father, according to Silas, was very upset with Charles for hurting his daughter again. Lee could have killed Charles and then someone else took revenge on Lee for the murder. Maybe even Peggy!”

This time there was a definite eye-roll from Miles. And now, Myrtle was ready to get any kind of a reaction from him. “So that’s our suspect roundup right now. Dr. Bass, Silas Dawson, Peggy Neighbors, and Lee Woosley. Or…and you, of course.”

“Or you!” Miles jumped in. “You’re the one with all the bodies in your yard, Myrtle. Maybe you killed these men because you were bored and wanted something to do.”

Myrtle was about to give him a blistering retort, but decided it might be better for him to air whatever his grievances were and get them out of his system.

Miles’s expression was morose as he looked in the mirror. Was he more depressed about hearing more dirt about his cousin or about his haircut?  It did seem shorter than it usually did.

“Hair grows back, Miles,” said Myrtle, starting to feel irritated. The ride back had been a fairly whiny one. She was sure that her darling grandson never sounded quite as annoying as Miles had on this car ride.

“I know that. But for the next few weeks, I’m going to be subjected to looking at this super-short hair in my bathroom mirror.”

Myrtle blinked at him. He was more irritated than usual as he gripped the steering wheel. “It looks good to me, Miles. It’s short, but it’s not a bad haircut.”

“And that guy’s cologne gave me a headache,” grumbled Miles. “I think he must have bathed in the stuff.”

“I’ve got ibuprofen in my pocketbook,” said Myrtle, digging around in the huge gray handbag.

“Plus I’ve got a follow-up visit to have a cavity filled by a convicted felon.”

Myrtle said slowly, “Is what he did a felony, though?  Or just run-of-the-mill illegal activity?  Or possibly even just a case of regrettable judgment?”

“The fellow could be a killer, Myrtle! It’s starting to look like my cousin Charles came to town specifically to blackmail Hugh Bass for opening up a practice while having a revoked license.”

“I’m sure his license was only revoked in West Virginia. It’s more likely that Charles was trying to blackmail Dr. Bass over the jail time. And I bet that wasn’t the
only
reason he came to town. He probably also tried to scam a few people while he was here,” Myrtle said with a shrug.

“Regardless. The point is that you put my teeth in the hands of a criminal who might be a murderer!”

“It was nice of me to host a reception for you,” reminded Myrtle in a small voice. She thought that she might have brought this point up before, but found the event worthy of a repeat mention.

“During which the body of a local resident appeared in your backyard.”

“Although that had nothing to do with me,” said Myrtle. It was, however, a point that she wasn’t altogether sure of.

“One
might
make the argument,” said Miles, “that being friends with you is bad for my health.”

“Might they?” asked Myrtle. She sighed. She did tend to have blinders on when she was investigating a mystery. She did feel that Miles was taking it all a little too far, though.

“I think,” said Miles distantly, “that it would be good for my sanity, my blood pressure, and my general health if you and I took a short break from each other. Perhaps just during the course of this case.”

“A trial separation?” asked Myrtle. Unfortunately, the mental image of her and Miles engaged in troubled matrimony made her give a gasping laugh and Miles’s expression told her he didn’t really appreciate that.

“I’m glad that you’re taking this so seriously,” said Miles coldly.

Myrtle looked sadly at him. His feelings were truly hurt this time. “Miles….” She said quickly, holding out a hand to him.

He kept staring determinedly straight ahead at her house. Miles could be just as stubborn as she was. Funny how she hadn’t noticed that before. She sighed.

“I’ll keep out of your hair for a while then,” she said. Miles cringed a bit at the mention of hair.  Myrtle climbed out of the car, fumbling with the car door and her cane. “Thanks for going with me today,” she said before she shut the door.

What was she going to do without her sidekick?  And, truth be told, her chauffer. It had been a discouraging day so far.

Myrtle walked into her house and noticed that her back door was unlocked and very slightly ajar. Had she been so absent-minded this morning that she didn’t even secure the door when she left food out for Pasha? She slowly walked through her house, looking around her carefully and listening out for any sounds to indicate an intruder was inside.

Nothing seemed broken, stolen or damaged. She still had her TV, which is probably the only thing a thief would be interested in. This was a relief, because she was hoping to numb her mind by watching soap operas. Myrtle continued scanning the room and frowned. Had she left her notebooks on the kitchen table?  She remembered leaving them next to the computer on her desk in the living room. And the candy bowl full of peppermints—had she really wandered off with it and stuck it on top of her fireplace mantle?

 This evidence of her declining mental aptitude discouraged her even further.  She made a point of double-checking that she’d locked both her back and front doors, and spent the remainder of her afternoon in an orgy of self-pity in front of her tapes of
Tomorrow’s Promise
and a large bowl of chocolate ice cream. With chocolate syrup on top.

Myrtle had expected that the unsettling argument with Miles would result in a sleepless night. Sure enough, although she’d fallen asleep at the very early hour of nine o’clock, she was wide-awake at one. She stared at the ceiling for a few minutes instead of getting up, trying to rediscover that elusive thread of sleep.

Instead of getting sleepier, her mind grew even more active. She found herself fretting over Miles and regretting the part she’d played in making him so angry and frustrated. That certainly didn’t help her get any sleepier.

Unfortunately, that led to thoughts about the case and a sudden feeling of insecurity. What was she thinking?  Here she was, an octogenarian woman of apparently uncertain memory, trying to conduct a murder investigation. How was she possibly going to be able to do that?  There was a completely able-bodied police department here in town, led by her completely able-bodied son. They were even assisted by the state police, who all were terrifyingly efficient. Really, what was the use?  She should just stay at home and figure out how to knit something and burn cookies and stay safe.

Myrtle frowned. Was that a noise in her backyard?  It seemed as if it was coming from that direction. She quickly got up out of bed, put her robe on, and grabbed her cane from the side of the bed. She stuck a flashlight into her robe pocket. And, because she detested those books and movies where the heroine stupidly meandered into dark, dangerous locations after killers, she picked up a butcher knife on her way through the kitchen.

She looked through the window into her yard. There was definitely a shadowy figure out there among the tall grass gnomes—too tall to be a gnome. Too active to be a garden gnome, too. She changed her cane to her other hand, grasped the butcher knife in her right hand, and then frowned again. How was she supposed to open the stupid door while holding a cane and a knife?  It was all very aggravating to be a superhero at this age. She chose the knife over the cane, yanked the door open, gave a yodeling battle cry, and charged at the figure with the knife raised.

The figure gave a braying scream of terror. “Stop! Myrtle! Help!”

Myrtle lowered the knife with one hand and fished out the flashlight, awkwardly, with her left hand. She turned it on and trained it on the alarmed face of Erma Sherman. Erma had fortunately dropped her own weapon—a baseball bat—on the ground.

“Erma!” she bellowed. “What are you doing out here?”

Myrtle looked around her and saw there were broken eggs all over her gnomes. “What have you done?” Erma Sherman as a killer?  Annoying, yes. The worst neighbor ever, yes. Someone who purposefully fed squirrels and allowed crabgrass and chickweed to flourish in her yard and creep over into Myrtle’s?  Yes. But a murderer—she just couldn’t see it.

Erma said, “Nothing! I haven’t done anything, Myrtle. But somebody came out in your yard and threw eggs at your gnomes. Somebody’s trying to rattle you.” Erma pointed at a light shining garishly from her patio next door. “I got tired of having dead bodies turn up in the yard next to mine, so I put in a motion detector light yesterday. It cut on a few minutes ago, so I came outside to see what was going on. I guess somebody cut through my backyard to get to yours and throw some eggs.”

This news didn’t do much to improve Myrtle’s mood. So Erma had come up with a good idea for being alerted when there was suspicious activity behind their houses. And Myrtle had, once again, not been aware of anything happening in her own backyard.

“I’m going to call Red,” said Erma. “He needs to hear about this.”

Myrtle grabbed Erma’s sleeve. “No! Erma, Red will really shut me down if he hears about this. There’s no dead body this time, just a practical joke. A mean-spirited one, but nothing deadly or dangerous.”

Erma didn’t look so sure. “Myrtle, somebody is setting you up as a target. A victim. Don’t you think your son should know about this so he can help protect you?”

This well-meaning statement had a more irritating effect on Myrtle than all of the previous statements that Erma had ever made to her. And there had been many of them.

“I’m not a victim,” said Myrtle, sounding sulky and unreasonable to her own ears.

There was a noise behind them and both women turned with a gasp, spotlighted in the beam of a strong flashlight.

It was Miles, in a navy bathrobe and slippers. He stared in silence at the odd tableau in front of him. Erma gaped at him, a baseball bat at her feet. Myrtle grasped a flashlight and a butcher knife. Egg-covered gnomes surrounded them.

“Everyone is okay,” he said in a tone that was more statement than question. His gaze again flickered over the scene. “Good night,” he said gruffly, and abruptly turned and left.

Erma kept nattering on about motion detectors and personal safety devices and how Red might have other ideas. Myrtle finally shut down the entire conversation by sweetly inviting Erma to come in for some milk, cookies, and a trip down memory lane with Myrtle’s photo albums.  Erma declined.

 As Myrtle walked back in the house, she smiled to herself at the glint of interest in Miles’s eyes. He was a real investigator, too, despite his insistence that he was merely a bystander. He wasn’t going to be able to keep away from this case, or Myrtle, for very long. This time when Myrtle finally crawled back into bed, she fell quickly into a sound sleep.

Erma was right, decided Myrtle the next morning as she scooted off her gnomes with a garden hose. Much as she hated to admit that Erma could
ever
be right. Myrtle needed to buy something to protect herself. Getting a handgun at this point in her life wasn’t a very appealing option—plus, it was Red who taught the conceal-and-carry class, and somehow she thought he wouldn’t be very pleased to have his mother enroll.

Pepper spray sounded about right. If someone mucked around in her yard or her house again, she would chase them out with red pepper spray and her cane.

She had no doubt, either, that someone had come into her house. She woke up that morning with the conviction that she had
not
been imagining things, and she hadn’t been losing her memory. Somebody came in her house and rearranged her stuff—probably to mess with her head.

And that person had a key. She wasn’t sure how, but it was true. There had been no forced entry to her house, no broken windows, and no picked locks. No, this person had used a key.

She thought back to her middle-of-the night anxiety. She’d thought that maybe she needed to give up on investigating and play it safe. Myrtle’s eyes narrowed. She was in her eighties. Wasn’t the time for safety over?  Who
cares
about being safe when you’re an octogenarian?  You’ve already lived a long life—no one was going to go to your funeral and exclaim what a shame it was that you’d died so young. No, what Myrtle wanted was excitement and stimulation. If she was losing her memory (and now she felt pretty sure that someone had actually been in her house and was just trying to make her feel that she was losing her memory), then she should be exercising her memory
more
. Giving it a workout. She wasn’t going to just roll over. She was going to figure out who was targeting her and make them pay.

Chapter Sixteen

Myrtle walked into downtown Bradley as soon as the shops opened. There was a small sporting goods store that had been in the same location for the past sixty years. It had probably been forty years since she’d last been in there—getting a football or a baseball for Red.