Death Pays a Visit (A Myrtle Clover Mystery Book 7) (13 page)

Myrtle figured that this was probably as much as she was going to get from Ruby Sims at this point. “Yes, someone mentioned it to me. A countdown to noon.”

“That’s right. I’m cutting out construction paper figures to hang up. It’s usually fun. Are you going?” asked Ruby, looking hopeful.

“Definitely. I wouldn’t miss it. But I’m going to make Greener Pastures change it to a midnight party. Counting down to noon is for children,” she scoffed.

Myrtle was about to expound on this thought when suddenly Darla, the Greener Pastures manager, swooped in.
Swooped in
was a bit of an exaggeration, considering that Darla was rather heavy-set, but it felt like a swoop to Myrtle.

Darla said smoothly to Ruby, “Excuse us please, Ms. Sims, while I borrow Mrs. Clover for a few minutes.” And before she knew it, Myrtle was meekly following along behind Darla on her way to her small office. Miles gave her a sympathetic look as she passed.

Darla had barely given her a chance to sit down before she said briskly, “Someone has called the state police regarding Mickey Pelias’s death. What do you know about that?”

Myrtle gave her a carefully bewildered look. “Darla, I don’t have the slightest idea how to phone the SBI. Do you? It’s not as if I carry their number around with me.”

“But your son would know their number,” said Darla insistently. “Your son is chief of police.”

“My son is on leave,” said Myrtle coldly. “He’s had knee surgery and is completely incapacitated and using a walker. I sat with him all yesterday afternoon, so I should know. He’s certainly not taking on any murder cases. And that’s exactly what you’re faced with here at Greener Pastures—a murder investigation. The sooner you focus on that and stop focusing your energies on me, the better it will be.”

“So you don’t know anything about this.” Darla’s long face was skeptical.

“I certainly don’t,” said Myrtle, crossing her fingers underneath her large pocketbook. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to catch up with my friend so that we can get home in time for our soap opera to start.”

Myrtle stood up, stretching regally to her nearly six-feet of height and staring down at Darla, still sitting at her desk. “By the way, while I’m in here, I want to relay a message to you from various residents I’ve spoken with. They’d all like to have a countdown to
midnight
party instead of a countdown to noon. They say that countdowns to noon are for children.”

Darla’s face became an alarming shade of mottled red.

“That is all,” said Myrtle coolly, strolling out of Darla’s cramped office.

She strode up to Miles who was just setting up the checkers for another game. “It’s time for us to get out of here now.” Miles, who’d apparently forgotten that he was a mere guest and not a resident, gave her a confused look. “We’ve worn out our welcome, okay? It’s time to give Greener Pastures a little time to miss us.”

Miles hurried to catch up with Myrtle as she headed toward the front door. “How did we wear out our welcome?” asked Miles a bit suspiciously. “I thought we’d only been playing checkers and eating ice cream. Did it have something to do with your being called to the principal’s office?”

“If you mean Dragon Darla, then yes, it did have something to do with that. We were accused of having contacted the state police. Which, of course, I categorically denied,” said Myrtle. She lifted her head righteously.

“Of course,” said Miles. “Although we were directly connected to their interest in Mickey’s death.”

“I’ve found it’s never good to randomly volunteer information. I especially want to avoid randomly volunteering information to Greener Pastures.”

“You know, they’re not so bad there,” he said mildly as they sped back home. “At Greener Pastures, I mean. They seem to genuinely care about their residents. The ice cream socials were a nice touch, I thought.”

“At ten o’clock in the morning?” asked Myrtle.

“It’s a strange time, but older people are on odd schedules.”

“I think it’s
Greener Pastures
that’s on an odd schedule,” said Myrtle heatedly.

“You have to admit that they put on a nice social. And the ice cream was free,” said Miles.

“Free, my foot! Those residents pay through the nose to live there. That ice cream is being paid for, let me assure you,” said Myrtle. “And then, as I was pointing out, the Home wanted to offer the ice cream on their own terms—when it was convenient for
them
. Sort of like that silly New Year’s party.”

“What’s silly about it?” asked Miles. “We’re attending, aren’t we? Actually, I think I even have a date for it.”

This was the final straw for Myrtle. Her sidekick seemed to have lost all his sleuthing abilities and was getting sucked into the Greener Pastures Bermuda Triangle. “What’s silly about it is that it’s a countdown to noon, not midnight. And there are no alcoholic beverages, just white grape juice. It seems very much like a children’s party—a
young
children’s party, at that. And you do
not
have a date, Miles. I told Winston Rouse that I was going with you so that he’d leave me alone. How on earth did you acquire a date, anyway? Are you going with Fred? Because he’s the only one I saw you consorting with while we were there.”

Miles pulled into Myrtle’s driveway and gave her a wry look. “No, I’m not going with Fred to the party. Fred has someone that he was going to set me up with, that’s all. I need to phone him when I get home to cancel.” He looked thoughtfully at Myrtle. “I guess that’s why Winston was giving me death threats.”

“Death threats? Winston?”

“That’s right. He kept leaning over me when I was playing Fred and telling me that checkers wasn’t his thing but that he and I should play a game of Scrabble—that he’d slaughter me. Lots of slaughtering references going on. I thought at the time that he must be a very serious and intense Scrabble fan, but now I realize that there was a whole level of subtext there that I wasn’t picking up on.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Myrtle, frowning. “The last thing that I want is a suitor. I wish he’d leave me alone. Miles, you’ll have to be especially attentive during the New Year’s Eve party.”

“I’ll try,” he said dryly. He paused. “Say, Myrtle, what did you learn with all that chatting during the social?”

Finally, some sidekick interest in all of her interviews. “I’ve got to sort it all out in my head—there was a lot of information. But I think the highlights were that Fred told Ruby a secret and Mickey was going to post it in her newspaper…and that’s why Fred was so upset. And Inez apparently has very strong religious convictions and didn’t approve of Mickey one bit. And Natalie…well, Ruby swears that Natalie was at Greener Pastures late at night when Mickey was murdered.”

Miles raised his eyebrows. “And we’re finding Ruby’s information valid?”

“She seemed very certain.” Myrtle looked in the side view mirror. “Here’s the mailman.”

“I’ll get it for you,” said Miles. He slid out of his car, greeted the mail carrier, and then brought the mail over to Myrtle.

Myrtle made a face. “Looks like a ton of invitations.”

“Invitations?” Miles looked at the mail doubtfully.

“Sure.
You’re invited to pay your water bill
. Lots of invitations to send money.” She paused. “And one interesting bit of mail.” Myrtle held up postcard with some carefully formed letters snaking across it. “From Wanda.”

Myrtle stared at the back of the postcard. “It says “
muney” is the root of all evil.
Which is annoying.”

“Annoying? I’d say it sounds very much like something that Wanda would send. I think she’s trying to give us a clue,” said Miles, climbing back behind the wheel.

“Annoying because the actual Biblical quotation is:
the
love of money is the root of all evil
. Money is okay, loving it isn’t. This is a bit cryptic, too, even for Wanda.” Myrtle frowned. “And exhibiting Wanda’s tragic propensity for misspelling.”

“To me, it’s very clear,” said Miles. “It points to Natalie. Natalie was tired of her caretaker role, didn’t have any money of her own, and was eager to move on to the next stage of her life. Ruby saw Natalie there that night and we know that Mickey and Natalie had a difficult relationship. Doesn’t it seem obvious?”

“It’s the obvious part that is so disturbing,” said Myrtle. “None of these cases are obvious. No, it’s likely pointing to something or someone else. Or maybe it means nothing at all. Who knows?” Myrtle was starting to feel a bit frustrated. She opened her pocketbook to stick the postcard inside and stopped short.

“What is it?” asked Miles.

“The money that was stolen from me? It’s been replaced in my purse.”

The roar of a lawnmower woke Myrtle up the next morning. This was shocking for a couple of different reasons. The first was that Myrtle never woke when it was light outside—it was always dark, no matter the season of the year. The second was that her ghastly yardman, Dusty, had apparently volunteered to cut her grass without being pestered.

Myrtle pushed the covers back, eager to feast her eyes on an eager Dusty. She pulled on her bathrobe, grabbed her cane, and hurried to the front of the house to peer out the side window where the mowing sounds were coming from. She was greeted by the sight of Dusty, looking a good deal more dapper and official than usual, mowing
Erma
’s lawn at an unheard of seven a.m.

“Is that a
uniform
he’s wearing?” muttered Myrtle to herself. It was unheard of for Dusty to wear a uniform. Usually he wore a disreputable pair of baggy khakis that were more green than khaki and a frayed button-down shirt with some sort of checkered pattern—more of a mottled gray color. And today he seemed to be taking special care with Erma’s lawn—tenderly pushing around the burgeoning weeds that he appeared to believe had been planted on purpose.

At this point Myrtle realized it was time to move away from the window. She would work herself into a froth seeing a prompt, starched,
clean
Dusty at Erma’s house. It was time to take on her day. She’d start with a large coffee with an extra spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down as soon as she’d changed clothes.

Myrtle was just contemplating whether she wanted eggs or grits for breakfast when there was a tap at the door. When she opened it, she stared in shock at the pale, dumpy woman there. “Puddin! What are you doing here?”

Chapter Eleven

“Thought your house might need cleanin’,” said Puddin. She had a cigarette in her hand and quickly stubbed it out when she saw Myrtle’s expression. She shoved the cigarette butt into her pocket. “Can I come in?”

Myrtle stepped aside, still looking at Puddin in shock as the woman slouched in. “Puddin, it’s extremely unusual, as you know, for you to show up here to clean without my calling you first. In fact, it’s extremely unusual for you to show up here to clean even after I
have
called you.”

Puddin shrugged, pushing her lank blonde hair out of her eyes as she glanced around the room to gauge how much work she’d let herself in for. “I dunno. Thought you might have a dirty house, that’s all.”

“You didn’t bring any cleaning supplies with you,” said Myrtle. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “You know how annoying it is for me when you use up my cleaners.” She looked out the front window. “And you came in your own car. Not with Dusty. That’s really odd. Are you ever usually awake at this hour of the day?”

Puddin didn’t appear to be listening to Myrtle at all, which certainly wasn’t unusual. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment before she said quickly, “I haven’t done your windows in a while. They might be dirty.”

“Puddin, you’ve
never
done my windows.”

“No time like the present,” said Puddin. She loped off into Myrtle’s kitchen, scrabbling under the sink until she surfaced with window cleaner and Myrtle’s last remaining roll of paper towels.

Myrtle put her hands on her hips and just watched as Puddin cocked her head to one side, listening. “I think I’ll start with them windows there.” She shuffled over to the window on the side of the house, yanked up the blinds, and started spraying dabs of cleaner here and there on the glass as she peered outside. Occasionally, she swiped at the drips, making streaks as she went.

“Puddin, for heaven’s sake! That window looks worse than it did before you started. Now, what’s this foolishness about? You’re no window washer. You don’t get up this early. You don’t volunteer to clean my house. What happened to the real Puddin?”

Puddin’s chin trembled just the barest bit before she took complete control of her emotions again. She studied Myrtle’s floor as if it fascinated her. “Trying to see what Dusty’s up to,” she muttered.

This was fairly astonishing in itself. Myrtle agreed that Dusty’s actions—the early hour, the uniform, the careful workmanship—were remarkable. But Puddin had certainly never shown much interest in her husband before.

Puddin apparently took Myrtle’s silence as a signal to explain herself. She rolled her eyes and said, “Dusty was excited about getting the new yard to mow. He pulled out his old uniform that I ain’t never seen him wear. I think he’s got a crush on her.”

“On whom?” Myrtle frowned.

“Her!” Puddin jerked a stubby finger in the direction of Erma’s house.

“Erma!” Myrtle’s eyes felt as if they were about to bug out of their sockets. The idea of Erma involved with anyone was a nauseating concept.

“Yes,
Erma
,” muttered Puddin. “That flirty man-eater. Trying to steal other women’s husbands when she can’t find one of her own.” The words shot out like snide bullets. Puddin gave up on her pretense of cleaning and now simply stared out the window where they could clearly see a rather dapper Dusty now attacking some of Erma’s weed-infested bushes.

“See what I mean?” demanded a Despairing Puddin. “Dusty don’t cut no bushes. Never.”

“No, he don’t…doesn’t,” said Myrtle thoughtfully. Then, more briskly, since the very last thing she wanted on her hands was a weeping housekeeper, she said, “Have you simply
asked
Dusty? Maybe there’s a perfectly good explanation for his behavior.”