Death Pays a Visit (A Myrtle Clover Mystery Book 7) (23 page)

Miles nodded. “In a day’s time, babies could now suddenly be teenagers. Our favorite characters might somehow now be in the ICU in the hospital. All chaos might have been let loose.”

“Exactly. And then we’ll come back for that memorial service. It’s time to knock this case out, Miles. I certainly don’t have faith in the pleasant Darrell Smith to solve it.”

Chapter Nineteen

The ride home wasn’t a bit treacherous, despite the residual ice on the roads. When Miles pulled onto Magnolia Lane, he said in a perplexed tone, “I can’t believe my eyes. Your wayward housekeeper appears to be cleaning your home. Without your badgering her or even being there. Has Puddin had a mild stroke?”

Myrtle frowned. “That Puddin. She turns up like a bad penny. No, she wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for Dusty. I guarantee you that Dusty is at Erma’s doing something. Remember? She’s gotten it into her head that Dusty is running around on her with Erma.”

Miles made a sound that was halfway between a chortle and a coughing fit as he pulled into her driveway. When it had subsided, he said, “There are so many things wrong with your last statement that I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Then let me help you unpack it,” said Myrtle smoothly. “Dusty couldn’t possibly be attractive to anyone but Puddin. Erma couldn’t possibly pose a threat as the “other woman” in any relationship. Dusty doesn’t ordinarily, however, put himself out to do yard work for anyone, so how on earth is Erma luring him there as much as she is? Erma doesn’t care a flip about her yard—evidenced by her crabgrass infestation, so why is she intent on having Dusty there? Yes, I know, it’s all baffling. The only part I understand is that Puddin is pretending that I need her over to clean so that she can spy on Dusty.”

Miles shook his head. “It’s even more complex than our soap opera’s plotlines.” He stared at Erma’s yard. “Wow. She’s got Dusty picking up limbs that broke from the ice storm. That’s pretty amazing.”

Myrtle nodded and opened the passenger door. “Here, let me check the mail real quick before going in to calm Puddin down. I’ve got to keep their marriage intact, you know. If Dusty runs away with Erma and Puddin divorces him and remarries … what on earth will I do about my yard and house? Red will stick me in Greener Pastures for sure.” She reached in her mailbox and pulled out a couple of bills and some junk mail. “I don’t see anything here,” she said, disappointed. Then she flipped through the junk mail and a postcard fell out. “Hold on. Looks like we received another cryptic missive from Wanda.”

“What’s it say?”

“I guess Wanda is obsessed with money,” muttered Myrtle. “This is yet another hint that it’s financially-motivated. Wanda’s preoccupation probably has something to do with having all of her utilities cut off. It says:
it’s all about the muney
.”

“Not very helpful of Wanda,” said Miles morosely. “She could at least give us a name or something.”

“She claims it doesn’t work that way, remember? But this really takes the cake. This could point to just about any of our suspects, especially if we bring blackmail into it,” said Myrtle in disgust.

“There’s nothing else on there?” asked Miles. He sounded disappointed.

Myrtle squinted at the postcard. “Well, there is a smudge or something near the bottom. Like an afterthought. Wanda’s penmanship is ghastly and she’s misspelled everything she’s written so far.” Myrtle tilted the postcard in the sun. “I can’t make it out without my reading glasses.”

Miles opened a glasses case that had been resting on his dashboard and put his glasses on. “Here, let me have a go.” Myrtle handed over the postcard and Miles studied it for a minute. “It appears to say,
not whut they seem
.’”

“For heaven’s sake!” spat Myrtle. “Wanda can’t even use pronouns correctly? What’s the help in saying
they
? She can’t use
he
or
she
and at least point us in the right direction?”

“Somehow, I don’t think Wanda got much instruction in the dos and don’ts of pronoun usage,” said Miles. “At least she’s trying. So what are you going to do now? Check on Red?”

“I’m feeling too cranky to call on Red right now,” said Myrtle huffily. “I’ve got to wind down. Oh, and deal with Puddin. No, I’m thinking that it’s time to watch
Tomorrow’s Promise
. Then Red. Then maybe I can just think things through a little before we go to that blasted memorial service and deal with Ruby’s fogginess again.” She paused, remembering something. “I don’t suppose you want to watch the soap with me, do you?”

“I’ll pass,” said Miles, holding his hands up. “If you’re feeling cranky, I don’t think I want any of that directed at me right now. I’ll check in with you later. Good luck with Puddin. At least you’ll be walking into a very clean house.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Myrtle grimly. “The dust bunnies will probably be terrorizing the dirty dishes.”

But when she walked into her house, she looked around her in wonder. The silver and brass weren’t tarnished. There didn’t appear to be any dust on any surface. The floor was well vacuumed. The dishes that had been left to soak (or really to just sit around dirty) had been washed and put away. Instead of feeling delighted, Myrtle felt alarmed. Had Puddin perhaps suffered a small stroke? Did she need medical care?

“Puddin!” called Myrtle.

Puddin surfaced from the back of the house. Her eyes were puffy as if she’d been crying. Or, perhaps, it was the effect of the dust storm that must have arisen when she started so vigorously cleaning Myrtle’s house.

“Mmm-hmm?” answered Puddin. Her small eyes looked toward the window where sounds from Erma’s yard indicated that Dusty was assiduously clearing out the broken limbs.

Myrtle noticed that some things never changed, though. Puddin was clutching an industrial-sized bottle of all-purpose cleaner … that was Myrtle’s bottle. And it was nearly gone. No wonder the house smelled like a pine forest.

“Puddin, is everything okay? You don’t seem to be acting like yourself. Is it Dusty? You’re worried about Dusty?”

Puddin nodded miserably and to Myrtle’s horror began to wail. “He’s in uniform—again! And he’s picking up sticks! Dusty hates to bend over. I ain’t never seen him pick up sticks before, not ever.”

Myrtle said severely in her best schoolteacher voice, “Puddin, get a hold of yourself. Right now!”

On cue, Puddin stopped her keening and gave Myrtle a resentful look at interrupting her crying spell.

“Now listen to me. Dusty is
not
interested in Erma Sherman. It is a biological impossibility. There is absolutely nothing beguiling about Ms. Sherman—nothing! She is completely revolting in every way…in fact, she’s developed repugnance into an art form. So here’s what I’m going to do,” said Myrtle.

Puddin broke in, heatedly. “I’m gonna leave him! I’m gonna take up with somebody who loves me.”

“Certainly not! You don’t even know the facts, Puddin. You’re jumping to a bunch of hastily conceived conclusions. I
will
not
allow this to happen. I’m going right over there and getting to the bottom of this. No more speculation. Just cold, hard facts.” Myrtle squared her shoulders, dragged a coat around her, and headed for her front door. Now that she’d had to deal with Puddin’s nonsense, she was going to deal with Dusty’s. It really wasn’t a great start to the day.

Dusty was stooping to pick up a variety of sticks and larger limbs from Erma’s side yard when Myrtle approached. Myrtle could hear popping and snapping sounds that she at first figured were the limbs before realizing they were coming from Dusty. Clearly, he wasn’t in the best of shape to be doing so much bending over.

“Dusty!” said Myrtle sternly.

The old man jumped and wheeled around. When he spotted Myrtle, he relaxed. He said something completely unintelligible before continuing to chew on something in his mouth.

“I can’t understand you around your chewing tobacco, Dusty,” said Myrtle. “And you know how I feel about that stuff.”

He shifted the gob of goo around in his mouth, giving her a sour look before saying, “I just said hello. That’s all. What’s wrong, Miz Myrtle?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to ask
you
. What’s wrong?”

Dusty squinted at her. All of his wrinkles from years of sun exposure bunched up when he did. “Ain’t nothing wrong, is there? I’m cleanin’ up Miz Sherman’s yard after the storm.”

“In a uniform? And meticulously?” asked Myrtle incredulously.

Dusty looked down at his uniform as if he’d forgotten it was there. “That’s just because I done growed out of my work pants, Miz Myrtle. And torn a hole in two of my favorite yard shirts. Besides—it’s horrible cold out here. The uniform is warm. Meticulous—I don’t even know what that is, so I sure ain’t been doing it.”

“But I’ve never even laid eyes on you in a uniform before, Dusty,” said Myrtle. She leaned on her cane and looked down at the shorter Dusty. “It seems to me that a uniform bought long ago would surely not fit if you’ve gotten too heavy for your work pants.” Dusty did appear to have gotten a bit of a belly. It made for an odd sight—the scrawny man with wiry arms and the spare tire around the middle.

Dusty gazed scornfully at her. “That’s just because when I bought it, I ordered the wrong size. Was too big. Couldn’t send it back because it had my name on it, didn’t it?” He patted a calloused hand on the red cursive
Dusty
over one shirt pocket. “But now I growed into it. Might as well get some use out of it.”

It made sense. But then, Dusty frequently made more sense than Puddin did. So she’d confront him on his apparently inexhaustible drive to spend time with Erma Sherman. “Something else, Dusty. I have to practically threaten your life to get you to come over to my house to do work. Am I right?”

“In the summer, maybe,” growled Dusty. “That’s because it’s busy then. You doesn’t need your grass cut and your weed-eatin’ done in the winter.”

“Granted. But it seems to … well, Puddin and me … that you are eagerly volunteering your time next door at Miss Sherman’s house. You’re there quite frequently. In your uniform, which I now understand is from necessity,” explained Myrtle.

Dusty continued squinting at her. This time he tilted his head to one side as if thinking it through. Then he shrugged, giving up. “Say again, Miz Myrtle?”

“Why are you working so hard for Miss Sherman?” reworded Myrtle impatiently. “You’re here all the blasted time, Dusty. I can’t look out my window without seeing you slinging stuff around in her yard. It’s worrying Puddin to pieces having you behave so out of character and I
won’t
have my life in disarray by losing my yardman and housekeeper!”

Dusty’s face cleared. “Puddin is worried?” They both glanced toward Myrtle’s house in time to see the pudgy, pale Puddin peering at them before ducking quickly out of sight. “What d’ya know? Aw. Naw, ain’t nothin’ but needing the money. Puddin should know that! That woman never listens to a word I say. I need new work pants. My string trimmer done bit the dust. In winter, business dries up. Miz Sherman needs my help right now because she got some sort of man-cousin coming to visit her soon and she wants all the mess in her yard carted off. Seeings how I need the money and she needs the mess out, it was a good deal for both of us.” He shrugged bony shoulders. “That’s it.”

Myrtle blew out a gusty sigh of relief. “Well, thank heaven for small mercies. Emergency averted. All right. I’ll explain things to Puddin and go watch my soap. Carry on, Dusty.”

But the yardman stopped her. “Naw. I’ll talk to Puddin. She was real worried?” He frowned at this. “What d’ya know?”

Myrtle sighed. She supposed she was expected to dawdle in her freezing cold yard until Dusty had patched things up with Puddin. Since he was a man of limited vocabulary, she both expected and fervently hoped that the process would be a short one. She was greatly relieved a few moments later to spot a brief embrace through her very clean window and Puddin’s face go from anxious to its usual rather petulant expression.

When she saw that transformation, Myrtle headed inside. She wasn’t about to turn into a Popsicle in her yard. Sure enough, as she walked in the front door she saw everything had returned to normal. Dusty was on his way back out to finish up with the limbs and Puddin was lounging on Myrtle’s sofa.

“My back is thrown,” she offered succinctly. “And your house is clean. Can we watch your soap?”

Myrtle, who ordinarily wouldn’t want to encourage a bad habit, was so relieved to get Puddin back that she wordlessly grabbed the remote and plopped down into her favorite chair. She was still fumbling to get the recorded soap up when Puddin gruffly said, “Thank you, Miz Myrtle.”

Myrtle was very much afraid Puddin would shed tears of relief at getting her blasted Dusty back, so she said briskly, “Don’t mention it, Puddin. Happy to do it.” But she felt something soften in her toward her problematic Puddin. And she sighed.

The plotting of this installment of
Tomorrow’s Promise
was as convoluted as usual. But ridiculously watchable, also as usual. It was like junk food for the mind. Puddin’s eyes were open wide in her absorption, her mouth was slightly open and she looked quite dense, which Puddin decidedly wasn’t. Puddin was a lot brighter than she wanted to let on. “What’s goin’ on with Marlene?” she muttered to Myrtle at one point.

“Marlene is blackmailing Cheyenne. Marlene lost her money to that con man who was going to marry her, remember? And Marlene knows Cheyenne has stolen money from the spa where she works,” said Myrtle. She made a face. It was amazing how much of this dreck she remembered.

Puddin continued droning out questions about the plot points but Myrtle wasn’t even listening to her now. Something she’d just said or thought was important. She frowned. Marlene. Blackmail. Con man. Stealing. Puddin. She couldn’t figure out what it was. Was it the fact that Mickey knew Winston was stealing money from residents? That Fred lied about his education? That Natalie needed money like Marlene did? Myrtle mulled it through but couldn’t find the connection she needed.

“It’s nice to answer people,” said Puddin reproachfully.