Death Pays a Visit (A Myrtle Clover Mystery Book 7) (4 page)

Miles pulled into a parking lot and parked the Volvo. They walked toward the front door. “Automatic doors,” said Myrtle. “Hmm. Last time I was here I was battling a wooden door while holding onto my cane at the same time.”

There was a chalkboard sign outside the automatic doors with
Today’s Events
listed in excruciatingly neat handwriting. Miles studied the sign as Myrtle continued walking toward the doors, her cane thumping on the sidewalk as she went.

“Scrabble, checkers, chess, and a comedic play,” said Miles in a musing voice.

“Come
on
, Miles!” said Myrtle testily. “Someone might be about to kick the bucket as we dawdle!”

An old woman walked out of the door right at that moment and gave Myrtle a thunderous glare.

Myrtle hissed to Miles, “You know what I mean. We’ve got to figure out who this victim is and stop the crime before it happens.”

“Do we need to sign in?” asked Miles. He gave the front desk an apprehensive look. “I’d hate for us to have to state what our business here is.”

“Nope. The front desk isn’t the type where you sign in—it’s the type where you ask directions. But I think we’ll wander around a little first before we ask for Ruby’s room number. Ruby might be in the dining hall—it’s lunchtime, after all,” said Myrtle.

Myrtle glanced around curiously as they walked down a wide hall with handrails lining either side. “I’d noticed last time that they’d given the place an overhaul. New carpeting. New paint.” She stopped short and put her hands on her hips. “Wonder what they’re up to,” she said suspiciously.

“Improving the place, clearly,” said Miles. “It seems very bright and cheerful to me.”

“Hmm.” Myrtle wasn’t so sure. She frowned. “What’s this mob up ahead?” she asked, gesturing to a group of people in wheelchairs and pushing walkers.

“Looks like a traffic jam,” said Miles. “Is that the entrance to the dining room?”

“Unfortunately.” They approached the group and stood in line behind them. “They need a fast lane here. These folks are poky.”

Miles raised his eyebrows. “Just because you’re so mobile doesn’t mean you should be smug, Myrtle. And people can hear you,” he said in a low voice as some residents turned to give Myrtle reproving looks.

“It’s not
their
fault they’re poky. But it’s the management’s fault for allowing these traffic jams. The same thing happens outside the health room and the chapel—they block up the halls with their walkers and wheelchairs and other contraptions. They’re all lining up to go through the dining hall door like jockeys in the starting gate,” said Myrtle.

An old woman with Coke-bottle glasses turned and gave Myrtle a baleful look, which Myrtle carefully ignored.

Miles scrutinized the dining hall as they finally entered. Then he smiled. “Reminds me of my old college dining hall,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “Look—there are even little bouquets of fresh flowers on every table.”

Myrtle snorted. “The food will remind you of your old college dining hall, too. The meatloaf is particularly treacherous. It should be avoided at all costs.”

“What are the rules here?” asked Miles, still surveying the room. “Are we allowed to sit wherever we want?”

“Of course we are! I even saw it in their manual one time,” scoffed Myrtle.

“Manual?” Miles looked bemused.

“Manual, welcome guide…whatever the thing is called. Point being, there are
no
reserved seats at Greener Pastures. It’s supposed to be a bastion of friendly camaraderie. Let’s just put my pocketbook down on one of the tables to hold our spot since I don’t see Ruby in here right now. It can get very busy very quickly.”

They approached one of the round tables covered with jaunty yellow tablecloths.

A thin woman with high cheekbones glared at Myrtle as they approached. “No room!” she said sternly.

“Why, there’s plenty of room!” said Myrtle hotly, feeling suddenly a lot like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

“No room for you,” said the thin woman rudely. She must have realized how she sounded because she tried again, still sounding ungracious, “I mean—these seats are taken.”

“No worries. I wouldn’t have wanted to sit at this table anyway,” said Myrtle, eyes narrowed. She flounced away, glancing around to see if there were another free couple of spots somewhere.

“The nerve,” muttered Myrtle, her feelings a bit stung.

“What about the Greener Pastures owner’s manual forbidding reserved seats?” murmured Miles.

“I’ve half a mind to report her to the retirement home authorities,” said Myrtle. “Here we are, hapless visitors, and we’re rejected and dejected.”

“You can sit here if you like,” a reedy voice piped up behind them. “Or not, if you’d rather not. Either way is fine. No one cares at this table. At least,
we
don’t care.”

Myrtle turned to see a woman at a large round table. She had perfect posture and was gazing steadily at them. She sat with two other friendly looking ladies wearing brightly colored tops.

“The gallant ladies of the round table, saving me from embarrassment,” said Myrtle with a smile.

Miles gave a small cough behind her.

“Miles is with me,” said Myrtle. “It’ll ruin the hen party—is that okay?”

Apparently, it was more than okay. The ladies all beamed at Miles and quickly moved their chairs to make room. Myrtle sighed. It was obvious why they’d gotten the table. Well, she didn’t mind capitalizing on Miles’s supposed sex appeal, either. Not if it meant they had a place to eat lunch.

They stood in line, sliding their trays along the metal shelf and pointing out what food they chose to the staff. There were chicken fillets filled with sage and onion, roast pork with applesauce, leek and cheese bake, and a quiche Lorraine. Myrtle remained stoic through the line. She’d made the mistake of having high expectations of the Greener Pastures food before, only to be disappointed.

This time, though, she was pleasantly surprised, although she wasn’t about to let on that she was.

Miles took a cautious bite of his chicken. His eyebrows shot up. “Myrtle, this food isn’t half bad.” He took a second, more enthusiastic bite. “Actually, it’s good. Much better, in fact, than what I made for myself for lunch yesterday.”

“Don’t be hasty. It’s not really fair to judge a hot lunch against a pitiful cheese sandwich or whatever you made for yourself yesterday.”

“It was a salad with vegetables from my own garden,” said Miles rather indignantly.

A lady next to Miles beamed at him, giving a flutter of her eyelashes. “Do you really grow your own vegetables? I really do admire a man for living off the land.”

Myrtle snorted. “Miles lives off the Piggly Wiggly grocery store. And then accents that food with tomatoes grown in his small garden.” This lunch was getting to be irritating, although Miles seemed pleased.

“Have we seen you here before?” asked the lady next to Miles, completely ignoring Myrtle’s presence.

Miles opened his mouth to answer but Myrtle quickly said, “Actually, we’re here to visit a friend of ours who hasn’t apparently made it to the dining room yet. Ruby Sims. I might be on a reconnaissance mission, myself—checking the place out to see if it might make a suitable future home.”

She was surprised at how glibly the words came out, especially since they were complete lies. Miles gave her an admiring look at the smoothness in which she delivered the falsehoods.

The woman sitting next to Myrtle hadn’t yet uttered a word, instead, continued eating her roast pork and studying her intently. She had sharp features that were carefully outlined in various earth-colored makeup. She wasn’t unattractive, just hard looking. She wore clanking jewelry and a turquoise top with well-ironed white linen pants.

“Is something wrong?” asked Myrtle with some irritation. It was no fun to be so blatantly stared at.

Chapter Four

“Did you teach me?” asked the old woman, narrowing her eyes. “English? In high school?”

“Surely not,” snapped Myrtle, feeling a rising horror that she might have taught someone who appeared nearly as old as she was.

Miles started choking on his chicken and Myrtle pounded on his back. He hastily sipped his iced tea until the coughing spell subsided. The entire time, the old woman continued staring at her.

“I was Inez Bridgebane,” she said. “Now I’m Inez Wilson. And I’m positive you taught me. Miss Towers, wasn’t it? I never forget a face. Never.”

Myrtle sighed. “Yes, that was my maiden name. I suppose I did teach you. But it must have been early in my career—I’m not
that
old. I did start out as a substitute for a pregnant teacher and finished the year out for her. That probably was when you had me. I was barely older than my students that year.”

Inez just gave her a smirking smile and didn’t answer.

The woman sitting next to Miles tried to enter the conversation again. “So y’all are here visiting! How nice. Are you…siblings?” she asked hopefully.

Miles said, “No. We’re not related … we’re friends.”

The women at the table looked back and forth between Miles and Myrtle as if trying to figure out what
friends
might entail. Apparently, the woman next to Miles decided to accept it at face value. She said, “How nice!” and beamed at Miles in an encouraging manner.

“So, you’re visiting Ruby?” asked Inez.

“That’s right,” said Myrtle. She tried a bit of her broccoli casserole. Not bad. She scooped up a larger portion.

“Funny Ruby didn’t mention that,” said Inez.

Myrtle got the impression that Inez was the kind of person who enjoyed a lot of drama. And, lacking drama, might be the type to generate some herself.

“You’re friends with Ruby?” asked Miles quickly. He appeared to be both attempting to deflect attention from Inez’s question and attention away from himself.

Inez’s face muscles tightened up. It was clear that Miles hadn’t won Inez over. Although the other women at the table were hanging on every word that was coming out of Miles’s mouth.

“I live on her hall and spend maybe more time with her than I’d care to. Which makes it very odd that I know nothing about your visit,” redirected Inez. She pursed her thin lips.

Myrtle made a breezy wave of her hand. “It’s a surprise visit, that’s all. A special treat for Ruby.”

Miles grinned at her. Myrtle was concerned for a moment that he might burst into applause. She gave him an almost-imperceptible bow.

“Amazing. I haven’t heard Ruby mention your name, Miss Towers,” drawled Inez.

“It’s
Clover
.” Myrtle cut into her meat aggressively. “Has been for over forty years, for heaven’s sake.”

“Haven’t heard her mention a Clover, either.”

The woman was like a pit bull. She simply refused to let go. “Well, you know Ruby. She was probably being considerate and trying not to bore everyone with stories of our adventures together.”

“I very much doubt that’s the case, since Ruby is dull as dishwater and doesn’t care a whit about boring all of us to tears.” Inez scrutinized Myrtle again. “Although somehow I think
you’re
probably not dull. Not one bit.” Her gaze rested on Miles for a second before bouncing off again. She’d apparently passed judgment on him.

Miles gave Inez an indignant look. Then he returned to his evident fascination with his chicken.

“Besides, Ruby’s mental acuity has plummeted recently. Absolutely plummeted. She might have been somewhat absentminded before. Maybe a little foggy. But now she’s memory
impaired
,” said Inez with great emphasis. “I’m sure the staff here is keeping an eye on her.”

A jovial man with a neatly trimmed beard and a straw hat sat down at their table. Although there wasn’t an empty seat, he pulled one over to make room. “Myrtle Towers!” he proclaimed in a booming voice, kissing Myrtle solidly on the cheek.

Myrtle recoiled, dabbing her cheek with her napkin. “What is this, an episode of
This is Your Life
?” she asked crabbily. It was annoying that she didn’t recognize this old man when he so clearly recognized her. If he said that she’d taught him, she’d head back home and call it a day, Wanda or no Wanda.

“You don’t remember me?” The man seemed crestfallen.

“I clearly taught for way too many years,” said Myrtle with a sigh.

The old man’s face was startled before he threw his head back and laughed. “I’d forgotten your delightfully dry sense of humor, Myrtle. You’re teasing, aren’t you? You remember that we were sweethearts years ago.”

Miles, eyes watering, started choking on his chicken again and the old lady next to him timidly tapped him on his back in a way that wouldn’t dislodge a crumb.

“Certainly not!” Myrtle gave the old man a horrified look.

Inez was enjoying the scene playing out in front of her. “Winston, she clearly has no idea who you are.”

“Winston?” Myrtle frowned. “Surely you’re not….”

“Winston Rouse, at your service,” said the old man, taking off his straw hat and giving a deep bow.

Miles was downing iced tea quickly, trying to suppress his coughing so he could listen in.

Myrtle gave him a critical look before returning to her broccoli casserole. “I suppose age has done us both a disservice. Plus the fact, of course, that I haven’t laid eyes on you for at least forty years.”

“Well, it’s a real pleasure to see you again, my dear. A real pleasure.” He reached out and gave her a hug. It was an odd sort of hug since Myrtle was pulling back as Winston was leaning in.

Winston seemed either oblivious to the awkward moment or determined to ignore it. “So … are you still a single pringle?”

“No. No, I married. I’m Myrtle Clover now, Winston.”

Winston snapped his fingers and his expression was crestfallen. “Rats. Who’s the lucky man? Don’t tell me—it’s this young fella here,” he said, gesturing to Miles. “Aren’t you the cougar, Myrtle?”

Before Miles could start another choking session, Myrtle hastily corrected him. “No, not Miles. He’s a friend of mine. No, I married over forty years ago. And was widowed not long afterward.”

Winston’s heavy eyebrows drew together. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It was a long time ago,” said Myrtle with a dismissive wave of her hand.