Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (6 page)

Well, who didn't want to murder her? She'd just recently put
herself on Myrtle's own hit list. Parke Stockard was bossy and liked
things done her own way. She was beautiful and flaunted it. She
played people off each other for fun and maybe even for profit.
People were sick and tired of her and she hadn't even lived in
Bradley all that long.

She wrote down the names she'd found on Parke's cell phone:
Althea, Benton Chambers, and Josh Tucker. She drained the last of
her milk and looked over the notes. She was going to do it. Solving
the case would flex her brain and prove she still had the brainpower-more than even Red himself, if she beat him to it.

Myrtle was still mulling the case over the next morning while she
spooned globs of garlic and handfuls of shredded cheese into a pot
of grits. The challenge would be interviewing the suspects. Well,
besides figuring out who the suspects were, of course. Casually
knocking at their doors and grilling them on their alibis wouldn't
cut it. Once they'd tattled to Red, all her fun would be over. There
had to be a better, more surreptitious way to ask some questions.
Thinking hard, she'd stopped stirring the grits and they spat at her angrily. Myrtle gave them a quick stir and then took them off the
burner completely when the phone rang.

"Elaine! Everything going well over there?" Myrtle couldn't
hear any crying on the other end. It was a good sign, unless it indicated that Elaine had run away from home.

"It's great, actually. I've got some free time with Jack over at a
playdate."

Myrtle smiled. Would she finally get a sounding board? A Watson? Detectives were supposed to have sidekicks.

"I thought we could go to book club together. It'll do you good
to get out after the day you had yesterday. I can pick you up in
about forty-five minutes."

Myrtle's bubble burst. "But I haven't read the book."

"It's To Kill a Mockingbird."

"Oh. Right." She'd taught it for fifteen years at school. Now Red
was enlisting Elaine to "get Mama's mind off the murder." Myrtle
avoided Elaine's book club like the plague because they considered
trashy paperbacks serious literature. They could collectively author
a reference guide titled: Book Picks for Chicks: An Exhaustive Collection of Trendy Tripe. This had to be the first time they'd ever picked
anything with any literary merit.

"The problem with your book club, Elaine-besides the crummy
books-are all the loud-mouths. Every occasion with those women
descends into a big brag-fest."

"You're exaggerating again, Myrtle."

"Think about it, Elaine. Libby Holloway is always bragging about
her freakishly large tomatoes."

"Which she generously shares with the club."

"You've got Margaret Goodner's Stepford grandchildren who
speak in tongues..."

"They speak six perfectly normal languages."

"And Heather Herbert's nasty toy dog that she inbreeds with all
its award-winning relatives."

"Apparently the best way to ensure blue ribbons at dog shows"

"And Erma Sherman is in your club. Enough said."

"You're leaving out all the best people, Myrtle. Tippy Chambers, Althea Hayes, Kitty Kirk..."

Myrtle had forgotten about them. And they were gossipy people who disliked the now-very-dead Parke Stockard. An about-face
was in order.

"That might be a good idea, Elaine. I'll be ready when you
swing by."

But her about-face was perhaps a bit abrupt. Elaine paused.
"Okay, I don't know who you are, but put Myrtle Clover back on
the phone."

Myrtle tittered. "Funny, funny Elaine. You just convinced me to
change my mind, that's all"

"All right ... I'll pick you up in ten minutes." Elaine had a surprised lilt to her voice. She likely wondered if Myrtle's change of
heart could be attributed to a mild stroke.

When Myrtle stepped into Elaine's car, she lifted her eyebrows in
surprise at Elaine's messy hair and sweat suit. With her usually
smooth black bob, tidy appearance, and measured response to the
chaos around her, Myrtle considered Elaine a great asset to the chaotic Clover family. Now rumpled and scatterbrained, Elaine
was a shadow of her former, highly functioning self. Seeing some
flaws sure made it easier to feel sorry for her, though. She
seemed ... well, more like a normal person. But not like a promising sounding board for Myrtle. They both pretended not to see the
gnomes still invading Myrtle's front yard.

"Oh," said Elaine, "I tried to call your cell phone yesterday afternoon and see how you were doing. Did you have it turned off?"

"That stupid thing holds a charge for about five minutes before
it dies."

"Well, you've had it for five years, which is practically prehistoric for a cell phone. Want me to pick you up another one?"

"Would you? Those kinds of stores make me break out in hives.
Buy the most basic phone you can find. I don't want to take pictures with it, I just want to get phone calls."

"I'll try to get one this afternoon."

Myrtle peered at the huge expanse of sky visible through the
minivan windshield. "Oops. Bad weather coming."

"Did you catch the forecast this morning?"

"No, no. The sky is red, don't you see it? `Red in morning, sailors take warning."'

Elaine looked worried now. First Myrtle voluntarily agreed to
go to book club, now she was babbling about sailors. That stroke
seemed like more of a possibility now.

The book club meeting was at Tippy Chambers' house this
week. Although it wasn't a long drive, it was fraught with peril as
Elaine simultaneously drove the car, answered two cell phone calls,
and scrubbed at a spot on her skirt. Myrtle gripped the door with
white-knuckled hands through the ordeal, gratefully stepping onto terra firma when the car finally stopped outside the Chambers'
house.

If you resurrected Scarlet O'Hara and transplanted her to North
Carolina, she'd room with Tippy Chambers and not spare a thought
for Tara. Not only was the columned house elegant and historic, it
also boasted all the bells and whistles that Parke Stockard was so
crazy about. The mature landscaping of massive magnolias masked
the house from the street.

Tippy, well-dressed as usual with white slacks and a lime-green
silk blouse, greeted them at the door. Her carefully arranged
blonde coif didn't have a hair out of place. Still, Myrtle thought
she looked tired this morning and every bit of her fifty-plus years.
She was perfectly organized, perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed,
and gave perfect parties ... but her heart didn't seem to be in it.
Myrtle wondered if she was just going through the motions. And
whether Tippy knew of her husband's affairs.

"Miss Myrtle, it's so good to have you here. You're a real feather
in my cap-we've been dying for Elaine to bring you along and
give our discussions some direction. An English teacher is just
what we needed," said Tippy politely.

"Well, I haven't taught for a while, Tippy. But I'm ... uh ... glad
to help." Once an English teacher, always an English teacher. Even
if you've been retired for twenty years. You never knew when you'd
be drafted back to serve a tour of duty at some random book club
meeting.

Passing through the Oriental rug lined foyer, Myrtle peered
hopefully into the living room. She smiled when she spotted both
Althea Hayes and Kitty Kirk. The smile turned to a grimace when she
saw the rodent-like countenance of her neighbor, Erma Sherman. But between Tippy, Althea, and Kitty, Myrtle was sure she could dig up
some dirt. Leaning on her cane as she walked, she entered the antique-filled, book-lined living room and settled on a settee. There
was a good-sized group of twelve women there, probably due to the
interest in gossip about the murder.

While she engaged in a little preliminary small-talk and graciously managed self-deprecating smiles when everyone chirped
up about how exciting it was to have an English lit teacher with
them, she took mental notes on the appearance and demeanor of
her quarry.

Althea Hayes looked as tidy as ever, but made a peculiar fashion statement in a wool sweater over her linen pants. She avoided
Myrtle's eyes. Did Althea have a beef with Tippy's thermostat settings, or were nerves making her shiver? She was always a no-nonsense type, but looked particularly grim this morning. But then,
Myrtle reminded herself, she'd buried her husband just a few days
ago. She probably needed a distraction.

Kitty Kirk was a train wreck. Whatever good Samaritan had
dragged her god-forsaken carcass out of bed to book club should
be shot. This was a woman who needed to be put out of her misery, not force-fed literature in a mansion. Kitty, who usually appeared immaculate, seemed to have foundation on only one side
of her face, giving her the peculiar look of an uneven suntan-as if
she'd fallen asleep on a lounge at the pool and woken up much
later. Her eyeliner had missed its target and looked more like the
stuff football players smear under their eyes. A wayward toddler
seemed to have applied her lipstick. She usually wore a cute boutique-y outfit with carefully chosen, if rather loud, chunky jewelry. But today she wore a muumuu of the type generally purchased
from the coupon section of the Sunday newspaper.

Kitty slouched in an antique armchair, squinting at Myrtle
when she arrived, before drooping down again in disinterest. She
looked ... awful. Myrtle wondered if she could possibly be drunk,
despite the fact it was 9:30 a.m. Or maybe hung over from boozing
the night before. Looking at her was like watching a train wreck.
Myrtle dragged her eyes away with difficulty.

"Today's discussion is on a simply marvelous book that's an
old friend to all of us..." Tippy said in a let's-get-started voice.
Myrtle frowned. No chance to quiz anyone yet. She satisfied her
investigative instincts by watching faces in the group and sniffing
the air a few times for whiffs of cigarette smoke. Smelling nothing,
she loaded up a napkin with cheese and crackers and muffins and
settled back as the discussion started. She should have brought her
ear plugs. She had a feeling it was going to be bad.

Myrtle snacked on the muffins and mulled over the case while
the ladies discussed the book. She let completely outrageous statements about To Kill a Mockingbird pass without a single eye roll,
deep sigh, or click of her tongue. One member compared the book
to Valley of the Dolls and another drew a parallel to Peyton Place.
Someone repeatedly said "metaphor" instead of "analogy." Myrtle
kept right on scarfing down appetizers and apple juice.

She was brought back to reality with a thump when Erma Sherman said, "I thought Scout should have been nicer to Bee Radley.
He should have knocked on Bee's door right away."

"BOO Radley," hissed Myrtle. "And Scout is a she."

Tippy took Myrtle's grumpy interjection as a sign to wrap up the
discussion part of the meeting. "Muffins, anyone?" Since Myrtle had eaten most of the muffins, Tippy quickly started circulating some
other refreshments. Myrtle noticed dark circles under her eyes.
Maybe Tippy Chambers wasn't as calm and composed as Myrtle
first thought.

Myrtle began despairing that the topic of the murder would
ever come up. Maybe everyone figured Tippy Chambers' elegant
living room wasn't the place to introduce the subject of violent
death. Myrtle ground her teeth, enduring a conversation about
how difficult it was to find a new president for the garden club.
She could have kissed clueless Erma Sherman (and Tippy Chambers, judging from her thunderous expression, likely could have
killed her) when she breathlessly asked, "When are we going to talk
about it? Can you believe Parke Stockard was murdered? And I had
just seen her the day before yesterday!"

There was an uncomfortable silence. Myrtle finally said. "Well,
of course you saw her the day before yesterday. She was alive then,
you know." A nervous tittering of laughter followed. Kitty Kirk's
hands clenched in her lap and Althea looked uncharacteristically
nervous as she shrank into her chair.