Progressive Dinner Deadly (3 page)

It was time to abort this plan and head into Emergency Plan B. Myrtle rose abruptly and walked toward the hall. She looked behind her. Her entire library was animated with discussion and Miles just soaked it all in.

Myrtle cleared her throat. But Miles was absorbed in watching Erma. He had a revolted expression on his face as she blathered on, off-topic as usual, about her cousin who shot deer and stored the carcasses, whole, in a huge freezer in his garage. Myrtle again cleared her throat and walked, exaggeratedly, toward the bathroom. No response from Miles.

“I
think
,” said Myrtle in her former-schoolteacher voice, which had the power to silence the room, “I will go to the bathroom!” She glared at Miles, who looked flustered.

Tippy looked concerned. “Are you sick, Myrtle?”

“No. I just think I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“Well,” said Tippy in a puzzled tone, “of course. Anyone is free to visit the restroom at any time.”

The room remained quiet until Myrtle was out of sight. Then Erma said, “No wonder she’s feeling sick! She’s the worst cook in the history of the world. She probably ate some of her own chicken salad sandwiches.” Erma pointed to indicate the full and untouched platter of sandwiches.

“Good point,” said Tippy in a low voice. “Does anyone know if Myrtle made the chicken salad or bought it?”

Myrtle listened, fuming, in the hall. “Although her chicken salad is
excellent
, I know for a fact that she ran low on time and purchased this batch,” Miles said. His voice sounded pained.

Myrtle peeped around the side of the door. The women looked at Miles curiously as there was suddenly a run on the chicken salad sandwiches.

“And while we’re talking about Myrtle,” said Miles, in was apparently a desperate attempt to wrestle the wayward conversation back on track, “I think she had an excellent idea.”

“I do too,” said Tippy warmly. “It was so clever of her to think up a supper club. She was absolutely right that book club was getting stale.”

Myrtle gritted her teeth.

“I meant her suggestion that the book club start reading some different kinds of books.” Miles tugged at his collar.

“Was that her idea?” Tippy sounded dubious. “Well, her supper club idea is much sounder.”

“Now if we can only convince her not to cook!” said Erma. She gave a sneering laugh.

Jill Caulfield said, “I’ve got a great recipe for pulled pork for the slow cooker. How about if I cook the main course for our first supper club?”

The room was soon buzzing again with ideas for how the supper club would run, who would provide what, and who would host the various courses. Sullenly, Myrtle came back in and sat down with the others. She drummed her fingers on her copy of
The Sound and the Fury
as Tippy efficiently organized the details of the supper club. Miles offered to host the hors d’oeuvres and drinks, there was a clamoring over different recipes and whether they should have a theme for each event.

Myrtle replayed the last few minutes in her head. Everything had gone wrong when Erma had piped up. She instinctively seemed to know what to do to mess up Myrtle’s plans.

Myrtle straightened up in her chair. She wouldn’t let it happen. She was going to regain control of this meeting. “Actually,” she said in a booming voice. “I had another idea completely. We could certainly have a
parallel
club that meets for suppers. But giving up on book club just because the selection has been weak…”

Amazingly, Erma stepped in again. “Weak is right,” she agreed. “I never did get what the writer was trying to say with that Bo and the Boy Scout with that book we did that one time.”

Myrtle said through gritted teeth, “You mean
To Kill a Mockingbird.
”

“Which you‘d
think
would be about endangered birds! When I read, I want to be able to understand the point! But there aren’t enough books like
Jennifer’s Promise
, so we end up reading about Boy Scouts. But food…we all understand food.”

Myrtle stared at Erma’s protruding tummy and figured that some people understood it better than others. She opened her mouth again to explain that
To Kill a Mockingbird
was real literature and that there were many others where that came from—but then snapped her mouth shut again. Because where would she start with that argument? How could you argue with someone as dense as Erma Sherman? “Mockingbirds are
not
endangered,” was all she could muster.

Tippy Chambers pushed a strand of blonde hair off her forehead. “I think the point really is,” she said, “that we’ve been doing book club for a long time and we’re ready for a change. A supper club would be fun, and we can even get our husbands involved.” Myrtle opened her mouth to argue and Tippy injected quickly, “Would you be interested in having the desserts at your house, Myrtle? I remember your blackberry cobbler was the best I’d ever had.”

Myrtle puffed up a little in her chair. Miles smiled. Diplomacy was the reason why Tippy was the perfect president of anything. Miles clearly recalled Myrtle’s blackberry cobbler as a soggy, undercooked disaster. But Myrtle was already planning her dessert menu, happily putting the unkind comments about her cooking out of her head.

“Y’all, I’ve got to run,” said Jill Caulfield, picking up her pocketbook. “I’ve got a house to clean. So I’ll host the main course, and we said two weeks from today? I’ll have it all set up.”

When Jill walked out, Tippy said quickly, “I’m a little concerned about Jill having to provide all the food for the main course. I think that’s…well, it’s a lot to ask.”

“Why
did
she offer to provide the main course?” Miles quietly asked Myrtle. “Didn’t you say that Jill just cleaned your house? Providing a barbeque dinner for a house full of people is kind of a pricy proposition, isn’t it?”

Myrtle murmured, “I strongly suspect that Jill likes everyone to feel sorry for her. She piles that misery on herself. You know, the whole ‘Poor Jill’ thing. But she sure does know how to clean a house. I’m going to ditch that Puddin of mine.”

“There will probably be thirty people there, if we include spouses,” Tippy was saying. “Are there three or four people who can volunteer to bring some sides in?”

A few hands went up. At the same time, the front door opened and Jill’s sister Willow came in. The hands drooped, then fell under the censorious eye of Tippy. No one wanted to mention Jill’s financial situation. Especially around Willow, who was sure to blame her brother in law for any money problems her sister might face.

Willow’s long, prematurely-gray hair swung around her shoulders. With her hair down, her black tunic over a long, ruffled black skirt, and the amulet around her neck, Willow looked like she’d escaped from a coven.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said in her low, sing-song voice. “Was that Jill I saw pulling out?”

Erma nodded, eyes dancing as she anticipated trouble. “Yes it was. She was off to clean somebody’s house.”

Willow’s face darkened.

Tippy jumped in with a quelling look at Erma. “We’re all hearing wonderful things about Jill’s housekeeping. It seems that she has a wonderful talent for hearth and home.”

Myrtle glanced quickly over at Blanche, who grimaced before her face resumed its usual placid mask.

Willow shook her head and fingered her amulet. “All this work isn’t good for her. She’s got two really draining jobs. She should be reconnecting with her spirit instead of scrubbing people’s bathrooms.”

Erma nodded sympathetically, avoiding Tippy’s quelling glare. “Which she could do if Cullen could go back to work. Such a shame about his
disability
and all,” said Erma, who sounded hopeful for some disability details, which Willow seemed unwilling to elaborate on. “But don’t worry. Even though Myrtle changed the book club into a supper club, and Jill took the main course, we’re all going to chip in with the sides so Jill can afford to host it.”

Tippy jumped in again in her continuing effort to keep control of the meeting. “Willow. I’d better fill you in. Myrtle suggested we change the book club to a supper club.” Myrtle clenched her teeth. “We’re starting it two weeks from today. Miles will have the hors d’oeuvres and drinks, Jill’s covering the main course, and Myrtle is hosting the dessert.”

Willow thought a moment. “What if I host a soup or salad course? It’ll keep the progressive dinner moving.”

“Great idea,” said Tippy. “That cements our plan for the first progressive dinner. The best part is that y’all all live on the same street; we can easily walk from the appetizers to the salads, to the main course, to the dessert. And maybe even enjoy a little wine along the way!” Tippy gave her tinkling laugh. “And thanks again to Myrtle for her brainstorm. To Myrtle!” she said, raising a glass of sweet tea.

“To Myrtle!” everyone chimed in, holding their tea aloft.

Myrtle was ready to trade in her sweet tea for something a bit stronger.

J
ill’s cat, Miss
Chivis, was busily pooping in next door neighbor Sherry Angevine’s yard. Sherry glared out the window as Miss Chivis scratched up a big pile of pine needles to semi-cover her transgression. Sherry wondered how many times Jill’s cat or dog had pooped in her yard while she’d been at book club. It was yet another reason to hate Jill Caulfield.

There were actually many, many reasons to hate Jill. The leaf blower that blared
every
Saturday morning and many Sundays. The oh-so-perfect flower beds with just the right color combinations of impatiens or pansies. The five million Christmas lights that went up two weeks before Thanksgiving and came down two weeks after Christmas and lit up the neighborhood like a carnival.

But Sherry had found a way to funnel her anger against Jill and get revenge on her at exactly the same time. She had a secret.

Willow let herself
into her house and sat down on a corner of a sofa draped with six different cats, all in various stages of napping. There were eight more felines in other parts of the house and a couple of feral cat families that used her backyard as a home base. All five of the dogs came barreling up to greet her and she absently scratched them behind the ears.

Willow had consulted the stars and read her tea leaves, but hadn’t yet found any answers to her problem. How could she get her sister to leave Cullen Caulfield? Jill was wasting her life with Cullen. Willow thought about Jill’s volunteer work and how much
more
she could do if she didn’t have Cullen drinking through all the money she scrabbled together. He treated his body like a sewer and just poured in that poison all day long.

Willow knew how he treated Jill, too. He yelled at her and belittled her and acted like her sole purpose in life was to wait on him hand and foot. And now Jill had invited over half the town of Bradley, North Carolina, to show off their dysfunctional household?

Cullen would probably drink for hours leading up to the party. And he wasn’t one to stay hidden in the back of the house, either. No, he’d be right in with everyone else—laughing too loud, falling over things, knocking glasses over and yelling at his wife. Unless Willow found a way to stop him.

Blanche arrived home,
totally drained from book club. This supper club was going to be a disaster. Now, instead of spending an hour and a half with Jill Caulfield, she was going to have to spend…what? Three or four hours with her? It was intolerable, she thought, as she slipped on designer label sweats and started walking on her treadmill.

But what excuse could Blanche possibly give for getting out of it? Maybe it would have been better if she’d volunteered to host it herself. There was a lot more room in her own house to avoid Jill than in Jill’s cramped bungalow with her alcoholic husband. And how was she going to survive another gathering where Saint Jill’s praises were lauded? Book club had been bad enough with Tippy spouting off about Jill’s cleaning prowess.

There was really no way to avoid this supper club. It was Bradley, after all: a small town. Escaping Jill Caulfield wasn’t a long-term option. Unless something changed, Jill would remain an annoying thorn in her side. Blanche could only hope something would happen to Jill. If only she would disappear…

Georgia was glad
Jill was hosting supper club. She’d never be invited to Jill’s house any other way. This could give her an opportunity to stab Jill in the back a few times. She imagined herself now:
Well, it
is
good barbeque
.
But
I’d
rather be a good person instead of a good cook.
Maybe she could put a sticky note in Jill’s bathroom, saying what a pill Jill was. People were always saying, “Poor Jill! Taking care of that no-good husband and working two jobs!” But Georgia knew the truth about Jill. And she was ready to share it with everybody she knew.

Simon Caulfield said,
“Excuse me? Jill is hosting a supper club at her house? For
how
many people?”

His wife, Libba, shrugged. “I’m guessing thirty or forty? There are usually about fifteen of us who make it to book club and then you count the spouses in there…well, it’ll be a big group.”

“And she volunteered to host the main course? That’s nuts! She cleans houses, for Pete’s sake. She cleans
our
house sometimes.”

Libba shook her head in frustration. “I’d rather she
di
dn’t
though. Sometimes I get a funny feeling about her. And we really can’t afford the help.”

Simon said, “You need the help with the housework, Libba. Especially if the cancer is coming out of remission. While we can still afford the help, we need to get it for you.”

Libba was no fan of Jill’s, but felt the need to point out, “Jill is only cleaning houses because your brother can’t hold down a job. The dinner won’t be as big of a splurge as it sounds—several of the members are bringing sides. But I don’t want to go. Cullen is so embarrassing. He’ll probably be staggering around drunk the whole time. Can we stay at home?”

“No. I think we need to go and make sure Cullen doesn’t make a fool of himself and embarrass us even
more
.”

Libba picked off the last bit of pink nail polish that she’d only just painted on that morning.