Progressive Dinner Deadly (9 page)

W
hen Myrtle opened
her door the next morning to get the paper, she was horrified to see a grinning Erma on her doorstep. “I was just about to knock!” she beamed, breathing noxious fumes into Myrtle’s too-close face.

“Really?” asked Myrtle coldly. “Since I’m still just waking up, Erma, so maybe another…”

“We’ll have a nice cup of coffee,” said Erma, already striding into Myrtle’s house.

“I don’t drink it.”

“
Sure
you do! I’ve seen you drink it dozens of times.”

“I don’t
anymore
, though. My doctor recommended I stop.” For some reason, Myrtle thought grimly, being around Erma always made her start lying through her teeth.

Erma stuck her head in Myrtle’s fridge. “Okay. I’m easy. Here are two Cokes, so let’s stick with that then.” She popped them open and put them on Myrtle’s kitchen table with its red-checkered tablecloth.

Erma was
always
like this. Always. She just
hijacked
your day.

“So, let’s talk about the murder,” said Erma in a salacious voice that Myrtle found entirely inappropriate. “I saw that story in the paper today, Myrtle. All about your investigative reporting and all. I’ve got some really good theories about Jill’s murder.
Good
ones.” She guzzled noisily from her Coke can.

“Erma,
what
are you talking about? What story—“

“I’m liking Tiny Kirk for this murder,” said Erma decidedly.

Now Erma had Myrtle’s attention. “Tiny? Why on earth would Tiny Kirk want to murder Jill? They didn’t even know each other.”

Erma looked affronted. “Sure they did. They were even at the same party together. And Tiny helped break up that fight between Jill and Willow.”

Myrtle clucked. “That doesn’t mean they knew each other. Tiny was the only person young enough and big enough at that party to separate them. Look, I
do
know who did it, okay? I know
exactly
who did it because I remembered something right after the murder. I just need to collect some evidence before I unveil the killer to Red.”

“Don’t you mean share it with the newspaper?” asked Erma. “You’re supposed to be writing the story for them.”

Myrtle got up and walked straight outside to wrest the slender newspaper from the gnomes.
Well-known Octogenarian Tackles Murder Investigation.
And the subtitle:
Bugle Investigative Reporter Myrtle Clover Hot on the Trail of a Killer.
Great. Sloan could always be counted on to take the sensational route when he was desperate for subscriptions. No chance of working undercover as a gossipy old lady now.

Irritably, she said to Erma, “So now you know. As soon as I get some evidence, I’ll have this case all wrapped up for the police.”

It was worth any little white lies to see Erma’s face, gaping at her, thought Myrtle with satisfaction. Tiny Kirk! Tiny didn’t have the brains to show
up
for a murder, much less orchestrate one.

“Oh. Okay. I’ll see you at the visitation this afternoon then,” said Erma, sounding for all the world like they were both going to be guests at a garden party. “Can’t wait to hear who the killer is.”

Jill’s graveside funeral
was closed to all but the family. Myrtle had a suspicion that this was because Cullen was too intoxicated for the town to witness him at his wife’s funeral (and gossip about it later.) Instead, they had a visitation at the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home the morning before the funeral.

Cullen made an appearance for only a few minutes before one of his cousins drove him back home. Willow was there, wearing a black and brown caftan and with her white hair pulled back severely in a leather band. Cullen’s brother, Simon, took his place and stood to greet visitors with his wife, Libba, beside him. He seemed coldly reserved, but dutiful.

Libba smiled appreciatively at everyone and looked as if she were itching to bring out food and beverages. She looked painfully aware that this was
not
the way she’d been brought up to do funerals in the South. In small towns like Bradley, it was still customary to have the visitation at the family home, not the funeral home. There should be a frantic day of cleaning to get the house company-ready, a dining room table groaning with Chicken Divan casseroles, and an army of church ladies bossing each other around.

“I’m so sorry,” murmured Myrtle to Simon and Libba. “I really did like Jill.”

They thanked her and Myrtle signed the guest book and walked out to the Gates of Heaven’s front lobby. She was horrified to hear Erma Sherman’s voice, at its usual high volume, “I’ll never forget the sight of her, dead as a doornail on the kitchen floor. Such a shame about that barbeque, too. At least it wasn’t a total waste, since we all helped ourselves to it. And soon we won’t have to be barricading ourselves in our houses, either. Myrtle knows who did it! She said she’s just collecting some evidence and then she’ll get Red to lock him up.”

Myrtle froze in horror as Red picked that very moment to walk out of the Caulfield’s visitation room. His expression was stormy. Beside him was Willow, looking frozen.

“She just needs a little more evidence, you know. Can’t turn somebody in without any evidence. But the murderer is sure to screw something up. The killer wasn’t smart killing Jill like that, anyway. Blood everywhere! And supper club on its way over.”

Finally someone in Erma’s group caught a glimpse of Willow’s usually-pale face now blotched with red at the mention of Jill’s blood. “Shhh!” she said to Erma, who clapped a hand over her mouth. But Erma was determined to make the best use of the spotlight. “I was thinking it could be Georgia. You know? Because Georgia hated her guts. And she could have easily walked over to Jill’s house from Miles’.”

Willow spun around and scurried back into the visitation room. Elaine winced at the scene and looked questioningly at Myrtle. Myrtle just shrugged. She wasn’t going to admit to anything. Not while Erma was being so unexpectedly interesting.

“Erma! For heaven’s sake,” said Tippy. “Georgia’s just standing right over there!”

And she was. Glowering. “And I’m thinking I could save time by taking you out right here in a funeral home. Since there are caskets here and everything.”

Miles looked intrigued.

Erma had the grace to blush an unbecoming shade. “Did I say
your
name? I meant that
Sherry
probably did it. She hated living next to Jill. Bad blood there, you know.”

Myrtle was, by now, thoroughly enjoying herself. Erma was really very self-destructive today, which was unlike her. Sherry was standing right behind her…until she moved around to shoot Erma a look that would freeze hell itself and stalked off.

Erma didn’t look nearly as discomfited by the experience as an ordinary person would, but she wasn’t as chatty as she usually was, either. After Erma started behaving herself, the visitation got a lot duller.

Tippy moved closer to Myrtle and murmured, “How
do
you stand living next door to her?”

“I’m a saint.”

Tippy looked doubtfully at Myrtle and changed the subject. “I offered to pick up Willow and take her to the United Methodist Women luncheon tomorrow. The covered dish one? I thought it would be a good idea for her to get out of the house a little, since she’s looking sort of puny. You mentioned at the supper club that you were interested in doing more with the UMW.”

Tippy said this as a statement of fact. Myrtle winced. She must have said that during a lull in the conversation. She hated awkward little lulls. Tippy, as president of the United Methodist Women, would naturally be happy to capitalize on Myrtle’s moment of weakness.

“So I hope we’ll see you there tomorrow. It’s a great little lunch and then we’ll discuss business. We’re really looking for members to join our Bereavement Visitation Casserole committee.”

Myrtle nodded glumly. She’d expected as much.

Miles walked with Myrtle back to her house.

“Did I tell you,” asked Myrtle, “how much I’m enjoying
The Master and Margarita
? I’ve been completely bowled over by it.

“Really.” Miles folded his arms over his chest as he walked. “What was your favorite part of
Bulgakov’s book
?”

“Oh, it’s so hard to choose a favorite part with a book like that. With classic literature like
The Master and Margarita
, every bit plays like a finely tuned instrument.”

“Did you like the part where Anthony renounced his family and embraced a nomadic existence, living solely on the kindness of strangers?” asked Miles.

“Now that you mention it, yes. Yes, I loved that part. It really exhibited his unique spirit and search for something important outside himself. Something absent in his life.”

“Myrtle,” said Miles in a grave voice, “I completely made that part up. There’s not even an Anthony in the book. The book is a satire on atheist socialism and stifling bureaucracy in 1930s Moscow.”

“Oh,” said Myrtle. She suddenly felt very cross.

“What was it that you wanted? You might as well just come out with it.”

“I’d like to borrow your car,” said Myrtle.

Miles winced. He was as protective over that silly Volvo as an old biddy with her cat, thought Myrtle.

“Do you remember how to drive?” asked Miles in a halting voice.

Myrtle narrowed her eyes. “Of course I do, Miles! I drove a car for forty years. I could drive your car in my sleep.”

“That’s what I’m worried about! You said car rides make you sleepy.”

“When I’m a
passenger
!” said Myrtle.

“Why don’t I just drive you wherever it is that you want to go?”

Myrtle glared at him. “Because I don’t want you coming along!” She gave him a huffy sigh. “I’m going to see a psychic. That’s all. And she’s a little skittish.”

Miles just stared at her. “A psychic?”

“Don’t get all superior on me. You know very well that there were psychics even in Atlanta. And this one has reliable information sometimes. Her name is Wander.”

“Wander?” said Miles, tasting the unfamiliar name on his tongue.

“Wanda, I guess. But her brother calls her Wander.” Miles still looked hesitant and Myrtle said impatiently, “She’s someone I met during my last case—she lives out in the sticks with her brother, Crazy Dan. This might sound crazy, but I think she might have Powers.”

Miles squinted doubtfully at the Powers. “Welllll…all right. But please make sure I don’t end up regretting this.”

Myrtle’s trek to
the psychic took her down an old rural highway lined with decaying motels and ivy-infested buildings. Before the interstate system, Myrtle remembered the road had been a bustling thoroughfare. Now no one really hopped on the road unless there was construction or an accident on the interstate that they were desperate to avoid.

There weren’t many houses out there. Except for Crazy Dan’s. And Crazy Dan and Wander weren’t the kind to embrace change. A rotten sign proclaiming “CRAZY Dan’s Boil P-nuts, Hubcaps, Fireworks, Live Bait!!!” was next to another decrepit sign with a palm and “Madam Zora, Sykick” barely visible. Myrtle pulled off down the dirt driveway into Crazy Dan’s yard. She took out her cane and walked carefully to the house, avoiding tree roots sticking out of the red clay.

The last time she’d come by Crazy Dan’s tiny house, she’d puzzled over announcing her arrival. The shack was completely covered by hubcaps. Even the front door. And there was no doorbell. This time she didn’t hesitate before lifting up her cane and rapping it forcefully against one of the metal hubcaps.

Crazy Dan opened the door and stuck his grizzled face out. His face was nearly covered too—by a wild, mangy beard and shaggy gray hair. “You agin!” As if it’d been mere hours instead of months. “Whatcha want this time?”