Chapter Seven
Since Myrtle wasn’t completely satisfied with the result of her talk with Lee, she conveniently forgot to mention a few of the projects on her list. She was going to need an excuse to get the man back over to her house. He ended up surprising her by having done a very careful, thorough job with the repairs that she did give him to finish. The only thing that he hadn’t fixed was the planter that needed to be reattached to the back wall of the house—he hadn’t had the right screws. Red would be pleased, thought Myrtle as she watched Lee wave to her while carefully making his way through the maze of gnomes to his aging pickup truck.
Red was pleased. He ended up knocking on her door just an hour after Lee left. She showed him the work he’d done and Red nodded his head. “He didn’t charge you much, either,” he said, glancing at the invoice on Myrtle’s desk. “I might have to have him come over to my house and do some stuff for me, too. He could probably knock out half of my list in no time.”
Myrtle nodded, only half listening. “Do you have a few minutes, Red? To help me out?”
Red looked loath to commit since he wasn’t sure what she was going to ask him to do. “Actually, Mama, I came by to ask you a couple of questions regarding the murder.”
Myrtle perked up. Questions meant that she could draw inferences. He must really have some new evidence for him to show his hand that way. But she still needed to have a ride to and from the grocery store. There were lots of things she needed to buy for that reception and she wasn’t going to be able to carry more than one bag and her cane at the same time.
“You can ask me all about it on the way to the grocery store and back,” said Myrtle.
Red relaxed. “Oh, you just need to go to the store? No problem. I thought you were going to ask me to mow that grass of yours and I’ve got too much to do with this case.” Myrtle reached for her cane and her pocketbook while Red looked out her window at the grass, which threatened to obliterate the gnomes from view. “What on earth happened to Dusty? He’s not usually so slack.”
“He won some kind of trip to the beach and he and Puddin have taken off for a few days,” grumbled Myrtle as they headed out her front door, locking it carefully behind them. “It’s too bad, but there’s no way around it.” She paused and then said, “What did you need to ask me about?”
“The day of the murder, did you notice a woman hanging around our street?” asked Red. They walked across the street to his driveway and he held open the front door of the police car for her.
Myrtle frowned. “Well, sure I did. Erma, for one. She’s always lurking around hoping to ambush me and tell me all about her latest fungal infection or something equally revolting. Elaine was hanging out in your front yard, pushing Jack in the toddler swing. Old Franny Parsons staggered to her mailbox and back about a million times. I guess she was trying to see if her pension check had arrived. And….”
Red started up the car and backed it out into the street. “I mean, did you see a woman hanging around our street that you wouldn’t ordinarily expect to see.”
“Like…of what description, Red? I can’t immediately think of someone, no.” It irritated her to think that she’d let some sort of major clue slip by her.
“Well, from what I hear, she’d have been very thin. Rough looking. Wild black hair,” recited Red.
“Nicotine-stained hands and missing teeth?” asked Myrtle quickly.
Red nodded, glancing intently her way as he headed toward downtown. “That’s the one. So you saw her? What time did you see her?”
“No, I didn’t see her,” said Myrtle quite truthfully. She just happened to know whom he was referring to, that was all.
“Then how could you describe her if you didn’t see her?” asked Red through gritted teeth.
“Just a guess, that’s all. I used my imagination and hit the nail on the head,” said Myrtle, not as truthfully this time. She knew this was a description of Wanda, the psychic who lived in a shack on the way out of town. What on earth Wanda would have been doing on their street, she had no idea, but it was too coincidental not to have something to do with the murder. As soon as she could catch a ride from Miles, she’d be out there getting the full story from her.
Red looked suspicious. “I don’t recall your being particularly fanciful before, Mama. Are you sure you don’t know anything about this woman?”
“Not a bit.” Mercifully, they were parking outside the store now and Red was helping her out the door. She got a cart and they went inside.
Myrtle walked over to the dairy counter and piled cheese into her cart. Red blinked at her. “Mama, why are you buying all this cheese? You won’t be able to eat it all before it goes bad.”
“I’m hosting a reception after Charles Clayborne’s funeral,” said Myrtle. “Remember? To be a good friend to Miles, you know. Since it’s his cousin’s funeral and the service is here in Bradley and since Miles doesn’t want to host anything or really even claim the man as kin.” She moved her cart to a center aisle and pulled out a few boxes of gelatin in different colors.
Myrtle glanced at Red. “Why are you making a face like that?”
“This is the food you’re serving at the funeral reception? Cheese and gelatin?” he asked.
“Well, not together! But, yes. I’m going to cut the cheese into cubes and put it on a big plate. And the gelatin I’ll put in a big bowl and people can help themselves,” said Myrtle.
Red cleared his throat and stared into the grocery cart at the offending items. “Mama, have you gone to any funeral receptions lately? I don’t think I’ve seen much cheese and gelatin at the ones I’ve been to.”
“Cut to the chase, Red. What are you saying? That I don’t need to buy this stuff?”
“Or maybe that you should get some different things. Won’t the church be sending food over to Miles? Usually the church ladies always show up with ham biscuits, deviled eggs, potato salad, peach cobbler—stuff like that,” said Red.
“I can make deviled eggs,” said Myrtle, feeling stubborn. Why was everyone always in such a tizzy when she mentioned she was having a reception? She strongly suspected it was age-discrimination, a frequent suspicion of hers considering her relentless inching toward ninety. Ninety-year-olds didn’t get the proper respect. Octogenarians still commanded their share of power.
“Sure you can,” said Red, rolling his eyes. “But why even bother when you’ll be receiving food from the church, anyway? You’re helping out enough just hosting everyone in your house.”
It could be that she wanted to bother simply because everyone seemed so dead-set against her doing it. “I’m already at the store, Red. I’ve heard your advice and I won’t make quite as much food as I planned to make, but I can’t just hold a reception and wait for the food to show up. I’ve also got to make sure there’s something to drink there.”
“Well, do me a favor and keep it alcohol-free. After breaking that drunken brawl up last week, all I want is to make sure the town of Bradley is drinking lemonade,” said Red.
“I was only planning on serving non-alcoholic drinks,” said Myrtle primly. “But I think you’ve lost your mind if you think that people are going to fight at a funeral reception.”
The next morning, Myrtle picked up the phone and dialed Miles. His very sleepy voice answered after six or seven rings.
“Are you sleeping?” asked Myrtle with great surprise.
“Not any longer,” said Miles in a cold voice.
“I figured you’d have been up for hours,” said Myrtle, feeling a slight pang of remorse. Still, crime fighting didn’t stop for the clock and she had investigating to do early.
Miles gave only a grumpy-sounding snort in response.
“The reason I’m calling is that I need to drive out to see Wanda this morning. Red said she’d been lurking around our street before the murder and I want to find out what she was doing. So, I need to either borrow your car or hitch a ride with you out to her place,” said Myrtle.
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Miles heaved a long-suffering type of sigh. “This is the psychic out on the old highway, heading out of town? The one who lives with her insane brother?”
“Crazy like a fox, if you ask me. Yes, he’s called Crazy Dan,” said Myrtle.
“Can’t you ask someone else for a ride,” asked Miles in annoyance. “You’ve gotten rides from others before. Like Erma.”
Myrtle said with dignity, “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. As you well know, I’ve been avoiding Erma like the plague for some time. Deliberately seeking out her company would mean that I’d had a small stroke. Besides, the last time I saw her—from a distance—she was babbling incoherently about having a clue…that you were the murderer.”
Miles groaned. “Typical. And I suppose she’ll blab whatever nonsense she’s got fixed in her head to everyone in town. There goes my reputation. Miles Bradford—murderer.”
“Not necessarily. No one listens to Erma Sherman anyway. For their own self-protection. Otherwise, their heads would explode with all her disgusting medical reports on her various revolting conditions. Besides, knowing the old hens in this town, the thought of you being some sort of rogue would make you even more appealing,” said Myrtle.
“You mean adding to my appeal as someone who still drives,” said Miles dryly. For some reason, the thought he was desirable simply because of his driver’s license had certainly stung.
“Going back to my need for a ride. Erma is impossible to ask because she’s so infernally nosy,” said Myrtle.
Miles gave a suggestive cough.
“I know what you’re thinking. But I’m investigating, not being nosy. I’ve already written a short update story for the paper. It’s running tomorrow morning.” It wasn’t a really newsy article since there weren’t a lot of undisputed facts about the case yet. But the important thing was that the story had her byline on it. She could use the investigative reporter angle to question suspects anytime she needed to.
“Whatever,” sighed Miles. “I guess I could drive you out there in a little while. It’ll at least give me an excuse not to endure a visit from Aunt Connie. She said she might drop by this afternoon.”
“Really?” asked Myrtle. “Oh, Miles, we shouldn’t pass up a chance to talk with her. If we go to Wanda’s house this morning, that leaves all afternoon for us to talk to Aunt Connie.”
“You won’t enjoy the experience Myrtle. You’ll want to run away. It’ll be very similar to a visit with Erma Sherman.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Myrtle firmly. “Besides, I usually hit it off with the elderly. I’m a member of the club, after all.”
“Yes, you’ve been a card-carrying member for a few years,” said Miles. “But remember—she’s not particularly elderly. In fact, she’s not even sixty.”
“There’s something really icky about that, too,” said Myrtle distastefully. “Yuck.”
“Nothing to do with me,” said Miles. “My uncle just fancied much younger women. And I told you that I don’t want to claim either my aunt or Cousin Charles. Now look, if we’re going out into the sticks to visit a country psychic, I need to go ahead and get ready.”
Myrtle snorted. “Don’t worry about dressing up. We’ll be lucky if Wanda is wearing shoes. And very lucky if Crazy Dan is wearing a shirt.”
Miles sucked in a shuddering breath. “Fine. I’m so excited about the direction my day is heading. Maybe I’ll forgo my coffee this morning and have a Bloody Mary instead.”
“As long as I’m driving, which I’m happy to do. My driver’s license is good for another eight years.”
Miles made a funny noise on his end of the phone, which she couldn’t quite decipher. “Never mind. I’ll just be sure to serve drinks while dear Aunt Connie is visiting. I’ll need one then.”
An hour later, Miles pulled his car up in front of Myrtle’s house. She grabbed her cane, locked the door behind her, and started carefully picking her way through the now very tall grass and gnomes. One of the problems was that her yard was afflicted with crabgrass. She glared resentfully at Erma Sherman’s offending yard, the source of the scourge. If Myrtle just had regular grass in her yard, it would never be this tall now. That Erma! And that Puddin and Dusty, too!
She jumped when a nasal voice whispered out her name and held her cane up, protectively. Sure enough, it was Erma. “You scared the living daylights out of me,” she snapped at her neighbor. “What are you whispering about? All I need is to fall down in this death trap of a yard, thinking I’m hearing ghosts.”
Erma’s eyes were large and she bobbed her head in the direction of Miles’s car. “You’re not going off with him are you? Myrtle, you’re in danger.”
“He’s not that bad of a driver. I’m only in fair-to-middling danger. I’m in a lot more danger than that just walking around my yard right now. Can you do something about the crabgrass situation? It’s spilling over into my yard and turning it into a disaster area,” said Myrtle.
Erma looked around Myrtle’s yard and smirked. “Ha! Your yard is a disaster area, crabgrass or no crabgrass. You’re going off on a tangent, too. I wasn’t talking about Miles’s driving; I was talking about the fact that he’s a deranged killer.” Her donkey-like face focused intently on Myrtle.
Myrtle waved her cane in the air, hoping at least to make Erma back up a bit so her fetid breath wouldn’t waft in her direction. “All right. You’ve warned me. Now let me catch up with my ride.”
Erma looked tenderly at her. “I know you have feelings for Miles, but you can’t let your romantic dreams get in the way of your safety. Are you usually drawn to dangerous men?”
Myrtle roared at her and stomped away. “Enough of your nonsense! I am not in love with Miles Bradford!”
She yanked open the passenger side door, plopped herself inside, and slammed the door behind her.
“I never imagined that you were,” said Miles mildly.
Myrtle noticed the car windows were down. She huffily rolled hers back up. “Erma has gone too far this time. Too far!”
Miles sighed. “What kind of rumors will she be responsible for circulating this time?”
“Aside from the one she’s already propagating—your being a vicious killer? I’m sure she’s reviving her favorite rumor…that you and I are involved,” said Myrtle grumpily.
“No one pays attention to that one anyway,” said Miles.
“Hmph,” said Myrtle.
They rode in silence for a couple of minutes, then Miles said, “Can you remind me again where this place is? I know it’s on the old highway out of town, but that’s all I remember.”
“It’s a ways out. Just keep driving. You’ll start to see signs advising you to examine the state of your soul, then you’ll see signs for boil p-nuts, bait, and sykick. That’s when you’ll need to slow down to turn off,” said Myrtle.
“I can hardly wait,” said Miles grimly.
It was a good twenty-five minutes before they started seeing the signs off the badly potholed state highway outside Bradley. “These aren’t so bad,” said Miles. “Jesus loves you? That’s a lovely sentiment, Myrtle.”
“Just wait.”
The next sign was a bit more ominous. Forbidden fruit creates many jams. “Well, it’s certainly true. The straight and narrow path usually leads to an uncomplicated life. I think these rural churches are simply looking out for their parishioners.”
Myrtle grunted.
The next sign said: Choose the bread of life or you are toast, followed quickly by: Eternity is a long time to be wrong.
Miles heaved another sigh. He seemed to be full of them lately.
“Right here,” said Myrtle pointing off to the side of the road where a faded sign advertised bait, hubcaps, peanuts, and psychic readings for sale.
“Where’s the house?” asked Miles, pulling into the dirt and gravel path (that was heavy on dirt and low on gravel) that passed for a driveway and carefully dodging various cars on cinderblocks.
“R
ight there in front of you! Don’t tell me you can’t see it,” said Myrtle, waving a hand at a shack that was completely engulfed in hubcaps.
Miles blinked at the shack. “I assumed that was the hubcap showroom. They live there?”
“Oh, it’s fine. Don’t be such a priss. I’m sure there are probably many advantages in living in a house covered by hubcaps.”
“So,” said Miles slowly, “when a customer wants a new hubcap, they pull it off their house?” He seemed unduly concerned about the structure of the house. It must be his engineering background. Or whatever it is that he used to do.
“Come on, let’s go up there,” said Myrtle, impatiently, pulling her cane out of the backseat and heaving herself out of the car. She walked over to the house and rapped her cane on one of the hubcaps. There was a sign duct-taped near the door that said, Madam Zora. Sykick. Tarro Card reeding.
“Crazy Dan always is the one who answers,” grumbled Myrtle. “For some reason he acts personally offended whenever he sees me at the door.”
A grizzled man with leathery skin and days of stubble yanked the door open abruptly and glanced suspiciously at both; then his beady eyes honed back in on Myrtle. “You! What’re you doing here again?”