The only positive part of the night was that the combination of fattening Southern food and boring conversation had given Myrtle her first good night’s sleep in a long while. The next morning Red greeted her at the breakfast table with a smile. “Just got a call on my cell from the air conditioning people, Mama. They’re going to be at your house in twenty minutes. I’m going over there to let them in and talk with them about the system.”
He looked pleased as punch. It made Myrtle feel a little sour. She hadn’t even gotten the information she wanted on the case, yet. It was all very discouraging.
After she’d eaten and gotten dressed, she looked out the window and saw Red talking with the repairmen.
There was a rap at Elaine’s front door. She pulled it open and saw dumpy Puddin standing on her front step with a baleful look on her pale face. “Puddin! What are you doing here!”
“Went over to your house, didn’t I? To clean? And Red sent me over here to talk to you.”
“You’re not even supposed to clean my house for another few days. Are you sick or something?” It was a record show of productivity for the lazy Puddin. Myrtle would have to make it a red letter day in her diary.
“Just thought I’d clean.” Puddin ambled in and plopped down on Elaine’s sofa, ready to visit.
“Puddin, I don’t have time for your foolishness today. You have the worst timing of anyone I’ve ever seen. I haven’t even been over at my house to make a mess. The air conditioner is broken.”
“Beauty Box doesn’t need me right now and this was one of my days over there. Kat doesn’t need a cleaner, she says.” She rolled her eyes.
“Probably because Kat works harder than Tammy did. I’m sure she’s doing her own cleaning now.” Or maybe she was tired of Puddin’s nonsense. “Well, today isn’t a good day to clean at my house. Come back again on your normal day.”
Puddin gave her a resentful look. “All right, I’m going. Maybe Mr. Connor’s house needs a cleaning.”
Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were cleaning for Connor Walker. When did this happen?” If Puddin were Connor’s housekeeper, that would explain why his house was so messy.
Puddin relaxed into the sofa a little more. “Since his house started being dirty.”
“He’s a bachelor. His house must have been dirty for years.”
“He just started caring about it a few months ago. And I saw something interesting there yesterday.” Puddin’s grin showed a broken tooth. “He had company there!”
“What kind of company?”
“Kat was there!” said Puddin in triumph.
“Overnight?”
“Naw,” said Puddin, waving her hand in dismissive fashion. “But during the day.”
This wasn’t the news Myrtle was hoping to be able to get from Puddin. Particularly since she’d already known this news. And, actually, since she was instrumental in causing this news to even exist.”
Puddin must have realized that her gossip wasn’t impressing Myrtle. “Something else I know,” she added quickly. “Heard it from another cleaner who I know. She knows someone who knows someone…”
“Puddin!” said Myrtle in a threatening tone.
“…who cleans for Miz Bootsie,” finished Puddin triumphantly as if proud of her close connections. “She says that Miz Bootsie has secrets.”
This was not good enough information to justify an intrusive visit from Puddin. “I’ve got secrets, myself. Plenty of stuff that I don’t want anybody to know. Like what’s in my medicine cabinets, how much I weigh, what my shoe size is, since my feet aren’t exactly dainty—”
Puddin was shaking her head scornfully. “This is a better secret. Miz Bootsie has a boyfriend. That’s what they say,” she said defensively, as if she couldn’t quite believe it herself.
Interesting. Maybe Tammy had been on to something, after all. She’d have to see what she could get out of Bootsie’s cleaner, when it was time for her to visit Elaine’s house.
By the time Myrtle had finally shooed Puddin out of the house, it was nearly lunchtime. Looking out the window, it appeared that the repairmen were still milling around and that the air conditioner hadn’t been fixed. Myrtle was feeling like some fried food and Bo’s Diner was just the place. It helped that the diner was owned by Tammy’s ex and was a mecca for local gossip and news.
A bell rang as she opened the door to the diner. Myrtle breathed in the smell of fried vegetables appreciatively. The décor at the diner hadn’t changed since Bo took it over from his father twenty years ago. Its dark wood-paneled walls, green Formica-topped tables and lunch counter and the scrubbed-clean linoleum floors had an un-touristy feel that pleased the locals. An old Coke promotional sign proclaimed “Breakfast served anytime” and “If you can’t say it to Granny, please don’t say it in here.”
Myrtle glanced around the small restaurant and saw Bootsie sitting with Judge Davenport at a table in the back. They fell into the category of old married couples with nothing to say to each other. They’d talked every possible conversation and weren’t creative enough people to develop new lines of discussion.
Conveniently, there were no empty tables. With a wobbly gait, Myrtle approached the Davenport’ booth. She asked in a feeble voice, “Could I share a table with y’all? I’d try the lunch counter stools, but. . .” Myrtle shrugged helplessly.
Judge Beauregard Davenport rose hastily to his feet and Bootsie urged, “Sit with us, sweetie.”
Myrtle winced at the familiarity. She preferred old-school deferential treatment with lots of ma’ams thrown in for good measure. She gritted her teeth and managed a grimaced smile in return as she slid onto the vinyl booth next to Bootsie.
Beauregard said, “Glad you could sit with us, Miss Myrtle. We wouldn’t want you hoistin’ yourself up at the lunch counter stool. How’re you doing? Bootsie, did you know Miss Myrtle taught me eleventh grade English?”
Bootsie seemed stunned that her elderly husband had ever been in eleventh grade. Myrtle said, “I wasn’t much older than my students that year. One of my very first years on the job.” Small talk followed along the themes of Beauregard’s youthful indiscretions and Bootsie appeared relieved at her escape from a silent lunch.
Myrtle’s order was quickly taken and served, despite the crowd. When asked her view on Greener Pastures, Myrtle happily offered her opinion on retirement homes in general (“It’s fun living with your peers in college, but depressing when your peers are geriatric—”) before detailing the specific iniquities committed by Greener Pastures’ cafeteria staff. Myrtle assured them the meatloaf, fried okra, black-eyed peas, and bread pudding at Bo’s Diner were far superior to food at Greener Pastures. Gesturing emphatically with her fork, Myrtle shared her theory that the food woes at Greener Pastures were symptomatic of larger problems at the facility.
Bootsie frowned, revealing tiny little wrinkles. “Mama never mentioned the food being that bad. Should we have lunch with her Sunday after church?” she asked her husband.
“I wouldn’t go Sunday,” said Myrtle with a knowledgeable air. “They serve the finest food of the week then because that’s the day everyone visits.” She leaned forward confidentially. “They’ll have chicken. They should call it rubber chicken because they’ll stretch that sucker all the way through the week. Chicken salad. Chicken tacos. Fried chicken. Chicken surprise.” Myrtle shook her head. “Go Friday night. That’ll be an eye-opener.”
Judge Davenport pulled at his shirt collar a little bit. He probably didn’t fancy removing his mother-in-law from the reasonably priced Greener Pastures and depositing her in The Belk Home for the Aged, at much steeper costs. Myrtle had a feeling he’d be changing the subject very quickly. He looked like he was wracking his brain for better conversation topics.
“Hear anything from Red about how Tammy Smith’s case is going?” he asked.
Bootsie rolled her eyes. “Tammy again! I’m tired of that subject, darling,” she implored him. “Her death was actually the be
st thing that could have happened to the Beauty Box. With Kat in charge, it’ll be so much cuter. And have real beauticians.” She said the last sentence pointedly as Dina wandered into the diner with fuzzy pink curlers in her hair before realizing her mistake with horror as people stared at her and darting out the door again.
“I only want to know how Red’s getting on,” he protested.
Myrtle interrupted the argument, not wanting to let the chance pass, “I think the investigation is going pretty well. He said they had some new leads. He wouldn’t tell me what they were, though.”
Judge Davenport scraped up the last bit of macaroni and cheese off his plate. “Did they find anyone with a grudge against Tammy Smith?”
Something resembling a snort came from his ladylike wife. Myrtle answered, “Everybody she came in regular contact with had a grudge against her.” Myrtle dipped her head closer to her Blue Plate special and surreptitiously watched Bootsie through her eyelashes. “Tammy knew a lot of secrets and her drinking made her a loudmouth.” With an innocent look, she sat back up and asked, “Don’t you agree, Bootsie?”
Bootsie turned pale, then flushed. “I suppose, Miss Myrtle,” she replied slowly. She squinted shrewdly at Myrtle. Bootsie wouldn’t want to give up the easy life she had with her husband. Could she kill someone though? She probably could, given the right circumstances. If she felt like her back was against the wall.
“And poor Connor Walker and his broken heart,” said Myrtle, shaking her head sorrowfully.
She didn’t really get the reaction she was hoping for. Bootsie and her husband merely looked surprised at the change of subject. Bootsie answered, “Were they all that close, Miss Myrtle? I had the impression that things were cooling off between them.”
Maybe Connor wasn’t the young man in Bootsie’s life, after all. Bootsie resumed her bored moue until her cell phone loudly announced its presence and she eagerly grabbed it from her designer purse. Judge Davenport finished his lunch, and said with automatic endearment to his wife, when she’d wrapped up her conversation, “Sweetheart, are you ready to head out? Miss Myrtle, it was a pleasure.”
Bootsie rose and picked up her pocketbook. “Yes, it was. And thanks for giving me the heads-up on the Home, honey. We’ll be sure to go over and check on Mama.”
Myrtle smiled as the suddenly glum Beauregard Davenport followed his wife from the diner. His wallet would soon be a lot lighter. Myrtle doubted Bootsie would be impressed by the Friday night supper offerings at Greener Pastures.
The diner was at its lunchtime busiest and Bo Smith, the owner of the diner, came out of the kitchen to help check on tables. When he reached Myrtle’s, he leaned his large frame over and spoke deferentially. “Everything okay, Miss Myrtle?”
She studied his open face and wondered again why Tammy had been so mean to him. He wasn’t handsome like Connor, but tall and bulky with a belly sneaking over his beltline. His nose wasn’t perfectly straight and his hairline had receded into a memory. But he was hardworking, loyal, and sweet. Much as Tammy had wanted to play victim, Myrtle was certain Bo wouldn’t have laid a finger on her.
“Everything’s delicious as usual, Bo. But I should be asking you if everything’s okay. Tammy’s death must have come as a shock to you.”
To Myrtle’s discomfort, Bo’s eyes welled with tears. “Aw, Miss Myrtle,” he said, rubbing a beefy scrubbed-raw hand over his face. “Things are awful, just awful.” Despite the bustle around him, he was eager to talk and pulled out a chair to sit with her. “She was so full of life! It don’t seem right she’s dead.” He sniffed loudly.
“My friends tell me Tammy wouldn’t have shed any tears over me. I know she told stories about me around town.” He gave Myrtle an imploring look. “I never laid a finger on her. I cherished every hair on her little head. She just didn’t want anybody to think she was a loser, even at marriage. She liked being the strong one. I know that was the reason she said all those things. I let her tell people I was the bad guy if it helped her save face.” He stared blankly out the window. “Then she started going with Mrs. Walker’s son, Connor.”
“That must have been hard on you.”
“It sure was. But not as hard as the news that Tammy died.”
Myrtle tiptoed delicately around the alibi. “You didn’t happen to see or hear anything the night of her murder? The diner isn’t too far away from the salon.”
“No, I sure didn’t. That was our late night for being open and we were short staffed. It was past midnight by the time I left here and the police told me that Tammy was already gone then.” He fished around in his pocket for a tissue.
That was the solid alibi that Perkins had alluded to. And she’d learned more about the time of death, too. “I didn’t even realize that y’all were open that late. Whatever you’re doing with the diner has really made it successful, though. It’s always packed in here.”
Bo gazed with blind eyes around the restaurant. “The reason I worked so hard after the divorce is because I was trying to forget about Tammy. Slaving days was the only way I could sleep nights.”
“‘I worked like a horse and I ate like a hog and I slept like a dead man,’” quoted Myrtle understandingly.
Bo’s kind face creased with wrinkles of concern. He studied Myrtle as if worried he was witnessing the first signs of dementia. She reassured, “Kipling.”
The name didn’t seem to register with him. Myrtle moved on, “Do you think that Connor could have murdered Tammy? I hear they had quite an argument the night she died.”
Bo shook his head. “But it wouldn’t have been easy to get rid of Tammy. She’d have been furious at being dumped. Maybe she’d have fought about it, especially if she’d been drinking. He could’ve pushed her a little to shut her up.” He sighed. “She was a lot smaller than you’d have thought. No bigger than a minute. Maybe he just shoved her and she fell down those stairs.”
Myrtle felt it was kinder not to mention the scissors embedded in Tammy’s back. And Tammy wasn’t little. Maybe she was just little compared to Bo.
One of Bo’s waitresses punched him on the shoulder as she went by. “Bo! We need some help with this crowd. The orders in the kitchen are getting backed up, too.”
Bo sighed and stood up. “Gotta run, Miss Myrtle. But it was nice talking to you, ma’am.” He gave a shy smile.
“Nice talking to you, too, Bo. Tell your mother hi for me. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
She was about to go pay at the front desk when she saw Kat walk through the door and look around for a table. Since there were still none available, Myrtle gestured for her to sit next to her. Kat grinned, her pink hair glinting in the sun beaming through the window. “Perfect timing, huh?”
Myrtle noticed from the corner of her eye that Connor Walker walked in through the diner door. Once again she motioned to share the table. As he sauntered over, she said to Kat, “Yes, dear, I think it is.” As soon as Connor reached the table and pulled out a chair, Myrtle glanced at her watch and dithered, “Is that really the time? I’ve got to run. Delicious lunch! I do recommend the Blue Plate special today.” Connor stood back up respectfully, handed Myrtle her cane, and watched as she paid at the front counter. The hymn replayed in her head again. Saint Myrtle. It had a nice ring to it.
Connor sat back down and looked across the table at a sardonically smiling Kat. “Maybe she’s trying to make up for nearly killing us with that casserole,” said Kat.
Connor answered sheepishly, “I guess she’s matchmaking. She’s as bad as my mother.” He would have to pay Miss Myrtle back for all her helpfulness. “What’ll we order?”