Progressive Dinner Deadly (8 page)

“Oh Lord. Heads-up, it’s Erma Sherman.”

“Helloooooo!” called out Erma in her nasal voice. “You’re not
exercising
, are you, Myrtle? I mean, I know you walk to get places because you’re too old to drive, but I didn’t know you walked for fun, too!”

Myrtle frowned discouragingly at Erma. “Exercise is supposed to be good for me. Besides…”

“I’m sure it is, Myrtle. Maybe you’ll even live to be ninety!” said Erma kindly. “I walk every day!” She stood her stocky body tall and upright, at attention. Then she relaxed and laughed. “Glad I saw you out here, Myrtle. I wanted to let you know that I saw something at the hardware store yesterday that should help you with your crabgrass epidemic. Maybe you’ll want to check it out. Just take your walk tomorrow in that direction. Crabgrass can take over everything, you see.” She looked sagely at Myrtle through her thick glasses.

“Thanks for the advice,” Myrtle said tartly. “But as I told you before, it’s really
your
yard that’s…”

“Well, got to get going. Can’t afford to let my heart rate slow down, you know. Toodle-oo!” Myrtle watched with great relief as she charged back off.

“Does she
have
a heart rate?” asked Sherry. “She’s like Frankenstein. I don’t know how you stand living next door to her.” Sherry paused. “Almost as bad as living next to Jill.”

Myrtle leaned in on her cane. “What do you mean?”

“That’s what I was talking about before Erma bulldozed her way into our conversation.” Sherry lowered her voice to a pitch that Myrtle had trouble hearing. “What’s worse than the murder is that I’m
glad
she’s dead.”

Myrtle nodded attentively and Sherry continued. “To be perfectly honest, Miss Myrtle, Jill Caulfield drove me nuts for
years
. Talk about keeping up with the Joneses. There was no way in hell you could keep up with Jill. She’d be out here with her scissors, trimming some tiny shaggy spot near her curb. You never noticed when her flowers faded because she’d replace them with others. And
don’t
get me started on her Christmas decorations!” Sherry was red in the face by this time.

Myrtle thought a moment. “I think I remember cars driving by just to look at the decorations.” At Sherry’s nod, Myrtle said, “A huge line of cars, actually.”

“The Jill Caulfield Christmas Spectacular started in November and didn’t stop until January. My bedroom was lit up like it was daytime.”

Myrtle mulled through this information. “Maybe Jill spent so much time in her yard because she was trying to get away from Cullen. Do you think they had a happy marriage?”

This was apparently a bad subject, as Sherry’s face seemed to shut down. Belatedly, Myrtle remembered that Sherry had had a terrible marriage, a horrible divorce proceeding, and had vowed never to marry again. Myrtle changed the subject before Sherry decided that her weeding really did need to be underway.

“Anyway, who do you think could have done it? I thought everyone really liked Jill,” Myrtle said in a gossipy voice.

Sherry relaxed a little. “I think most people did. And, just because I didn’t, it doesn’t mean that I
killed
her, of course,” she stressed.

“Since you’re next door, did you see or hear anything last night that might give us a clue to what happened?” Myrtle did her best to conjure up a gossipy old lady voice.

“But I wasn’t at home to hear or see anything, Miss Myrtle. Remember? I was at the progressive dinner with you. Remember how we talked there?” Sherry studied Myrtle with concern, as if sure Myrtle was losing it.

Myrtle frowned. She remembered talking to Sherry at Miles’ house. But she was sure that there was a period of time when Sherry hadn’t been around. “Of course I remember talking to you. Am I your alibi for the evening? Do you think you need one?”

Sherry shrugged. “It was common knowledge that Jill drove me nuts as a neighbor. And I’ve heard Red and that other cop want to talk to me again. I’m just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Myrtle’s discomfort must have shown on her face because Sherry interjected, “But plenty of people didn’t like Jill. Blanche couldn’t stand being in the same room with her. And Georgia Simpson absolutely hated her guts and told anybody that would listen. So I’m not the only one.”

“And here I thought that Jill was this wonderful person who kept an immaculate house, volunteered her rear-end off, and put up beautifully with a difficult husband,” Myrtle shook her head. “I guess I’m no judge of human nature. Why do you think Blanche and Georgia hated Jill so much?”

“I don’t have a clue why Blanche was upset with Jill. Maybe Jill broke some of her Waterford crystal when she was cleaning her house?” Sherry gave a short laugh. “As far as Georgia, I think money was at the bottom of it. I saw Georgia giving Jill absolute hell a few months ago at the grocery store. Raving about Jill owing her money or something. Who knows? I’d have thought that Jill didn’t have two cents to rub together. Maybe Georgia loaned Jill some money and was trying to get paid back.”

Myrtle caught sight of Miles walking towards them. Typical, she thought. She was all done with the conversation now. “Well, here’s Miles, so I better run. He’s my walking buddy today.”

“Have a nice walk then.”

As Sherry got back to her weeds, Myrtle thumped over to Miles and hissed at him, “Thanks for being on time! I had no idea how terrified you were of Erma Sherman.”

“You’re not so brave, yourself, Myrtle. I’ve seen you pop your head back in your door if you catch the smallest glimpse of her. Did you find out what she was doing in Cullen’s house this morning?”

Myrtle felt a flush of irritation. “No, actually, I didn’t. I completely forgot to ask her. That Erma interruption threw me for a loop. Listen, I did manage to find some things out, though. Sherry couldn’t stand Jill because she was too perfect. And she wants to make sure I’m her alibi for the murder.”

Miles said slowly, “You weren’t with her the whole party, were you?”

“No,” said Myrtle, “I was actually trying to escape from her so that I could talk to Blanche and Georgia for a bit and see what was going on with them. But I did spend some time talking to Sherry at your house and at Willow’s.”

“But she wasn’t there the whole time,” said Miles. “I actually noticed she’d gone because I wanted to ask her something about the variety of Knock-Out rose that she has in her side yard. But I couldn’t find her until right before it was time to leave Willow’s house to head over to Jill’s.”

Myrtle absorbed this. “Sherry could have slipped out, hustled the short distance to Jill’s house, killed Jill, and come back to Willow’s to join our group before making the next stop.”

“She was busily eating a tossed salad when I saw her,” said Miles. “But do you really think Sherry would have murdered Jill? Being irritated at her perfectionism is one thing, but smashing her over the head with a cast-iron skillet then coolly eating a salad a few minutes later is something else.”

“I don’t know,” said Myrtle glumly. “There have been many times when I’ve thought about killing Erma. I’m pretty sure I could do it in cold blood. And eat a salad afterward. Or maybe even a steak.”

“Maybe Georgia did it,” said Miles.

Myrtle only lifted her eyebrows. This is why Miles would never progress beyond sidekick status.

Miles continued, “Georgia hated Jill. Money came between the two friends and was tearing their relationship apart. It was eating Georgia alive. She obsessed over the money that was rightfully hers, day and night. Finally, she couldn’t handle it any more. She stormed Jill’s house and walloped her with the handy, cast iron skillet, finally avenging her financial loss.”

Myrtle studied him. “How fanciful of you, Miles. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so melodramatically before. I can only assume that this means you are passionately in love with Georgia. You’re fixated on her and have been since the first time you met her at the Kiwanis breakfast.”

Miles colored. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Georgia Simpson is the wild part of you, dying to be set free. The part that likes middle-aged women with poorly-dyed hair, tattoos, and too much mascara. She completes you!”

“Myrtle,” said Miles forcefully. “Shut up.”

Which, to Myrtle, only proved her point.

But she was gracious enough to move on. “When was she supposed to have killed Jill? Before or after she passed out at your house?”

“I think,” said Miles, holding himself stiffly, “That she could have done it either time. I mentioned to you before that I thought she was capable of staggering over to Jill’s and killing her. Murdering Jill wouldn’t have taken all that much coordination since the frying pan was so big. Then she could have just stumbled on back to my house. Jill’s house is just around the bend in the road. And with all the trees in this neighborhood, she could have walked through yards and no one would have even seen her. Besides, no one would have thought anything if they
had
seen her. Everyone was walking back and forth from one house to the next. Some people were even walking back to their houses to use their own restrooms before coming back to my house. I don’t remember Georgia at the earring hunt or the subsequent glass cleanup.”

Myrtle mulled this over. “That’s true. But that could mean that she was already out cold. Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that she passed out early in the evening. After she’d upset Blanche. She got a good little nap in, woke up, went to the bathroom perhaps, then wandered off to kill Jill. She returned to your house (while everyone was at Willow’s house), finished up any leftover wine, and passed out again.”

Miles quietly reflected on this scenario. “Does this mean it was premeditated? It sounds like she carefully picked a time to kill Jill when no one would be around.”

“I can’t see someone that sloshed being careful. No, I think she woke up, realized no one was there, stumbled over to Jill’s house thinking that it was time for the barbeque part of the party, saw no one there but Jill (Cullen was probably passed out himself), flew into a drunken rage, and took advantage of the moment.”

Miles nodded slowly.

“
If
she did it,” said Myrtle. “Which I doubt.” Sometimes, sidekicks needed to be put in their place.

“T
hat cat,” Myrtle
told Elaine, “is living the high life.” Watching the cat eliminating the squirrel population had turned out to be great fun. She’d had to call Elaine to tell her about it. “She’s hunting like a maniac, just for fun. Pigging out on dry cat food and tuna in my backyard. She’s going to be one fat, happy kitty.”

“Uh-oh. I think I forgot to explain something. There’s more to the Friends of Ferals program.”

“I thought you told me I should feed and water the cat and keep it outside and that was it!”

“No, no. Well, yes, you’re supposed to feed and water it and leave it outside. But you’ve got to
capture
the cat first of all. Then I’ll drive you and the cat to the vet that participates in the program and we’ll get it spayed or neutered.
And
give it its shots. Because it could end up with rabies or something! You’ve got to protect yourself
and
the cat first.”

Myrtle was stuck at
capture the cat.
“Capture the cat? Wait in the bushes with a bedspread? It all seems very cloak and dagger. She
trusts
me now.”

Elaine said slowly, “Do you have feelings for the cat now, Myrtle? It sounds like…”

“Of course not. This is a wild animal we’re talking about. Undomesticated. It just seems like…a dirty trick, that’s all.”

“I’m sure it won’t hold it against you, Myrtle. You won’t even be around when the cat is caught. Hold on, I’ll come right over.”

A few minutes later, Elaine was at Myrtle’s house, equipment in tow. “This will be a piece of cake. We’re just going to leave the food in the trap. The cat has gotten a few meals from you, so it should be easy-peasy getting her into the trap. She’ll just think she’s getting her usual meal. Then the trap will close and tomorrow morning we’ll take her to the vet.”

Late that night, when Myrtle’s usual insomnia struck, she peeked out the kitchen window into the backyard. The food was gone and there was no cat in the trap. Myrtle smiled.

Myrtle did try
to go back to sleep after checking the cat trap. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the casserole dishes at Jill’s house. Had Tippy made a note of the women from book club who’d signed up to help Jill out by bringing a side to supper club? All of those women would have dropped off food and been in Jill’s house—all, obviously, before her murdered body lay on the floor. Except for the killer.

Myrtle peeked out the side window. Was Miles up, too? She checked the kitchen clock. Two a.m. It was her normal time for waking up, and Miles’ too. She absently pulled on a long raincoat over her nightgown for decency’s sake, took her cane from beside the door, and strolled out into the warm night.

Erma’s lights were out, she noted with relief. All she needed was Miss Nosy charging out of her house and pointing a flashlight on her. When she got closer to Miles’ house, she frowned. She couldn’t really tell if his lights were on or not. There was sort of a dim light coming from one of the windows, but that could maybe be a light you’d leave on all night in the kitchen. Or a bathroom nightlight. Or…

“Mama!” hissed beside her.

Myrtle jumped and whirled around to see Red glaring at her from his police car window. “Red!” she fussed. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Well, you’re scaring
me,
floating around in the middle of the night like a ghost. What the devil are you doing out here at two a.m.?”

“What the devil are
you
doing out here at two a.m.?” asked Myrtle.

“I’m on patrol, Mama. Making sure Bradley’s skillet killer isn’t on a murdering rampage. Now what are
you
doing again?”

Myrtle fidgeted with the hem of her raincoat. “I’m just seeing if Miles’ lights are on. Or out. I had this thought about the casserole dishes at Jill’s house and wanted to ask him about it.”

“I think
your
lights must be out. Now I know you like going on walks with your insomnia and all, but really—is this the safest time to be ambling around the neighborhood? A violent crime was just committed, not far from where you’re standing. And it was most likely somebody you know, in this very neighborhood. There were plenty of opportunities for your wonderful supper club friends to slip away and murder Jill Caulfield.” He sighed when he saw Myrtle’s dejected look. “Why don’t you get into the car and I’ll drive you home.”

“Red, I’m just two houses from home.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like your friend is awake. Please don’t go waking him up in the middle of the night to talk to him about casserole dishes. Besides, you might trip yourself up with that long raincoat and nightgown. Let me at least get you to your front door.”

Myrtle decided to give in. When Red was in one of his stubborn moods, there was no arguing with him. “Anyway, if you’re well and truly awake and bored, I know something you could do.”

Myrtle raised her eyebrows.

“Your helpful hints column. This is early Wednesday morning. Isn’t your deadline nine a.m.?”

It was funny
how the mere mention of the column had made her sleepy, thought Myrtle as she walked to the newspaper office the next morning. She’d fought the Sandman as she pulled tips from her email inbox and the mail she’d gotten during the week. She’d hit the sack with great relief after compiling the tips into article form and giving it a quick read-over. She’d definitely
not
wanted to get up when her alarm went off at eight.

She pushed open the old wooden door of the
Bradley Bugle
office and saw Sloan flitting from one paper-laden desk to another. If he was looking for something, it would have to be a needle in a haystack with all the paper and pictures stacked in the newsroom. Somehow, though, Sloan always managed to find what he was looking for.

“Miss Myrtle? Thank the good Lord you’re here. Got a column for me? I’m desperate for content this week. I’m looking for some column I did a while back that maybe I can stick in as filler.” Sloan lifted another pile of papers hopefully.

“How’s that possible, Sloan? We had a murder in town this week—there should be gobs of content for you,” said Myrtle.

Sloan made a big hushing sound and pointed his beefy arm towards the back of the newsroom. Now Myrtle saw Willow, listlessly pecking at a keyboard. Myrtle looked chagrined and Sloan drew closer and whispered, “Don’t worry. I don’t think she even registered that you came in. She’s in a real state. I had to call her this morning and ask her to do the horoscopes. I figured, we need the content, she needs a distraction, right?”

“But
why
do you need more content?” Myrtle said under her breath.

“Well, the Good Neighbors column is taking a break this week because Emily is sick. And then the cooking column writer is on vacation. There’s only so much I can put in about the murder because we don’t really know anything. I hope to heaven that you took some pictures and wrote up that post on the supper club so we can have something on the blog. I’ve played up just about every angle I could possibly think of and it’s pretty played out now.” He clumsily patted Myrtle’s arm.

She guiltily remembered that the pictures she’d unenthusiastically taken at the progressive dinner were probably not all that great. Besides, she wasn’t even sure how to get them off her phone. Not to mention the helpful hints column. “I was about to forget about the column this week, myself. Red reminded me about it.”

Sloan looked like he needed a Tums. “I don’t even like
hearing
that, Miss Myrtle. That’s all I’d need this week, another vacancy in the newspaper.”

Myrtle said in a low voice, “If everything works out well, we could have a great story on our hands.” Sloan frowned and Myrtle said, “The murder? I’m trying to do some detective work. Investigative journalism. You know.”

“Detecting?” Now Sloan was too excited for even his stage-whisper. “That worked out great for us the last time, Miss Myrtle. The article was fantastic and the newsstands sold totally out of it. Remember that the state paper even picked it up on the AP wire?” Sloan puffed his chest out. “I’m putting you officially on assignment. But keep up with the helpful hints, too. And the blog. When you crack the case, give me the exclusive. Or, heck, write it yourself. We can use another story like that to boost circulation.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” said Myrtle dryly. “In the meantime, here’s my column. Maybe you can show some enthusiasm over it, too.”

Sloan gave Myrtle a cautious smile. He was always a little nervous of her sarcasm or bad humor, having been familiar with both when she’d been his English teacher long ago. He’d never really gotten over the experience. He scanned the paper she handed him. “Uh, great stuff here. Love the tip about putting safflower seed in your birdfeeder to keep the squirrels away.”

Myrtle peered closely at him to make sure he wasn’t making fun of her. Satisfied, she nodded. “It’s a good tip. There are plenty of birdwatchers in Bradley.” A movement caught the corner of Myrtle’s eye and she saw that Willow stood right beside her.

Myrtle still couldn’t believe the change in Willow. Her clothes and hair seemed to droop and she looked like she had just grabbed something from her closet—or that she was wearing what she’d slept in. She didn’t have a drop of makeup on, and she wasn’t one of those people who could really go without makeup.

Sloan widened his eyes dramatically at Myrtle in sort of a get-a-load-of-Willow look before turning to Willow and saying with forced jocularity, “Got that horoscope done? Boy, you don’t know what a relief that is. We’d have panic in the streets if folks didn’t have the newspaper’s astrological insights into the week ahead.”

Willow just looked at him blankly, then handed him the sheets of paper. “Okay. I’ll see you next week.” She glanced at Myrtle with a look Myrtle couldn’t really read, and then ambled out the office door.

Sloan gave Myrtle a little push. “You’d better go after her, Miss Myrtle. In the interests of crime-fighting and all. Maybe she can give you some clues. She’d probably point the finger at Cullen, of course. She’s sure to, she couldn’t stand him. Half her horoscopes warn of steering clear of thin Scorpio men. Go, go!”

Myrtle hurried out the door, thumping her cane as she went. But by the time she’d made it out onto the sidewalk, Willow had already gotten into her car and was driving away. Myrtle watched her car speed off. S
hoot
!

Her thoughts didn’t get any cheerier when she spotted Red’s police car. He pulled up next to her on the sidewalk and rolled down his window. “Chasing suspects down the street, Mama? Maybe Willow doesn’t
want
to talk to you. Most people don’t want people snooping around in their business, you know. You should stop poking around.”

“I was just going to ask her something for newspaper business, Red,” said Myrtle in a huffy voice. “I
am
a reporter, you know. And Sloan wants me to write a story about the case and do a little investigating.”

“I’ll have to have a talk with my old buddy Sloan,” growled Red. He’d asked Sloan to get his mother a job at the newspaper to keep her busy and out of trouble. He thought she’d still be tinkering around with her helpful hints column instead of making the leap to investigative journalism.

Red was too late in his good intentions to talk to Sloan. With a story shortage on his hands and a deadline just hours away, Sloan suddenly got a brainstorm for an interesting piece. Anyone picking up at paper at the Piggly Wiggly next day would see “Octogenarian Myrtle Clover Investigates Murder for the
Bradley Bugle,”
on the very front page.