Progressive Dinner Deadly (14 page)

Blanche walked right into Myrtle’s kitchen and put the casserole in the fridge, talking as she did about the cooking instructions. “How are you feeling?” she asked with concern.

Myrtle, who had almost forgotten she was supposed to be sick, said, “Oh, I’m hanging in there, Blanche. Just barely, of course.” She coughed weakly. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what illness she’d concocted. Was she supposed to have an upset stomach? Strep? A bad cold? She searched the dark recesses of her mind. No, she decided, it was flu. Which explained why Blanche was keeping a healthy distance from her.

Blanche smiled at Myrtle, but preserved her personal space. “Did the doctor say when you might be feeling better?”

Myrtle frowned. The conversation was not supposed to be centered around her health, lack of it or otherwise. “I didn’t go in. He…uh…diagnosed me on the phone. I don’t think he wanted me to come in and spread germs around his waiting room.”

This was obviously the wrong thing to say. Blanche increased the distance between them and eased toward the door. “Well, I hope you’re feeling better soon, Myrtle.”

Myrtle said hastily, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be better soon. The doctor prescribed an anti-viral, you see.” It wouldn’t do to have Blanche see her traipsing around later that day. She’d have to remember to be careful. Obviously she’d have to pass on going to the gym today. Shoot.

“It’s been such an awful week,” Myrtle continued. “What with poor Jill’s murder and then my getting sick… it’s been one thing after another.” She saw Blanche’s eyes narrow. Myrtle didn’t want to scare Blanche off. She started prattling.

“I just couldn’t believe it when we saw Jill on the floor like that. What a shock! Who could have done such a thing, Blanche? I live here all by myself, you know, and I am just scared to death that someone’s going to come here and try to smother me with my own pillow or something.” Myrtle wrung her hands. She’d never actually seen anyone wring their hands or done it herself. But in the spur of the moment, it seemed like a good thing to do.

Blanche’s voice was gentle. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Myrtle. Red is right across the street from you: you can’t be any safer than that! The police chief himself. Besides, Jill was probably killed over something personal. You don’t have anyone that mad at you.”

Myrtle made a face. “Red probably qualifies as that mad, sometimes. But he won’t take a whack at me anytime soon.” She paused. “You know, it was a funny thing about Jill. She did a really bang-up job with cleaning. The whole place shone. But she was so very interested in my medicine cabinet.”

Blanche looked swiftly up at her.

“Not that there was anything in there but Q-tips and witch hazel. But, I was wondering if she’d found something more interesting in yours?”

Blanche abruptly took a seat on Myrtle’s sofa. “You haven’t told anyone? Not even Red?”

“Of course not!” She wouldn’t mention Miles. “But I don’t understand why you won’t go to the police over it. They’re bound to find out. And you were a victim.”

Blanche took a deep breath and let go of Myrtle’s arm. “I was in a car accident a while ago—before I moved here. My back was a mess and the recovery was really painful, so the doctor prescribed me painkillers. But once you start taking painkillers, it’s hard to get off of them. My doctor stopped prescribing them for me so I started getting them from a dealer.”

“But Jill wouldn’t have known if you had a current prescription or not.”

“She knew,” said Blanche bitterly. “Oxycodone isn’t a long-term prescription for people these days. Not for people who aren’t in a great deal of pain. No, Jill knew
exactly
what was going on and exactly what kind of a barrel she had me over.”

“She blackmailed you,” said Myrtle.

“Yes.” Blanche studied a spot on the wall over Myrtle’s head.

“Would it have mattered so much?” asked Myrtle. “People would have found out that you had an addiction—but they’d have forgotten about it eventually.”

Blanche gave a short laugh. “You, more than anybody, Myrtle, know that’s not true. You’ve lived in Bradley long enough to know that people here
never
forget. I’d never be able to continue doing all the things I’m doing now. All the committees I’m on? I’d probably be given the cold shoulder at most of the clubs I’m in.”

The thought made Blanche look sicker than Myrtle was supposed to be.

Myrtle said, “You’re not the first person to be addicted to prescription drugs, you know. Don’t be too hard on yourself. There are plenty of places to get help.”

Blanche gave her a small smile. “Thanks, Myrtle.”

“I’m surprised,” said Myrtle in a musing voice, “considering the street value of the drugs Jill discovered, that she didn’t just swipe them and resell them on the street.”

“She probably thought about it,” said Blanche. “But it would be a lot riskier than blackmail. There would have been more of a chance of discovery.”

“So you paid Jill to keep it quiet?”

Blanche looked tired. “I did. I felt like I had to. And then I fired her. I couldn’t bear having her around me anymore.” She said the words like they were sour on her tongue.

Abruptly, Blanche lurched to her feet and walked to the door. “I’ve got to now, Myrtle. Please…you will keep this quiet, won’t you?”

Myrtle said warmly, “Of course I will.”

Blanche smiled weakly at Myrtle, then pulled open the front door. And shrieked.

Pasha stood in the doorway holding a live snake. Myrtle grabbed her cane from the coat rack by the door and shook it at the cat as Blanche shrank backwards in alarm, whether at the snake, the cat, or the cane-brandishing Myrtle she wasn’t sure. “Shoo! Shoo, Pasha!”

Pasha looked resentfully at her and carried her prey off to the side of the house. Myrtle turned and squeezed Blanche’s arm apologetically. “Pasha thinks I need hunting lessons,” Myrtle said in a feeble voice.

Blanche’s laugh bordered on the hysterical. “It’s fine, Myrtle. As long as it’s gone. I…um…hope you feel better.” She looked doubtfully at Myrtle, still holding her cane with a robust stance.

“Blanche,” said Myrtle, “I think I feel better already.”

M
yrtle and Miles
sat next to each other in padded rocking chairs on Myrtle’s front porch while Myrtle gave Miles the lowdown on Blanche’s visit.

“Okay,” said Myrtle. “That worked. But I don’t think I can trick anyone else into coming by to visit. I’m going to have to go out and about—go by Fit Life, nose around and listen for some scuttlebutt. I’m starting to worry that Red and the state police are getting ahead of me in the investigation. After all,
they
get all the forensic information and all that stuff. I’d like to send them off on a wild goose chase. Something just to get them off the scent. Maybe it’ll give them something else to think about while I solve the case.”

“And
why
are you solving cases again? I keep forgetting,” said Miles in a weary voice.

“Right
now
why am I doing it? Because Red keeps trying to mess in my business. So let’s let him see how it feels!” said Myrtle, vigorously rocking the rocking chair.

“What kind of a red herring are you sending them off on?” asked Miles.

“I need to have Red think they’re finding out something I don’t want them to know. Otherwise, they won’t do a thing about it. Maybe I could imprudently leave my notebook behind, or my voice recorder. Or I could leave a file up on my computer. Or…”

“Or you could just let them overhear us talking,” breathed Miles under his breath. “Because I just saw Red walking up from the side. I think he’s lurking behind the bushes next to the porch now.”

“Like I was saying,” said Myrtle in a louder voice, “I just couldn’t believe what Jill had found out. I never would have known it except I heard her talking on her cell phone to Cullen that day she was cleaning my house. I couldn’t figure out at
first
who she was talking about,” said Myrtle, “but then I realized.” She took a deep breath and smiled as she was struck by what seemed like a brilliant idea. “Erma Sherman!”

Miles blinked at Myrtle from behind his glasses. Then he smiled admiringly at her, “What did Jill have on Erma?”

“Well apparently, Jill has been doing some cleaning for Erma and poking around in Erma’s business, like she liked to do. And she discovered a really
horrible
medical problem. It seemed that Erma had this awful condition. Something
catching
, too. Something Erma wouldn’t want anyone to know about because it would mean people would actually
avoid
her.”

“Imagine that,” said Miles dryly. “People avoiding Erma. Such a notion.”

“Um, anyway, Miles, why don’t we go inside for a little while. This heat is really making me parched and I could use a glass of iced tea.”

Miles followed Myrtle obediently inside then watched as she peered through a curtain. “There he goes!” said Myrtle triumphantly and Red hurried across the side of Myrtle’s yard. “He’s feeling lucky that he happened to be in the right place in the right time.”

“Think he’ll march over and interview Erma?”

“I think he’ll grab Lieutenant Perkins first, and maybe some surgical masks to keep the germs away,” said Myrtle. She pushed aside the white curtains and shoved the window up. “I can usually hear his car engine a mile away. Especially with the window open.”

“I think this sounds like a good time for me to go back home and have some lunch,” said Miles. “What are you planning on doing, Miss Marple? Grilling suspects? Dusting for fingerprints? Using your little gray cells?”

“Poirot had the little gray cells,” said Myrtle with a sniff. “No, I’m planning on giving

my brain a short rest. I’m going to watch
Tomorrow’s Promise
. That’s a soap opera, Miles. And I
might
even take a little nap. After some rejuvenation, I’m sure I can piece together all the clues.”

At the exciting
conclusion of
Tomorrow’s Promise
, there was a familiar pounding at Myrtle’s front door. She groaned. It had to be Erma. Myrtle knew that pummeling anywhere. Myrtle picked up her cane and moved quietly to the front door, peeping out the window. It was Erma, her rat-like face now peering directly
into
the window Myrtle was looking out of. Myrtle jumped half out of her skin.

She’d been spotted. Now there was nothing else to do but open the door. Thinking fast, Myrtle also grabbed her pocketbook from the wooden coat rack near the door. If she said she was on her way out, she could expedite this unexpected visit. And could keep Erma on the front porch where she wouldn’t get too cozy.

“Myrtle,” shrilled Erma. “I had the weirdest visit from your boy. And that other policeman.”

“Detective Lieutenant Perkins, you mean?” asked Myrtle. She reached behind her to turn the ceiling fan on in the hopes of cooling off her temper, and then plopped wearily into a rocking chair. Erma sat down abruptly, and then rocked forward, wagging her finger at Myrtle.

“Red came quite unexpectedly. He and that Polkens asked all these peculiar questions. Do you know anything about why they did that?” Erma’s narrow eyes managed to squint even more.

“I never get
any
information from Red about his investigations,” said Myrtle quite truthfully. “Erma, I was on my way out the door…”

“It was almost like they were working on a tip that
I
had employed Jill. And that I knew something about the murder. I don’t know a thing about it. But I did tell them all about my cyst. They seemed really interested in it. Why wouldn’t they be? It’s such an unusual problem; my doctor said he’d never seen anything like it. At first I thought it was some weird pimple, but then it grew to the size of a quarter. The doctor was puzzled: was it an ingrown hair? A calcium deposit? A fatty tumor? He lanced the cyst and then…”

At that moment a miracle occurred. Or so it seemed to Myrtle. Pasha appeared from the side of the house. She loped purposefully up the stairs and inserted itself directly in front of Erma—the antithesis of normal feral cats’ behavior with strangers. It assessed Erma, loathed her on sight, and began a low, menacing growl from way in the back of its throat.

Erma’s transformation was astonishing. Her eyes, so filled with eagerness with recounting the story, widened so you could see the whites on all sides. Her mouth became a giant O and she pushed backwards with her feet until the rocker’s legs scraped the paint on the front of Myrtle’s house. “Get it
away
,” she bellowed.

Myrtle was too startled by Erma’s reaction and the cat’s hatred to do anything at first. Pasha’s fur stood straight up on end and it arched its back, hissing.

Erma started wheezing and her eyes watered. “Allergic!” she said hoarsely. Myrtle unenthusiastically shooed the cat, but it wouldn’t budge. The best of all possible outcomes happened when Erma finally bolted up from her chair and hurried off the porch, sneezing. She gave Myrtle a hurried, dismissive wave as she staggered off to her house, slamming the door behind her with a bang.

Myrtle looked at the cat, now sitting on the rocker and licking its fur with satisfaction. “Pasha,” said Myrtle thoughtfully. “You may be my new best friend.”

Unfortunately for Myrtle’s
investigation, her brain rejuvenation was wasted on blogging and her next helpful hints column. Myrtle did manage to justify this to herself, though. After all, if Sloan fired her because she wasn’t meeting her deadlines, then she wasn’t going to have her big story as an investigative reporter for the
Bradley Bugle.

She’d actually gotten a fair number of tips in her email this week. Most of them seemed to deal with stain removal. Myrtle took this to mean that the people of Bradley, North Carolina, were a clumsy lot who drank lots of red wine, chewed bubble gum, and marked themselves up with ball point pens. Still, it was good to know that adding a couple of Alka-Seltzer tablets to the bottom of a glass vase removes stains. Next time she got flowers, she’d have to remember that. She wondered if Red would send her flowers after she solved his case for him.

A nine o’clock knock on her door surprised Myrtle. It was starting to be like Grand Central Station at her house. Nine o’clock was late for visitors, but it was still a little light outside, since it was summer. She peeked out the side window in case it was Erma. Or in case it was someone who didn’t need to see her in her nightgown and robe. Willow Pearce stood on her front porch and gave her a small smile and lifted up a casserole for her to see.

Myrtle opened the door. “Willow! You brought me a present?”

Willow smiled again. She was looking a little better than she had in the days following Jill’s murder. “Blanche and Tippy told me you’d been under the weather. I cooked you up a casserole with my own herbs and produce from my garden.” She walked in, bearing a foil casserole container that she held with tie-dye oven mitts.

“Just set it down on the counter, won’t you? And sit down and visit for a few minutes. I’ve been thinking about you lately,” said Myrtle. This was more than she’d hoped for, to actually have a chance to talk to Willow without chasing her down. She felt like she’d come up with enough trumped-up reasons for interviewing suspects with this case.

Willow sat down in Myrtle’s high-backed armchair and managed to look pleased with herself as well as ill at ease. Or maybe it was just all that fiber Willow ate that made her look uncomfortable. Myrtle liked vegetables as much as the next person, but she sure wouldn’t want a one-hundred percent vegetable diet.

Myrtle knit her brows. There was something about Willow that she needed to remember. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

Willow, fortunately, hadn’t seemed to notice that she was the focus of Myrtle’s frowning perusal. She was talking about the growing season this year and the problems the drought had caused.

Myrtle broke in. “You grow a lot of vegetables, don’t you? But you don’t have any hens or anything like that, do you? I remember when I was a girl that we were always self-sufficient because my parents grew their own food. Is that why you like gardening so much, Willow?”

Willow shook her head, long white hair shimmying around her shoulders. “No, I don’t care so much about being self-sufficient. For me, it’s to get fresh vegetables.
Organically grown
fresh vegetables.”

“Because you’re a vegetarian. Is that right?” Myrtle caught her breath as realization washed over her. Why would Willow have been back at Jill’s the next day getting barbeque? She wouldn’t—not for herself. She must have been back to get her casserole dish…the one she swore she hadn’t dropped off the night of the party.

Willow was unaware of Myrtle’s horror. “That’s right. Did we talk about that some time?” She looked curiously at Myrtle.

“Elaine mentioned it to me at the luncheon. You know, the United Methodist Women luncheon. Elaine commented because you’d brought your own dish to the buffet.”

Willow gave a short laugh. “The ladies call those green beans vegetarian. But they’re cooked in animal fat! What kind of vegetarian would eat that? So of course I bring my own food to their luncheons.”

Myrtle realized that Willow would, of course, have brought her own food to Jill’s house. Otherwise, there would have been nothing there for her to eat. Jill would have served barbeque and the baked beans were pork and beans. And—those tie dyed oven mitts that Willow was holding looked exactly like what she should have had in her kitchen. The rooster potholders she’d seen the night of the supper club had looked so out of place. They must have been Myrtle’s—taken from Jill’s house. Did Willow hold the frying pan up with them as she hit Jill with the fatal blow?

Willow’s gray-blue eyes were piercing Myrtle. “Are you okay, Miss Myrtle? You look…tired.”

“Yes,” said Myrtle quickly. “I
am
tired, Willow. Why don’t we visit another time? Thanks for the casserole, though. I’ll look forward to eating it tomorrow.”

“Or maybe for a midnight snack?” Willow smiled. “I know you’re up a lot at night. Probably why you’re so tired now.”