Wherever Lynn Goes (13 page)

“Poor Daphne,” Myrtle said, shaking her head. “I always
knew
she'd come to a bad end, but I never expected anything like this!”

She shuddered dramatically. Short, rotund, lively, she wore black patent leather pumps, a shapeless purple dress, and a voluminous gray cape lined with matching purple, the kind affected by Margaret Rutherford in the Miss Marple films. Her incredible hat perched jauntily atop equally incredible blonde curls. I found the woman somewhat overwhelming with her bizarre clothes and clattering tongue, and I was at a loss. She was a jovial creature, strangely engaging, but I knew full well she had come to discuss the murder. I had no intentions of discussing it with her.

“It was kind of you to call, Mrs. Clarkson—”

“Myrtle, ducky. Call me Myrtle. Everyone does.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but—”

“Aren't you going to introduce me, luv?” Mandy asked sweetly.

“Oh—forgive me. This is my friend Amanda Hunt. She drove down with me.”

“Pleased to meet you, ducky.”

“Won't you come into the parlor, Myrtle?” Mandy asked.

I gave her a protesting look, which she blithely ignored as she led the way into the parlor. Mandy was quite clearly just as eager to pump Myrtle as Myrtle was to pump us. Irritated, but unable to do anything about it without being openly discourteous, I followed them into the room.

“Many's the time Daphne and I sat right there on that settee, sipping our gi—sipping our tea and havin' a heart-to-heart. Like sisters we were, and that's a fact. Hard to get along with, Daphne, I'll not deny it. She might have a vicious temper, might like to shout and hurl dishes, but she was the
soul
of kindness. A dear, dear woman to those who really knew her.”

“I suppose the murder has caused quite a lot of talk in the village,” Mandy said, ever so artless.

“Biggest sensation since Jenny Waters gave birth to triplets!” Myrtle exclaimed, plopping down on the settee. “Appalling, just appalling. You can't imagine!” She shook her head and made a disapproving sound. “The whole village'll turn out for the funeral. Been lookin' foward to it for days.”

“I can well believe it,” I said dryly.

“Reggie's body has been shipped to London to his sister. Private services will be conducted. Shame, really. Lots of folks were hopin' for a double feature, so to speak, but it can't be helped.”

Myrtle was in her element, and finding it difficult to contain her enthusiasm. She was undoubtedly the town gossip, and this was a real scoop. Settling back comfortably, adjusting the folds of her cape, she opened her purse, dug out a slightly crushed box of chocolates, and offered it to us. When we both refused, she unwrapped a chocolate and popped it into her mouth.

“Adore 'em. Can't get enough. I figure what the heck, at my age I'm not after any man so why not live a little, let it spread. Two husbands I had, both dead now, bless their souls. Bernie Claymore—he's the postmaster, such a de
press
ing man, dips snuff—he's been after me ever since poor Jimmy passed over, but I pay him no mind. If there's anything I don't need, it's another husband, particularly one who dips snuff! Bernie's nice enough, I suppose, but that
sister
of his—”

“Did you know Colonel March?” Mandy asked, casually running her finger over the mantle.

“Reggie? Known him all my life. A sweeter man never drew breath. He proposed to me once—oh, years ago—I was still a girl, and him the handsomest thing in his uniform, so dashin' and all. I turned him down, sad to say. Many's the day I regretted it. Stevie was already in the picture by then, you see—Stevie was my first, had the cutest mustache, also had a rovin' eye, the rat! Poor Reggie went back to his regiment, heartbroken. Never married, Reggie. I fancy I was to blame for that.”

“I thought he was courting Daphne,” Mandy said.

“Bosh! Don't you believe a word of it! Courtin'? If he was going to court anyone it would've been me, not Daphne. Oh, they were
friends
, all right. He took her to a few socials, a couple of bingo games, but there was never anything
there
, if you follow me.”

“I understand they quarreled.”

“Daphne quarreled with everyone. It was her nature, poor dear. Kind as could be at heart, but never could control that temper. Red hair, you understand, though I must say it hadn't really been red for years. Miss Jane Birch at Wig Outlet could tell you a thing or two about
that
. Yes, Reggie and Daphne had a fallin' out. It's my belief he was comin' to make it up with her that night.”

“With a knife?” I inquired.

Myrtle calmly unwrapped another chocolate, examined it thoughtfully, and put it in her mouth. “Reggie didn't kill her,” she said a moment later. “Reggie wouldn't harm a fly. You only had to see him with those dogs of his to realize that. Treated 'em like babies, he did, gentle as could be. I don't care
what
the coppers say, he didn't do it.”

“He was seen leaving the house,” Mandy reminded her.

“So? That doesn't prove a thing.”

“He shot himself immediately afterward.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. I reckon the sight of all that blood would cause anyone to go off his rocker, particularly anyone as sensitive as poor Reggie. If he
did
shoot himself, mind you. I ain't sayin' he did. I have my own idea about that.”

Popping a final chocolate into her mouth. Myrtle crammed the box back into her purse and looked up at us eagerly, ready to divulge her big news. Her black straw hat had slipped forward a bit, one of the pink roses dangling over her brow. She clamped her purse shut, waiting for encouragement. Mandy wasted no time in providing it.

“Who do
you
think did it?” she asked.

“That other man.”

“Which man?”

“The one who kept hangin' around, pesterin' the life out of her. He showed up about two months ago, could've been longer ago than that. Daphne wouldn't talk about him, not even to me, not even after she'd had a couple of gins. ‘I don't want to talk about it,' she told me. ‘He's gone now. I told him I'd call the police if he ever showed up again.' Well, I happen to know he
did
show up again.”

“Who was he?” I asked.

“No idea, ducky. He always called on her at nighttime, always on the sly. Poor Dayhne was frightened half out of her wits, I can tell you that. She couldn't hide it, no matter how she tried. Nervous as a cat she was. Edgy. Drank more than ever. No one knew about him 'cept me, you see, and she flatly refused to discuss him. I
knew
something was wrong—”

“You saw him?” Mandy prompted.

“I decided to pay a surprise visit one night. It was latish, and my telly was broken, so I decided to go see Daphne and maybe have a couple—a couple of cups of tea, and chat for a while. My bike was in the shop, busted chain, so I walked. It was a dark night,” she continued, getting into stride, “and as I was coming through the woods I noticed this strange car parked at the side of the road beneath the boughs of the trees, like someone didn't want it to be seen. Didn't pay much mind to it, thought it might be a couple of teen-agers sparkin'—real scandalous, the way they carry on. Some of the village girls, that Cassie Porter for example—I could tell a few tales about
her—
”

“You were walking through the woods,” Mandy said patiently.

“Right, ducky, and just as I was nearing the house I saw the man coming down the front steps. Hulkin' brute, he was, huge shoulders, wearin' an overcoat and a hat with the brim pulled down, just like in one of those gangster movies on the telly. Gave me quite a fright, it did. He didn't see
me
—I was standing behind a tree—but I saw him all right. I stayed there behind the tree till he was clean out of sight. Heard a car startin' immediately afterward—”

“And you came on to the house?”

“'Deed I did. I was worried about Daphne. She was in quite a state, I can tell you for sure. Ragin', hurling things, carryin' on somethin' awful, but she was scared too, scared out of her wits, poor soul. When I told her I seen the man and asked who he was, she shut up tighter 'n a clam. Wouldn't talk about him, just said she'd threatened to call the police if he showed up again. She changed, Daphne did. After that she wasn't the same at all. Oh, she still raged about, had her quarrel with Reggie, but she was different. Pale, she was, and there were circles under her eyes like she wasn't gettin' enough sleep. Real jumpy, too, always gave a start if she heard someone comin'—”

Her voice was low and dramatic. It was quite clear that Myrtle was having the time of her life, enjoying every minute of this. I knew, of course, that anything Myrtle said had to be taken with several grains of salt. Perhaps she
had
seen a man leaving the house. He could have been anyone: a salesman, an insurance man, someone come to check out the drains. With her lively imagination, her thirst for gossip, Myrtle would naturally paint the incident with florid colors, particularly after my aunt met such a tragic end. I paid little heed to her tale, although Mandy seemed to be fascinated.

“Interesting,” she said thoughtfully.

“Daphne was hiding something. She never was a good actress. I knew it had somethin' to do with that man. He had some kind of hold over her. It's my belief he was threatenin' her. She never mentioned him again—I think she was scared to, but, like I said, I happen to know he
did
show up again. I saw him with my very own eyes.”

“When was this?”

“Just a day or so before it happened—” She paused, brown eyes widening. Looking at us, she gave a portentous nod and then continued in a low, hushed voice. “It was late afternoon, and I'd been with Daphne. She was in
such
a condition, quiet, pale, worried. She'd grown thinner, and her hands shook somethin' terrible. Her wig was all askew, and she was wearin' a shabby old brown dress. Looked like an old woman, a sick old woman. All the thunder and lightning gone out of 'er. Not the same Daphne at all. She just sat there, drinkin', starin' into space. Didn't even insult me when I tripped over one of the stools. I said to myself, I said, ‘Somethin' awful's going to happen.' I could feel it in my bones. I'm a bit pyschic, you know. When I left this house I knew something perfectly dreadful was going to happen soon—”

“You saw the man again as you were leaving?” I said wearily.

“I climbed on my bike and rode away. The sun was just going down, and shadows were beginning to spread over the lawns. I followed the road through the woods, dusk fallin' fast, growin' darker by the second. I was about half a mile up the road when I saw the car again, movin' real slow. I pedaled over to the side of the road and stopped as he drove past. I got a
good
look at him this time, saw his face plain as I see yours now. Broad it was, with flat cheekbones and a square jaw. His mouth was wide, his nose looked like it'd been broken, and his eyes were dark. I may not know much, but I know a killer when I see one—I watch
all
the crime shows on the telly. Murderous he looked, downright murderous, those enormous hands grippin' the steerin' wheel like it was someone's throat. He stared right at me, and I don't mind tellin' you I got a move on! Never knew my bike could
go
so fast!”

Her chubby hands were clutching the purse tightly. She looked down at them. “I intended to call on Daphne the very next day to see if everything was all right, but I was busy. Had to meet with the committee and help plan the jumble sale. I should have gone to see her, I know. I should have given her a ring on the phone, but I didn't. I'll always regret it. Two days later young Cooper found her body …” She pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes, although I could tell she was eager to have our reactions.

“Mr. Cooper had been gone all this time, hadn't he?” I asked.

“Been gone for over two months. Just got back that morning. If he'd been here it might not have happened. It was his first night back, and he'd gone to have dinner with Lord and Lady Cooper. Poor Daphne was all alone, way off out here by herself—”

“So no one saw the man except you?”

“Not a soul,” she said, almost proudly. “I don't know what his business with Daphne was, but whatever it was was a deep dark secret. No one else in the village even remembers the car.”

I glanced at Mandy. She seemed to be lost in thought. Surely she couldn't put any stock in this preposterous tale, I thought. Myrtle was indeed engaging—one couldn't help but like her—yet her story was obviously a highly colored elaboration. I didn't doubt she'd seen the man. He was probably some harried, disgruntled fellow who had perfectly legitimate business with my aunt. The rest, I felt sure, was 99 percent Myrtle's imaginative fancy.

“Did you inform the police about him?” I asked.

Myrtle drew herself up, all prim dignity. “'Deed I didn't,” she said crisply. “After the way that sergeant treated me, and me just wantin' to see Daphne one last time? I should think not. If them coppers are so smart, let 'em find out about him on their own. Me, I don't meddle.”

I found it hard to repress a smile. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, Myrtle stood up, adjusted the folds of her cape and tilted her hat at a cocky angle over the shiny blonde curls.

“It's gettin' on, ducky. I reckon I'd better go. There are several little errands I have to run before the funeral, and I want to be there in plenty of time to get a good seat The church'll be packed to the rafters! Poor child, this has been so difficult on you—”

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Clarkson.”

“Myrtle, ducky.”

“It's been nice meeting you,” Mandy said.