A Body at Book Club: Myrtle Clover #6

Chapter Four

The next morning, Myrtle ate her breakfast and then decided to walk over to the Bradley Bugle office. A blast of humid air hit her as soon as she opened the front door and she made a face—she'd hoped to avoid the heat by heading out so early.

Last night, she'd made a Missing poster with Pasha's picture on it and wanted to use the newspaper's copy machine to make a bunch of copies. Myrtle had realized at around midnight that she didn't have a really clear photo of Pasha on her computer and the pictures she did have were on her camera. She was going to have to get Red's or his wife Elaine's help getting the pictures off her camera, since she couldn't remember how she'd done it last time. Calling them at midnight, however, was not going to make them eager to help her. In the meantime, this poster would have to make do. She squinted at it. You could tell it was a black cat, she decided. Even though Pasha was running when Myrtle took the picture, turning her image into a bit of a black smudge.

Myrtle had put her cell phone number on the poster as the contact number and had even charged her cell phone last night. It was now with her in the large pocketbook dangling from her arm. Red would be so proud.

Myrtle pushed open the old, wooden door to the newspaper and entered the cluttered newsroom. Once again, she smelled the musty-stale-paper-smell of the place. The room was filled with piles and piles of paper and photographs. Sloan Jones, the editor, claimed that he knew what every bit of paper in there was and could retrieve it whenever he needed. Myrtle had serious doubts about this.

Myrtle scanned the dimly lit room until one of the piles (or what she'd thought was one of the paper piles) moved on a wheeled chair to face her. It was Sloan, a hefty man with an ever-expanding forehead. He looked disappointed to see her. Their relationship was a little strained since Sloan was apparently rather terrified of Myrtle. He too-clearly remembered all the times she'd fussed at him in middle school for throwing spitballs and passing notes. You'd think that by the time he'd reached his forties, these memories would have faded. For Sloan, that didn't appear to be the case.

"Hi, Miss Myrtle." He gave her a grimacing smile. "Have you brought in your helpful hints column for me? That's awfully speedy of you. You must have read my mind. I know it's not due until later in the week, but if you've got it, I'll put it in tomorrow's edition. That's the most popular column we've got in the paper."

"No, I'm just here to borrow the copier. Pasha has disappeared and I need to put up some posters." She held up the mocked-up poster with the blurry picture of Pasha.

Sloan squinted at the picture. "Pasha?"

"You remember—the feral cat that took up with me?" Or was it that Myrtle had taken up with Pasha? "She's run off because of bad dogs and I need to make sure she's all right. As far as the helpful hints column—I might have to take a pass on it this week. There seems to be a bigger story looming on the horizon," said Myrtle.

Sloan began perspiring and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his face. "Oh, is that the death of Naomi Pelter you're talking about? I don't think there's much story there, Miss Myrtle. Got sick, looked for help, died on the way to help. Sad, but no real story to report."

Myrtle studied him thoughtfully as he started nervously picking at the hem of his handkerchief. "Red's gotten to you, hasn't he?"

Sloan gave a rather high-pitched laugh. "I don't know what you mean, Miss Myrtle."

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean. Red came in or gave you a call and told you to warn me off this story. What I want to know is why," said Myrtle sternly.

Sloan quickly opened his mouth to argue the point, and then sighed, drooping a bit. "You nailed it. Red dropped by on his way to the station this morning and asked if I could divert you from following up on this story." He quickly raised his hands as if in self-defense as Myrtle started fussing. "But I don't know why, Miss Myrtle. I just assumed it was the same old reason—that he wants you to take it easy and stop chasing criminals around Bradley." He shrugged. "It's not a lot to ask, is it? You could take it easy, stay safe, and write your tips column for the paper."