Progressive Dinner Deadly: Myrtle #2

Chapter Seventeen

But Myrtle wasn't really even listening. Wouldn't Simon Caulfield be expecting his brother's money to be willed to him on his death? If the Caulfields were having trouble paying bills, if they were worried about upcoming medical expenses, and if Simon or Libba knew that Jill had some money from the lottery....and if they knew they'd be the beneficiaries... It added up to a motive in Myrtle's eyes. A motive, but that was it. She couldn't go to the police with just the idea. She'd have to do some nosing around. It would make another blockbuster front page story. 

"Get back to your cleaning, Puddin. I've got some cooking to do." 

Myrtle walked into her kitchen with her hands on her hips. She'd go to Libba Caulfield's house with a casserole in hand. And it was going to be the best darned casserole anyone had ever tasted. So what if the last time she'd tried to cook while reading the food blog hadn't worked out so well? At least she'd been cooking for herself. Besides, it hadn't been her fault. It was Sloan's. Sloan hadn't told her how addicting blog reading could be. You jump from link to link and click around and end up on the most random and interesting stuff, and next thing you know your chicken casserole is burned to a crisp. Thank heavens for the Piggly Wiggly. Too bad Erma had been such a know-it-all and blabbed about the casserole's origins. 

This time would be better. She was going to actually prepare a casserole, put it in the oven, set the timer, and then step away from the computer. She pulled up her browser and typed in a site.

The scene at the Caulfields was an odd one. Myrtle perched uncomfortably on the edge of an elderly, overstuffed sofa with a floral motif. Blanche, if possible, looked even more uncomfortable in a straight backed chair. The lady of the house was a bona fide wreck of a woman, sporting a spotty bathrobe that had seen better days. Not an ounce of makeup assisted Libba's pinched features. The overwhelming habit of being a decent hostess came briefly to the forefront and Libba asked them if they wanted a glass of sweet tea. 

They turned it down. Lord, who knew how long it might have been since she'd whipped up that batch? It might have been before Jill's death. That pitcher could be teeming with creepy-crawlies. 

Libba hadn't even turned a hair when Myrtle brought in her casserole. That right there, Blanche later told Tippy, was a sure sign of mental weakness. Any normal person would have turned at least a little green when presented with a genuine Myrtle Clover casserole.  

Myrtle was also sure there was something wrong with Libba, but for different reasons. She'd known Libba Caulfield since she was a wee thing and she'd never seen her forget her manners. Libba was always the type to take it a step farther, too. She'd rise when elderly ladies came into the room, and it was said that she set a beautiful table when she had dinner guests. She was a closet Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette reader, Myrtle was sure. The untidy, hollow-eyed woman she saw today bore no resemblance to the Libba Caulfield she knew. 

When Simon walked into the room, stopped abruptly and took in his company with angry eyes, Myrtle nearly didn't recognize him, either. He was always neatly dressed, but today looked downright scruffy. Although the Caulfields were supposed to be having financial problems, they always did look neat and rather like what you'd think troubled gentility would look like. Simon had a large gash on his leg that he'd tried to cover with a bandage. If he'd really wanted to hide it, he should have skipped the shorts.  

"What happened to you, Simon? Looks like something tried to eat you." Myrtle peered closely at his leg. 

Simon held his mouth so tight that there was a white line on either side of it. "I...had a problem with the lawnmower a couple of days ago." 

"But Tiny cut the grass then."  

Simon made an impatient swipe with his hand. "Well, whenever I last cut it or did the edging. Anyway, it's nothing." As if suddenly realizing that his guests were hardly the recipients of gold star hosting, he said, "Thanks for coming by. It's been...a rough couple of days." He spoke the words grimly and looked quickly over at Libba who had slipped back into her funk.