Cooking is Murder, A Myrtle Clover Mystery #11

Chapter Six

"But we really do need another helpful hints column from you. You just don't know how popular those are," said Sloan in a rush.

"You're right. I don't know how popular those are." Myrtle rolled her eyes at Pasha, who purred loudly and brushed lovingly against Myrtle's legs.

"Why, people love them. Particularly anything to do with painting a room or birdfeeders. If you don't have any ideas for hints, maybe you could scare up something about those topics. Folks come up to me the whole livelong day and tell me how much they love and appreciate those tips."

"That's funny, because people don't come up to me to fawn over my column. And I'm the one writing it. Anyway! You're herding me off topic, Sloan. My story has nothing to do with hints, as I was saying. Unless the hint is that Louvenia Defore's cooking class might be hazardous to your health."

Sloan's voice changed on the phone. "You're in a cooking class?"

"Everyone can use improvement, Sloan. Learning is for life! Even for those of us who've been cooking beautifully for sixty years," said Myrtle.

There was a strangled sound on the other end of the line.

Myrtle said sharply, "Sloan! It's impolite to eat and talk on the phone at the same time."

"Wasn't eating," said Sloan in a weak voice. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

"Somehow we've veered off-topic again. Back to Chester Struby's murder. There are a few bizarre details of this case," said Myrtle. She knew that Sloan was a sucker for a story that might get picked up on the wire for other newspapers.

"Really?" Sloan couldn't keep the curiosity out of this voice.

"Yes. The murder weapon was both vicious and tragic. He was killed with a digital meat thermometer," said Myrtle.

"What?"

"Precisely," said Myrtle. "So, this is my story. I'll write it up perfectly and it's sure to be picked up by other papers. You think your friendship with Red is important because he'll give you tips for stories. Instead, it's your star reporter who's giving you the hot leads."

"Yes, Miss Myrtle," said Sloan meekly.

"I'll email you the story later today. And I'll try to decipher some of Wanda's horoscopes for you on top of all that." And Myrtle hung up.

"And now it's time for my soap opera," she muttered to Pasha. "Pasha, want to sit in my lap and take a nap since you have a full tummy?"

Myrtle plopped down in an armchair and picked up her remote. Pasha gingerly hopped up on Myrtle's lap. She proceeded to have a bath while Myrtle pointed the remote between Pasha's ears so the signal could reach the television.

There was a short, desperate shriek outside Myrtle's front door. Myrtle calmly continued pushing buttons on her remote.

The phone rang, startling Pasha who gave Myrtle a reproachful look. "Yes? Hello?" asked Myrtle in some irritation as she hit pause on the remote.

"Mama? Good to hear you're alive." Red's voice contradicted his words.

"Of course I am. I'm far too busy to kick the bucket. Why on earth would you think otherwise?" Myrtle stroked Pasha until the black cat settled down again.

"Oh, you know, the yelling. I'm temporarily home to grab a sandwich and heard Puddin scream. Wondered if she'd walked in on a body or something," said Red. It sounded as if he were now stuffing his sandwich down his throat as quickly as he could.

At that moment, Puddin's sullen face and dumpy body maneuvered through the door. Instead of her usual pasty white skin, she was looking decidedly green. She glared at Myrtle.