Miles pulled up into Myrtle's driveway. "Thanks for the ride, Miles. And for going with me this morning to see Rose."
Miles was carefully backing out when he saw that Myrtle was not walking to her front door at all, but was heading down the sidewalk, leaning fairly heavily on her cane. "Aren't you done for today? I thought it was time for your soap?"
Myrtle grinned at him. "You know it's time for my soap. That's because you're hooked on it, too. I'm fine on my own, Miles. You should go ahead and fix yourself a grilled cheese and sit down in front of Tomorrow's Promise for a while."
Miles closed his eyes briefly as if praying for patience. Then he pushed open the passenger side door. "Hop on in."
"But you were planning on going back home!"
"I guess I'll end up going back home just a little later than I'd planned. Besides, sidekicks are supposed to go along with the sleuths—that's the whole point of being a sidekick. So I'll go along with you to...?" Miles gave Myrtle an expectant look.
"To Maxine Tristan's house," supplied Myrtle.
"To Maxine's house," said Miles. He sighed. "Even though Maxine makes me a bit flustered." He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt as if even thinking about the woman was making him rattled.
Myrtle sat back down in the passenger seat with a bit of a thump. Her knees were starting to give her some complaints this afternoon, although she'd never admit it to Miles. He continued backing up, giving Red a brief wave as he and Myrtle headed back out again.
Myrtle resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Red. She knew he was the one behind Miles's courteous chauffeuring. Red must have come home for lunch and that was the second time he'd given Miles that wave of approval and thanks. Most irritating. And now Myrtle was feeling in a rather grouchy mood, when she hadn't been before. "We've spent all day together," groused Myrtle. "People will say we're having a love affair."
Miles raised his eyebrows at her. "Since when do you mind what people say?"
"Well, you know. Small town and all of that. And I do mind what people say. I absolutely despise it when people call me sweetie and young lady. Especially young lady in that jaunty kind of tone. Makes me want to smack them."
Myrtle continued fuming in the passenger seat and Miles wisely stayed silent until she got it out of her system. When Myrtle appeared to be simmering down a bit, Miles cautiously said, "Remind me again about Maxine? I mean...remind me why she's a suspect. What's her motive, again?"
"Well, I was tipped off to Maxine when she was positively grinning when Naomi's death was announced at book club. It wasn't merely inappropriate—it was quite telling. Lena Fowler also brought up Maxine. She wouldn't tell me much, but she mentioned that Maxine saw Naomi as competition of some kind. I guess Maxine must have thought that Naomi was after her boyfriend—something like that! That does seem to be Naomi's usual modus operandi. But Maxine doesn't seem like the kind of woman men leave. I mean, she's quite attractive," said Myrtle.
Miles grew flustered again. Really, this was going to be most amusing if Miles kept getting discombobulated whenever Maxine or Maxine's appearance was brought up. He must have quite a crush.
They arrived at a small white house with a bit of gingerbread trim on the sides and a front porch just large enough to hold three rocking chairs.
"It almost looks as if she knew we were coming. Look, three chairs, Miles," said Myrtle.
"Is she psychic, too?" asked Miles in a grouchy tone.
Maxine didn't seem to have any otherworldly talents as far as Myrtle could tell. She seemed, in fact, very focused on making the most of her physical talents. Maxine was an attractive woman in a very obvious way. She greeted them with delight, as if she wanted nothing more for the afternoon than to entertain an extremely elderly woman and her widower companion. She had on a rather tight purple top and a rather short black skirt and wore espadrilles and a lot of eye makeup.
"You're staring at her," said Myrtle, glaring at Miles as Maxine hurried inside to get them some lemonade.
"I'm trying not to," said Miles in a strained voice. "But Maxine always wears very tight garments. It's very difficult to avoid staring."
"Here we are," sang out Maxine as she joined them again on the porch. She set down a tray with lemonade for the three of them on a small table and then distributed the glasses. Myrtle took a sip and raised her eyebrows. Homemade lemonade.
"I'm delighted to see y'all today, but of course I know you must be here on a mission," said Maxine, getting right to the point. Perhaps she did have something to do after they left this afternoon. "What might it be? A message about next month's selection for book club? A rescheduled garden club meeting? Fundraising for impoverished Eastern European children?" Maxine gave a perfect smile with her perfectly lipsticked mouth and her perfectly gleaming teeth.
Miles cleared his throat. "Well, actually–" He began hoarsely.
"Actually," Myrtle stepped in smoothly, "Miles is helping me hand out flyers."
Myrtle was all set to go into her spiel about Pasha, what she looked like, and the circumstances of her mysterious disappearance when Maxine nodded with complete understanding.
"That's right," she said with total recall, "at the book club meeting you mentioned that you'd lost your cat. A black cat. Pasha. There was a scuffle involving those mongrel dogs, right? You haven't found her yet?"
Myrtle gaped at Maxine in amazement. Here was apparently the one person at book club who had actually been paying attention to Myrtle. And she could even remember all the small details, including the cat's name.
Maxine smiled at her. "Are these the flyers you're putting out?" She held out a well-manicured hand to take one from Myrtle. Myrtle handed one to her, wordlessly. She could see a tiny tattoo on Maxine's shoulder that briefly came into view before her purple top covered it again.
Maxine studied the flyer. "All right. Now that I know Miss Pasha's face, I'll be on the lookout for her. Don't worry about her. I remember I lost a cat once...years and years ago. Buttons was gone for two months. I'd given up hope that she was coming back—I'd searched and searched so...you know. I figured the poor creature had gotten run over by a car or another animal or something. Grieved a bit. Cried a while. I was in recovery mode, thinking about getting another pet. Then one day, up comes Buttons on the front porch, bold as brass. Acting as if she'd only been away for an afternoon instead of a couple of months." Maxine lit up a cigarette and gave a reflective puff. "Darned cat."
Myrtle had never been a fan of cigarettes and it was that fact that she attributed to helping her live to her advanced age. She tried inconspicuously to push her chair backward to escape the toxic blue fumes that seemed to be wafting her way.
The perceptive Maxine noticed. She grimaced. "Sorry about that." She turned her head, took a few puffs, and then stubbed out the cigarette, sticking it in her shorts pocket. "Nasty habit."
Myrtle wasn't sure how to get the topic back to murder and away from cats without being completely obvious. And was amazed when Miles made the segue for her.
"It's been an exciting week all right," said Miles a bit gruffly. "Missing cat. A campaign to find said missing cat. And, of course—Naomi's death."
Maxine gave him a toothy grin. "Well, I'm glad you said it was an exciting week and not a sad one. Because Naomi Pelter's death was certainly a highlight for me."
Myrtle and Miles just gaped at her. Surely, she hadn't intended to say such a thing out loud.
"Actually, I should amend that. Naomi Pelter's murder was a highlight." Maxine took a sip of her lemonade and rocked reflectively in the rocker for a moment. Then she turned to look at Myrtle and Miles. "Have I scandalized you?"
Myrtle cleared her throat. "Your honesty is refreshing. Most people try not to speak ill of the dead."
"Most people are idiots," said Maxine with a shrug. "I didn't particularly like Naomi and that hasn't changed since her death. She tended to chase after men I'd become involved with." She gave Miles a rather salacious wink and he turned bright red.
"You know that the police are calling it murder," said Myrtle.
"Word gets around," said Maxine.
"The police haven't asked you any questions?" asked Myrtle.
"No."
Myrtle felt smug. She was one-step ahead of Red and the state police. "Have you thought about who might have killed her?"
"So that I can throw them a party?" asked Maxine archly. "I haven't really thought it out, no. Although, if I had to name names, Rose Mayfield would come up pretty fast. She's the obvious candidate, right?"
"Can you come up with a less-obvious candidate?"
Maxine furrowed her brow and put both manicured hands on the sides of her head as if pushing out the thoughts. Then she snapped her fingers. "Claudia Brown," she said. She rolled her eyes. "Poor, poor Claudia."
"When I visited Claudia...about Pasha, you know...she mentioned that she liked Naomi," said Myrtle.
Maxine was starting to look bored. "As I said, most people are idiots. If someone dies, the idiots suddenly have to pretend they were best friends with victim, when they weren't."
Miles appeared to have recovered from his last flustering. "Why do you call Claudia poor?"
"She's very simple. And she is so proud of being able to sing well—her one talent, you know. When Naomi identified things that were important to people, she decided to steal them away. That's the kind of person she was. She noticed that Claudia loved being the soloist at the church and got many compliments and attention that way. Next thing you know, Naomi is heading off to church and is lead soloist." Maxine absently rubbed the red lipstick mark that was now on her lemonade glass.
"So you're not surprised at all that Naomi was murdered," said Myrtle.
"Only that it didn't happen earlier," said Maxine stoutly. "Finished with your lemonade?" she asked in a more pleasant tone.
"I think I know why Maxine flusters you so much, Miles. She's a real piece of work." Myrtle and Miles were back in Miles's car and heading back home.
"She's a very brazen young woman," said Miles, still looking a little ruddy.
"She was flirting with you." Myrtle pursed her lips. It might possibly be considered condescending for a lovely young woman to flirt with a gentleman Miles's age and she hated condescension. If it wasn't condescension, it was certainly impertinence.
"I believe it's what comes naturally to her. I think she may flirt with anyone. I think it's her normal way of interacting with people," said Miles in a mild voice.
They pulled up into Myrtle's driveway. "Well, thanks for driving me here and yonder today. You even missed your soap."
Miles winced. "Please don't keep saying that. I really don't want people to think I'm a regular soap opera viewer."
Myrtle said, "Why don't you come in and watch it with me? I've got ice cream. We can have chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup. I tape the show and I know you don't. We can find out if Cheryl and Justin ever escaped from that mad bomber. And if Kayla got away from the cult."
Miles sighed. "The fact that those are examples of actual storylines makes me wonder again why I'm watching the show. But the ice cream does sound really good."
"Sometimes you have to have bubble gum for the brain," said Myrtle. "Gives me an opportunity to rest my mind a little while."
"Okay," said Miles. "Although don't get mad if I drift off during the show. I'm feeling pretty tired out. I'm not like you, you know. You have more energy than a two-year-old on caffeine."
He followed Myrtle in and helped her fix the bowls of ice cream. They brought them into Myrtle's small living room and she messed with a couple of remotes for a few minutes until a menu came up. She grunted, looking at the list of shows. "Where's Tomorrow's Promise?"
"Didn't it tape?"
"I can't find it on the list! What on earth?" Myrtle kept scrolling up and down on the list of taped shows. "What's wrong with this thing?"
"Flip over to live TV and see what's on that station," said Miles. "Maybe the show got preempted for some reason."
Myrtle muttered under her breath, fumbling with the remotes again until she pulled up the station that Tomorrow's Promise ordinarily showed on. "Tennis! For heaven's sake. Tennis is on."
"I rather like tennis," said Miles in a mild tone. He took a big bite of his chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup.
"I only watch tennis when it airs on Sundays," said Myrtle stoutly. "Why is it coming on during the week in the afternoon?"
"It's a tournament," said Miles. "It's not as if we missed anything. The show didn't come on today. So when it's back on tomorrow, they'll pick up where they left off."
"Yes, thank you, I understand the way preempted shows work," groused Myrtle. "I'm just annoyed that a sporting event is messing up my plans."
"We could watch tennis," suggested Miles, "since you don't mind watching it either. This Russian woman who is playing now is supposed to be very good."
"No, because now I'm annoyed at the tennis game for bumping off my show," said Myrtle. She fumed for a moment, staring at her melting ice cream. "Now I feel restless again. Maybe I should go put out more flyers for Pasha."
"Myrtle! Haven't you done enough today? Besides, you've covered the area, and talked to enough suspects for one day, too."
"I don't want to talk to more suspects today," said Myrtle. "But putting out more flyers makes sense."
"It doesn't, actually," said Miles in a patient voice that set Myrtle's teeth on edge. "I've been reading up on data about missing cats. One article I read said that cats could become quite disoriented when they're in even slightly unfamiliar territory...particularly if they were driven out of their usual stomping grounds by a catfight or by being chased by a dog. They hide, apparently. Even if they're very close by, they might be too scared to come out and are worried about where they are."
Myrtle was in a mood where hearing logic annoyed her. And she was already put out with the change of plans for the rest of the afternoon and the fact that it didn't involve her soap opera. And maybe the busy day had taken more out of her than she'd previously suspected. There was also the fact that, despite the positive message Wanda had given her, she was worried sick over that cat. Being worried sick wasn't particularly good for Myrtle, either. So it was in an unfortunate icy tone that she asserted, "You're just saying that because you think Pasha isn't coming back home to me. You're trying to let me down easily. You think she's been run over by a car or something. Or that she's sick or injured and crawled off into the woods to die." These were her worst fears and something that she hadn't allowed herself to voice earlier.
Miles glanced away briefly. "I'm only saying–" he started out, stiffly.
"You don't even like Pasha," shot back Myrtle in a furious voice.
Miles just blinked at her, his eyes stunned behind the rimless glasses, a bit of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. Then a hurt expression flickered across his face and he carefully took his empty ice cream bowl into the kitchen, rinsed it, and put it into the dishwasher.
"We can talk more about this after we've calmed down," he said quietly. He didn't seem as if he needed to calm down. He picked up his keys and left.
"A Body at Book Club" is completed and available now on Amazon (at https://tinyurl.com/o6wn4sk ), Nook, Kobo, CreateSpace, and other major retailers. All my Myrtle Clover mysteries are also available on Amazon India: https://tinyurl.com/ohdbffq . I'll post a chapter each Wednesday, but if you can't wait, please visit one of the listed retailers for the completed book. Follow me on Twitter (elizabethscraig), sign up for my newsletter for a free ebook at http://eepurl.com/kCy5j , or visit my website at Elizabethspanncraig.com for more information. Hope you'll enjoy the book. Please vote on the chapter if you enjoy it.