Chapter Eleven
Myrtle didn't stay on the ground long. Injuries or no injuries, she was not going to be a sitting target for a killer. There was no sign of the cat and now she wondered if she'd imagined it. She felt around for her cane, grabbed it, got up, and hobbled to Miles's house. His initial exasperation at being awakened in the middle of the night was replaced with concern when he saw how shaken Myrtle was.
"Did you see the car?" asked Miles as he put a mug of hot tea in Myrtle's hands.
"No. I heard it, saw something rush off, but that was it. It didn't have its lights on."
"I guess not. This wasn't someone with safety on their mind." Miles put his teabag on his saucer.
"Who would want to kill you?" asked Miles. Actually, he could think of quite a few people. He'd qualify for that list from time to time. And Myrtle's son would be on it eighty-five percent of the time. "I mean, which of the suspects?"
Myrtle, fortunately, was not in an easily-insulted mood. "You know, I think this all goes back to blabbermouth Erma. She told half the town at the funeral home that I just needed a little bit of evidence and then I'd bag the killer. I'd imagine that most murderers would find that news a little discomfiting."
"Okay, you say half the town, but really, who was there? I can't remember much except that Erma was making a fool of herself as usual."
"Out of our favorite suspects? Georgia was there," Myrtle ignored the flush that crept up Miles's face. "Sherry was there. Cullen was somewhere around there, but I don't know what kind of condition he was in. Sherry could have told Cullen. Willow was there, although she seemed more upset about Erma's graphic depiction of the crime scene. Simon and Libba were still greeting visitors, but Cullen could have told them about it later. So...basically everyone was there."
"And you weren't denying Erma's blathering."
"Well no. She was being too darned interesting for once. I wanted to see where she was going with it all."
Miles sighed. "Actually, it doesn't really matter who was there or not. It was on the front page of the local rag, remember? Either someone thinks you're getting too close to the truth, or they're worried you're going to. Your nosiness may not seem so harmless anymore. Last time you were nosy, you helped solve a murder. Now you probably seem more like a crime fighter than a snoopy old lady."
Miles hid a smile at the idea of a strident Myrtle in storm trooper gear out annihilating evil. "So, actually, you don't really know anything. You just told Erma that you did because you were irritated with her. And she blabbed this lie to half the town."
Myrtle was miffed. "I certainly do know a few things. During the course of my investigation I've found out lots of interesting tidbits."
Miles raised his eyebrows.
"Well first of all, I know that someone knew I take little middle of the night walks. They were familiar enough with my habit to wait for me to come out and then try to run me down."
Miles nodded. "So who would know about that?"
Myrtle snorted. "Just about anybody. Erma bellowed it out during the supper club for anyone to hear. Remember? She was making fun of the way I was thumping with my cane."
"Right. And there were a lot of people standing around, although I can't really remember who was that close."
"Everyone was that close. No offence, Miles, but we were all standing at very close quarters."
Myrtle stirred her tea while she thought. "I also know Blanche Clark was afraid of Jill, but I really don't know why." She paused. "But I think it might have something to do with Jill's snooping. Maybe Jill was blackmailing Blanche, or maybe Blanche was just worried that Jill could blackmail her. Or Blanche is just worried that people would talk."
"I don't really understand," said Miles, "why, if Jill really did have some information on Blanche, why Blanche would really care. You mentioned that Jill was snooping in your medicine cabinet, so I'm guessing she might have snooped in Blanche's too. I mean, if she has some sort of a medical problem or some kind of an addiction, won't people just understand that she needs help?"
"People....you mean like people where you moved from? City people? Urban people? Atlanta people?" Myrtle snorted inelegantly. "Sure, those type of people would bring Blanche a casserole, tell her about their Uncle Edwin's pill problem, and give her the number of the nearest chichi rehab facility. Then they'll promptly forget the incident ever happened and descend back into the chaos of their daily lives."
"But not Bradley people?"
"Bradley people know that there's not really any other news to talk about. They will absolutely run Blanche's pill problem into the ground by gabbing about it all the time. They'll bless her heart, then yak and yak and yak about it. On her deathbed, she'll still be Poor-Blanche-Who-Did-Drugs. Remember Katy Johnson? No, you wouldn't because she ran away from Bradley before you got here. But if you ask anybody about Katy, will they say that she was sweet as homemade pie? Will they mention that she organized the toy drive for the underprivileged children? No, it'll all be "Katy-Who-Lost-Her-Whole-Bathing-Suit-in-that-Water-Skiing-Contest."
"And you said that Georgia was upset with Jill," Miles took off his glasses and polished them.
"Upset doesn't even really cover it. I think spitting mad is more the term. Georgia thinks Jill cheated her out of her share of a lottery win."
"How did your visit with Georgia go?" asked Miles in a careless voice.
"I'd have taken you with me," said Myrtle carefully, "if I hadn't thought you'd turn my interrogation into a social visit."
Myrtle added hurriedly, "So, yes, Georgia is a natural suspect. And there's also Jill's neighbor Sherry. Sherry knows Erma Sherman and she still claims that Jill was a worse neighbor than Erma is. So now we know that Sherry is a drama queen. Because no one is a worse neighbor than Erma."
"Why did Sherry think that Jill was so awful?"
Myrtle snorted. "Some ridiculous reason like 'Jill was too perfect' or something like that. I can only dream of having a neighbor who is so meticulous about her yard that it's annoying. Oh, and Jill's Christmas lights and music bugs her. I think she might even have been having an affair with Cullen just to get back at Jill."
"Wait. Stop right there. The bad neighbor stuff isn't such a big deal, but you didn't tell me that Sherry and Cullen are having an affair."
"That's right. It's been going on for a while, apparently. That's what Simon alluded to, anyway. He was accusing Cullen of murdering Jill so that he could marry Sherry. And while we're mentioning Simon, he's never been a big fan of Jill's either. I think he's always thought Jill wasn't good enough for his brother."
Miles snorted. "That's a good one. Like Cullen is actually good enough for anyone."
"Yes, but I taught those boys. The family was a good one and well-respected at the time. The father had plenty of money and they were one of the wealthier families in Bradley. So it's definitely possible that Simon would have looked down on Jill, who was from a working class family."
"And killed her after so many years?" Miles looked doubtful. "Did anyone else want to get rid of Jill?"
Myrtle thought. "Willow. I've heard several accounts now-one from you-about how Willow and Jill were arguing right before Jill was murdered. And then they fought with each other at your party. It always seemed to be over Jill's marriage. Willow wanted Jill to leave Cullen."
"That's sort of a leap to murdering your sister, though, isn't it?" asked Miles. "You won't leave this good-for-nothing lout. So I'm going to kill you?"
Myrtle shrugged. "Maybe she'd just had enough of her family, period. Lord knows I feel that way about Red sometimes."
"So Blanche, Georgia, Sherry, Simon, Cullen, and Willow had issues with Jill Caulfield. But everyone else thought she was this salt-of-the-earth do-gooder," said Miles. "And whoever Jill's killer is must be someone we know. Someone we think of as a friend, someone we went to supper club with. But this someone is perfectly happy to try to mow you down with their car. Shouldn't we be calling the police or something?"
Myrtle looked away from Miles. "Do we have to? I mean, really, what good is it going to do? I'm just going to get a lecture from Red about wandering around in the middle of the night again. And he'll point out that I did fall down, which had nothing to do with the murderer and everything to do with Pasha. Poor cat. Did a good deed for me and then took off again into the night."
"He might be able to find out who did it. He could do a quick check of the neighbors' cars and see if one's missing."
"The car has probably quietly coasted back into its driveway by now. And half the houses in question have garages so you can't see what's parked inside. Plus, I have no description of the car. I can't describe the driver or the sound of the motor. It's been dry as a bone outside so there won't be any tire tracks. The car didn't hit anything, so there won't be chipped paint or anything. Let's just leave it alone."
Myrtle suddenly remembered the poisoned iced tea. So this made a second attempt on her life. She opened her mouth to say something to Miles about it, then snapped it shut again. Best not to tell Miles about it because he really would talk to Red. And it's not like Myrtle had any real evidence of foul play.
"And be careful," said Miles.
"Yes. Very careful," said Myrtle. "As I continue my investigations."
Miles looked as though his head hurt.
"I'm going to be careful, Miles. But I'm going to have the biggest story of my journalism career at the same time. I just need to do some digging. And I know things are going to get even harder. Red wasn't happy about finding me walking around at night by myself. And now every time I open my front door I see him somewhere close by. He's driving me crazy."
"He is?" asked Miles. "So the tables are turned, then?"
Myrtle ignored him. "He's sticking to me like a leech. He's everywhere. He's like God." Myrtle sounded completely deflated.
"Things must be bad if you're attributing God-like properties to Red," said Miles with concern.
"Doesn't he have a case to solve or something? I'm not going to be able to do any questioning this way at all. And I really do need to talk to Blanche Clark."
"Why not have Blanche come to you?" suggested Miles.
"Come again?"
"You could pretend you're temporarily home-bound with some sort of illness or something. Doesn't Blanche work on that church committee?"
"Actually, I think Blanche and Tippy are that church committee. Miles, you're a genius."
"Thanks," said Miles modestly.
The next morning, Myrtle set the Bereavement and Illness committee into motion. Myrtle smiled when the doorbell rang. That should be Blanche now, food in tow. This suspect interview couldn't possibly end badly; even if Myrtle didn't get any information at all, she'd at least end up with a delicious casserole. Her only worry, as she thumped across the living room with her cane, was that someone else from the church was subbing for Blanche. What if it was Prissy Daniels at the door instead? Myrtle shuddered.
It was Blanche. Myrtle sighed with relief. She was wearing black slacks and a silky green blouse and a beautiful scarf held in place with a pin. Myrtle, who had always wanted to be able to carry off wearing a scarf, eyed it jealously. Blanche sure looked a lot jauntier since Jill's murder.
Blanche walked right into Myrtle's kitchen and put the casserole in the fridge, talking as she did about the cooking instructions. "How are you feeling?" she asked with concern.
Myrtle, who had almost forgotten she was supposed to be sick, said, "Oh, I'm hanging in there, Blanche. Just barely, of course." She coughed weakly. She couldn't for the life of her remember what illness she'd concocted. Was she supposed to have an upset stomach? Strep? A bad cold? She searched the dark recesses of her mind. No, she decided, it was flu. Which explained why Blanche was keeping a healthy distance from her.
Blanche smiled at Myrtle, but preserved her personal space. "Did the doctor say when you might be feeling better?"
Myrtle frowned. The conversation was not supposed to be centered around her health, lack of it or otherwise. "I didn't go in. He...uh...diagnosed me on the phone. I don't think he wanted me to come in and spread germs around his waiting room."
This was obviously the wrong thing to say. Blanche increased the distance between them and eased toward the door. "Well, I hope you're feeling better soon, Myrtle."
Myrtle said hastily, "Oh, I'm sure I'll be better soon. The doctor prescribed an anti-viral, you see." It wouldn't do to have Blanche see her traipsing around later that day. She'd have to remember to be careful. Obviously she'd have to pass on going to the gym today. Shoot.
"It's been such an awful week," Myrtle continued. "What with poor Jill's murder and then my getting sick... it's been one thing after another." She saw Blanche's eyes narrow. Myrtle didn't want to scare Blanche off. She started prattling.
"I just couldn't believe it when we saw Jill on the floor like that. What a shock! Who could have done such a thing, Blanche? I live here all by myself, you know, and I am just scared to death that someone's going to come here and try to smother me with my own pillow or something." Myrtle wrung her hands. She'd never actually seen anyone wring their hands or done it herself. But in the spur of the moment, it seemed like a good thing to do.
Blanche's voice was gentle. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Myrtle. Red is right across the street from you: you can't be any safer than that! The police chief himself. Besides, Jill was probably killed over something personal. You don't have anyone that mad at you."
Myrtle made a face. "Red probably qualifies as that mad, sometimes. But he won't take a whack at me anytime soon." She paused. "You know, it was a funny thing about Jill. She did a really bang-up job with cleaning. The whole place shone. But she was so very interested in my medicine cabinet."
Blanche looked swiftly up at her.
"Not that there was anything in there but Q-tips and witch hazel. But, I was wondering if she'd found something more interesting in yours?"
Blanche abruptly took a seat on Myrtle's sofa. "You haven't told anyone? Not even Red?"
"Of course not!" She wouldn't mention Miles. "But I don't understand why you won't go to the police over it. They're bound to find out. And you were a victim."
Blanche took a deep breath and let go of Myrtle's arm. "I was in a car accident a while ago-before I moved here. My back was a mess and the recovery was really painful, so the doctor prescribed me painkillers. But once you start taking painkillers, it's hard to get off of them. My doctor stopped prescribing them for me so I started getting them from a dealer."
"But Jill wouldn't have known if you had a current prescription or not."
"She knew," said Blanche bitterly. "Oxycodone isn't a long-term prescription for people these days. Not for people who aren't in a great deal of pain. No, Jill knew exactly what was going on and exactly what kind of a barrel she had me over."
"She blackmailed you," said Myrtle.
"Yes." Blanche studied a spot on the wall over Myrtle's head.
"Would it have mattered so much?" asked Myrtle. "People would have found out that you had an addiction-but they'd have forgotten about it eventually."
Blanche gave a short laugh. "You, more than anybody, Myrtle, know that's not true. You've lived in Bradley long enough to know that people here never forget. I'd never be able to continue doing all the things I'm doing now. All the committees I'm on? I'd probably be given the cold shoulder at most of the clubs I'm in."
The thought made Blanche look sicker than Myrtle was supposed to be.
Myrtle said, "You're not the first person to be addicted to prescription drugs, you know. Don't be too hard on yourself. There are plenty of places to get help."
Blanche gave her a small smile. "Thanks, Myrtle."
"I'm surprised," said Myrtle in a musing voice, "considering the street value of the drugs Jill discovered, that she didn't just swipe them and resell them on the street."
"She probably thought about it," said Blanche. "But it would be a lot riskier than blackmail. There would have been more of a chance of discovery."
"So you paid Jill to keep it quiet?"
Blanche looked tired. "I did. I felt like I had to. And then I fired her. I couldn't bear having her around me anymore." She said the words like they were sour on her tongue.
Abruptly, Blanche lurched to her feet and walked to the door. "I've got to go now, Myrtle. Please...you will keep this quiet, won't you?"
Myrtle said warmly, "Of course I will."
Blanche smiled weakly at Myrtle, then pulled open the front door. And shrieked.
Pasha stood in the doorway holding a live snake. Myrtle grabbed her cane from the coat rack by the door and shook it at the cat as Blanche shrank backwards in alarm, whether at the snake, the cat, or the cane-brandishing Myrtle she wasn't sure. "Shoo! Shoo, Pasha!"
Pasha looked resentfully at her and carried her prey off to the side of the house. Myrtle turned and squeezed Blanche's arm apologetically. "Pasha thinks I need hunting lessons," Myrtle said in a feeble voice.
Blanche's laugh bordered on the hysterical. "It's fine, Myrtle. As long as it's gone. I...um...hope you feel better." She looked doubtfully at Myrtle, still holding her cane with a robust stance.
"Blanche," said Myrtle, "I think I feel better already."
"Progressive Dinner Deadly" and other Myrtle Clover mysteries are available in ebook, audio, and print formats from Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other retailers. I'll post a chapter each Friday, 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, or visit my website at Elizabethspanncraig.com for more information. I'll update Wattpad on Friday afternoons. Hope you'll enjoy the book.