A gnome village miraculously mushroomed overnight in Myrtle's yard while Red slept. Ceramic gnome characters, all engaged in a variety of cute activities, graced her front lawn. Elaine walked past her kitchen window. She blinked. "Oh Lord. Your mom's called out the gnome patrol, Red. What did you do?"
"What?" Red pushed the curtain aside. He groaned and pressed his hands against his eyes, hoping when he opened them the image of a hundred ceramic gnomes cluttering his mother's yard across the street would have vanished. He was disappointed.
"Red, what did you do to your mother?" asked Elaine. Displaying her gigantic gnome collection in her front yard was Myrtle's favorite way of expressing her displeasure with her son. "It must have taken her all night to drag all those things out of the shed. She could have broken her neck!"
Red turned back around to face the narrowed eyes of his wife, lampooning him with visual darts. "Nothing! I didn't do..." He stopped. "I signed her up for Women of the Church and Altar Guild."
"I thought you said that was her idea!"
"She's bored again, Elaine, and you know that means trouble."
"She's won't be all that bad," demurred Elaine.
"She won't? Remember when she wrote the blistering editorial to the Charlotte Observer?"
"Which one?" asked Elaine.
"That's what I mean! She goes off half-cocked on some random topic and gets everybody all stirred up."
"Well, we don't live in Charlotte anyway. It's not like people are snickering at us behind our backs at the Piggly Wiggly."
"She's caused plenty of trouble here, too, you know. Remember the uncivil unrest she sparked at Greener Pastures Retirement Home?" demanded Red.
Elaine did. Once when Myrtle visited a friend there, she'd spearheaded a protest against the assigned seating in the dining hall. "At your age you should sit where you please," she'd sniffed. This spawned hurt feelings from those happy with their seating assignments and indignation from those who wanted to sit where they chose. They had to bring in the Methodist minister to mediate.
Red sighed. "Whenever she has too much time on her hands, she worries over the little things in life."
Elaine guiltily remembered her hours obsessing on Jack's sippy cup problem.
"She'll meddle in other people's business-organize sit-ins to protest late garbage pick-up...who knows what she might do with a lot of extra time on her hands? She could use that extra time for the community good." Red rationalized.
"Arranging flowers in the sanctuary?"
Red knew he wouldn't win this one. Plus, Elaine looked like she was working herself up into a real snit-one that might carry over into their chicken pot pie supper that evening. Or their "American Idol" snuggling-up-time on the sofa together. Or even...
"What do you want me to do?" he pleaded, palms held up in supplication.
"Apologize to your mother. Send those gnomes packing-before people really do snicker at us at the Piggly Wiggly."
Red picked up the cordless phone, which Elaine quickly pulled from his hand and set back onto the counter. She propelled him to the front door, pushed him out, and went back for a second cup of coffee. She was greeted in the kitchen by their half-asleep French exchange student. Jean-Marc shuffled past the kitchen window, stopped short at the sight of the gnomes, and peered through it again. "Zut alors!" Elaine wordlessly poured him a large cup of coffee.
Red was too late to patch things up with Myrtle that morning. She was already stomping her way to church for the Altar Guild meeting he'd gotten her into. Myrtle's cane thumped emphatically on the pavement in front of her, the robustness of the sound giving her a sense of satisfaction. The skin that stretched over her big bones were wrinkle-free...just a few fine lines when she smiled and frowned. She was tall and cut an imposing figure in the classroom where she'd reigned supreme for twenty-five years before retiring more years ago than she cared to remember. She smiled smugly at the thought of her gnome army greeting Red this morning. If she'd wanted to get involved with Altar Guild and Women of the Church, she'd have signed up herself.
Altar Guild was synonymous with Parke Stockard, who seemed bent on taking over every church activity she could get involved with. Great. A morning with Parke certainly wouldn't cure Myrtle's foul mood. She gave her cane another vicious whack on the sidewalk, then pushed through the heavy wooden doors into the sanctuary, checking her murderous thoughts at the door. Although someone clearly hadn't checked theirs.
Parke Stockard lay sprawled at the altar, sightless eyes wide open. For once, Myrtle was glad to have her cane to lean on.
"Miss Myrtle! Here to help us out with Altar Guild?" The minister, Nathaniel Gluck, loped into the sanctuary, long arms dangling awkwardly by his sides. He blanched when he spotted the body by the altar, stopping in his tracks. Nathaniel moved forward, then stopped again. His bony hands clutched his throat and he made a choking, gasping sound before getting back in control. "Merciful heavens! Oh..." he wheezed a trembling sigh, "dear. Miss Myrtle, we should leave. Should phone the police. Or an ambulance. My office is just down the hall..." His hands flapped helplessly in the air like a scrawny fledgling trying to fly off.
Myrtle had no intention of being shepherded away. "Don't worry about me, Nathaniel. I'll just-um-stay here and make sure the crime scene isn't tampered with. Parke's days of needing ambulances are long gone. Just call Red." Myrtle's son Red was Bradley's chief of police. The minister scuttled off to his office.
The crime scene had a film noir feel to it. The pulpit cast creepy shadows over the dead blonde on the floor. Even the blood spatters had an artful feel about them, with Parke's stray hairs matted down just so. Roses lay scattered on the altar, on Parke, and on the floor, a subtle reminder of the violent act. The only odd thing was-Myrtle squinted in disbelief-Parke's knit top was on inside-out. How very un-Parkelike.
Her body sprawled dramatically in front of the altar with a broken crystal vase lying in splinters nearby. Myrtle moved closer, wondering what kind of information she could pick up before Red came roaring over in his squad car and hustled her out of there as fast as she could toddle.
Shocked by her daring, Myrtle bent down and placed a hand on Parke's bare arm. Her body was still warm. The murder had been very recent.. The hush of the sanctuary took on a more sinister feel and the hairs on the back of Myrtle's neck stood on end.
Parke obviously died from blunt force trauma. But what weapon had the killer used? The altar was a mess and the weapon could be almost any of the heavy objects lying on it or nearby. Had the crystal vase smashed on Parke's head or on the floor during a struggle? A heavy brass collection plate could easily have been the weapon. Or the huge, brass-footed candlesticks that lay overturned on the altar.
Myrtle leaned closer to investigate blood on the collection plate, and noticed a cell phone nearly obscured by the avalanche of roses. Putting down her cane, she took a tissue from her pocketbook and picked up the phone. "Good Myrtle" argued against tampering with evidence. That was until "Bad Myrtle" pointed out she had a God-given talent for solving puzzles. Crosswords, true, but they could be just as cryptic as murders. She was assisting the police. "Good Myrtle" kept quiet.
Myrtle scrolled through the phone's menu until she got to the call log. Parke Stockard sure had lots of numbers on her contact list, but Myrtle doubted they were all friends. Recent calls included Althea Hayes, Benton Chambers, and Josh Tucker, her co-worker at the Bradley Bugle. She tried listening to the voicemail messages, but hung up with disappointment when prompted for a password. She eased the phone back where she'd found it and sat down in a pew to wait for Nathaniel. Still looking around, she spotted a large Bible a couple of feet away from her-definitely not a pew Bible, judging from the papers and sticky notes protruding from it. She slid across the wooden pew, opened the book, and saw Kitty Kirk's name written in loopy, schoolgirl cursive in the front of the Bible.
She snapped the Bible shut when the door opened and sat demurely as Nathaniel entered the sanctuary. "Red's on his way," he said. The minister glanced at the body and sighed. Wrinkling his brow, he gingerly stepping up to the altar. "Odd," he said.
"What is?"
"The flowers. I don't remember roses in the arrangement this morning." He frowned. "We have a member with a terrible allergy to roses and Kitty is always so careful to avoid using them." He seemed about to continue, then stopped short.
"I never dreamed she'd be murdered," he said in a hushed tone, almost to himself.
"Were you worried something like this might happen?"
He shook his head emphatically. "Nothing like this. I'd have told Red if I thought any harm would come to Parke. But she didn't have many fans, I'm afraid."
Myrtle scowled in remembrance. "I'm not surprised."
"But her heart was in the right place," he insisted.
"I just remember that Dorothy Parker quote. 'If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to,'" said Myrtle.
Nathaniel smiled noncommittally and continued an anxious vigil over the body. Discovering the body of the church's biggest benefactor capped off the worst week he'd ever had at the church. He'd received phone calls all week complaining about the new hymnals that Parke Stockard had donated. Last Sunday's service featured the hymn "God of Our Fathers." In an effort at political correctness, the modern hymnal had diplomatically changed the words to "God of the Ages," much to the apparent displeasure of most of the congregation.
Myrtle sniffed the air suddenly. She hadn't immediately noticed in the flurry of discovering Parke's body, but she was certain she smelled cigarette smoke in the sanctuary. As an ex-smoker, she was attuned to even the slightest whiff. She pictured a stubble-jawed, bald tough guy with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his sneering mouth, easily murdering Parke with one hand tied behind his back for good sportsmanship. But the smell was too faint for someone to have been smoking in the room. More likely the killer had been smoking previously and Myrtle smelled the traces of smoke from his clothing. It confirmed that Parke hadn't been dead for very long.
The wail of a siren, the sound of gravel crunching as a car swiftly pulled into the church parking lot, and a door slamming interrupted their conversation. A minute later, Myrtle's son, the town of Bradley's police chief, hurried in with one of his two deputies behind him. The hair that had given Red his nickname was now heavily sprinkled with gray, which he attributed to worrying over his mother, rather than the fact that he was in his late forties. His tough look was enhanced by a jagged scar that snaked down the side of his face. Red liked everyone to assume it came answering the call of duty, but the scar actually involved a homemade bike ramp, a helmetless Red, and some eight-year-old friends egging him on. His green eyes briefly swept over the murder scene, halting at the sight of Myrtle.
"Mama!" His face flushed. "Are you determined to screw up my day? First a return to gnome-land followed by discovering murdered bodies in churches?"
"Well, somebody had to discover the body, Red. At least you know I'm not a suspect."
Red looked menacing, which wasn't difficult considering his big-boned six foot four inch frame. "I'm not so sure I do know that, Mama. Seems like I remember Elaine telling me about your beef with Parke Stockard."
Myrtle bristled. "Not a beef. A-disagreement." Her yard gnomes would be camping out for a while.
Red turned to look at the body once again. "I've put out a call to the state police. And I need to get both of y'all out of the way and get your statements from you."
Myrtle slowly moved towards the door, looking around her as she walked.
"Get a move on, Mama."
"Don't be in such a hurry, Red," she responded huffily. "I need to get my cane."
Red looked around, squinting his green eyes. "Well, where is it? It should be in your hand. Or if not, it should be right by the sanctuary door. Right?" He took a deep breath to control his temper, strode over a yard from Parke's body, and picked up Myrtle's cane. "Because we don't interfere with crime scenes, do we?"
"For heaven's sake. I was just getting close to make sure the poor woman wasn't still alive and needing an ambulance."
Red snorted. "I hardly think there was any doubt as to her vitals, or lack of them." He grabbed her cane from the pew near Kitty's Bible and herded Myrtle towards the sanctuary door where Nathaniel was still anxiously hovering. His hand tightened on Myrtle's arm and she looked up to see a figure ducking out of sight through the door.
"Hey! Stop-police!" bellowed Red, as he and his deputy moved swiftly towards the exit. A moment later, Althea Hayes appeared, well-dressed in a pale green jacket and flowing green skirt. She put a trembling hand to her mouth when she saw Parke's body. Althea's white hair was wound, as always, neatly in the back of her head in what Myrtle supposed was a French twist, kept in place by a tortoiseshell clip. Myrtle was very envious of Althea's hair: it was thick and well-behaved. Fine and uncooperative in her youth, Myrtle's hair had become wispily contrary in her old age. She tamed it with monthly perms that only succeeded in running more of her hair off. Despite Althea's breathless appearance in the sanctuary, only a couple of tendrils had escaped her French twist. Myrtle was sure she must resemble Einstein again by now-she'd run her hand through her hair so many times since discovering Parke's body.
"Mrs. Hayes," said Red with surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"I-," Althea started, then swallowed hard, looking towards the body in front of the altar. "I'm here for the Women of the Church meeting."
"That would be over in the dining hall, though, wouldn't it?"
Nathaniel Gluck stepped in. "Well, it is, but I'm sure Mrs. Hayes was just checking on the floral display, weren't you? Because you and Kitty Kirk share Altar Guild duties." He looked searchingly at Althea's face.
Althea nodded weakly, still looking towards the body.
Red looked at her with a direct gaze. "Mrs. Hayes, did you see or hear anyone when you came into the church?"
Althea shook her head vehemently. She's hiding something, thought Myrtle.
"Come on now," said Red briskly, "we need to get away from the crime scene. I need to make a phone call, then I'll need statements from all of you. It might be better if I get them at the station, since the forensic guys are going to need to check out the church."
"And find the fingerprints and DNA of everyone in the town," Myrtle said.
"What the-" Red spluttered as what sounded like a parade of cars and people outside the church. Striding to the stained glass window, he peered through a red panel. Red started uttering a curse, which he hastily changed into "Jiminy Cricket!" as he remembered he was in church. "The whole town of Bradley is out there."
"Can't blame anyone but yourself and those sirens," said Myrtle, carrying herself regally out the church door.
The scene outside resembled a paparazzi free-for-all. There were what looked like all the usual church ladies, some still in housecoats and curlers. Josh Tucker, Bradley Bugle reporter, was taking pictures and sneezing emphatically. In between sneezes and coughs, he juggled his digital camera and made notes. Kitty Kirk, the leader of the church ladies, appeared especially peculiar and her complexion looked almost gray. She stared oddly at the reporter. Myrtle figured it must be because Erma Sherman, Myrtle's nosy next-door neighbor, had just plowed through the crowd and leeched onto Josh Tucker's camera arm, gabbing and gazing fatuously into Josh's nervous eyes. Myrtle guessed he didn't return Erma's affection: he was pasty-white and carefully ignoring her while still in the throes of a sneezing fit. Maybe he was allergic to her.
Erma's braying laugh and large front teeth combined to give her an unfortunate resemblance to a donkey. Her medical afflictions were legion and eagerly shared with others. Whatever her ailments, her eyesight and hearing were excellent, much to the frustration and dismay of Myrtle as she tried to stealthily slip by her. Remembering the cigarette smoke, she edged closer to Josh and Erma and sniffed delicately. She smelled nothing and wandered slowly through the crowd, sniffing as she went, to no avail. Her olfactory mission was cut short when Red's booming voice cracked like a whip over the crowd. "Everyone will retreat to their cars and return wherever they were before they came here. This is a crime scene."
This statement prompted a thrilled gasp from some of the church ladies, but with one look at Red, they decided to forgo an inquisition. Reluctantly, they filed back to their cars, the reporter from the Bugle still taking pictures and sneezing with Erma Sherman matching him step for step.
"If you'll go ahead and get in the cruiser, Mama," said Red, "we'll go to the station and I'll get your statement from you there. Let me talk with Nathaniel for just a minute and I'll be right with you. The state police is coming over and Detective Lieutenant Perkins will want to talk with you."
"John Perkins is assigned to the case? Well, at least it's someone I know."
Red raised his eyebrows. "That's right...I'd forgotten. We'd had you over for dinner when he was here on police business? I'm surprised you even remember him."
She started to answer but Red quickly walked off. Myrtle remembered Detective Lieutenant Perkins well. She'd tried to pump him for information over dinner on a high-profile murder case that was splashed all over the news. He was a nice enough man-except for the fact that he gave away absolutely nothing. He made the Buckingham Palace guards look animated.
Myrtle hoped he wouldn't prove so stoic this time. Solving the case before Red or the state police would prove a point and get back at Red for his high-handed treatment of her.
Myrtle eased into the front seat of the cruiser to wait for Red. If she got in the backseat, it would be all over town that Myrtle Clover murdered Parke Stockard. Not that Parke hadn't had it coming.
The trip to the station took only a couple of minutes with Red behind the wheel. Myrtle spotted a group of locals sitting on a wooden bench outside the diner as Red pulled up in front of the old, brick courthouse that housed the police station and city hall. Word traveled fast in Bradley, North Carolina.
"Vultures," Myrtle spat out.
"Mama, those old guys are always outside Bo's Diner. Every morning they get their coffee and sit around in their golf caps, shooting the bull and cutting-up. It's got nothing to do with the murder."
"They usually don't have their cackling crones with them."
"Cackling...? Their wives, you mean? They're probably just enjoying another relaxing morning of retirement with their husbands."
Myrtle noticed the old women lean closer and turn up their hearing aids hopefully as she and Red entered the police station. She really couldn't blame them too much for their interest. Bradley, North Carolina, population 1,500, wasn't ordinarily a murder magnet. Crime waves had formerly consisted of Bud Dickens and Crockett Scott getting sloshed several nights in a row and loudly warbling Willie Nelson songs in the streets.
Red held open the weather-beaten wooden door for his mother and she walked into the tiny police station, stepping carefully so she wouldn't lose her footing on the warped pinewood floors that groaned in protest where she trod.
Following standard procedure, Red notified the state police as soon as he'd gotten the call from the minister about the murder. As Red poured her a Coca-Cola, some of the forensics team had already arrived in town and checked in at the station before stopping at the church.
The door opened to a tall, wiry man with a super-short military haircut. Detective Lieutenant Perkins greeted her in his polite, measured way. Myrtle decided to override his reserve with an exuberant hug. Best to knock him off-guard to maybe squeeze some information out of him. He gave an "oof" from the ferocity of her embrace, but appeared to be onto her as he watched her with appraising eyes.
"Mrs. Clover," he said. He led her into Red's small office and closed the door. "It's nice to see you even if the circumstances aren't as pleasant as last time. Could you go over what led you to the church this morning and what happened when you got there?" He picked up a notebook and pen from Red's desk.
Myrtle took a deep breath and outlined the day's events, going into great depth when describing Red's busybody meddling in her personal life and the horrors of Women of the Church and Altar Guild duty. She described the moment she'd discovered Parke Stockard with melodrama and sound effects, and carefully omitting clues she'd seen there, or her perusal of Parke's cell phone. Finishing her monologue, she neatly folded her hands in her lap and waited for his reaction. No reaction was forthcoming, though, as Perkins carefully replaced the cap on his ballpoint pen and tapped it gently against the notebook.
"Tell me why you think this might have happened, Mrs. Clover. Why would Parke Stockard, by all accounts a philanthropic benefit to the town of Bradley, have been murdered in the very place she spent so much time and money?"
Myrtle paused. It made no sense to help Perkins with his investigation when she was trying to solve the case herself. He should do his own poking and prodding.
Lieutenant Perkins said, "It would be a tremendous help, Mrs. Clover, if you shared your opinion with me. You obviously have a lot of useful insights which could help point us in the right direction."
Finally someone who valued her opinions. But that didn't mean she had to help him out. Besides, she didn't really know anything. "I'm afraid I've no idea, Detective." Perkins frowned and she hastily added, "Poor Parke." But it didn't sound very convincing.
He snapped shut his notebook and stood up. "Thanks, Mrs. Clover. If you think of anything else, be sure to let Red know." At Myrtle's grimace, he amended, "Or call me, instead." He handed her his business card and respectfully waited for her to pull out of the deep office chair, but didn't belittle her by trying to help. She wondered if Red had smelled the cigarette smoke in the sanctuary. But he'd been so bent out of shape with her for discovering a body that he probably hadn't noticed anything else.
Judging from Red's expression as she tottered back into the station lobby, he was still pretty irritated. He offered to drive her back home. At least, that's what she thought he said. It was hard to hear words coming out from gritted teeth.
They drove off. Myrtle glanced at her watch. "Just in time to catch Tomorrow's Promise."
Red gave a short laugh. "Elaine called to check on you a little while ago. I'll call her back and let her know you're doing okay after all. Discovering murdered bodies is all in a day's work-you've already moved on to your soap opera."
"Tomorrow's Promise has a storyline that's eerily similar and could provide some interesting perspective, Red. Angelique infuriates everyone on the soap-but she's bipolar and can't really help it, bless her heart. Cliff snarls at the camera and plots mischief because Angelique's ex-husband is his brother and she's stalking him because he's dating Cliff's sister-in-law but just got her pregnant-"
"And this is like Parke's murder how, exactly?"
"Because Angelique was killed, of course. Why else?"
Red's fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly as he pulled into Myrtle's driveway.
"You should see a doctor about that nervous tic, Red. And all your veins are standing out on your forehead, too. Hope it doesn't mean high blood pressure." With that final word, Myrtle climbed out of the patrol car and slammed the door shut behind her. Picking her way carefully around the gnomes, she walked to her front door as Red's car roared off.
Pretty is as Pretty Dies and all thirteen Myrtle Clover mysteries are available at Amazon: https://amzn.to/2OpwFgV and other online retailers and (internationally): https://bit.ly/2n2N2DH. I'll post a chapter every Wednesday, but if you can't wait, it's available online for $0.99. Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoy the story, please vote for it.