Chapter Fifteen
Puddin entered Myrtle's house triumphantly, queen of all she surveyed and not a cleaning implement in sight. "At least I don't get myself murdered," she pointed out, proving she'd somehow known that Jill had been cleaning at Myrtle's. "You can count on me more than that." She ran her hand along a table top. There was very little dust there, although Myrtle hadn't done more than a little swipe since Jill last cleaned. "One of those freaky, obsessive-compulsive people, wasn't she? Got to have everything perfect." The last was uttered in a voice of snarling superiority.
"I could count on Jill to do a good job," said Myrtle repressively. "How do you know about obsessive compulsives, anyway?"
"Oprah reruns," drawled Puddin. At that moment, some odd backfiring noises emanated from Myrtle's front yard.
"What on earth is that?" breathed Myrtle. It sounded like an invasion.
"Dusty. He's mowin' the front yard."
"Well, how does he plan on doing that? I've got my gnomes out there!"
Puddin shrugged and pushed a strand of lank blonde hair off her round face. "Don't think you do, Miz Myrtle. Mr. Red gave Dusty some money to haul them back in the shed for you. Didn't want you to bust your back." When Myrtle's face flushed red with fury, Puddin added. "You wouldn't want your back thrown, Miz Myrtle. Lemme tell you," this as she took a seat on Myrtle's sofa, "that's just the worst feeling around. Can't clean, can't do nuthin'." She reached out for Myrtle's telephone. "Gotta make a quick call."
Myrtle wasn't sure which fire to put out first: the gnome-plucking, grass-hacking Dusty or the telephoning Puddin with no cleaning sprays. She decided to set things straight with Puddin once and for all. If they couldn't get off on the right foot this time, then it was time to find somebody else. Although that would mean shelling out more money, thought Myrtle uncomfortably. She'd really rather just keep who she had.
With that in mind, Myrtle said, "Puddin. No time to make calls. I need you to put on some gloves and throw away some food in the kitchen."
A startled look replaced the usually dour expression on Puddin's doughy face. She got off the sofa, and peered around the kitchen door. "Bless the good Lord. What happened here, Miz Myrtle?"
"Oh, Willow Pearce tried to kill me. That stuff has poison in it, Puddin, so handle it with respect. I don't have the time or energy today for your foolishness, so go ahead and take care of the mess. After that, you can wipe down the kitchen-it's okay to use my supplies this time, but I know you've got your own for next time. When Dusty is done with the yard, you can leave."
Puddin adopted her usual sullen look again. This was probably due to the fact that Dusty was notoriously poky with the yard work. Half the time was spent coaxing his ancient equipment to perform and half was spent trolling slowly around the yard, collecting his thoughts. Since he was her ride, Puddin usually spent the extra time resting her thrown back on Myrtle's sofa in front of her soaps. With her new regulations in place, Puddin plodded into the disorderly kitchen. She stopped short, gasped, and hurriedly made the sign of the cross.
"When did you become Catholic?" asked Myrtle with irritation. If Puddin had embraced "high church," the world really had turned upside down.
"It's a witch!" breathed Puddin.
"A witch?" Myrtle leaned forward on her cane and craned to look around Puddin's dumpy form. "Pasha!" Myrtle was alarmed to see the black cat in the kitchen. "Oh, you must have let her in when you poked your way in here. I hope she hasn't gotten into any of the food!"
Pasha glared at Myrtle for thinking her so ill-bred.
Puddin stammered. "That-that's a witch, Miz Myrtle."
Myrtle peered at Pasha. "No. It's a feline, Puddin."
"It's not! It's a witch in disguise. It'll bring horrible suffering on your home."
Pasha blinked at Puddin.
"Puddin, this is a cat. It's not, nor has it ever been a witch. It brings horrible suffering to the animal sacrifices she offers me and that's it." Myrtle was a bit pleased, however, by Puddin's antipathy to the cat. Maybe Pasha could also help keep Puddin in line.
Puddin reluctantly walked over to the sink and put on some latex gloves, keeping her eyes on the cat the entire time. "Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield have a black cat. And look what's happened to them."
Myrtle didn't answer for a moment and Puddin took that as her cue to start throwing away large clumps of vegetable casserole under the watchful eye of the black cat.
The problem with surviving several attempts on your life, thought Myrtle, was how darned overprotective everybody became. If Red had his way, she'd be wrapped up in cotton wool and packed away in Styrofoam peanuts. It was most disheartening for a star reporter-cum-sleuth.
The only way to really figure out what was going on was to get out and about. But any attempts to really do some investigating were bound to be foiled by Red and Perkins. No, it was going to take more ingenuity to be able to find out some useful information this time.
She thought about the remaining suspects. Georgia had still been angry at the time of Cullen's death over the lottery money she'd lost. Keeping that fact in mind, Myrtle had decided to use Georgia's affinity for angels to contact her again about the case. The motive was still there, after all.
The angels came in, as promised, on Wednesday-well-wrapped in protective bubble wrap, they seemed much nicer than anything anyone could get in Bradley. And cheaper too.
Perfect timing. Myrtle was keen to interview the elusive Georgia. Maybe she had some insight on Cullen's murder. She seemed well-versed in the philosophy of grudges, at any rate.
Thirty minutes later, Myrtle knocked at Georgia's ratty-looking door.
Georgia beamed when she saw Myrtle and the beam turned up a notch as her eyes rested greedily on the package of angels. Her eyebrows were a high arch, which gave her an appropriately surprised expression. "Come in, come in. Umm-want anything to drink, Miss Myrtle?"
Myrtle didn't. She had a feeling the kitchen matched the living room in its lack of cleanliness. And the living room's mess was of epic proportions. She was sure there was an angel collection somewhere in the heaps of paper, magazines, dirty plates, and laundry, but for the life of her, she couldn't see it. Maybe Georgia really did need an angel-a guardian one. Who liked to tidy up.
Myrtle said hurriedly, "I brought these over for you, Georgia. Found them in a back closet." No need to make her suspicious by telling her she'd ordered them off eBay. With expedited shipping.
Georgia picked one angel up, reverently. "These are really, really nice. I haven't seen any like these around." She wrinkled her brow. "How much do you want for them, Miss Myrtle?"
Myrtle waved her hands in a dismissive way. "Oh, nothing. You were nice enough to take the others off my hand. These are a gift. From a friend."
Georgia grinned. "Thank you so much, Miss Myrtle. That is really good of you."
Myrtle had no desire to embark on a long visit with Georgia in the depths of this black hole of debris.
Myrtle small-talked as much as she could bear, then said, "Isn't this awful business?" At Georgia's frown of confusion, Myrtle said, "Cullen's murder."
Georgia rolled her eyes and said tartly, "Or else he was just getting what he deserved."
Myrtle tried to look sympathetic.
Georgia continued, "See, I went over there. To Cullen's house." She dropped her voice as though her messy house had ears. "You know. To talk to him about the money. Make him see sense. See if he was as greedy as his wife was." She spat out the last few words.
"And when I got to his house, he was already deep in a squabble with somebody else. So he didn't get along with anybody real well, did he?"
"Who was he fighting with?" asked Myrtle.
"Sherry from next door. Don't know what that was all about. Well, talk was that they were having a fling, so maybe it had something to do with that. Sherry was right up in his face, yelling at him. Her face was red as a beet." Georgia touched her own powdered face as if reassuring herself it was its usual pasty color.
"Then what happened?"
"Sherry saw me and stomped off back to her house. Cullen went inside his house, too. Until I knocked on his door." Georgia pursed her lips. "He came flying out the door then. I guess he thought it was Sherry again. But he wasn't happy to see me, either. And," her ferocious brows drew down into a bunch, "he laughed at me when I asked him for the lottery money. Laughed at me!" Georgia fumed silently, apparently lost in her own angry world.
"Imagine that." Myrtle clucked. "So did you go back and kill him later?"
Georgia's black eyebrows went up almost to her hairline. She leaned forward to see if Myrtle was making fun of her. Apparently satisfying herself that she wasn't, Georgia considered the question. "Well, what's the real sin? Actually having the gumption to do something, or just wishing it would happen? I guess I sinned in my heart, but no I didn't kill him. Glad somebody did, though." Georgia patted an angel, remorsefully.
Myrtle wondered how much longer she should let this visit go on to keep Georgia from suspecting her detecting. She didn't really think she could stand it much longer. At least she'd gotten some information from her foray into the paper jungle. She reached for her pocketbook, but sat back abruptly when Georgia gushed, "You have to stay and have a coffee with me. You were just too sweet to bring me the angels!"
Myrtle gave a weak smile. Then she noticed the surface that was underneath the piles of magazines and unopened mail in front of her. "Is that...?"
Georgia beamed. "A coffin! I got it at a yard sale. The owner's son had made it for her, and then she ended up beating that cancer with a stick. So I got the coffin for five bucks! Isn't it a beaut? I'm going to use it for a coffee table until I need one. May as well get my money's worth out of it."
Myrtle's complete loss for words must have somehow translated into admiration. Georgia said, "You love it, don't you? I get so many comments on it from my visitors. I ended up tracking down the woman's son, who's an expert woodsman. I could get him to make you one if you like. You might not get as much time out of it as I will, considering your age and everything, but it would make a nice bookcase for all those books you have lying around. He could put some shelves in it, then Red could have them taken out when it's time for you to be buried."
Myrtle started twitching.
"Coffee!" said Georgia, snapping her fingers. "I know caffeine withdrawal when I see it. Be back in a jiff."
Myrtle was clearly being punished for something.
"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 Fridays. Hope you'll enjoy the book.