Chapter Seventeen
Puddin was half-heartedly vacuuming Myrtle's living room carpet when the phone rang. A look of relief passed over her face when Myrtle put a finger up to her lips and grabbed the phone. Instead of moving on to some other housework, Myrtle noticed that Puddin plopped down on the sofa to listen in.
It was Blanche on the line. "Since you've been involved recently with the United Methodist Women," said Blanche (did Myrtle imagine the faint emphasis on 'recently'?), "I wonder if you would be available to help out today."
Myrtle hemmed and hawed. Had it come to this, then? Was she going to be stuck doing good works all over Bradley? "Well..." she started in a doubtful way.
"It's to help out Libba. Libba Caulfield?"
"What's wrong with Libba Caulfield? Her cancer hasn't come back for sure, has it?" asked Myrtle. Puddin leaned forward on the edge of the sofa.
Blanche answered with her usual restraint and understatement. "I'm not sure about the cancer. I'm hoping she's still in remission, since she's been doing so well the last few years. But she's been doing poorly since Cullen's death. The United Methodist Women thought it would be helpful for us to stop by for a visit."
Puddin rolled her eyes and muttered loudly to herself in the background. Myrtle waved a hand at her, repressively. "I'd be happy to visit Libba, Blanche. Five o'clock? See you then." She replaced the phone receiver and glared at Puddin.
"What was all that muttering about, Puddin? You're supposed to be worrying about my floors."
Puddin bobbed her head sagely. "But that was Blanche? Calling about Miz Caulfield going all wacky, I guess."
"And what do you know about it?" asked Myrtle. Although, she thought, Puddin should be well qualified to recognize wackiness.
"She thinks the family is cursed," said Puddin. "And the curse has stricken her." Puddin gave a vindictive nod.
"Are you sure, Puddin?" Myrtle squinted her eyes suspiciously. "Blanche just hinted that Libba was under the weather."
"Under the weather?" Puddin snorted. "Not just under it. Struck down by it!"
Puddin was getting on a roll. Sensing Puddin had a heretofore unknown melodramatic flair, Myrtle shrugged and started going off to do her business.
Puddin stopped her. "I go there to clean, you know. Well, I did a couple of times, when Libba Caulfield was sick. Then they had Jill over to clean for a while, I guess because she was family. Then they had me come back after Jill was dead."
Puddin sounded grimly satisfied. Myrtle was beginning to wonder if she should add Puddin to the list of suspects. Her work load had certainly improved since Jill's death.
Myrtle found it hard to believe that Simon Caulfield would put up with Puddin's foolishness.
"And Miz Caulfield's gone off the deep end. She's nuttier than a fruitcake."
"And why is that?"
"The Caulfields are cursed, ain't they?" Puddin gave a vindictive nod.
"Well, Jill and Cullen maybe. I don't think there's an evil spirit that's annihilating the whole family or anything."
Puddin mulled over the "annihilate." Then she shrugged. "Miz Caulfield seems to think so. Rumor has it (Myrtle had a strong feeling that Puddin was behind this particular rumor) that she's a step away from puttin' herself out of her misery."
"Sure she is."
"It's a fact!" Puddin took a deep breath and added, "Besides, they're in awful shape, you know. Mr. Caulfield had to let me go that very day. Said they couldn't afford to have me clean for them anymore. They never did seem to pay me on time, but I was happy to go over there and help them out, even though they didn't really pay." Puddin adopted an angelic stance. The Selfless Puddin. "And I know they have trouble paying their bill at the grocery store, too, because that's where my cousin Bitsy works." Puddin had various and sundry cousins all over Bradley and they all gossiped voraciously.
But Myrtle wasn't really even listening. Wouldn't Simon Caulfield be expecting his brother's money to be willed to him on his death? If the Caulfields were having trouble paying bills, if they were worried about upcoming medical expenses, and if Simon or Libba knew that Jill had some money from the lottery....and if they knew they'd be the beneficiaries... It added up to a motive in Myrtle's eyes. A motive, but that was it. She couldn't go to the police with just the idea. She'd have to do some nosing around. It would make another blockbuster front page story.
"Get back to your cleaning, Puddin. I've got some cooking to do."
Myrtle walked into her kitchen with her hands on her hips. She'd go to Libba Caulfield's house with a casserole in hand. And it was going to be the best darned casserole anyone had ever tasted. So what if the last time she'd tried to cook while reading the food blog hadn't worked out so well? At least she'd been cooking for herself. Besides, it hadn't been her fault. It was Sloan's. Sloan hadn't told her how addicting blog reading could be. You jump from link to link and click around and end up on the most random and interesting stuff, and next thing you know your chicken casserole is burned to a crisp. Thank heavens for the Piggly Wiggly. Too bad Erma had been such a know-it-all and blabbed about the casserole's origins.
This time would be better. She was going to actually prepare a casserole, put it in the oven, set the timer, and then step away from the computer. She pulled up her browser and typed in a site.
The scene at the Caulfields was an odd one. Myrtle perched uncomfortably on the edge of an elderly, overstuffed sofa with a floral motif. Blanche, if possible, looked even more uncomfortable in a straight backed chair. The lady of the house was a bona fide wreck of a woman, sporting a spotty bathrobe that had seen better days. Not an ounce of makeup assisted Libba's pinched features. The overwhelming habit of being a decent hostess came briefly to the forefront and Libba asked them if they wanted a glass of sweet tea.
They turned it down. Lord, who knew how long it might have been since she'd whipped up that batch? It might have been before Jill's death. That pitcher could be teeming with creepy-crawlies.
Libba hadn't even turned a hair when Myrtle brought in her casserole. That right there, Blanche later told Tippy, was a sure sign of mental weakness. Any normal person would have turned at least a little green when presented with a genuine Myrtle Clover casserole.
Myrtle was also sure there was something wrong with Libba, but for different reasons. She'd known Libba Caulfield since she was a wee thing and she'd never seen her forget her manners. Libba was always the type to take it a step farther, too. She'd rise when elderly ladies came into the room, and it was said that she set a beautiful table when she had dinner guests. She was a closet Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette reader, Myrtle was sure. The untidy, hollow-eyed woman she saw today bore no resemblance to the Libba Caulfield she knew.
When Simon walked into the room, stopped abruptly and took in his company with angry eyes, Myrtle nearly didn't recognize him, either. He was always neatly dressed, but today looked downright scruffy. Although the Caulfields were supposed to be having financial problems, they always did look neat and rather like what you'd think troubled gentility would look like. Simon had a large gash on his leg that he'd tried to cover with a bandage. If he'd really wanted to hide it, he should have skipped the shorts.
"What happened to you, Simon? Looks like something tried to eat you." Myrtle peered closely at his leg.
Simon held his mouth so tight that there was a white line on either side of it. "I...had a problem with the lawnmower a couple of days ago."
"But Tiny cut the grass then."
Simon made an impatient swipe with his hand. "Well, whenever I last cut it or did the edging. Anyway, it's nothing." As if suddenly realizing that his guests were hardly the recipients of gold star hosting, he said, "Thanks for coming by. It's been...a rough couple of days." He spoke the words grimly and looked quickly over at Libba who had slipped back into her funk.
Blanche was having a hard time keeping her eyes off of Libba. The transformation was pretty alarming, thought Myrtle. "Is there anything we can do?" asked Blanche. "Besides the casseroles. This must be such a horrible time for you."
Libba looked blankly back at Blanche so Simon stepped in. "Blanche, would you mind very much helping Libba back to the bedroom? Putting her feet up for a little while might be the best medicine for her."
A relieved expression passed across Blanche's face, "Of course I will. Libba?" And she and Libba disappeared into the back of the house.
Simon stared uncomfortably at the floor for a silent minute while he looked to be coming up with something to talk about. Myrtle, on the other hand, was happy to keep the silence going. She'd learned, in the course of her investigations, that uncomfortable silences were wonderful for spurring on surprising conversations.
Simon cleared his throat. "Miss Myrtle, I saw that story of yours in the newspaper the other day. You've become quite the investigative reporter." This was said in a tone such as one would use to convey praise on a child.
Myrtle managed a tight smile. "Yes. I'm sorry about the subject matter of the story, though. I know it must have been hurtful to your family to read about Willow and Jill."
Simon waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "The truth had to come out. It was a shock, though. I'd never have thought that Willow would have killed her own sister. It's just been one tragedy after another."
"I'm so sorry about Cullen. I know that's been another horrible shock."
"It's so hard for me to grasp that Cullen would have been depressed enough to kill himself like that," said Simon. "I wish he'd have felt like he could come to me and talk. I always told him that guns were dangerous things."
"But you two didn't talk much, did you?" Simon shot her a look and Myrtle continued. "I mean, you never did get along well. Even when you were boys."
"Brothers are like that," said Simon in a distracted voice. "Speaking of not getting along, I was surprised to see Blanche here." His voice was hushed. "I'd gone by to check on Cullen a few days after Jill died. She did everything for him," he gave a derisive snort, "so I wanted to make sure that he was at least capable of feeding himself with Jill gone. I think he'd been living on frozen waffles. When I opened up the door, I heard Blanche and Cullen fighting with each other."
Myrtle drew in her breath and nodded encouragingly to Simon.
"I slipped back out again before they saw me. It sounded like...well, it sounded like Cullen was trying to blackmail Blanche and that she was trying to talk sense into him. I hate to think that my own brother would do something like that. But it might be something I should tell Red about." He looked as though the words left a nasty aftertaste in his mouth.
"Does it really matter now?" asked Myrtle innocently. "Since Cullen is dead, his plan is over, isn't it? If it had been murder, then we'd definitely want to let Red know. But with it being suicide...And you are sure it was suicide?"
"Aren't you? You were there with Sherry when you saw the scene. Sherry said there was a gun in his hand."
"And a note on the table," nodded Myrtle.
"Did you have a chance to read the note?" asked Simon intently. "The police haven't released it yet. I think it would give me -some comfort-to know what was going through Cullen's mind."
"I did read it," said Myrtle. "It was just right there next to me." She opened her mouth, but shut it again at the sound of footsteps coming from the hall.
"I'll call you later," said Simon quickly, clearly not wanting to discuss the note in front of Blanche.
Blanche looked tired as she joined them. "I think she's going to sleep now. Maybe a short nap will do her some good. Myrtle? Are you ready to head on?'
Blanche didn't say much as they got into the car and drove off. Myrtle said, "Blanche, I've been meaning to ask you how you are doing."
Blanche didn't pretend not to know what Myrtle was talking about. "Much better. It's like night and day. I talked to my doctor and am going to get some treatment for the prescription drug problem. And-it sounds awful to say it, but life really started looking up as soon as Jill died."
"It doesn't sound awful at all, considering she was blackmailing you. You couldn't exactly be expected to be sobbing at her funeral."
Blanche took a deep breath. "And then things crashed downhill again last week. Cullen called me over to the house and I knew what must have been on his mind if he was asking to see me. It's not like we were friends." The idea of a friendship with Cullen made Blanche look revolted. "Sure enough, as soon as I knocked on his door, he was asking for money. I guess that was the only way he could think of to make some money, since he sure wasn't going to haul his lazy rear end out to look for a job."
"What happened?"
"I was just fed up. He planned on keeping up with Jill's little blackmailing gig and thought I'd just pony up the money like a little lamb. But I'd had it. Besides, I was already getting treatment. I was already recovering-it was old news. And, like you mentioned, Myrtle, everyone pulls for the underdog-it's not as if I were still an addict. So I told him off. Told him I didn't care who he told-and wasn't it the pot calling the kettle black for an alcoholic to blab about a prescription drug addict?"
Blanche looked just as furious now as she must have looked that evening. Then she settled down. "But I didn't kill the man. He didn't have any more power over me, so why would I? Besides, the dog started going berserk so I looked at it as a good time to leave."
They pulled up in Myrtle's driveway and Myrtle said as she stepped out the door, "I'm really happy for you, Blanche. I know how tough it's got to be to get better from an addiction. I'm pulling for you."
"Myrtle, believe me, things are really starting to look up."
After a little reading and a short nap, Myrtle started feeling a little hungry. She realized that in her concentration to produce a wonderful casserole for the Caulfields, that she'd forgotten to feed herself. Myrtle peered doubtfully into her fridge, then opened her pantry. Not only did everything look unappealing, the assorted ingredients didn't seem like they'd add up to a meal. Every recipe she could think of was missing at least one major component. She was even out of cereal and grits. She sighed. Maybe cheese biscuits and grapes would make a decent supper. She'd get Red to take her to the store tomorrow.
The mind-boggling thing to Myrtle was that the Caulfield's kitchen was in much the same state. Libba would never ordinarily allow her supplies to get so low. And she wouldn't be the horrible hostess as she'd been earlier. Maybe Puddin was actually right for once and Libba was losing the use of her mind. She definitely hadn't been this bad off when she'd been sick several years ago. You'd hardly have known she was ill with cancer at all-she was so on top of things, even when she was in the bed. Jotting down who'd brought in casseroles, or come by for a visit. And you'd always get the nicest, most well-bred thank you note from her.
Simon's behavior wasn't all that normal, either. And what was the deal with the huge gash on his leg and his secretive manner?
Myrtle heard dogs barking outside and looked out her window. She hoped Pasha was okay. Funny how that cat was growing on her.
The dogs continued barking in what seemed like a domino effect from one yard to the next. It was like the Hounds of the Baskervilles out there. Myrtle gave a gasp. What about Kojak? Now that Cullen was dead, there wasn't anyone over there to take care of the poor dog. Willow was in jail and she'd said that Kojak hated Simon, so the dog couldn't go to the other Caulfields. Maybe she should call up Red and see if the police had taken the dog to the shelter.
Myrtle frowned. Wait a minute. There was something in that line of thought that she needed to explore. What was it? Kojak. It all came together quickly.
Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by the acrid smell of smoke coming from the direction of her kitchen. The biscuits! Myrtle hurried into the kitchen, shoved open a window, turned off the oven, and pulled out the biscuits, which now strongly resembled lumps of charcoal. Shoot! Now what was she going to eat?
The knock at her back door made her jump. She hoped whoever it was wasn't hungry. And that she could get rid of the person quickly so she could make her victorious phone call to Red and let him know she'd solved the case.
She opened the door a crack. "Miss Myrtle," said Simon Caulfield, "I thought we could talk a little about that suicide note now."
"I know I said I'd talk to you about it later, Simon, but it's going to have to wait. I've got this important phone call that I'm making." She firmly pushed on the door to close it again, then desperately shoved at it as Simon applied his own considerable strength to the other side.
With another shove, he'd pushed his way through. "No, I think now is a good time to visit," he said in a hard voice. And Myrtle realized he held a knife in his hand.
"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. Hope you'll enjoy the book.