"Pasha!" exclaimed Myrtle. "You about scared me half to death."
The feral black cat's eyes smiled naughtily up at her.
"Want to come in and have a snack?" asked Myrtle, as she fumbled with her keys.
She managed to quickly sidestep a love offering from Pasha that she'd laid on Myrtle's front step. Pasha seemed to think that Myrtle was hopeless at hunting and kept bringing her dead gifts as encouragement to try harder.
"I'm going to have to get Red to take care of that corpse later. I don't think Puddin will do it," muttered Myrtle to herself. She pushed open her front door and followed as Pasha strolled casually inside.
Pasha walked straight to Myrtle's kitchen, still apparently in hunting phase as she scoured the room looking for things to kill. To Myrtle's relief, as she pulled out a can of cat food, there appeared to be nothing for Pasha to assault. Soon the cat was gobbling up the cat food that Myrtle put on a paper plate.
"Now you've made me lose my train of thought," scolded Myrtle in an affectionate voice. "I was coming in here to do something, and I know it wasn't to watch my soap. Oh, that's right—Sloan."
Sloan picked up the phone immediately, although he sounded sleepy. "Bradley Bugle," said Sloan.
"Sloan? Myrtle Clover here."
She heard a lot of sudden squeaking in the background. Myrtle could picture him in his stuffy, dimly-lit newsroom. The squeaking must be due to Sloan trying to correct the posture of his heavy frame. His rolling desk chair sounded as if it must be going through death throes. Sloan always snapped to attention when his former teacher called.
"Miss Myrtle! Good to hear from you. I hope you've got a column for me. I was just about to email you."
"Actually, I'm calling because I've got a big story I wanted to tell you about," said Myrtle briskly. She watched as Pasha cleaned the plate of every bit of food.
Sloan groaned. "Miss Myrtle, I don't know if I can handle another big story of yours. You remember the last time you called me with a story?"
"I can't help it that this town is so boring that the only thing that qualified as a big story was the herd of deer cavorting in Darlene Kirby's yard. Actually, I have a follow-up for that story, too. It appears that Darlene was feeding the deer and that's why they were so interested in hanging out in her yard. I believe Darlene should have given us full disclosure on that at the very beginning. She made it sound like something mystical was happening." Myrtle sat down at her kitchen table. "And it was just corn happening."
Sloan hesitated, seeming to grope for words. "So, this isn't a deer story? Or a rabid raccoon story?"
"Not at all. It's a murder story. An exclusive. I happened to be there at the time," said Myrtle.
"You saw a murder?" There was more chair squeaking in the background.
"Certainly not! I found the body, that's all. I'd like to think that I'd prevent a murder from happening, if someone were attempting it right in front of me. Anyway, this isn't just a murder. It's a murder of a rather well-known person in this town—Chester Struby."
Now she appeared to have gotten Sloan's attention. "Chester? Construction Chester?"
"The very one. I've got all kinds of details and I want to be the one to write the story. And, since the murder isn't yet solved, I want to be the correspondent assigned to the story." Myrtle thought that correspondent sounded a lot grander than reporter.
"Oh, I don't know, Miss Myrtle." Sloan's voice was anxious. "You know how Red feels about you investigating crimes."
"I didn't say that I wanted to investigate it. I merely said that I wanted to report it. Those are two very different things," said Myrtle.
"But we really do need another helpful hints column from you. You just don't know how popular those are," said Sloan in a rush.
"You're right. I don't know how popular those are." Myrtle rolled her eyes at Pasha, who purred loudly and brushed lovingly against Myrtle's legs.
"Why, people love them. Particularly anything to do with painting a room or birdfeeders. If you don't have any ideas for hints, maybe you could scare up something about those topics. Folks come up to me the whole livelong day and tell me how much they love and appreciate those tips."
"That's funny, because people don't come up to me to fawn over my column. And I'm the one writing it. Anyway! You're herding me off topic, Sloan. My story has nothing to do with hints, as I was saying. Unless the hint is that Louvenia Defore's cooking class might be hazardous to your health."
Sloan's voice changed on the phone. "You're in a cooking class?"
"Everyone can use improvement, Sloan. Learning is for life! Even for those of us who've been cooking beautifully for sixty years," said Myrtle.
There was a strangled sound on the other end of the line.
Myrtle said sharply, "Sloan! It's impolite to eat and talk on the phone at the same time."
"Wasn't eating," said Sloan in a weak voice. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
"Somehow we've veered off-topic again. Back to Chester Struby's murder. There are a few bizarre details of this case," said Myrtle. She knew that Sloan was a sucker for a story that might get picked up on the wire for other newspapers.
"Really?" Sloan couldn't keep the curiosity out of this voice.
"Yes. The murder weapon was both vicious and tragic. He was killed with a digital meat thermometer," said Myrtle.
"What?"
"Precisely," said Myrtle. "So, this is my story. I'll write it up perfectly and it's sure to be picked up by other papers. You think your friendship with Red is important because he'll give you tips for stories. Instead, it's your star reporter who's giving you the hot leads."
"Yes, Miss Myrtle," said Sloan meekly.
"I'll email you the story later today. And I'll try to decipher some of Wanda's horoscopes for you on top of all that." And Myrtle hung up.
"And now it's time for my soap opera," she muttered to Pasha. "Pasha, want to sit in my lap and take a nap since you have a full tummy?"
Myrtle plopped down in an armchair and picked up her remote. Pasha gingerly hopped up on Myrtle's lap. She proceeded to have a bath while Myrtle pointed the remote between Pasha's ears so the signal could reach the television.
There was a short, desperate shriek outside Myrtle's front door. Myrtle calmly continued pushing buttons on her remote.
The phone rang, startling Pasha who gave Myrtle a reproachful look. "Yes? Hello?" asked Myrtle in some irritation as she hit pause on the remote.
"Mama? Good to hear you're alive." Red's voice contradicted his words.
"Of course I am. I'm far too busy to kick the bucket. Why on earth would you think otherwise?" Myrtle stroked Pasha until the black cat settled down again.
"Oh, you know, the yelling. I'm temporarily home to grab a sandwich and heard Puddin scream. Wondered if she'd walked in on a body or something," said Red. It sounded as if he were now stuffing his sandwich down his throat as quickly as he could.
At that moment, Puddin's sullen face and dumpy body maneuvered through the door. Instead of her usual pasty white skin, she was looking decidedly green. She glared at Myrtle.
"As a matter of fact, Puddin did walk in on a body. Courtesy of Pasha and one that I would very much like her to remove." Myrtle said the last pointedly in a stern voice.
Puddin didn't stick her tongue out, but her expression told Myrtle that she'd considered it.
Red seemed to be chewing furiously on the other end. "That's fine then. Got to run."
"Run? Wait! What about Dusty's lawnmower? My yard looks worse than Erma's and that's patently unacceptable."
Puddin stomped past her and into the kitchen.
"No time now, Mama. I'll take care of it just as soon as I can." Red hung up.
Puddin stomped past her again on the way to the door, holding some bottles close to her chest.
Myrtle said, "Now hold on there. What on earth are you doing here? And what have I told you about just letting yourself in?"
"Forgot my cleanin' supplies," said Puddin sourly.
"That's unlikely, since they're my cleaning supplies. Supplies that you aren't supposed to be using to begin with, since you're supposed to be bringing your own here each time," said Myrtle.
Puddin shrugged, keeping a watchful eye on Pasha the whole time. She didn't like the cat one bit. Pasha, in return, rolled over on her back and swatted the air with a claw as she stared at Puddin. Then Pasha leapt up on the outstretched hands of Elaine's leering gnome and stared with great hostility at Puddin.
"What is that thing?" asked Puddin, making a face.
"That is a cat."
Puddin said, "I mean, what's that ugly thing she's sittin' on? Don't look like your usual statues out front."
Myrtle sighed. "It's one of Elaine's creations. A restored gnome. Elaine ... did something to it."
"She sure did." Puddin gave the statue and the cat on top of it a disgusted glance. Then a cunning look passed over her face. "So, you don't want to hurt Elaine's feelings. I could break that thing. For a little money. It could be an accident."
Myrtle said, "You should break it for me gratis, considering all the nonsense that I have to put up with between you and Dusty. But enough of that. While I have you here, and while I actually have some cleaning supplies still left in my house, isn't it about time you did some work for me? I'm getting ready to have a dinner party soon."
Puddin snorted. "Can't have a dinner party with the yard lookin' like that."
"Don't I know it! But that's something that I'm working on, at least. You can work on the inside of the house and I'll handle getting the outside looking better." Myrtle hit 'play' on her remote as if everything was settled.
"Can't clean now. My back is thrown," muttered Puddin.
"Naturally. Your back throws itself out whenever work of any kind is mentioned. It has quite an allergy to any kind of labor. Fortunately, I'm aware of this and am here to help." Myrtle hit 'pause' and started to rise from her armchair, but Pasha narrowed her eyes and Myrtle sank back down. "Put those cleaning bottles down and grab that stack of papers from the top of my desk."
Puddin dropped the plastic bottles down on the floor with a series of collective thuds and slouched over to the desk. She squinted at the words on the page. "Don't have my readin' glasses on," she said.
"You don't need them. Just look at the pictures. See all the stretches that woman in the picture is doing? These are back-strengthening stretches that will help prevent any pulled muscles in the future. They're developed by real sports medicine doctors and physical therapists." Myrtle thumped the arm of the chair emphatically and Pasha moved over to sit on the offending arm so that it wouldn't happen again.
"Might hurt," stated Puddin, glaring at the happy, stretching woman in the pictures.
"Don't be silly. The only downside for you is that you'll have to figure out some other excuse to make to get out of working. Now get rid of that corpse and do an hour of honest work and then you're welcome to whatever supplies I've got lurking under my sink."
"Got things to do," muttered Puddin.
"Hardly. You spend most of your days lollygagging around. The reason your back hurts is because you spend too much time loafing on your sofa. Corpse removal, please!" Myrtle resumed her focus on the television and hit 'play' again.
"That witch-cat," snarled Puddin, glaring at the black cat.
Pasha, the witch-cat, snarled back.
Puddin stomped off out the back door as Myrtle finally started watching her show. During the opening credits and sappy theme music, Puddin stalked back by, hefting a tremendous shovel. Myrtle rolled her eyes at Pasha. Puddin could dispose of a large man with that thing. It was overkill for a shrew or mouse or whatever the tiny body was.
On the front porch, Puddin yelped the entire time as if the poor creature was returning to life and chasing her around the yard. Myrtle sighed and turned the television up louder. "Foolishness."
Myrtle determinedly focused on the TV set as Puddin brought the shovel back through, picked up a bottle of cleaning solution, spilled half the bottle on the kitchen counter, mopped Myrtle's floor, and ran the vacuum in the back of the small house.
Pasha's ears swiveled back in displeasure at the vacuum. She seemed to think that Puddin was deliberately trying to provoke her. It was a possibility. Myrtle softly stroked the cat's back, but her calming techniques proved a failure when Puddin eventually surfaced from the back, looking rather sweaty and grumpy and pushing the now-silent vacuum. Pasha, malice quivering through every muscle in her body, launched herself at Myrtle's housekeeper.
"Aaah!" shrieked Puddin, staggering to the floor, trying to peel the black cat off of her.
Myrtle stood up and pushed the vacuum's power button again. It roared to life and Pasha rapidly evacuated. Puddin struggled to her feet, eyes huge. She stammered wordlessly for a few seconds before gasping out, "Bad kitty!"
Myrtle plopped back down in her armchair and picked up the remote. "I guess I should just stop this soap opera. There have been so many distractions and so much nonsense that it's making even less sense than it usually does."
Puddin, apparently declaring her work day finished, dropped onto the sofa, still stealing glances in the direction Pasha had run off in. "Play it for a sec just so I can catch my breath," she pleaded.
Myrtle hit play again and Puddin was immediately absorbed. That is, absorbed until she couldn't follow the storyline.
"Does Horatio really like Cynthia? I thought they was enemies." Puddin slumped down so far into the sofa that it looked as if she might end up with the dust bunnies underneath.
"No, but Cynthia slipped a love potion into his cocktail glass and now he's besotted with her," said Myrtle. "She's planning all kinds of mischief, I'll bet. And Tatiana wants to eliminate Fiona by maiming her somehow. That way, she can have Blaine all to herself."
Spoken aloud, it all sounded more ridiculous than it already was.
A few minutes later, the closing credits started streaming. Myrtle was about to shoo Puddin out so that she could get started with her newspaper article when she remembered that Puddin was actually frequently a source for information. In fact, Puddin was part of a sort of underground network of housekeepers in the greater Bradley, North Carolina area that spent much more of their time gossiping than cleaning.
"Before you go," started Myrtle pointedly, "I did have something that I wanted to ask you."
"'Bout what?" Puddin was not making any move to stand up.
"Chester Struby. I was wondering what you knew about him. Especially if you knew if anyone had a grudge against him," said Myrtle.
As usual, Puddin's entire face crinkled with the effort of deep thought. "Chester. That's the construction guy. Hateful."
"Hateful? Why?" asked Myrtle.
"Dusty tried to get a job with him. Buildin' stuff. Wouldn't hire him. Said he was lazy," spat out Puddin resentfully.
Myrtle raised her eyebrows. It sounded as if Chester was actually a good judge of character.
"But then Dusty started up his own business," said Puddin. She said the words 'own business' as if Dusty were an entrepreneur with an empire instead of a yardman with a broken lawnmower.
"So what you're telling me is that your husband, Dusty, had a grudge against Chester," said Myrtle with a sigh. "Can you think of anyone else? Did anybody clean for Chester? I know he had lots of money."
"Kitty Farrigan works for him. She says that her and Chester was in school together."
Myrtle rolled her eyes. "So, I probably taught Kitty Farrigan, too."
"And both of them was in school with Bonnie Pendergrass," said Puddin.
"I hope this is going somewhere, Puddin, and that you're not going to simply tell me every classmate that Chester had in school," said Myrtle. "Besides, I already knew about Bonnie and Chester having a problem. And I've taken note that they were both with me in class today."
Puddin tilted her head to one side as if the thought of Myrtle in class was making her head explode. "Class?"
"Cooking school."
Now Puddin's eyes opened wide. "You're in cooking school?"
"Why ever not? Goodness, what's wrong with people? Everyone acts like I can't learn things anymore," said Myrtle in irritation.
Puddin kept her lips tightly pressed together.
"Tell me more about Bonnie Pendergrass," said Myrtle. "Did Kitty give you any details?"
Puddin shrugged. "All I know is that Chester was real mean to her in school. Kitty says that Bonnie never got over it and blames Chester to this day for never being able to make anything of her life. She's always takin' them personal improvement classes. Sorta sad. Kitty never forgot it and she says she hates working for a mean man, but she needs the money."
"Well, tell Kitty that she needs to look for another job. She won't be working for a mean man any longer. Chester Struby was murdered this afternoon."
"That's terrible. Awful." Puddin's eyes gleamed with the knowledge that she had gossip that no one else had yet.
"Yes, it is. Now look—I've got things to do. What's more, you have things to do," said Myrtle.
"What kinds of things?" asked Puddin as she caught hold of the coffee table and dragged herself off the sofa.
"Stretching exercises. For your back, remember?"
"If I have time." Puddin stooped to collect the cleaning solution bottles. She strode with her small nose in the air toward the door. Her air of dignified resentment was utterly ruined when Pasha, hissing, jumped wildly out at her as Puddin walked by.
Myrtle supposed that Red was too far out of earshot to hear that scream.