Myrtle was awake bright and early the next morning. She dressed, drank coffee, did the crossword, tidied up the house, and then looked at the clock. It was only 6:30 a.m. After her conversation with Miles, Myrtle had the feeling that it would be considered too early to pay a visit to Lyle Solomon.
She'd woken up certain that Lyle must be the annoyed neighbor that Clara had alluded to. He was the kind of man who believed that his yard had to be a masterpiece. Myrtle would frequently see him bearing scissors—yes, household scissors, not pruners—and making tiny little adjustments to his already-perfect landscape, one clip at a time. If Myrtle had to guess, she'd surmise that Lyle might even be upset over the condition of her yard.
She snapped her fingers. Her yard. That reminded her. Red's abominable behavior yesterday evening with the late notice had to be punished. She picked up the phone and then hesitated. Still 6:30 a.m. But her yardman, Dusty, owned his own business. Didn't such people get up early to earn their livings? Working the soil and whatnot? Having talked herself into it, Myrtle dialed Dusty's number.
"Somebody die?" howled Dusty into the phone.
"Actually, yes, but that's not what I'm calling about," said Myrtle. "I need you to come by today and drag out the gnomes for me. Red is abhorrent."
"What does his stomach problems got to do with gnomes?" grumbled Dusty. "And why yer buggin' people in the middle of the night?"
"This? This isn't the middle of the night, I can promise you. I'm well-acquainted with the middle of the night and I can assure you that this isn't it. And Red does not have a stomach problem, he has a personality problem. Dusty, I thought you'd be plying your trade by this time of the day—making sure that you finished your day's labor before the heat really rolled in," said Myrtle briskly.
"Miz Myrtle, it's eighty degrees and it's still dark out!"
"You call this dark? The sun is coming up, Dusty. Never mind—clearly, I can't get any sense out of you at this point. Not that I get very much sense from you at any point. When you've finally woken up and are taking on your day, come on over. And bring your Puddin with you; my house is a disaster and she hasn't been by to clean for weeks," said Myrtle.
Puddin was clearly listening in because there was a verbal explosion in the background.
"Her back is thrown," said Dusty, apparently obediently parroting what his wife was telling him.
"I have an excellent remedy for thrown backs. It's called stretching. And, as a matter of fact, I have a few tasks here at the house where stretching is required. See you both soon." And Myrtle hung up.
As usual, talking to Dusty and Puddin put her in a terrible mood. She decided that she'd walk it off. Exercise was good for stress, after all. And who knew? Perhaps Miles had risen early and was ready to have some coffee with her. She could use another cup.
Myrtle was busily mulling over the day ahead as she grabbed her cane and locked the door behind her. The fact that she was so lost in thought could be the reason why Pasha startled her so badly when she rubbed against her.
Realizing it was Pasha, Myrtle bent to rub the cat. "Darling Pasha. You never sleep in, do you? Always so industrious."
Myrtle gave a circumspect glance around to make sure that the industrious Pasha hadn't decided to bestow her with a gift. Sometimes the cat decided to give Myrtle thank-you gifts in the form of dead animals. Fortunately, Myrtle spotted no such love offerings.
She set off down the street. Dusty was wrong—the sun was most certainly up. Although, from the look of things on her street, the sun was the only thing that was up. Myrtle wasn't even worried about passing Erma Sherman's house, knowing that her neighborly nemesis was still snoozing.
There were no lights on at Miles's house, but to her delight she saw that Lyle Solomon was indeed up, farther down the street. Not only, in fact, was he up, he was already at work in his yard. He had a pair of hedge trimmers and was carefully cutting his already-perfect bushes. Myrtle frowned. Neighbors who were perfectionists in their yards were every bit as annoying as neighbors who let their yards go.
Myrtle decided it was time for a little visit with Lyle. She walked up the slope of his driveway, leaning just a bit on her cane for support. Lyle didn't raise his head, so Myrtle gave a pointed cough. He jumped, frowning, before realizing it was Myrtle. He put down the hedge trimmers.
"Miss Myrtle! You're out early today, aren't you?" asked Lyle. He was in his late-thirties with blond hair. He was the only person Myrtle knew who wore white to do yardwork. But he was so scrupulous with his pruning, digging, and pulling that he likely never got a bit of dirt on his clothes.
Myrtle said, "Oh, I don't think it's that early. I've been up for hours. I'm not much of a sleeper, you know."
Lyle appeared to be trying to maintain polite interest. But his gaze kept returning to his hedge trimmers.
Myrtle said quickly, before she lost his attention completely, "Of course, yesterday's event probably had a lot to do with my sleeplessness. Wasn't it awful?"
Lyle's expression was completely blank. "I must have missed the news. What happened?"
"Your neighbor? Neil? He was murdered yesterday evening." Myrtle watched him closely for a reaction. Red had apparently not been by yet to interview him. Or, perhaps, Clara had neglected to mention to Red or the state police that Neil was at odds with his neighbor.
Lyle's face turned a blotchy red and his eyes grew big. "My neighbor? This one, you mean?"
"Yes, your neighbor Neil. Next-door. He's dead."
Lyle put down the hedge trimmers. Myrtle now had his full attention. "What do the police think happened?"
"Well, they're trying to figure it out. They'll want to know who might have had some disagreements with Neil, or other motives." Honestly, it was as if the man had never watched a cop show on television.
Lyle's face was worried. "That's not good. Truth be told, I didn't get along that well with the man, myself."
"Didn't you?" asked Myrtle in an innocent voice.
"No. His yard was an embarrassment to everyone on the street. He didn't mow the grass until it was knee-high, and he never, ever edged his grass. The few times he did mow, he never blew out his driveway or the sidewalk—he just left the clippings right where they fell," said Lyle, warming to his subject.
This was all true. Myrtle had trod over the clippings quite a few times during her walks.
"I did approach him a couple of times. You know, just to recommend a good yard service. Or even to recommend a bad yard service. Like the guy who does your yard, Miss Myrtle," said Lyle.
Myrtle bristled a little. Only she could complain about Dusty—she didn't like it when other people pointed out his shortcomings.
"Well, he's the only yardman in town who is willing to cut around my gnomes," said Myrtle. "Considering the circumstances, I think he does a pretty good job." It irked her to praise Dusty, but it irked her more to hear Lyle speak poorly of him.
"The gnomes." Lyle's face had sudden gotten very tense, as if the gnomes gave him unmentionable stress. "Thank heaven they're not in your yard. Did you give them away?" His voice was hopeful.
"Certainly not," snapped Myrtle. "In fact, the gnomes are going right back in my yard just as soon as Dusty can drag them out there. But back to the murder. Where were you yesterday evening?"
Lyle's gaze was cautious. "Yesterday? I was different places. Evening stretches over a lot of time. What time are you talking about?"
"Around the time that the sun was setting," said Myrtle.
Lyle stared up at the sky as if it might give him the answer to Myrtle's question. "I guess at that point, I was still wrapping up a nature walk. Did you know that I give those? Quite a few people sign up for them at the community center. We'll park by the duck pond and walk around it. Then we'll head through the trail in the park. It's a nice little walk. Sometimes I'll take my birding stuff with me—I like to birdwatch and get others started on the hobby." He looked at the house next door through squinting eyes. "Was he murdered at home?"
"No, he was on his way back from work," said Myrtle. Lyle appeared to be a very smart suspect. He was successfully acting as if he didn't know all the details of the crime. "So you weren't around. And you think that Neil could be a difficult person to get along with."
"Well, I don't really know that. I mean, yes, in my own dealings with him. He was stubborn. Looking at his car and his house, he seemed to have plenty of money. Why didn't he just hire somebody to take care of his yard for him? I was at the point of approaching the homeowner association about his yard, to see if they could put some pressure on him."
Myrtle frowned. "Interesting. Because there is no homeowner association."
"Isn't there?" Lyle sighed. "Small towns. I was at the point, though, that I would have started a homeowner association just to deal with Neil's yard."
"Do you know of anyone else who had issues with Neil?" asked Myrtle.
"With his yard?" Lyle snorted. "Probably everybody on this street."
"No, I mean, in general. Were there other arguments, other grievances?" asked Myrtle.
"Oh, sure. I mean, I'm assuming there were, based on Neil's general personality. But I do know of one person in particular who argued frequently with him. His wife, Clara." Lyle's eyes opened wide. "You should have heard some of their screaming matches. Those two weren't exactly lovebirds. I bet the cops will be asking her where she was when he was killed."
Myrtle frowned. "They argued? Just every once in a while? Or just recently?"
"All the time. They were real humdingers of arguments, too—I could hear them throwing dishes and stuff. And our houses aren't even really that close together," said Lyle. He shifted a little on his feet as if he were uncomfortable talking about Neil and Clara.
"Did you ever think of calling the police? Ever think that one of them was taking it too far?" asked Myrtle.
"I thought about calling Red, sure. But the fact of the matter is that it happened pretty much every night. I didn't have the time to keep calling Red and Red wouldn't have had the time to go out every night to handle their domestic disputes. Besides, every morning, they seemed just as right as rain," said Lyle.
"What? They weren't angry at each other?" asked Myrtle.
"Nope. He'd get in his fancy car and Clara would send him off to the bank with a lunch and a kiss." Lyle shrugged. "I figured they just had one of those weird marriages. I wonder what she's going to do now that he's gone."
"Does she work?" asked Myrtle.
Lyle shook his head. "Not unless she works from home. But she sure doesn't work outside of the house. Honestly, I don't see a lot of her. She's clearly not a yard person, either." Lyle looked wistfully over at their yard as if wishing Clara would suddenly transform into a gardener. "It's really such a great yard. It's a pity they don't do anything with it."
Now he glanced back over at his own, pristine lawn with analytical eyes. "Well, it was good talking to you, Miss M. I guess I'd better start taming this beast of a yard."
"See you soon." This yard was a kitten, if it were a beast at all. He'd tamed it into compliance ages ago.
Myrtle walked away, thinking about Lyle and yards. Surely Miles must be up by now; it was practically the middle of the day. She was so focused on Miles and his house that she completely missed the fact that her ghastly neighbor, Erma, was now apparently awake and insidiously heading toward her.
"Boo!" came a cackling laugh and Myrtle stumbled, regaining control by thrusting her cane out.
When Myrtle saw that it was Erma, she nearly used the cane on her neighbor.
"Oops!" said Erma, grinning. With her prominent front teeth, she bore the unfortunate resemblance to a donkey. "Forgot that I shouldn't surprise you—easy to forget that you're about a hundred years old."
Myrtle gave her a cold stare. "I'm nowhere close to being a hundred years old, and you know it."
"Heading over to see Miles?" asked Erma, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
This, as usual, put Myrtle in a bit of a pickle. She did want to visit Miles. But Erma always ascribed some sort of romantic ulterior motive to Myrtle's visits with Miles. She'd be sure to spread the story of their 'assignation' all over the small town of Bradley.
Today, she decided to grit her teeth and bare it. "As a matter of fact, I am. I have some business to discuss with him."
Now Erma was even more curious. "Business? Of the sleuthing variety? I meant to ask you about that. I saw your boy out this morning and it sure looked like he was on a case."
Her 'boy' was in his forties. Myrtle decided that some light prevarication was in order. The last thing she wanted was Erma in her business. And Erma was fascinated by her sleuthing.
"I don't really know very much yet, Erma. I'm still in my information-gathering stage," said Myrtle grandly.
Erma slumped a little, disappointed. Then she said, "Sayyy. Does this have anything to do with our neighbor?"
Myrtle sighed. She would love to ignore this and quickly move on to Miles's house. But the sad fact of the matter was that Erma was nosy. And nosy people had information. Plus, there was the fact that Erma had far too much time on her hands. All of her time was spent doing nosy Erma things.
"What do you mean?" asked Myrtle, still trying to play dumb.
"You know—Nile. Or Neil. Whatever his name is. The bad neighbor," said Erma.
Myrtle raised her eyebrows. Naturally Erma didn't have the foresight to realize that she was the bad neighbor. She waited, knowing that Erma would interrupt her anyway, if she tried to speak.
"I saw his wife looking panicky yesterday. Then my phone rang, so I had to go answer it," said Erma, sounding put out at the timing of the phone call. "But I did see that Neil (Nile?) didn't come home last night."
Myrtle opened her mouth to comment on that and Erma, as expected, cut her off. "And I know he didn't park in the garage either, because nobody could park in that garage! It's like an episode of Hoarders in there, or something. Stuff stacked up to the ceiling." Erma gestured in order to illustrate the extent of the problem, nearly toppling over in the process.
Myrtle weighed this. It appeared that Erma, clueless though she was, might indeed have morsels of information. She'd obviously kept the Albert home under her usual avid surveillance. Myrtle slowly offered, "You're right. Neil didn't come home last night. Nor will he be coming home tonight."
"Affair?" asked Erma, spitting out the word in a spray that Myrtle quickly backed away from.
"Murder," answered Myrtle.
Erma gaped at her, mouth ajar. "His wife?"
"We don't know who. We have to find out," said Myrtle.
Erma pursed her lips in a thoughtful way. "Was he found in his car?"
Myrtle, unwilling to part with information, hedged, "What makes you think that?"
"Because the car isn't there! Red took it, didn't he? To examine it for evidence?" Erma was practically bouncing, she was so excited. Myrtle was certain that Erma was going to immediately go forth and spread the news to any willing or unwilling recipient.
"There's a lot that we have to find out," said Myrtle in a repressive voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me?"
"Tell Miles hi for me!" said Erma with a nauseating giggle.