Myrtle suppressed a shudder with some difficulty and gave Erma a grimacing smile. "No thanks. I want the exercise. It's good to take a walk and clear my head, too." There was a brush up against her leg and she glanced down with a smile to see Pasha rubbing up against her. "Besides, I think Pasha wants to stroll with me."
Erma gazed in horror at Pasha. She'd had many bad run-ins with the feral black cat. Pasha seemed to sense Erma was allergic to her and chased her relentlessly.
Myrtle recapped, since Erma didn't seem to be leaving, "So I'll just stretch my legs and walk along with Pasha for company."
Erma's eyes grew wide. "You'll want company with you, for sure, especially with all the murder on our street. If something happened to you on your walk, I'd never forgive myself. And what would Red say? You don't need the exercise that badly. Of course, I would love to walk, but I'm having this problem with my bunions."
Myrtle raised a hand and closed her eyes. "Enough with that. And you're quite wrong, Erma. There have been no murders on our street. The murders all took place elsewhere. It just happens that the two victims were our neighbors."
Erma shrugged. "Whatever. It's still our street. But if you want to take risks, go ahead. I guess you're trying to add adventure to your life or something. See you at book club tomorrow." She drove off.
Myrtle winced at the thought of enduring Erma's presence two days in a row. Perhaps her bunions would somehow make it impossible for her to attend.
Pasha strode beside Myrtle as they wended their way to the Piggly Wiggly grocery store. A few people in cars waved at Myrtle as the confident cat and the equally-confident octogenarian walked briskly down the sidewalk.
When Myrtle reached the store, she looked down regretfully at Pasha. "I'm afraid this is the end of the line for you, Pasha. These silly people don't allow animals in their store."
Pasha's expression seemed to say more fool them. She curled up against the brick wall of the store where she could keep a wary eye on the grocery carts and glare at customers as they came in. She would wait for Myrtle to come back out again for a return stroll home.
Myrtle walked into the store. "Breakfast," she muttered. "Suppose I should head for the dairy section."
"Everything okay, Mrs. Clover?" asked a voice behind her.
Myrtle turned to see Adelaide standing in the produce section. She smiled. "Yes, except that I have an early book club meeting tomorrow and forgot I was supposed to bring some sort of breakfast item."
Adelaide said, "I have to bring breakfast stuff for school functions sometimes, in the staff room. I just bring their muffins. They're good and there is even a variety pack if you can't decide between banana nut muffins or blueberry muffins."
Myrtle beamed at her. "What an excellent idea! And easy to transport, too." She paused. Miles had had such a reaction to the thought of going back to a basketball game that perhaps Myrtle should simply question Adelaide here in the grocery store.
"I suppose you've heard the news about poor Lyle?" asked Myrtle. "I swear, I don't know what this town is coming to."
Adelaide looked solemn. "Yes, I did hear. Do you think that it's a different murderer than the one who killed Neil?"
Myrtle noticed that Adelaide seemed to more easily mention Neil's name this time around. Perhaps her heart was starting to recover. "Oh, I don't think so, do you? Hard to imagine two unrelated murders in the tiny hamlet of Bradley. I know you're driving around early to go to school—did you see anything suspicious?"
Adelaide thought for a moment. "I did see Clara Albert over at the park. There are people who are frequently at the park that early in the day, Lyle being one of them, but Clara isn't usually there. I heard Lyle was found in the park—is that right?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. My story will be in the paper tomorrow morning with more information on his life and death. When you say you saw Clara, was there anything specifically that you saw her doing? Was she looking furtive or was she simply out there in exercise gear?"
"Clara was there with her little dog and seemed totally distracted by her—putting her on her leash, getting out poop bags, that kind of thing," said Adelaide. "You don't think that she had something to do with Lyle's death, do you? Like maybe she thought that Lyle was responsible for her husband's death and she wanted to get revenge?"
"I'm not sure. Although I think it would be a little strange to bring a dog along when you're planning on murdering someone," said Myrtle, frowning.
"Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing," said Adelaide. "Maybe she didn't plan on it and didn't even think about the possibility that Lyle would even be there. Then she ran into him on the trail when she was walking Amber and they argued over Neil. It could have been completely spontaneous. Besides, I've heard Clara trash-talking Lyle before. Not nearly as much as Neil did, but she always made fun of Lyle. Apparently, he'd be so careful with his pruning that he'd be out in the yard working on a single flowering bush for hours."
Myrtle could see that Adelaide had something of a sidekick brain. Or, at least, that she liked working out puzzles. "Clara is definitely a possibility," said Myrtle. "By the way, when you spotted Clara's car, did you see your principal's car, as well? Or did you see him on the road?"
"Mr. Kelly? I usually end up following him or vice versa since we leave our houses at about the same time. But not this time. He was parked over at the park."
"Parked? But wasn't he at the school soon after you arrived there?" asked Myrtle.
Adelaide slowly shook her head. "No. He came in late, which was pretty unusual. He has a reserved spot, you know. And the principal parking place was empty until after first block was finished. My room looks out on the parking lot. But surely you're not saying that Mr. Kelly was somehow involved in Lyle's death."
Myrtle said, "Oh, you just never know. I'm just trying to figure out where everyone was when Lyle died, that's all." She paused. "Do you have any ideas on who it could be? Besides Clara, that is?"
"Well, I guess the spouse is always the main suspect. So, Sally?"
Myrtle said, "Except that Sally's alibi checked out and she's not considered a suspect. Anyone else?"
Adelaide said wryly, "Well, with all the time I spent hovering in the bank parking lot, I can say that Tarleton's nose was definitely out of joint with being laid off."
"Yes, I've heard quite a bit about that," said Myrtle.
"It wasn't like he just asked the one time for his job back. He kept going over there to talk to Neil about it. I guess he was desperate. Tarleton was practically stalking him."
Which was exactly what Tarleton had said about Adelaide.
The next morning, Myrtle got ready for book club. Pasha had stared at her through her kitchen window until Myrtle opened it up and gave her a can of tuna. Myrtle carefully took the store-bought muffins and transferred them onto a plate. Since the muffins looked a little too perfect, she pulled off bits of some of them to give them a more authentic homemade look. Pleased by her handiwork, she picked up her cane and carried the book and the muffins in a bag on her other arm.
She knocked on Miles's door. He peered out with an anxious expression on his face, then relaxed when he saw Myrtle. "You startled me. I had the horrible feeling that the book club was showing up here early," he said. Then he frowned. "What's that you're carrying?"
"Just a few breakfast goodies I'm contributing," said Myrtle.
"I thought you didn't have any ingredients to make anything," said Miles, his voice rising in consternation.
"For heaven's sake, Miles! You look as if you're about to have a coronary event of some kind. I walked over to the grocery store last evening and picked up some muffins. And, I might add, talked to Adelaide, too."
Miles took her muffins and set them on a table in his living room alongside plates of doughnuts and bagels. "Find out anything?"
"Only that Holt Kelly wasn't at the high school at his usual time," said Myrtle. "And that Neil wasn't the only Albert who didn't like Lyle. Clara wasn't a fan, either. She also said that Tarleton was practically stalking Neil, trying to get rehired by the bank."
Miles nodded. "So she shifted the focus off herself by throwing suspicion on everybody else."
"Exactly. I did think it was interesting that she would have used the word stalker to describe Tarleton," said Myrtle. She adjusted the plates on the table so that her muffins were in the foreground.
"It takes one to know one, I guess," said Miles. "Can we talk about this later? I'm trying to get ready for the club meeting now."
Myrtle looked around. The living room was spotless. The pillows were perfectly plumped up on the sofa and chairs. The area rug on the hardwood floor was at a right angle to the furniture. The baseboards gleamed. The picture frames were smudge-free. Dust wouldn't have dared grace the shiny wood surfaces.
"How could you possibly get readier than you are right now?" demanded Myrtle. "You're already going to give everyone a complex about the cleanliness of their own houses."
Miles levied a stern look her way. "I'm just trying to regain some semblance of control over this book club meeting, that's all. It's because of the situation. I have a feeling that I'm about to be pilloried by everyone over the selection of The Mayor of Casterbridge. Perhaps they'll show up at my house with pitchforks and torches. And I'll be trying to appeal to their kinder, gentler selves by escorting them toward the doughnuts and the muffins. This meeting has disaster written all over it."
"You're being completely melodramatic, as usual. The only thing that's terrible that's going to happen at this book club meeting is that Erma Sherman is going to be here unless she's been totally overcome by one of her more disgusting ailments. You know how these book club women are around you," said Myrtle, rolling her eyes.
Miles frowned at her. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly.
"Yes, you do. They all dress up whenever they know you're attending. They bat their eyes at you. They bring their very best homemade goodies in case the way to your heart is, indeed, through your stomach. They ask you to open jars for them and ooh and ahh over your questionable strength," said Myrtle. "You're in no danger from pitchfork-toting club members."
"But they've been calling me on the phone several times a day. They've been horribly confused by the book and have demanded guidance from me as to its most basic passages." Miles eyed a picture on the wall and reached out to carefully straighten it.
"All a ploy to talk with you on the phone, Miles. You're the most eligible bachelor in Bradley, at least for women of a particular age. A retired architect ...."
"Engineer," said Miles.
"With enough income to do whatever you want to do. A man who reads, remarkable in its own right. And the icing on the cake is the fact that you still drive a car," said Myrtle.
"As you've mentioned many times before," said Miles.
"Only because you seem uninformed as to the tremendous asset driving is," said Myrtle. "It makes you irresistible. You can still run by the grocery store for a forgotten carton of milk or a loaf of bread. That's an amazing quality for senior men."
Miles spent the next thirty minutes tediously plucking specks of dust off lampshades and window blinds while Myrtle taste-tested the assembled food.
When Miles's doorbell rang, he blanched.
Myrtle swept by him, imperiously. "I'll get this, Miles. In fact, how about if I'm on door duty altogether so that you can pour beverages?"
The book club, as Myrtle had predicted, was dressed to kill, despite the nine o'clock start time. They were also fully made-up and not a hair was out of place. The only exceptions were Erma, who only really cared about herself and never made much of an effort to look better, and Georgia Simpson, who always seemed to shoot for continuity in her appearance, instead of perfection.
The food was completely over-the-top as everyone sought to outdo everyone else's breakfast efforts. There were apricot Danishes, potato and kale frittatas, and elaborate breakfast bakes. Since all of the women avoided all but the daintiest of tidbits, Myrtle heaped a plate full of food and settled down in a corner to eat to her heart's content. She needed fortification if she was going to have to defend The Mayor of Casterbridge and push The Outsiders to the group.
Miles accosted her before the discussion started. "Remember," he said under his breath, "the idea is to acknowledge every question as thoughtful. We'll consider every contribution to the discussion as valuable. We want to keep things easy and pleasant so they'll all be amenable to our next book choice."
Myrtle said, "I know the plan, Miles. At least you must realize you're not going to be burned at the stake by this group."
He turned and several of the book club ladies smiled, batting their eyes at him.
"I suppose you're right," he said. "Maybe we'll survive this meeting, after all."
The door opened and Myrtle's eyebrows rose. "Looks like Sally Solomon made it."
For a few minutes, everyone's attention was diverted from Miles to Sally as they greeted her. Then Tippy called the meeting to order and handed over the proceedings to Miles to lead the discussion.
Miles stood in front of the group and cleared his throat. "Thanks to everyone for coming today. I hope you'll continue to get more of this great food as the meeting goes on. And now, let's start talking about The Mayor of Casterbridge. I hope everyone enjoyed the book."
Everyone glanced uncomfortably at each other. Then Blanche Clark, covered with jewelry and designer clothing as usual, spoke. "So that bull in the story."
Miles nodded. "The one that chases Lucetta and Elizabeth-Jane?"
"Sure. That one. Was that supposed to be some kind of like, metaphorical bull?" asked Blanche.
Miles stared at Myrtle and Myrtle said, "No, Blanche. It was a real bull." She struggled to keep a note of pleasantry in her voice.
Blanche seemed determined to persist in her foolishness. "I thought the bull was maybe an analogy."
Myrtle gave her a sweet smile. "An analogy compares two things."
"Oh." Blanche frowned. "Hm. I lost my train of thought."
Erma said, "Wasn't the bull there just to let Henchard show off?"
Myrtle said, "To a degree, but there was more to it than that."
Miles gave Myrtle a worried look.
Georgia, who'd been shaking her head as Blanche and Erma spoke, said, "Look, y'all. The bull is a symbol. It stands for the stuff in our life that might wreck us or wreck our lives, if we let it."
Miles and Myrtle blinked. Despite how well Georgia claimed to have 'gotten' the book, they never would have guessed that she'd end up understanding it as well as she had. Despite the fact that she persisted in calling it a psychological thriller.
And so it went. The book club members continued offering their convoluted and peculiar impressions of the story while Myrtle did her best to wrestle them back on track.
Finally, the discussion was finished. Miles, who had dots of perspiration at his temples, gratefully handed the floor back to Tippy.