A Body at Bunco (14 page)

Sloan gave her a sorrowful look. “But see, Miss Myrtle, you likely ran into the only two ladies in town who felt that way. They would have searched you out, knowing you’d be a sympathetic ear.”

“I didn’t say they were ladies!” But naturally, they were.

“Whoever these readers were,” said Sloan in a mollifying tone.

“Well, have you gotten any
compliments
on the new direction for the
Bugle
?” asked Myrtle.

Sloan shifted his weight again. “Not yet. But I’ve been too busy to really be out and about, conducting reader polls.”

“If you haven’t gotten any compliments, then I think we need to pay special attention to the complaints I’ve heard. And what do you mean that you’ve been “too busy to be out and about?” What about rustling up ads for the paper? That requires someone to get out and about.”

Sloan studied the ceiling as if seeking divine support or revelation. “Right now I thought I should focus my efforts on the new tone and style for the paper. I’m trying to update the design of it to make it more exciting.”

“Okay, so you’re changing content and appearance. What about your salesman? Can you make sure he’s hitting the road and rustling up ad sales?” asked Myrtle.

“He was a part time worker and needed to find something full-time,” said Sloan in the manner of someone glossing something over.

“So he quit.” Myrtle sighed. “So you need a proofreader, a salesman, and columnists to write Good Neighbors and the horoscopes. Basically a full staff.”

Sloan looked alarmed. “Not all those people! I couldn’t pay them. But I do need a salesperson who doesn’t expect to make a fortune. Or even someone willing to work part time.”

“Well don’t look at me! I have no desire to knock on doors and drum up advertisers. The only reason I wanted to get in touch with you was to pass on the valuable information that we got from these subscribers. Before they become
former
subscribers.”

But Sloan didn’t really appear to be listening. Instead, he kept saying, “It’s going to be great—you’ll see, Miss Myrtle. We’ll be printing extra editions by the time these changes are in place. It’s going to be the most popular small town newspaper around.”

Myrtle suddenly felt as if she needed an antacid. And she didn’t blame those pimento cheese dogs, either.

The next morning, Myrtle woke up very early. It was the time of day where she actually wasn’t sure if it were technically very late at night or very early in the morning. She analyzed carefully whether there were even a smidgeon of a chance that she would fall back asleep. Myrtle decided there wasn’t. She showered, dressed and even put on makeup.

She was just sitting down to a four A.M. breakfast of buttery cheese grits with sausage links on the side when the front door unlocked and opened. Considering the plumbing issue across the street and the fact that the only people who had keys to her front door were Red and Elaine, Myrtle didn’t even bat an eye or feel the slightest hint of concern. She simply went back to the stove and made up a second plate of grits and sausages for whoever was coming in.

It was Red, looking grim. “Saw the lights and figured you were up. Going to use your facilities real quick before heading out. I’ve had a call.”

Myrtle said, “Here, shove some food down before you go in the back. A call … for the same case?” She had a strong feeling it was. And somehow she didn’t even feel very surprised when Red nodded.

“It’s Alma Wiggins. Her son, Robert, called me. He discovered her body a few minutes ago.”

Myrtle realized that she had a very narrow window to find out any more information on Alma’s body. “Here,” she said quickly, “have a small bowl of grits. You’ll focus better with something on your stomach. And you can get to Alma’s house in two seconds … she’s not going anywhere, anyway.”

Red took the bowl she handed him and started shoveling down the grits while standing in her kitchen.

Not wanting to scare him off, she asked delicately, “I suppose Alma’s death wasn’t from natural causes?”

Red polished off his grits and said quickly, “Unfortunately, no. Not unless she hit herself over the head with a cast iron frying pan.” But that’s all he’d give her as he ran into the back briefly and then back out her front door.

Myrtle’s mind whirled. Ordinarily she’d run over to Miles’s house with this new information and they’d dissect it together. But he’d certainly not looked very well when she’d left him yesterday afternoon. She decided to walk to Miles’s house and see if any lights were on.

Already fully dressed and ready for her day, she grabbed her cane and a light cardigan and locked the front door behind her. She was glad she’d thought to get the cardigan because it was breezy outside and she shivered a little despite the sweater.

Myrtle saw with delight that there was indeed a light on inside Miles’s house. It didn’t appear to be a nightlight variety, either. She quietly tapped at the door and paused. She thought she heard snoring sounds. Myrtle tapped again. Then she peeked through the window next to the door. It was covered by sheer curtains, but she could still see Miles’s figure, covered by a large blanket and appearing to be sound asleep in a recliner.

Myrtle made a face. It looked as if she would be investigating solo this time. And, even worse, it was too early to start following up with suspects. All she could do was go back home and do her daily crossword puzzle. And wait.

It was eight o’clock when her front doorbell rang. Myrtle had hoped that maybe it was Red coming back by for a shower—and to fill her in. She sighed when she looked out the peephole and saw Puddin there.

Puddin was looking very self-satisfied, too. “Told you I’d be able to find out all about it.”

“About what?” asked Myrtle wearily as she headed back to the sofa and plopped down.

“About Miz Mimsy! I told you I’d listen in real good and then you said you’d tip me. Remember?” Puddin put her pudgy hands on her hips.

Myrtle nodded, “I remember. Stop tooting your own horn and tell me what you know. I’ll decide what that information is worth.”

Puddin sat down next to Myrtle on the sofa and put her feet up on Myrtle’s coffee table…until Myrtle’s narrowed eyes made Puddin put them back down on the floor again. “So I was cleanin’ for Miz Mimsy yesterday, right? And she was talking to Poppy. ‘Cause she and Poppy are friends. And she told Poppy that Luella had had a
million dollars
. A million! And Luella’s lawyer said Luella was giving it to Mimsy, since she was her only kin, and all.” Just in case Myrtle had missed what Puddin considered her most valuable takeaway, she enunciated loudly, “A
mil
—”

“All right! I heard you. Yes, that’s a lot of money, it’s true. But I already knew that Luella White was a woman of some means. So what else?”

Puddin’s pale face fell comically at Myrtle’s lack of reaction. “Well, that gives her a lot of motive to kill her kin, don’t it? You’re just like Poppy. Poppy didn’t react much to it either.”

“You could see watch Poppy and Mimsy from where you were? What kind of cleaning were you doing?” asked Myrtle, rolling her eyes.

“Baseboards,” said Puddin succinctly.

“You never touch the baseboards here!” said Myrtle. “They’re covered with dust, grime, and scuff marks.”

Puddin had developed ignoring people to an art form. She continued with her story, apparently worried that it wasn’t going to be worth a tip. “Miz Mimsy didn’t sound all that happy about the money, neither. Sort of weird. Her attitude seemed like it made Poppy mad. It made me sort of mad, too. Why is it the people who don’t care about money who end up with it? That’s what I want to know.”

Myrtle ignored Puddin’s philosophic wonderings. “So Poppy was unhappy with Mimsy’s attitude? I wonder why.”

“Why?” Puddin snorted. “I reckon because she was being such a pill. Poppy was trying to get Miz Mimsy’s head screwed back on right, tellin’ her that she should travel or get a little place at the beach, or give it all away to poor folk. But Miz Mimsy said that she don’t need no more money, that she got plenty. And that made Poppy madder.” Puddin’s face was gleeful. It was apparently a fascinating workday for her yesterday.

“Did Poppy bring Mimsy food from the diner?” asked Myrtle.

Puddin squinted at Myrtle as if she’d suddenly been blessed with second sight. “That’s right. Why? You spying over there, too?”

“No, I was at the diner when Poppy picked up the food,” said Myrtle.

Puddin was now looking grouchy that Myrtle knew part of the story without even being told. “So what do you think? Worth something to you?”

Myrtle thought this through. On the face of it, Puddin’s information wasn’t very insightful. But somehow, Myrtle had a feeling there was something there that she was missing. And it certainly did seem to show that Mimsy didn’t care about money or didn’t have a financial motive for the crime.

“And you’re sure that Mimsy wasn’t just faking her lack of interest in the estate?” asked Myrtle.

Puddin squinted suspiciously at the vocabulary, mistrustful as she was at anything that wasn’t very plain English. “She weren’t fakin’ nothin’. She was flat bored with money, and that’s the truth.”

“All right then.” Myrtle got up and walked over to her desk for her pocketbook. She gave Puddin a ten dollar bill. “But you’ll get more if you find out more, Puddin. When are you supposed to clean over there next?”

“In a couple days. If her regular housekeeper, Pam, don’t get well.” Puddin’s small, avarice-filled eyes boded ill for Pam if she were to suddenly improve.

Chapter Eleven

Myrtle decided it was certainly late enough in the morning to start her investigation. And clearly, she should start moving toward Alma’s house. If Red spotted her in that direction, why she was simply taking her morning walk, that was all. If he spotted her on Alma’s property (because sometimes that nice Lieutenant Perkins from the state police would give her a drop or two of information), then she’d simply say that she’d been taking her walk and decided to make a short detour to remind him that he was welcome to shower at her house as soon as he was done with the crime scene.

As she passed Miles’s house, though, something made her stop again. Maybe it was that he’d looked so wretchedly pitiful in that recliner earlier. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been so piqued last time when she’d set off investigating on her own, without him as sidekick. Perhaps it was that she was just the slightest bit worried about him. Although she did think that men were ridiculously melodramatic when they were sick.

She tapped lightly on Miles’s front door again. Again, there was no response. Myrtle tapped more emphatically and waited again. She glanced around Miles’s yard as she waited. He must have been planning to cut his grass either yesterday or today. It was looking too long for Miles. Miles’s yard was usually kept in total control—grass a particular, regulation height. Shrubs made to bow to his domination over them. No misbehaving weeds. Everything in order. Miles’s yard was now looking decidedly mutinous.

Since there was no response to the second round of tapping, Myrtle attempted to peer through his window and sheer curtains again. It was a lot more difficult now, though, than it was at night. At night, dark outside and light inside, she could see relatively clearly. Here she
thought
she still saw a forlorn figure in the recliner, but she couldn’t swear by it. Myrtle recalled that she still had Miles’s extra key from the previous summer when he’d left his home and (rather unwisely) his houseplants to her care as he’d traveled. She decided that drastic times called for drastic measures.

Myrtle found the key on her key ring and opened Miles’s front door. She walked into Miles’s living room, which felt rather stuffy. Sure enough, Miles was in the recliner and he was sound asleep. Or unconscious. At any rate, he wasn’t awake.

Myrtle walked over to him. “Miles!” she said, taking him by the shoulder and giving him a little shake. He was perspiring and some of his steel-gray hair was matted to his forehead. He murmured in his sleep, but didn’t wake up.

“Fever,” muttered Myrtle. And the man didn’t have any water or anything to drink near him. Also, from the way the bathroom door was wide open in the back and the light on, it seemed as if Miles had some stomach upset. That, and the fever and the perspiration…he should have water. And saltine crackers. Myrtle firmly believed that everyone should have saltine crackers when they were ill. And fresh air. The stale, stuffy air in the house needed to go.

Myrtle pushed aside the curtains and pulled open a stubborn window. Then she rummaged in the cabinets in Miles’s kitchen until she located an ice bucket. She filled it with ice and put it on the floor next to Miles’s chair. Then she poked around in the kitchen some more until she located a large thermos, which she filled with water. After filling that, she hesitated before finally deciding that more would be better when it came to fluids and Miles. She found a large water bottle in the back of Miles’s container cabinet and filled it with water, too. She put all the water and a large plastic tumbler on the small table next to Miles’s chair. To make room, she had to move several volumes of William Faulkner’s works.

“Nobody should gorge themselves on Faulkner when they’re ill,” muttered Myrtle. Too much stream of consciousness could add an element of nausea, even if one weren’t nauseated already.

She added to the pile with a plate of saltine crackers, a couple of ibuprofen, and an antacid. Then she wet a washcloth and put it over his forehead. Miles never stirred once during the entire process. Having witnessed enough dead bodies lately, this prompted Myrtle to feel for a pulse. She immediately found a very determined pulse and ceased to be overly concerned.

However, it was very clear that Miles would not be participating in a murder investigation at any point in the immediate future. She located his television remote, turned on the TV, and studied his recordings. It appeared that he hadn’t watched the episode of
Tomorrow’s Promise
from yesterday afternoon. She started the show and then hit pause and put the remote next to Miles. Finally she washed her hands thoroughly before letting herself back out the front door and locking it carefully behind her.