A Body at Bunco (26 page)

So today would mark the inaugural wearing of the tracksuit. And Myrtle had absolutely no intention of leaving her house while wearing the thing. It was hardly flattering and the color was vile on her.

After making this decision, Myrtle took a deep, cleansing breath. She wanted a peaceful, positive start to her day since it was very distressing to have no clean clothes. Occasionally, Myrtle
might have
allowed a getting-off-on-the-wrong-foot experience to wreck her entire day. She had no intention of letting that happen on this bright and sunny morning. No, today would go smoothly.

This happy thought and peaceful reverie was interrupted by some sort of screeching engine, a breaking noise, and someone vehemently cussing in her front yard. “What in heaven’s name?” hissed Myrtle. A few seconds later, she’d already broken her promise not to step outside her house wearing the tracksuit as she hurried out, cane in hand.

Dusty was outside. He had a pair of cheap sunglasses pushed up on top of his head, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth and was saying rude things to one of her gnomes.

Chapter Twenty

“Dusty! Have you lost your mind? What’s all the ruckus about?” Myrtle brandished her cane at him as his dire imprecations continued.

“Yer gnome! It bit my weed trimmer!” howled Dusty.

“What did you do to my gnome?” demanded Myrtle.

“What did
I
do?” Dusty scowled at her.

“Yes! Because you’re the one with the power tool. The poor gnomes are completely defenseless.” She peered closer. “That’s my ‘gone fishing’ gnome! One of my favorites.”

Dusty said, “Why’s it got a rope hangin’ off it? Killed off my trimmer!”

“It’s supposed to be a fishing line, Dusty. It’s hanging from the little guy’s pole. Haven’t you ever gone fishing?” asked Myrtle.

“Not with no rope, I ain’t.”

“Well the manufacturers couldn’t very well use fishing line or it wouldn’t be durable,” said Myrtle.

“It done got wound up in my string trimmer line!” croaked Dusty, glowering at the offending gnome. “Now it won’t start up none.”

“I’m much more concerned about my damaged property,” said Myrtle icily. “The gnome doesn’t make sense anymore with the rope missing.”

“An’ my string trimmer don’t make no sense without being able to run!” Dusty threw the equipment on the ground where it hit another gnome.

Myrtle glared at him through narrowed eyes. She was about to debate who was the more injured party in this accident when Puddin loped by her carrying a notebook.

“Puddin? Did we plan for you to be here today?” asked Myrtle, frowning.

“Got bizness with you, Miz Myrtle,” said Puddin, sauntering into her house.

Myrtle hurried to follow her. Besides, she was just realizing she was standing out in broad daylight with the hideous tracksuit on and would likely have her fashion transgression discovered soon if she remained.

“Wait,” yelled Dusty as Myrtle walked away. “What about my string trimmer? Can’t whack no weeds when it’s broke!”

“When you figure out how to fix my gnome, I will figure out how to fix your trimmer,” said Myrtle.

There was more cussing as Myrtle sailed through the front door and into her house.

Puddin guffawed. “Snazzy jumpsuit you got there, Miz Myrtle.”

Myrtle glared at her. “It’s a tracksuit, not a jumpsuit. Jumpsuits are for Elvis.”

Puddin looked sadly at her. “Miss that Elvis. He sure was pretty. Need to get to Graceland one day.”

“Let’s leave your Graceland pilgrimage for another day. Tell me what you’re prattling on about with this ‘business’ of yours.”

“I’m looking for a payoff,” said Puddin, attempting to look ominous.

Myrtle could only assume that Puddin had been watching too many Mafia movies. “Don’t you mean a payout, Puddin? I think payoffs are for mortgages and car loans. And what have you done to deserve one? Did you find any useful information for me?”

Puddin glared at her. “I’d have had more if I hadn’t gone to clean for Mr. Miles!”

“Yes, I know all about your cleaning stint for Mr. Miles … gleaming surfaces and all. I can’t imagine for the life of me why you don’t clean like that over here,” said Myrtle.

Now Puddin appeared eager to get off of the subject of her clean-up at Miles’s house. “Maybe I could persuade you somehow to give me the payoff. Payout. Thing.”

Myrtle put her hands on her hips, which wasn’t even all that easy to do with a cane in one’s hand. “Are you clumsily attempting to blackmail me, Puddin? Because you, of all people, should know that’s fundamentally impossible. I’m a paragon of virtue. What would you choose to release about me…that I enjoy a glass of sherry once a week? That I take a baby aspirin every day?”

Puddin gave her a sullen look and tried to backtrack. “That’s not what I meant, Miz Myrtle. Touchy, aren’t you?”

“Well, I was just wondering if my mild-mannered housekeeper had been hanging out with gangsters lately,” said Myrtle.

“No, what I meant was that maybe I have more information for you. Maybe you’ll find it useful enough to pay me for. You see, I heard that Miz Estelle had hit hard times. Not chasing storms no more. Going to have to work at the grocery. Maybe she got mad at Miz Luella for not giving her that bank loan,” said Puddin. “And I hear Miz Mimsy is helping her out, since she’s got a garden and all. And now Miz Mimsy is all rich and everything.”

Myrtle picked through Puddin’s words. “Well, you’ve basically just verified something I heard earlier. So you haven’t presented me with any
new
information, although you’ve helped me fact-check what I already understood to be true. Although, perhaps you’re even hearing it from the same source.”

Puddin just squinted at her, trying to follow along. “So I get the payoff?” she demanded.

“Puddin, what’s going on with you and money lately? I’ve never known you to be quite so greedy.”

Puddin blew out a sigh. “Dusty’s birthday. Trying to get him something decent.”

Myrtle nodded. “I see.” She paused. “What kinds of things does Dusty like?”

Puddin shrugged. “Yard equipment. The TV. That’s about it.”

“It’s not a lot to go on, is it? Although I guess a new string trimmer might be something he’d appreciate, since he’s so ballistic over this one. How much do those things run?” asked Myrtle.

Puddin brightened. “That’s true. He wanted a new one even before this one broke. Says he wants a 4 cycle and not a 2 cycle.”

“I’m assuming that means more power. So how much would that run us?” asked Myrtle. She had a modest amount of money put aside for a rainy day.

“Reckon it might run around three hundred.”

“Three hundred
dollars
?” gasped Myrtle. That wouldn’t be a rainy day. That would be a tsunami. “I don’t have that kind of money lying around to give to people for payouts. I thought you were going to say seventy-five dollars or something.”

Puddin slumped. “Guess you’re poor.”

“I guess I am!”

“Maybe a gift card to the hardware store then,” said Puddin helpfully.

“Is this a
significant
birthday, Puddin?”

Puddin narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“How old is Dusty turning?”

Puddin said, “This is his sixty-fifth. In a week.”

He was certainly getting up there. Myrtle contemplated her options. She did always want to keep Dusty happy. The other options for alternate yardmen were not only too expensive for her and her retired teacher income, but they were also not as willing to trim the grass around her gnomes. One thing was for sure—Red had a vested interest in keeping Myrtle’s yardman happy. Because if there were no Dusty, Red would be his most-likely replacement.

“Okay. I can’t do anything today. But it’s possible I might be able to piece something together very soon.” If Red isn’t completely tapped out with his plumbing emergency and car shopping
.
“I just need a little time.”

Puddin shook her head. “He’s really goin’ to be fussin’ over this broke trimmer.”

“I’ll come up with something to tell him. I’ll tell him that Red is great at fixing yard equipment or something. That I’ll get Red to take care of it if he’ll just drop off the trimmer with me,” said Myrtle.

“Mr. Red fixes yard equipment?” Puddin’s voice was dubious.

“Well, not exactly. That is, he knows how to replace the string in them. But that’s not important … it’s just a way to buy time for me to figure something out,” said Myrtle.

They were interrupted by Dusty sticking his head through the door. “I done fixed it.”

“What?” asked Myrtle, a bit startled. “The trimmer, you mean?”

“No, the gnome,” said Dusty. “I had something on my truck.” He motioned her outside.

When Myrtle walked into her front yard, she saw that her “gone fishing” gnome now had a duct-taped bit of twine attached to his hand. She stared at it and then at Dusty. “Fixed? This is fixed?”

“Course it is,” said Dusty scornfully. “Got a fishin’ line and everything.”

“But it’s duct-taped!”

“You was missin’ a duct-taped gnome,” said Dusty simply. “This is the South.”

“He’s kinda cute like that,” muttered Puddin.

Myrtle closed her eyes briefly and found when she opened them again that she was feeling much calmer. “You’re probably right,” she said. “I didn’t have any duct tape representation here. Now we’re good.”

Dusty shook his head. “No we’re not. What about my trimmer?”

“If you’ll leave it with me, I can guarantee that Red will fix it for you,” said Myrtle.

Dusty’s eyes were suspicious. “Didn’t know that Red was good with yard equipment.”

“He’s the best,” said Myrtle simply. If buying replacement equipment counted.

Dusty was opening his mouth to continue questioning her when there was a dry cough behind them. It was Miles.

“Myrtle,” he said, regarding her with amusement, “you look so fetching.”

Myrtle scowled at him. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m about to hole up back inside if we’ve resolved this particular crisis.”

Puddin said thoughtfully, “You know, Miz Myrtle, I sorta think I might like to get one of them.”

“One of them, I mean, one of
those
what?” asked Myrtle.

“One of them jumpsuits. Where’d you get it?”

Myrtle stared at her. “You were just laughing at me in it only a few minutes ago and now you want to buy one?”

“I was laughin’ at
you
in it. But I kinda think I might look good in it. Might go with my hair.” Puddin gestured to the lank, dirty-blonde hair that was falling in her face.

Miles’s eyes were full of merriment.

Myrtle sighed. “I don’t know … Red bought it for me for Christmas. He probably shopped at Brogan’s. I can’t imagine he’d have gone anywhere else. But I don’t know if there are any left. It sounded as if Red picked it up on clearance.”

Miles said softly, “Oh, I bet there are some left.”

Puddin nodded, still looking at the tracksuit in an accessing way. “I’ll have to run by there later.”

It irritated Myrtle to think that she and Puddin might somehow end up looking like twins.

A truck pulled up across the street at what was becoming Red’s Construction Site. Their front door opened and Myrtle heard Red’s voice. “I have to get inside,” hissed Myrtle. She grabbed onto Miles’s arm and they scurried inside.

“I don’t totally understand why we did that, but I don’t think Red saw us,” said Miles. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered out one of Myrtle’s windows. “He seems absorbed in the fact that someone apparently is indicating more digging to be done.”

Myrtle rubbed her forehead as a thought occurred to her. “You know what? He’s probably going to come right over here. He likely is going to put his clothes in a bag and come over for a shower. That’s what he’s done
every
day since this started.” She raised her head for a moment and listened. “That huge load of laundry is nowhere near being finished, either.”

Miles said, “Did I miss something? Why are you hiding from Red?”

“He gave me this tracksuit and I think he’s
finally
forgotten about it. If he sees me in it, he’s going to be so pleased that I’m going to have to wear the thing more often. The only reason I have it on is because
all
of my clothes need washing now,” said Myrtle.

“You don’t have
anything
else?”

“Not unless I want to wear a Halloween costume or a bathing suit,” said Myrtle.

The phone rang and Myrtle hurried to answer it as Miles walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Sloan?” Myrtle looked at Miles and made a face at him. She wasn’t ready to be chastised for her part in the #SaveTheBugle campaign. But apparently, Sloan had other things on his mind.

“Do you think I could run by and bring your cat with me to the
Bugle
, Miss Myrtle?” he asked in an anxious voice. “She’s quite the mouser. And now that I know the mice are in here, that’s all I seem to hear. Rustling in the corners.” He sounded quite disturbed.

“Oh, I don’t think Pasha would like that, Sloan. She’s not much of a fan of car rides. And I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t willingly go with you to the newspaper, either. If she’s not willing, there’s no way you can make her … she
is
feral,” reminded Myrtle.

Now Sloan sounded pitiful. “Can you think of a way to get her here, Miss Myrtle? I did call an exterminator, but the fee would be too high and the
Bugle
doesn’t have the budget to handle it. Pasha did a really good job. And I’ve been having kind of a rough last twenty-four hours.”

Myrtle didn’t really want details about what made his last twenty-four hours so rough. She had a feeling it had something to do with his likely confusion over the social media campaign. But one thing she knew—leaving her house before Red came over would be a good tactic. Maybe she could throw a coat over herself for her walk downtown. “I think I could probably persuade Pasha to follow me to the office. This is the time of day she’s usually hunting in my backyard. I’ll pull treats out.”

Sloan said, “Don’t pull out too many or she won’t be hungry enough to hunt!”