Death at a Drop-In (16 page)

That apparently cheered Miles up a bit and he looked less anxious as they headed back toward Bradley.

Myrtle figured she might as well take advantage of his better mood.  “Do you mind running me by the library on the way back?  I was going to get those book club books we were talking about and head over to Sybil’s house.”

“You don’t need me to go with you to Sybil’s, do you?” Miles looked alarmed.

“Why?  Worried that Sybil will switch allegiance and start stalking you instead?”

“I hardly think that I make an appropriate target for her,” said Miles stiffly. “I’m old enough to be her father.  And retired.  There’s nothing very glamorous about me.”

“There’s nothing very glamorous about Felix either.  He’s all business. I can’t think what Sybil sees in him,” said Myrtle.  “I guess everyone’s different.”

“So—do you need me to take you there, then?” asked Miles.

“No.  It’s only a short walk from the library to Sybil’s house.  And I’m only going to be carrying a couple of books and my cane.”

“How will you manage that?” Miles frowned.

Myrtle reached into her purse and pulled out a compact tote bag.  “By being prepared,” she said with a grin.

Chapter Fourteen

Myrtle glanced over the neat rows of books.  She decided to bring over a couple of choices—a book she would actually
like
to have the book club read, and a book that Sybil would most likely want the book club to read.  This would have the added benefit of not only giving her the opportunity to quiz Sybil on the murders, but also possibly even giving her the chance to pitch
real
literature at their book club.

Thinking about book club made Myrtle grouchy, so she tried to refocus on the rows of books.  She found an old favorite, Eudora Welty’s
The Optimist’s Daughter
, and pulled it gingerly from the stacks.  Myrtle placed it carefully in her tote bag and then looked back at the shelves with a critical frown. 

There was a novel written by a celebrity that looked absolutely atrocious, but Myrtle didn’t want anyone to think she even knew who this celebrity was. There was a book featuring a beach and a middle-aged woman staring thoughtfully off into the sunset.  Myrtle made a face.  That accurately depicted eighty-percent of the books that the book club had chosen over the past eighteen months.  She shouldn’t take this one over to Sybil’s because it might be one of the books she was supposed to have read for the club and hadn’t.

Then Myrtle spotted it. 
Life Is a Soap Opera
.  She opened the book and saw some similarity between her favorite soap,
Tomorrow’s Promise
, and some woman experiencing midlife crisis.  Perfect.  She chucked it into her tote bag and fished her library card out of her pocketbook.

Myrtle raised her eyebrows when she saw who was standing in the checkout line in front of her: Joan.  She had a stack of children’s picture books that the librarian was quickly checking out.  Noah stood next to her and he turned and smiled at Myrtle in recognition.  “Mama,” he said, pulling at Joan’s pants leg. 

Joan took the books and turned around.  “Hi, Miss Myrtle!”

“Well, hi there! Did you find some good books, Noah?” 

Noah nodded and pointed to one of the books that Joan was holding.  “I’ve got one with a dump truck!”

A closer look at the stack of books showed not a single one was on the subject of biochemistry or calculus. Clearly, it must have been Cosette pushing Noah to learn foreign languages and pursue academics.  Joan and Noah had picked out books about trucks, construction, dinosaurs, and fairy tales.  It sure seemed more appropriate for a preschooler.

Joan’s mind appeared to be running on the same track as she looked down at the books she was carrying.  “You know, my mother is probably rolling in her grave that I’m checking these out.”  She put a hand over her mouth as if regretting what she’d said, but she didn’t seem that regretful.  “It’s just that Mother was always pushing Noah to read these super-academic books when all he really wanted to do was see pictures of front-loader trucks and bulldozers.”

Myrtle nodded.  “Oh, I know.  When Red was a little guy, sometimes we’d walk over to watch construction sites.  He’d be entertained for hours.”

Joan snapped her fingers.  “This is off the subject, but I just remembered that I need to get that container back to you—the one the soup came in.”  For some reason, Joan didn’t seem to want to meet Myrtle’s eyes now.  Had something happened to the container?

“No hurry, my dear.  Whenever you think of it.”  Except that she really did want another chance to talk to Joan about the case later on.  “Although—well, I do tend to use that container myself quite a bit.” 

“I’ll bring it by tomorrow or the next day,” said Joan.  “No worries.”

“I was wondering,” said Myrtle innocently.  “You had mentioned seeing poor Tobin the morning he died…that he was already working in the cemetery when you were driving Noah over to Elaine’s house.  Are you quite sure that you saw
Tobin
then?  And that he was doing yard work?”

Joan’s face flushed and she glanced away at Noah, who was tugging on her pant leg again.  “Noah, wait.”  She took a deep breath and turned back to Myrtle, saying brightly, “I sure did.  I was thinking that it was a good thing that he’d gotten such an early start, since it was rapidly becoming such a hot day.  He was working hard.”  She sighed as Noah starting pulling at her again.  “Nice talking to you, Miss Myrtle.  I guess I’ll have to be going now.”

Myrtle watched absently as the librarian checked out her books.  Interesting that Joan was so insistent that she’d seen Tobin working hard in the cemetery…when he didn’t have any dirt, stains, or sweat on his clothing.  Could she be covering up for someone?  Herself?

Sybil didn’t live far from the library.  Myrtle had been there for book club once and remembered it as a small, untidy home nearly overrun by tchotchkes. Sybil had apparently either visited or lived in a variety of places, judging from the Mardi Gras beads, souvenir thimbles, and other knickknacks. Sybil hadn’t been expecting her, so she wasn’t her usual, carefully made-up self.  In many ways, she seemed prettier—certainly younger—without all the makeup she usually glopped on. She still wore a peasant dress and huge hoop earrings, though.

To her credit, if she were annoyed by a sudden visit from an elderly lady bearing books, she certainly showed absolutely no sign of it. “Look at you!  Walking all this way to talk to me about books! Come on in and let’s have a nice visit.”

Myrtle was immediately relieved of her tote bag and hustled into the crowded living room. 

“I’ll get us some soft drinks. Or tea?  Which do you want?”

“Tea would be lovely, if you’ve got it.”  Myrtle reminded herself she needed to play up the doddering old lady if she was going to pull this visit off. 

While Sybil was getting their drinks, Myrtle looked around with wide eyes.  She’d been worried about staring during the book club, but now had the opportunity to take in all the Russian nesting dolls (with politicians’ faces on them), ceramic cats, plastic candy dispensers made to look like cartoon characters, snow globes, and kewpie dolls.  It was completely overwhelming.

Well, if she couldn’t say anything nice, she wouldn’t say anything at all.  Her expression would surely give her away if she tried to give a false compliment.  She entertained herself by taking the books out of the tote bag that Sybil had put at her feet.

Then she had a sudden thought.  If Sybil were so besotted with Felix (and he was so compulsively neat that Myrtle couldn’t even imagine him being in this room), then wouldn’t there be evidence of that in the room somewhere?  Sybil had placed her on a sofa where she had a clearer view of the built-in shelves of her various collectables, so Myrtle craned her neck to look around.  Then she spotted, behind her on a sofa table, a long row of framed photos of Felix. Felix alone, Felix looking solemn with a laughing Sybil, Felix ignoring the camera—possibly not even aware that Sybil was around.

“Here we are!” sang out Sybil, bringing in a small tray of drinks.  The tray was wildly colorful and looked as if it might have originally hailed from an island souvenir shop.

“By the way, Miss Myrtle, I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while how much I admire your darling gnome collection.  It’s precious, truly precious, and I’ve been longing to congratulate you on it.  It must really have taken you a while to collect them all.”

It stung just a bit that Sybil admired her gnomes.  “Why, thanks,” said Myrtle.  “It has taken me much of the last thirty-five years or so.  I started collecting them when Red was a teenager and he did things to drive me crazy.  He sure hated it when I put the gnomes in the front yard, so it became the perfect way of getting back at him for being disrespectful or moody, or whatever.”

She hesitated because Sybil was now looking at her expectantly.  Oh.  Apparently, she needed to admire all the knickknacks.  “And you have some…amazing…collections here.”  Amazing was a word that she could use completely genuinely, so she felt proud of herself. “You must have a lot of fun with them.”

“I sure do,” Sybil beamed as she glanced across at her treasures.  Then her expression darkened as she stared at something behind Myrtle’s head.  The photos of Felix.  Sybil jerked her gaze away from the photos and gave Myrtle an awkward smile.  “So, you’re here for a reason, I’m sure, although it’s nice to see you, no matter what.”

Sybil seemed so sweet that Myrtle really hated thinking that she was probably a two-time murderer and a stalker.  Really, she did.  But she sensed that underneath that sweetness was some weirdness, too.

“Yes, and I do hope this is a good time,” said Myrtle in the fluffy old lady voice that she trotted out from time to time.  “You see, it’s my month to pick the book club book and I wanted some advice.  You always do such a good job picking them.” Myrtle had to swallow hard here when bile rose in her throat for saying such a falsehood.

Sybil blinked at her with her long eyelashes.  “Do I?  You know, I thought somebody at book club told me that you weren’t all that wild about my book picks.”

Myrtle gave a gale of nervous laughter.  “Ha-ha! Did they? Such jokers in our club.  But good friends aren’t they?”

“They have been.  Of course, I’m trying to get used to living in Bradley still.  The ladies have been really welcoming.  Well, most of them.” Sybil made a face.  “Let’s see those books you’ve brought over.”

“All right.”  Myrtle pulled out the Eudora Welty book and held it out to Sybil.  “This is one of my favorites, actually.  I thought it might appeal to a group of Southern ladies.”

“And Miles,” added Sybil with a laugh.  “He’s the rooster in the hen house, isn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t miss a single meeting either,” said Myrtle, rolling her eyes.  “He secretly revels in being the center of attention at book club, I think.”

Sybil was slowly flipping through the book and Myrtle could tell that the fact it was a piece of genuine literature made it completely unappealing to her.  “I’m sure this is a great book, Miss Myrtle.  For book club, though?  I just don’t know. It looks really old.”

“Old?  It was one of Welty’s later works.  In 1972.”

Sybil gave her a wry look.  “Miss Myrtle, 1972 was a long time ago.”

Myrtle snorted.  “It was only yesterday, Sybil.  When you have a few more years on you, then you’ll have more of a real perspective on time.”

She realized that she was possibly caring too much about the book club selection.   Particularly since this was focusing merely as a trumped-up reason to interview Sybil about the murders.  But she couldn’t seem to help herself—this was a topic that was near and dear to her heart. “You see,” continued Myrtle eagerly, “I’ve been thinking for a while that we might upgrade our selection of books.  You know—stretch ourselves.  Expand our minds. Go on armchair adventures with fictional companions who actually make for good company.”

Sybil’s gaze was a bit glazed-over.  “Books are for relaxing, Miss Myrtle.  Life is too hard to have reading be tough, too.”  She closed
The Optimist’s Daughter
.  “What was the other book you brought?”

Myrtle felt a tremendous reluctance to hand over the other book, then told herself to snap out of it. She couldn’t somehow have really thought she would change Sybil’s mind about the direction of book club, could she? For heaven’s sake—it wasn’t even really her month to choose the book.  She handed over the other book.  “This one seemed more in keeping with the kind of thing we’ve been reading in the club.”

Sybil’s face lit up when she saw the title. “Oh, I’ve heard of this one.  It’s supposed to be so funny. And true—life
can
be a soap opera, can’t it?” The dark shadows ran across her face again.

Since influencing a change of book club direction seemed completely impossible, Myrtle returned to the real reason for her visit. But she couldn’t scare Sybil off or she really wouldn’t get anything out of coming here.

“Have you had some troubles, dear?  You looked so distressed there, for a second.”  Myrtle gave her what she hoped was an innocently concerned look.

Sybil patted the pockets of her exercise clothing, apparently for a non-existent tissue. Myrtle promptly pulled one from a packet in her huge pocketbook and held it out to her.

Sybil blew her nose emphatically.  “Miss Myrtle, I’m in a love affair with someone very special to me.  We’re absolutely perfect together in every way—he’s the man I’ve been dreaming of for all these years.”

“Does he not share your feelings?” asked Myrtle sympathetically.

“That’s the thing.  He
does
.  He’s absolutely, completely, overwhelmingly in love. But he’s a very business-oriented man and doesn’t recognize that emotion when he sees it,” said Sybil.

This sounded like an opinion that Sybil had repeated to herself over and over again until she believed it to be true.

“Have you been a couple long?” asked Myrtle.

Sybil looked impatient—whether with Myrtle or Felix, Myrtle couldn’t tell. “We’ve been soul mates for forever.  Felix has had a hard time adjusting, that’s all.  Plus, that woman was getting in the way.”