Death at a Drop-In (5 page)

Myrtle was wide awake at two o’clock that morning.  This happened all the time, but usually she’d fold some laundry or unload the dishwasher or clip coupons, or do something equally boring, and then go right back to sleep.

Tonight was different.  Her mind was racing, returning to the moment she’d discovered Cosette in the backyard.

She hesitated just a moment before opening her front door. Her eyes fell on the knitting that Elaine had brought over.  Then she snorted at the thought that had crossed her mind and quickly grabbed her cane and walked outside.  Surely, Miles would be up too.  He had insomnia as much as she did, and he’d had the same disturbing evening.  Of course, he
had
been kind of grouchy, but he should have gotten over it by now.  Myrtle continued down the sidewalk, thumping with her cane as she went.

There were no lights on that Myrtle could see, but she knew that Miles frequently preferred tossing and turning in bed to getting up.  This was a mistake in Myrtle’s eyes.  She got lots done in the middle of the night.  It was her most productive time, as a matter of fact.

She rang the bell and waited.  Sometimes Miles even had coffee cups ready for them, and cookies and perked coffee.  She smiled in anticipation.

The reality, when Miles finally opened the door, didn’t match her hopes.  No coffee cups, only a surly expression.  He wore plaid pajamas with a navy bathrobe hastily tied over them. His iron-gray hair stood up on one side like a wing.

Myrtle blinked at him.  “Gosh, Miles, you look terrible.  What happened to you?  Aren’t you well?”

“Sleep happened to me.  And not enough of it,” said Miles with dignity, futilely trying to smooth down the errant hair.

He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to invite her in, so Myrtle squeezed past him.  She headed for the kitchen, turning on the lights over his kitchen table.  “Okay if I fix myself a glass of milk?” asked Myrtle.  She had just the faintest discomfort from heartburn.

“If you fix me one too,” said Miles in a grudging tone.  “And you might as well have a cookie, too.  That will be the next thing you’ll want, and it will help me fall back asleep again to have something in my stomach after you finally leave.”

Myrtle ignored the
finally
.  She poured them both a small glass of milk and took out a couple of cookies that were in his cookie jar on the counter.  The chocolate chips were the huge kind.

“Sorry,” she said.  She looked down in what she hoped was appropriate remorse at her cookie as she broke it in half.  She needed Miles on her side if she were going to bounce ideas off him.  “Sorry about waking you up, I mean.”

Miles raised his eyebrows and pushed his frameless glasses up his nose.  “An apology?  That’s unusual, Myrtle.”

“Well, I do feel bad.  I simply assumed you were as shaken up as I was about the murder.  I figured you were wide awake.”

“Why would I be upset about Cosette?” asked Miles with a weary shrug.  He nibbled delicately at his chocolate chip cookie.  “No one seemed to like her much.  She irritated people and flirted relentlessly with me, although I barely knew her.  I do feel badly for Lucas, though.  He certainly seemed very shaken up by the whole thing.”

“Devastated,” said Myrtle.  “He seemed absolutely devastated.  I can’t imagine why, since she treated him horribly.  I saw and heard her act very ugly to him.”  She took a thoughtful sip of her milk.  “Have you ever heard of anyone with a specific complaint against Cosette?”

“Well…you.”

“Yes, I know,” said Myrtle.  “I mean anyone
else
.”

Miles pulled a small basket toward him and began folding cloth napkins on his kitchen table. “Let’s see.  Oh.  How about Tobin Tinker?  He lives right across from the Whitlow house, on our side of the street.  He about talked my ear off one day about Cosette.”

“Did he?  About what?”

“It was a tale of trash,” said Miles in a dramatic voice.

“Trash?  You mean, like something trashy?  Something dirty?”

“No.  I mean
trash
.  He was upset about his trashcan.  Well, and upset about some other stuff, too, but I tuned him out at that point.  Your Pasha was glaring at me from under Tobin’s tree and I was afraid I might be attacked.”

Pasha was the feral cat that Myrtle had befriended.  She loved Myrtle.  She cared little for Miles, however.

“Back to the trash, please.” 

“There’s not a lot to tell.”  Miles sighed when he saw Myrtle wasn’t going to give up.

“He said that it drove him crazy that Cosette used his trashcan.”

Myrtle stared at Miles.  “You mean the dumpster thing that we have to push out to the curb on trash day?”

“That’s right. Apparently, Cosette frequently had extra trash—hosting all those parties, I suppose.   She would put her excess bags of garbage in his receptacle.”

Myrtle said, “Well, that’s no motive for murder.  That’s just Tobin being a cranky neighbor.”

Miles paused in his napkin folding. “He was very upset by it, Myrtle.  Very, very upset.”

“Why on earth for?”

“He seemed to think that Cosette was treating him like a peon because he’s single and doesn’t have as much trash..  He acted as though his feelings were hurt. He was also worried that the garbage man wouldn’t pick up the overflow—sometimes she put extra bags on the ground next to his can when it was really full.”

Myrtle nodded.  It was a legitimate concern.  Since they were in such a small town, they each paid monthly for garbage collection out of their own pockets to a waste management contractor.  And those folks could be picky about what they picked up, too.

“I can see the part about the extra trash on the ground being a problem.  But who cares if she throws some extra garbage in his can if he has the space?  He pays the same price for pickup whether the container is half-full or completely full.  It’s trash.  Who cares?”  Myrtle waved her hands in the air.

“Tobin does,” said Miles solemnly.

“Miles, what do you think about neighbors who use other neighbors’ trashcans?”

“I’ve never done such a thing,” said Miles coldly.

“No, no, I’m not blaming you.  I’m only asking.  What do you think about a neighbor who has a lot of garbage bags, putting some extra bags in the neighbor’s nearly empty container?” asked Myrtle.

“I think it’s horrible,” said Miles.  “The thought of it sort of grosses me out.  And it’s my private property. I was completely shocked to discover that there were people who do this.”

Myrtle nodded and drained the last of her milk.  “Okay, so maybe trash can be construed as some sort of a weird motive.  And there was definitely something going on with Sybil and Felix and Cosette.  Lucas has to be a suspect because he’s the husband.  And Cosette’s daughter, Joan, had an argument with her mom right before Cosette was killed.  So here’s what I’m thinking.  I’ll start nosing around some.”

“
Start
nosing around?”

Myrtle ignored this bit.  She’d gotten good at ignoring bits she didn’t like.  “Yes.  I’ll want to bring Joan a consolation casserole.  And Lucas, too, of course.  Food is always such a balm in times of great loss.

Miles’s eyes were doubtful.

Myrtle stood up to go and then stopped short.  “Miles!”

“What?”

“Do you remember what was on the Whitlows’ front porch?  When we were trying to leave the party, I mean?” asked Myrtle, feeling excitement wake her up again.

Miles frowned in concentration, pausing with his napkin folding.  “A planter of impatiens?”

“No.  A bag of trash!  Blocking the door.”

Miles nodded in remembrance.  “That’s so.  But Lucas probably stuck it there—maybe he got interrupted in the middle of taking it out.”

“Or maybe…Tobin was trying to make a point.”

Chapter Five

Myrtle had a somewhat adversarial relationship with her collection of cookbooks.  They took up gobs of space in her small kitchen and looked appropriately food-doused and brown with age…it
looked
like a serious collection of books for a serious cook.  But Myrtle blamed these books for the intermittent culinary disasters that plagued her.  The directions in the books were obviously unclear or even out-and-out wrong.  With some trepidation, she pulled out the books and started leafing through them. 

The recipes were fairly unimaginative.  There were tons of chicken and broccolis, chicken and rice, meat loafs, and beef casseroles.  Joan was sure to get at least ten casseroles and Lucas just as many.  Maybe a soup?  Soup could be lunch as well as supper, and Myrtle could make it in her slow cooker and not scorch it like she had the last time she’d tried making it.

She peered at the ingredients.  Wonder of wonders, she seemed to have everything she needed for the potato soup.  And, with an entire package of crumbled bacon, it
had
to taste good.  Who didn’t like bacon?

Myrtle was well into making the soup when her doorbell rang.  

It was Elaine with Jack in tow.  Myrtle pulled the door open.  “Yay!” Jack said, beaming up at her.

“Yay!” she said back, leaning heavily on her cane so that she could give him a hug before he dashed inside.

“Are we interrupting anything?” asked Elaine.  She had an armful of knitting paraphernalia with her and watched as Jack went straight to Myrtle’s coat closet to pull out his basket of toys.  “I thought we might knit together while Jack plays.  After the day you had yesterday, I figured that a very calming activity was in order.”

She turned and beamed at Myrtle.  Elaine’s face looked positively thrilled. “Oh my,” said Myrtle.

“Red told me how excited you were to return to knitting!” said Elaine, beaming at her.  “I’m so glad, Myrtle. I was hoping that you and I could spend more time together.  We could keep an eye on Jack and knit and talk.  It will be great!”

Myrtle sighed. Ordinarily, she’d interject that she hadn’t the slightest interest in the hobby.  She’d proclaim her anti-crafting stance. She’d fuss that Red was an insufferable busybody who needed to be stopped at all costs. The only problem was Elaine’s complete and total delight. And the fact she’d mentioned that Myrtle could spend more time with Jack—one of Myrtle’s main objectives in life at this point.

“Won’t it?” she agreed weakly, looking at the basket with consternation.  “Although, Elaine, you know I’m rusty. Quite rusty, since the last time I knitted was probably, oh, sixty years ago.”  And under duress.  Her mother had insisted that she learn.

“That’s not a problem.  I’m really still learning, myself.  I can help give you a refresher,” said Elaine with a smile.

Myrtle felt an unfortunate flare-up of heartburn again.

“I brought over a few different kinds of supplies for you to try out.  I know I sent Red over with a few, but I wanted to give you more options. Some knitting notions are a better fit than others,” said Elaine.

Myrtle peered glumly into the basket, since she was clearly expected to show some interest in its contents.  “These knitting needles are nice,” she said, pulling them out. They were silver, sharp, and about four and a half inches long.

Elaine grinned at her.  “I might have known you’d pick those wicked-looking needles. The nicest thing about those is that they’re hollow, so they’re lightweight and easy to use.”  Elaine bent to hand Jack another truck that had somehow gotten mixed up in the knitting supplies.

“Besides bringing the knitting stuff over, I wanted to let you know that Red was really pleased that you told him about Mary Marlson’s memory issue.  Sure enough, the clothes that she swore were stolen from her clothesline were safe and sound in her closet.”

“I suppose she was all defensive about it and swore that fairies had put the clothes in there,” said Myrtle.

Elaine snorted.  “Fairies? I don’t think so.  But yes, she was defensive about it and Red said she didn’t even apologize for wasting his time.”

“She told me fairies had put her lost marble in her pocket,” muttered Myrtle.

“What? Oh, the lost marble.  Yes, Red said something about that to me.  No, no mention of fairies this time…which was probably a good thing, considering her age and all.”

“Yes. One serious mention of fairies could put you in the Greener Pastures Retirement Home at our age,” said Myrtle. 

Elaine laughed.  “I suppose so.  Well, do you want to knit in the living room, or in the kitchen?”

Fortunately, Myrtle had an excellent excuse not to knit.  “I’m actually cooking some food for Lucas Whitlow and Joan.  But feel free to knit while I cook.  Do you want Jack to bring the toys into the kitchen to play so we can keep an eye on him?”

“Oh, okay.  That’s nice of you to make something for them.  Keeping an eye on Jack might be a good idea.  He’s been really getting into stuff lately. Jack, why don’t you bring your trucks in the kitchen?” asked Elaine.

So they settled into Myrtle’s sunny kitchen.  It was a cozy scene with Elaine knitting, Jack making truck noises to himself, and Myrtle busying herself over the large slow cooker. She tossed in a bag of shredded hash browns.  They were frozen, but she double-checked the recipe and it definitely said frozen.  Unfortunately, she didn’t check the recipe before adding the entire envelope of ranch dressing mix instead of the one tablespoon the recipe called for.  Although Myrtle did notice that it looked odd to have all the seasoning floating on top of the soup, so she stirred the mixture vigorously before putting the top on the slow cooker.

Unfortunately, that was all the cooking that was required.  Myrtle sat down with Elaine at the kitchen table and reluctantly picked up the knitting needles that Elaine had given her, and the bright blue yarn.  “Let’s see,” said Myrtle, frowning fiercely at the yarn.  “I need to make the first row.  Right.”

“Start with a slip knot,” said Elaine brightly.  “Oh, I’m so excited about this.”

Myrtle promptly dropped a needle on the floor and then dropped the yarn as she was hanging upside down to retrieve the needle. She started to mutter a dire imprecation under her breath, but remembered how excited Elaine was and managed to come back up with both needles, the yarn, and a smile. The smile might have resembled more of a snarl, but she was definitely trying.