Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (13 page)

Myrtle decided that she would be much more inspired to prayer
if she moved closer to the front of the church. She could barely even
see the altar where she was, she reasoned. Cecil and his sister were so
deep in debate that they never noticed the gray-haired, big-boned woman moving slowly up the side aisle toward the front. Too bad
Methodists don't kneel. She could really hide, then.

Myrtle leaned close. The words were getting lost in the vaulted
ceiling. Or maybe it was Myrtle's ears that were the problem. Whatever the problem, Myrtle wasn't getting good reception. Nathaniel
Gluck had left minutes ago but probably had an idea what the argument had been about. She made a mental note to ask him. All
she was picking up was angry tones. She moved several more pews
up until she was sitting in the same pew that Cecil and his sister
had shared and resumed her prayerful stance. Now the voices came
in clearer. Cecil's sister was letting Cecil have it for always taking
money from her and not giving anything back. And exposing her
to unsavory characters. Myrtle focused more, hoping more would
be said about the seedy louts. Her concentration was interrupted
by a faraway sneezing that gradually got closer and closer. Opening
one eye, she saw Josh Tucker, nose red and eyes watering, making
his allergy-ridden way down the aisle. Even his high-volume sneezing didn't disturb the argument, which Myrtle so desperately tried
to hear. The preacher, Nathaniel Gluck, re-entered the sanctuary
and was standing a short distance away looking out of place.

"Sorry Miss Myrtle," wheezed Josh. "Roses just kill me. Can't
breathe. Think I left something in the pew. Can't remember exactly where I was sitting, though. Know I sat up front. Hmm."

"No problem," said Myrtle in an icy voice, hoping he'd take the
hint and go away. He seemed to be in no hurry to leave, however,
and apparently had no compunctions about interrupting her
prayer life as he scrabbled around, sneezing the whole time. She
wondered if Josh were actually doing the same thing she was. She
glowered at him. Probably trying to pick up some gossip for a lurid story in the Bradley Bugle. Cecil and Cecilia's argument wound
down just as josh finally made his noisy departure. Typical, thought
Myrtle with disgust.

She did register one phrase-nosy old woman in Cecil's derisive
voice, which reached her ears easily. Maybe he planned it that way.
She's just praying! came his sister's voice angrily. Myrtle kept her
head bowed and eyes devoutly closed. She opened an eye when she
heard someone plop down next to her on the pew. It was Cecil,
still smirking. Cecilia rolled her eyes and started gathering up her
things, presumably to get ready to go to the cemetery for the
burial. "Mrs. Clover? Hate to disturb your meditation." His smile
(not really much of one anyway) didn't reach his eyes.

Myrtle cleared her throat. "Funerals always remind me how
close I am to joining the dearly departed. I was moved to prayer
to ... ah ... set things right with the Almighty. So sorry about your
poor mother, Cecil."

Cecil raised his dark eyebrows. "Why would you be? No one is.
Mother was always making trouble, you know. Everyone hated
her" He smiled at the preacher, still hovering uncertainly in the
background as he waited to escort them to the cemetery.

"Just the same, it must have been a shock, Cecil. When did you
hear the news?" Myrtle asked.

"It was a shock to my system to be awakened before eleventhirty, yes. The police make an effective alarm clock."

"So you were asleep when your mother was murdered then?"
Myrtle bit her lip. That came out a little more plainly than she'd
planned, but Cecil didn't look surprised. Probably pleased his labeling of her as a nosy old woman was so spot-on.

Nathaniel now seemed very worried as he hovered, looking like
a nervous dove in his white pastoral raiment. Instinct told Myrtle
she should call him on it. "Something wrong, Nathaniel?"

He hesitated, then said, "I did see your motorcycle at the church
that morning, Cecil. Perhaps you ...?" He trailed off, unable to
think of a good excuse for the motorcycle's appearance at the
church.

Cecilia spoke up, her voice harsh again. "Hitting her up for cash
again, were you? Or maybe hitting her up in a totally different
way?"

Now Cecil's lips pulled back into a snarl. "Well, that would have
been stupid, wouldn't it? Because we both know her money goes
to her precious charities and precious Sissy. I'd get a lot more from
her alive than dead." He picked up his car keys and rose from the
pew. "I was there, okay? I asked her for money and she gave me
whatever she had in her purse. And she was very much alive when
I left her."

Myrtle watched as Cecil quickly left the church, his sister calling angrily out to him as she followed, and Nathaniel trailing miserably behind them.

SHORTLY AFTER BEING KIDNAPPED by Erma, Myrtle had devised
an avoid-Erma campaign. The brief break she'd had when Erma
left town on the senior bus to gamble had only whetted her appetite for more. This involved looking through her curtains for several minutes for lurking Ermas before leaving, a speedy retrieval of
all mail delivery, and using caller ID to screen her calls.

Myrtle spent some time spying through her sheer curtains. She
noticed the Pilgrim (as she'd come to think of him) scurrying to his
car and back indoors just as furtively as she did. Could be signs of
intelligent life. Maybe he'd picked up on Erma's less-endearing qualities in the past week. Or could he just be tired of the predatory pack
of wily widows who descended on him at every opportunity. Myrtle
couldn't help noticing that he had ignored his doorbell several times
when a courting casserole-bearer had arrived on his porch. And
judging from the lights on long after most midnights, he seemed to
be up at night as much as Myrtle herself was. Could he be a fellow insomniac? It was nice to know there were others like oneself burning the midnight oil.

Myrtle sat in her kitchen, drinking coffee and smiling smugly.
These precautions had worked amazingly well, and consequently
Myrtle had enjoyed an Erma-free life for over a week now. It must
be killing Erma to keep all her gossip bottled up. Myrtle's eyes twinkled gleefully.

But she hadn't counted on Erma using the postal service. One
morning Myrtle received a letter. It was actually less a letter than a
diatribe. Erma lamented that her ill-health the preceding weekMyrtle fumed at her wasted efforts-had kept her inside and unable to visit Myrtle. "I would hate to pass along my bad cold to
you, dear Myrtle. Colds can be so hard on the elderly..."

Erma noted that she'd tried to phone Myrtle when she was sure
Myrtle was home. ("You could be going deaf, Myrtle dear.") Then
she launched into a scathing narrative of innuendo and bile ("Warn
Red to really investigate Cecil Stockard. That buzzard was circling
his mom months ago...") and ending with "Sodom and Gomorrah
were pristine in God's eyes compared to Bradley, North Carolina.
This town is going to hell in a hand-basket! Fondly, Erma."

Myrtle cursed, crumpled the violet-bordered notepaper, and
tossed it inaccurately toward her wastebasket, making her curse
again. "Crazy cow," she muttered, picking up her cane and thumping
toward the front door. Clearly it was impossible to avoid the woman
since her insidious evil was capable of reaching her anywhere. She
would go to the Bradley Bugle office and continue her investigating.

With murder already on her mind, Myrtle glared at her front
lawn. Erma's weed collection stretched over the boundaries of her yard and crept into Myrtle's, infesting it with clover, crabgrass, chickweed, and dandelion that stuck up around the sides of her gnomes.
She'd complained about it to Erma several weeks ago, and Erma had
only shrugged and said, "It's green, Myrtle. And you won't have to
worry about watering it." Erma had also bought one of those bug
zappers at the hardware store and staked it right on the edge of her
property. Naturally this attracted a swarm of everything with wings
from all over the neighborhood. That's all Myrtle needed-imported
mosquitoes migrating over from other yards.

Myrtle entertained black thoughts of sneaking over to Erma's
in the middle of the night and planting some kudzu in an obscure
section of Erma's yard. Considering how fast the weed grew, her
house would be engulfed by the time Erma woke up the next
morning. She dug at a patch of chickweed with the bottom of her
cane, and leaned over to pick up the batch to toss it by the curb. A
stray squirrel ran over from Erma's yard and watched her with interest from behind a grinning gnome.

A shriek cut through the humid air, causing Myrtle to wobble
off-balance and fall forward. She reached out with her hand to
catch herself before being yanked roughly up by a pair of large
hands. She found herself face to face with a beaming Erma. "Well,
aren't I your guardian angel, Myrtle? You'd have broken a hip if I
hadn't been here," exclaimed Erma, overlooking the fact that she'd
caused Myrtle to stumble in the first place.

Myrtle tried to pull away, but Erma had clamped her big hands
around both arms. "I am so glad to see you. I was starting to worry
you'd fallen down in your house somewhere and couldn't get up
again, just like the commercials. Thought I might have to break in! Maybe it would be a good idea for me to have a key to your house,
Myrtle. As a precaution."

Myrtle shuddered. "I'll be fine, Erma. Red is right across the
street. Can't do any better than having the chief of police just a
stone's throw away."

Erma opened her mouth to say something and Myrtle started
walking. "Wish I could stay and talk, but I've got some business to
take care of in town." Erma was still talking as Myrtle walked off,
but Myrtle ignored her and kept going. Erma would chalk up her
rudeness to deafness anyway.

The Bradley Bugle newspaper office was where papers went to die.
Because it was filled to overflowing with notebooks, reference
books, loose-leaf paper, and photographs that had apparently
never been purged, it was a sanctuary for pulp. Sloan Jones, the
editor, knew where everything was. Bugle readers would walk in
off the street looking for a picture of the Scout float in the Fourth
of July parade from ten years ago, or some such thing. Sloan would
tap a beefy finger against his ever-expanding forehead, think a second while humming a tune fragment, walk unerringly to a stack,
and pull the photo out from the pile.

By the looks of things, Josh Tucker had only added to the massive amount of mess in the newspaper office. But he made the
paper more respectable. Not every little town had a former New
York Times reporter on staff, after all. Josh ran out of Bradley just
as fast as he could, he was that ready to escape. Myrtle felt the same
urge every time she ran into one of his parents. They bragged their heads off... Josh-this, josh-that. It was enough to drive you crazy.
Why he ever came back to Bradley if he was such a big-shot in
New York, Myrtle couldn't figure.

In the middle of the piles of paper, books, and pictures on Sloan's
desk was a makeshift shrine for a large trophy. Myrtle supposed the
pointed thing on top of the granite base was supposed to depict a
quill pen. It looked more like a syringe to Myrtle. Sloan was slavishly
devoted to the trophy and the reporter responsible for receiving it.
"Where's Wonder Boy?" asked Myrtle, stomping over to Sloan. He'd
barely acknowledged her entrance into the Bugle, just giving a grunted
greeting and continuing proofing the copy on his crowded desk.

"Hmm? Oh. Josh is out covering the Parke Stockard story."
Sloan rubbed his high forehead with a fleshy hand and shook his
head in admiration. "Maybe he'll solve the case. I guess he'd be the
guy to do it." Sloan noticed Myrtle's ill-concealed grumpiness and
hastily added, "Not that Red can't, Miss Myrtle. No ma'am." Sloan
had many bad memories from high school as the focus of Miss
Myrtle's wrath. He had no desire to regenerate it now.