Death at a Drop-In (11 page)

Noah finally pulled himself away from the television and sleepily put his arms around her, nuzzling his head against her leg.

“Looks like Noah has gotten sleepy.  Even better! I should bring him by more often.  Now he can have a nap and I can get things done at my own house.  Thanks so much for having him over.”

After Joan left with Noah and the basket of toys, Myrtle and Miles discovered that Jack had fallen asleep.  He was a small heap on the floor in front of the television set.  “Elaine will be here in another fifteen minutes,” she said.  “Tell me what you think about this life insurance policy.”

“Maybe it explains the connection between Felix and the Whitlows?” asked Miles.  “After all, Felix sells life insurance policies.  Maybe it was only business the whole time.”

“But that doesn’t explain why Sybil would have been so mad at Cosette.  If anything, it seems like she should have been
nicer
to Cosette, especially with a business connection between her boyfriend and Cosette’s husband.”

Miles said, “That’s true.  It also seems sort of odd that Lucas would have a large policy on Cosette.  That’s not to say that she didn’t play a vital role in their family, just that she wasn’t a breadwinner at all.  Usually people want life insurance policies to help replace lost income.  Unless maybe they got large policies on each other—maybe Cosette had a matching one on Lucas.”

“Right. I have a feeling the police are going to find it all rather peculiar, too.  And Lucas might become even more of a suspect.  I’m sure the police already know.  I do need to talk with Felix,” said Myrtle, mulling it over.  “With the funeral tomorrow, though, I’ll have to set an appointment with him for the day after.”

Miles said doubtfully, “Do you think he’ll disclose who he sold policies to?  Isn’t there some sort of confidentiality agreement?”

“You’re getting confused with priests and doctors.  Besides, I’m sure I can probably trick the information out of him.  People always underestimate me, and think I’m such a harmless biddy. You wouldn’t believe the things relative strangers tell me sometimes. I’m sure I can get him to tell me who had policies and why Lucas would have had such a large policy on Cosette.”

Myrtle decided later that she should have realized there was some sort of curse on her the moment she woke up the next morning and pulled a muscle in her shoulder, merely by getting out of the bed.  Getting old was most vexing.

She took two ibuprofen and continued getting ready.  There was a funeral to attend and a story to write.  And it was going to be a
good
story.  Much better than that cub reporter’s. She stopped short in the process of dressing.  She’d told Sloan she’d send in that silly helpful tips column last night and she’d completely forgotten. 

Myrtle hurried into the living room and plopped down at her desk, pulling up her email on her computer.  She came up with a column, keeping it in her usual jaunty-tip-column-voice. The only problem was the tips.  She couldn’t for the life of her think up any new tips—the only ones that popped into her head were the ones she’d used in past columns.  She stared at the computer in desperation, knowing she needed to get ready for the funeral.  An odd pawing sound distracted her for a moment and she walked into the kitchen to see what was making the noise.

Pasha was pawing fervently at the kitchen window.  Myrtle absently opened it.  “Here, kitty,” she said, still thinking about the tips.  She pulled out some canned food from the pantry, not realizing until later that she was giving Pasha premium canned salmon. 

By the time she sat back down at the computer, she’d decided that she would most certainly have to make her tips up.  She’d figured she’d have to do that anyway.  Myrtle wasn’t feeling the slightest bit creative, so she decided to use old superstitions as tips.  “Don’t open your umbrella indoors.”  “Don’t walk under open ladders.”  “Breaking mirrors is bad luck.”  She glanced over it to proofread and shook her head.  Sloan was really going to think she had dementia.  So would half the town! But she was past deadline.  If Sloan decided she and the helpful tip column were through, then she could make the case for being a regular reporter.  Say that the tip column was too boring for her and she needed something more stimulating.

Myrtle hurried off again to the bedroom, still in her slip, with Pasha following her.  She needed to find her funeral dress.  Church had become so relaxed that the times she did attend, she wore black slacks.  The only time she really wore a dress anymore was at funerals and there was only one particularly solemn dress that fit the bill.  But where was it?  She knew she’d worn it a couple of months ago for two hours at Mabel Iverson’s funeral.

Myrtle pushed hanging blouses and slacks around vigorously, looking for the dour dress while Pasha settled on Myrtle’s bed, on top of the pantyhose she’d set out to wear.  Finally, Myrtle discovered the dress and yanked it out of the closet.  She stared at the garment.  Had she
eaten
after Mabel’s funeral?  She certainly couldn’t recall having eaten afterward.  And yet, there appeared to be a large—no, actually, a
giant
—stain of what very well could be gravy on the front of the dress. 

Since this was The Funeral Dress, Myrtle held it up against her and frowned critically at her image in the mirror.  Was this dark, squiggling stain noticeable? Maybe she was standing in a sunbeam and it was more noticeable than if she were standing in the shade.  Except that it was a bright, sunny day and the stupid stain would probably stand out like a neon sign. 

Myrtle turned and spotted Pasha, happily kneading her stockings into pilled shreds. She closed her eyes.  All right.  These were clearly signs she wouldn’t be wearing her funeral dress today.  What else did she have? She pushed through the clothes and found a pair of appropriately somber black pants and a black and white checked jacket.  She sighed.  It must be a hundred degrees out there, but she felt as though she shouldn’t have bare arms at a funeral.  That was another reason her funeral dress was so perfect—it had three-quarter length sleeves.

She looked at the clock.  Now she was running late, and she never ran late.  She pulled off the slip, dressed, and shoved her black flats on.  She powdered her nose, combed her white hair so that it wasn’t standing up like Einstein’s, and rummaged around for her lipstick.  Where on earth was her lipstick?  Her pulled muscle was throbbing now as she frantically searched for the lipstick.  She
had
to find it.  At this point, she was so pale and washed-out, they’d likely mistake her for the corpse and pitch her into the grave instead of Cosette.

There was no lipstick in the drawer so she tried to retrace her steps from yesterday.  Hadn’t she reapplied the lipstick before Elaine picked up Jack?  Because she wanted to look fresh and rested and perfectly capable of looking after two preschool boys by herself?  Where had she put the lipstick?  And why did she only have the one tube left?

Myrtle’s eyes opened wide and she hurried to the laundry room and pulled open the dryer door.  Sure enough—there was the lipstick.  Or, what was left of it, considering it had melted and dried all over the load of laundry that she’d run.

Now muttering imprecations under her breath, she gave up on the idea of looking like a living person and grabbed her cane.  It wasn’t a long walk, but since she was running late, it was unfortunate that she had to walk at all.  She opened the front door and saw a mangled rabbit on the front step.  Myrtle blinked at it as Pasha bounded past her from inside the house, then turned to look at Myrtle as if encouraging her to enjoy the gift she’d provided her.

The carcass would clearly have to be dealt with later, decided Myrtle as she locked the door behind her and hurried off. 

 Myrtle hadn’t gone far down the sidewalk when she heard a car approach and a voice call dryly, “Going my way?”

It was Miles.  “Thank goodness you’re here,” she muttered, crossing in front of the car to get into the passenger seat.

“That’s the second time this week that I’ve heard those words from you,” said Miles. “Is this the end of times?”

Myrtle ignored him, distracted by the condition of her black slacks.  “What on earth?  I have Pasha fur all over my pants!”  She swiped at the fur, trying unsuccessfully to brush it off, resorting finally to picking at it.

“Having a rough day?” asked Miles.

“I’ll say.  And now I’m on my way to a funeral, so the day isn’t likely to improve.”

“Remind me again what you’re hoping to accomplish by attending this funeral.  Is it Felix you’re trying to speak with?” asked Miles.

“No, I’ve made an appointment to see him at his office. I can’t imagine he’ll be at Cosette’s funeral anyway.  I’m mostly curious to see if I can pick up any clues there.  Maybe I can hear from Joan or Lucas.  Or who knows—maybe Sybil will show up.”

“Sybil?  Why? To grieve?” Miles sounded dubious.

“To make sure Cosette is dead,” said Myrtle, moving her cane to the side so she could stretch out.  She kept pawing at her slacks to get the cat fur off.

Miles glanced over, before glancing back at the road.  “I don’t mean to make you feel bad, Myrtle, but is everything okay? You don’t seem as—together—as you usually do.”

“Don’t I? That’s just because it’s the worst day ever.  It’s a wonder I’m even able to get to the funeral, as messed up as today has been so far,” said Myrtle.

At that moment, on cue, Miles’ car started making a terrible, jarring bumping.  He abruptly pulled to the side of the little tree-lined street, parked, and got out.  He appeared to be making some ungentlemanly comments to his car, then crossed around again and got back into the driver’s seat. “Could someone possibly have put a curse on you today?  I have a flat.”

“What? No!  We’re nearly there.  Can’t you drive on the rim?”

“No ma’am, I can’t.  It will do all kinds of damage to the rim. I wouldn’t have enough control of the car’s direction, and driving on the rim could even spark a fire,” said Miles firmly.  “We’ll walk the rest of the way.  I’ll assist you.”

“I don’t need assistance,” said Myrtle sullenly.  “The air conditioning in the car was an added bonus—and I’d have gotten to the funeral more quickly.  That’s the reason I wanted to ride.”

“And I thought it was my scintillating conversation,” said Miles.  “Well, there’s nothing else to be done.  Let’s walk over.”

By the time they’d arrived at the cemetery, the sun was high in the sky.  There was no wind, not even the tiniest breeze, and the air was dripping with humidity.  The black and white blouse was sticking to Myrtle as was Miles’ button-down shirt to him.

“I thought old people didn’t perspire,” grumbled Myrtle. 

“I don’t think they say
that
.  They only say we don’t perspire enough to keep from getting heat stroke.”  The words came out in panting breaths and he took off his jacket and folded it over his arm as they walked.

“Oh pooh.  Look, the service has already started,” said Myrtle, stopping short.

Sure enough, the minister was speaking to the assembled mourners, holding a Bible and somehow looking cool as a cucumber despite the robes he was wearing.

“They won’t mind if we walk up and stand at the edge of the mourners,” said Miles.  “It’s not as if we’re trying to find a seat under the funeral home tent.”

However, Myrtle felt, what was, for her, an unusual reticence.  “I don’t think so.  Everyone will turn around, and I don’t want people irritated with me if I’m trying to pump them for information later.”  Besides, she looked horrid.  Even Cosette would look better than she did this morning.

“Pooh,” muttered Myrtle again.  “Here comes Sloan.”

Miles raised his eyebrows at her.  “I thought you liked Sloan. Or liked working with him at the paper, anyway.”

“I forgot about the dumb tips column and had to throw something together.  I emailed it to him right before I left, so he won’t have known that I sent anything in.  He’s probably coming to ask me about it.”

Miles said, “This will be entertaining.  He’s obviously still completely intimidated by you because of bad classroom memories. I can’t imagine him fussing at you about missing a deadline.”

“Well, that paper is his baby.  I think he’ll muster up the gumption to fuss.”  Sloan hurried up and got into whispering distance from them, since the funeral was going on mere yards away. 

Myrtle decided a preemptive strike was in order.  “I emailed you the column,” she hissed at him.  “I sent it before I left, so you haven’t gotten it yet, that’s all.”

Sloan’s face was beaming.  “Oh, I got it already.  On my phone.”

Myrtle sighed.  She had a cell phone, but she used it for phone calls only.  It always surprised her that people received emails on their phones.  And it irritated her to be surprised.  “All right.  Well, I know the column wasn’t full of my usual helpful tips.”  She certainly hoped she got fired from the helpful hints column for her transgressions—and transferred to what passed for a news bureau.

“It sure wasn’t.  But it was brilliant!”

Now Myrtle squinted at him.  Was
Sloan
becoming demented?

“You know,” said Sloan.  “Because tomorrow is Friday the Thirteenth.  You put together a really clever column! All those old superstitions.  It was a stroke of genius.”

Maybe it was subconscious genius, but Myrtle doubted it.

“Glad you liked it,” she said grudgingly. “And if you liked that, you’ll really like the investigative article I’m writing for you.”  She suddenly felt as if he might need a reminder that she was indeed writing such an article.

“Oh.  Oh, I thought somehow we’d settled that, Miss Myrtle. Kim, remember me talking about Kim?  She’s my intern.  She’s here right now actually, getting the scoop on the funeral.  That’s her in the back row under the tent.”  He gestured with a fat finger to an attractive young woman wearing an impeccable and rather snug-fitting black suit with heels and large sunglasses.

Myrtle seethed that the girl was not only there reporting but had gotten there in enough time to sit near the relatives under the tent.  And that she didn’t appear to have any stains on her funeral dress.  She likely didn’t have any melted lipstick in her dryer, either. Perhaps she even took all her clothes to a dry cleaner—she looked like that type of girl.