Death at a Drop-In (6 page)

Since Myrtle had many decades ago discarded how to make a slip knot from her brain, she stared blankly at the yarn until Elaine showed her how to do it.  “Then you cast on your foundation row.”

Myrtle gave her a despairing look.  “Oh, Elaine.  I just don’t know about this.”

“Myrtle, it’s so easy! Sooo easy.  Let me show you on yours,” Elaine dropped her own knitting (which resembled a gangly scarf that was far, far too long), and worked with Myrtle’s knitting for a couple of minutes.  “See?”

Myrtle did see, but she’d rather not see.  “You know, Elaine, I think it was the crazy day yesterday.  I don’t seem to have the ability to focus on anything.”

Elaine smiled at her.  “That’s why knitting is so perfect.  Once you get into the groove of it, it comes almost automatically.  And it’s wonderful for people who have nervous energy.”

“I don’t know that I’m
nervous
—just distracted.  Elaine, you probably knew Cosette better than I did.  What did you think of her?”

Elaine continued knitting, smiling over at Jack every once in a while as the little boy drove his truck across the kitchen floor.  “I didn’t know her all that well, actually.  But I ran across her at the church and my service organization—places like that.  She was hugely into volunteering you know.  She was always in charge of something.  Cosette could organize an event like nobody else.”

“So she was bossy,” said Myrtle, feeling like that summed it up the best.

Elaine laughed.  “Well, she liked to do things her way.  But her way was apparently the best way to do it, because all the events she’d organize—fundraisers, get-togethers, lectures, whatever—would go off without a hitch.”

“What was her relationship with her husband like?” asked Myrtle, watching as Jack made the truck crash into a toy car.

“Lucas always seemed like he was a real pushover,” said Elaine with a shrug, “although, he’s a very sweet guy.  A few weeks ago at the church, I was struggling to carry a basket of old baby toys to donate to the nursery and hold Jack’s hand at the same time.  Cosette swept right by as if she didn’t even see me, but Lucas stopped to take basket and help me out.”

“It doesn’t sound like Lucas had a choice about being a pushover.  It was either he had to go along with whatever Cosette had planned, or get mowed over in the process,” said Myrtle.  “She probably married him because he wouldn’t stand up to her.”

“Probably.  She wouldn’t have appreciated any resistance.  You know how I’m on different volunteer committees and things.  Cosette tended to take over everything.  Really.  It’s amazing to behold.  Of course, her ideas always worked out, so no one dared say anything.  But even if she weren’t the committee chair, she’d usurp their position.  She was really something.  And I’ve heard her fussing at Lucas, too—complaining about his weight and how boring he was and how he wasn’t ambitious enough. He would always look so sad and simply nod his head as if he were agreeing with her,” said Elaine. 

“I’m beginning to wonder how these committees are going to get along without her,” said Myrtle.

“I suppose that the women who were
supposed
to be running the committees will have to step in,” said Elaine, finishing a row of knitting.  She looked up at Myrtle.  “I know you’re trying to gather information on Cosette.  Planning on doing some investigating?  Are you on assignment for Sloan?”

Myrtle knew there’d been something she’d forgotten to do this morning.  “No, I keep forgetting to call him up.  I walk toward the phone, and then I get distracted by something and end up doing something else.  But I’m sure that Sloan will want me to write a story once he hears that I’m the one who found the body.”

“Tell me what happened last night,” said Elaine.  “I got the bare bones of the story, but Red wasn’t in the mood to elaborate.”

“He was probably dead tired by the time he finally got back home,” said Myrtle.  “He seemed bent on interviewing everybody there, and that was a lot of people.  So, when Miles finally was ready to drag me out of the party, we went looking for Cosette to thank her.  We couldn’t find her—until we
did
find her.”

Elaine gave a small shudder.  “Red said she’d been struck with a croquet mallet. That’s awful.”

It was always nice when Elaine accidentally confirmed information via Red.  “Is that what Red told you?  It certainly looked that way to me, yes.”

“Any ideas who might have done it?” asked Elaine.  “Would there have been much opportunity to have killed the hostess of a big party?  The whole thing sounds kind of unbelievable.”

“Honestly, I think anyone could have done it.  There were lots of people moving around at the drop-in—folks going for more food, going to the restroom, moving around to talk to other people.  You know how parties are.  No one would have noticed if someone had slipped outside,” said Myrtle.

“But wouldn’t people have noticed that
Cosette
had stepped outside?  She was the hostess.”

“Let’s just say that they probably wouldn’t have noticed her
absence
.  If they did, they’d likely have chalked it up to the fact she needed to get more ice or something.” Myrtle paused.  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Cosette?  Any of those committee women, for instance?  Seems like they’d have been plenty upset about Cosette poaching on their territory.”

Elaine pursed her lips in thought.  “Not really, Myrtle.  Not
that
upset.”

“Have you heard anything about Sybil being mad at Cosette?”

Elaine raised her eyebrows in surprise.  “Sybil was mad at Cosette?”

“Never mind,” said Myrtle with a sigh. “You’re sadly out of touch with local gossip, Elaine.”

“Jack keeps me so busy that I hardly know if I’m coming or going,” said Elaine.

Myrtle drummed her fingers on the table.  “How about Cosette’s daughter?  Aren’t y’all friends?”

“Joan?  Oh, sure, we’re friends.  Noah and Jack are the same age, so I do see more of Joan,” said Elaine.

“What do you think Joan’s relationship with her mother was like?” asked Myrtle.  “It sounded like Cosette was fussing at her on the phone.”

“That would be normal for them.  Cosette was always fussing at Joan, just like she always fussed at Lucas.  Poor Joan was apparently nothing like Cosette thought she should be.  She doesn’t dress very well, doesn’t get flattering haircuts, isn’t slim.  Cosette always acted like Joan was a huge disappointment,” said Elaine.

“Maybe that’s why Cosette was pouring so much attention into Noah,” mused Myrtle.  “Although
clearly
,” she said, beaming down at her grandson, “Jack is much more advanced in every way.”

After Elaine left, Myrtle peered into the crockpot at the soup.  It certainly
seemed
done.  She picked up the recipe.  Yes, it had sat in there for two hours on high, so it must be done.  And it smelled delicious.  All those seasonings…they seemed to open up her sinuses.

Myrtle poured the soup into two disposable storage containers.  She paused, looking thoughtfully at the containers.  Ordinarily, she’d put something like this into a throw-away containers so no one would have to worry about returning it to her in their time of grief.  But, if she used one of her own good containers, she’d have an excellent excuse for a return visit to both Lucas and Joan.  She carefully poured the soup into her nice blue and white containers and marked her name on them with masking tape.

She’d stuck her head into the pantry to find a sleeve of crackers to send along with the soup when her doorbell rang.

Miles stood on her doorstep.  “You left your sweater at my house last night,” he said, holding up the white cardigan.

Myrtle frowned at it.  “I swear I’m turning into a comet…leaving bits and pieces behind me in my wake.”  She took the sweater and tossed it at the back of a chair, where it promptly slid behind the chair and out of sight.

Miles sniffed the air cautiously.  “You’ve been cooking?” he asked with some trepidation.

“Yes.  Sympathy food for Lucas and Joan.”

Miles’s face did indeed show sympathy.  Myrtle strongly suspected that Miles believed her to be a bad cook. 

“Don’t look so grim—it’s not for you,” she said with a sigh.  “But it would be lovely if you’d drive me over to make my deliveries.”

“Surely you don’t need a ride to Lucas’s house,” said Miles.  “He’s right down the street.”

“Yes, I
could
walk it, Miles.  I have excellent mobility, as you know.”

“Right. The cane is just for show,” said Miles, corners of his lips twitching.

“It lulls people into a false sense of security,” said Myrtle.  “But the point is, that I have a hard time holding a container with one hand.  Since I’m using my cane with the other, of course.  And Joan lives pretty far away…I couldn’t walk to her house.”

Miles was already taking the containers from her and pulling his keys from his pocket.

They were halfway down the street when Myrtle barked, “Stop!”

Miles slammed on the brakes.  “What? What is it?”

“Lemonade stand at the two o’clock position,” said Myrtle in a calm voice, gesturing to a card table with two young children looking hopefully in their direction.

Miles sighed.

“I make it a rule to always stop for a lemonade stand,” said Myrtle stoutly.

“Next time, could you alert me in a way that won’t scare me half to death?” asked Miles.

“Don’t be so cranky,” said Myrtle, fishing a dollar from her purse.  “I’ll get you one, too.”

When they got to Lucas’s house, Myrtle carefully got out of the car and started to retrieve her container.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said to Miles, closing the passenger door.

But Miles wasn’t going to be so easily dispatched.  “Knowing what a few minute’s means to you, I think I’d better go in with you.  By the time you came back out, I might be fossilized.  Here, give me the soup.”

Myrtle reluctantly handed over the container.  “As long as you make sure Lucas knows that
I
was the one who made the soup.  Not you.”

“I’ll be
sure
not to claim the soup,” said Miles with a small smile as he reached up to ring the bell.

Chapter Six

A very small, fluffy-looking old lady answered the door.  She gave them a bright smile. “You’re here to see Lucas I suppose, aren’t you, dears?  I’m afraid he’s not well and isn’t up to seeing anyone.  Won’t you come inside?  I’m his sister, Hazel.”  She beamed at them and opened the door wide.

For once, Myrtle didn’t object to the endearment.  Although she was very sensitive to being called sweetheart, dear, or darling by younger people, being called dear by a peer (even one a good fifteen years younger), wasn’t as objectionable. 

Myrtle was always most unsettled by old ladies who did the old lady act better than she did.  This particular old lady was an excellent example.  She wore her white hair back in a bun, wore green cat eye spectacles attached to a chain, a cardigan, pearls, and a sweet smile.  Myrtle decided that the only thing that could possibly maker her even more of the old lady stereotype would be if she offered them milk and cookies.

“Can I interest y’all in some milk and cookies?” asked Hazel, her blue eyes twinkling behind the cat eye glasses.

“I’d love some,” said Miles.

“I wouldn’t mind some myself,” said Myrtle.  “I’ll help you with them while I put my soup away.  It’s baked potato soup.  Hearty stuff.”

“Sounds scrumptious,” said the little old lady with a tinkling laugh.

Myrtle put her soup in the fridge and set the crackers on the kitchen table.  While Hazel was busily getting out some homemade cookies from a jar, Myrtle glanced out the kitchen window.  There appeared to be a perfect view of the backyard from the window.  Lucas could have easily spotted Cosette from here, bolted outside, killed her, and run back in to continue in the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

As she left the kitchen to go back to the small living room, Hazel chatting all the way, she saw that Lucas’s bedroom door was tightly shut. She felt a pang.  The poor, stodgy old fellow.  He’d really seemed to care about Cosette—for whatever reason.  Maybe the soup would actually be good for him if he felt so terrible.

Myrtle tuned back in to Hazel’s rambling monologue.  “It’s such a tragedy, isn’t it?” Hazel tutted.

Myrtle assumed Hazel was talking about Cosette’s death.  She said cautiously, “Well, death usually is.  Very sad.”

Miles rolled his eyes at her.  She must have gotten the topic wrong.

Hazel blinked at her, all wide-eyed.  “Oh dear.  I’m mumbling again.  Unless, you’re hard of hearing, which I certainly am.  I have to wear a special device.”

Miles quickly interjected before they were subjected to a bellowing Hazel, “Myrtle isn’t hard of hearing.  Only hard of
listening
.”

Hazel resumed her twinkling.  “I see.  Myrtle, I was only saying that it was tragic that there’s been a delay in having a funeral.  The police decided on an autopsy.  I do think that funerals are wonderful for closure.  Perhaps Lucas will feel some closure once we’re able to properly celebrate Cosette’s life with a service.”

Myrtle nodded although she didn’t believe in closure.  It all sounded like psychology hocus-pocus to her.  Time worked best, in her experience.  As for funerals, she’d personally haunt anyone who treated hers as a cause for celebration.  The very idea!

A change of subject was clearly in order.  “You must be a huge help for Lucas right now.  Are y’all very close?”

Hazel said, “We are, although I don’t get a chance to visit as much as I’d like.  I live in Charlotte, so it’s a bit of a drive to Bradley.  But I was here only a few weeks ago for a long weekend visit.  So sad.  I had no idea that would be the last time I’d see Cosette.  Such a pity!  She was such a sweet, sweet girl.”

Myrtle looked closer at Hazel.  She’d have thought her a bit young for dementia to have set in.  Or perhaps she really
didn’t
get to visit as often as she’d like, and didn’t have a full picture of how awful Cosette actually was.