Progressive Dinner Deadly (10 page)

The man was the worst salesman in the history of the world, thought Myrtle crossly. You’d think, if someone
actually
drove down that rural highway and
actually
became interested by the weather-beaten sign and
actually
cared enough to show up at your tin can of a house, then you’d have your best sales face on. “I want,” she said, testing the waters, “some live bait.”

Crazy Dan’s eyes squinted at her in his leathery face. “What for?”

“To catch fish with, what else? Your sign promises live bait.”

He expertly spat a stream of tobacco at the base of a pine tree. “Ain’t got none.”

“How about a hubcap then? You’ve got plenty of those.” Myrtle nodded toward his house.

“Can’t. House’d fall in if I take one of ‘em off.”

“Never mind. What I really came for is Wanda. I need some psychic advice. She’s here, isn’t she?” Myrtle was pretty sure that Wanda was
always
there. The cars in the dirt yard were all set up on cinder blocks and appeared to have broken down at some point in the 1980s, judging from the model.

A shrewd look passed over his wizened face. Money was sure to be at the bottom of that look. Probably already wondering if he could get Myrtle to be a frequent client of Wanda’s. Then he could replace whatever part had gone bad in one of those old heaps and escape from the shack every once in a while.

“Wander? I mean, Madam Zora? Yeah, she’s here. Lemme run git ‘er. You kin git yer fortoon outside.”

That was fine with Myrtle. She’d gone inside the hubcap house last time and had no desire to repeat the experience. A minute later, Crazy Dan returned with a crone that was, except for the scraggly beard and hopefully a few other parts, an exact replica of Crazy Dan himself. He also carried a decrepit rocking chair that Myrtle gathered she was to sit in. Wanda put down a stepstool in front of her and looked gravely at her.

“Yer still alive,” she said in a gravelly, cigarette-damaged voice. “I’m amazed.”

Myrtle felt the same chilly frisson course down her spine that she’d felt the last time when Wanda had told her she was in danger. “Still here,” she said, trying to sound perky. Wanda just stared at her with those intense eyes.

“And yer still runnin’ after death.” There was a ring of condemnation to the words.

Myrtle shifted uncomfortably in the rocking chair. Her discomfort stemmed as much from the broken frame jutting through the cushion as it did from Wanda’s disapproval. “This time it was someone I
liked
,” she offered in defense. “A girl who cleaned for me. Her time was cut too short. I wanted to see what you could tell me about it.”

“Well,
he
didn’t do it. The one yer wantin’ ter talk to.”

“Cullen?”

“He’s feelin’ right guilty. And he weren’t the one.”

The husband usually
was
the one who’d murdered his wife. And she couldn’t see Cullen feeling guilty at all. Maybe Madam Zora really was a fraud, after all.

Wanda’s leathery face looked drawn and tired. “Go ahead and talk to ‘im, then. I know you will, no matter what I say.”

Myrtle reached in her pocketbook for money, but Wanda shooed a bony hand at her in irritation. “Yer puttin’ yerself in danger again. Don’t want nuthin’ to do wid it.”

Just like last
time, Madam Zora’s words served to put Myrtle in a very bad mood. She wasn’t fond of being warned off. And she’d been wanting, in her heart of hearts, to pin Jill’s murder on Cullen. Cullen had been horrible to Jill and deserved
some
kind of retribution. He made the most
sense
as a murderer. Georgia seemed way too intoxicated to have killed Jill. Would Sherry actually kill over a noisy Christmas display? When it wasn’t even Christmas? Willow was angry at Jill, it was true—but she was angrier at
Cullen
. If
Cullen
had been the victim, then maybe she’d suspect Willow more. And Blanche just seemed like she wanted to stay out of Jill’s way—it didn’t seem possible that she’d deliberately go confront Jill.

So it had to be Cullen. Didn’t it? Myrtle knew Wanda was just a sham. But she couldn’t explain the uneasy feeling she got that Cullen really wasn’t the right direction for her to follow.

Taking a little ride would shake off this foreboding feeling. Back in the day, nothing had been able to take her mind off her troubles faster than a ride in the car. And lucky her—here she was with a perfectly serviceable,
red
Volvo at her disposal. She’d head to the town square and wave like she was in a parade. Because what was the joy in a joyride without people seeing you having fun?

Myrtle rolled the windows down and drove around the town square, honking as she went. Maisy Perry jumped half a mile and almost dropped her pocketbook. Myrtle spotted Red and waved gaily out the window of the Volvo as he glared. She even tooted the horn at Erma, who’d no doubt be gleefully spreading all kinds of stories about Myrtle since she was driving Miles’ car. She even tooted the horn at Cullen when she saw him, killer or not. Then she pulled up to the curb that Cullen was staggering off of.

“Need a ride, Cullen?” she hollered out the window at him.

And got her chance to test out Madame Zora’s prediction.

U
nfortunately, taking Cullen
home was something like a thirty second drive. Fortunately, Cullen was wasted enough not to notice that Myrtle drove around the square four or five times so she could talk to him a little longer.

“I’m glad to get a chance to tell you, Cullen, how sorry I was about Jill. You might not know it, but she’d started cleaning for me and my house had never been that clean. Not ever.”

Cullen made a snuffling sound. “She was a good girl,” he said in a low voice.

“She did everything well, didn’t she? Your yard was always the neatest one on the street. And she cooked really well I hear—I’ve heard the old ladies at the church bragging on her and they hadn’t been impressed with anyone’s cooking since their mamas’.”

The snuffling was louder this time. “Her red beans and rice were to die for.”

An unfortunate choice of words.

Cullen continued. “I feel horrible about it Miss Myrtle. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Don’t want to see anybody. I wasn’t a good husband to Jill and now it’s too late to say I’m sorry. I’m a sorry excuse for a husband.”

Myrtle was about to ask if there was any
other
reason he might feel guilty about Jill—like if he’d killed her, for instance. She started the car another lap around the square when Red pulled her over in his patrol car. With his lights, siren, and everything. Bother.

“License and registration, ma’am,” said Red grimly.

Myrtle crossly rooted around in her pocketbook. “Here’s the license. I
just
got it renewed and it’s good through 2026.”

Red seemed to not like the thought of his mother terrorizing the Bradley populace in 2026.

“And the registration, ma’am? Is this car registered in your name or is it a stolen vehicle?”

She made a face at him. “I suppose Miles stuck his registration in the glove compartment. Hold on a minute.” She reached across Cullen, who had unfortunately fallen asleep, and fumbled around in the glove box until she’d found the registration.

“You know you were speeding, Mama?”

“I was going thirty miles an hour!”

“Speed limit is fifteen around the square.”

“Shoot! Are you giving me a ticket?
Sharper than a serpent’s tooth
…”

“I’m not a thankless child and you’re not King Lear. I may let you off with a warning.”

“Cullen?” Red woke Myrtle’s sleeping passenger. “Are you ready to go home?”

Cullen nodded and Red said, “I don’t think Cullen wants to go around and around the square all day while you interrogate him, Mama. So unless you take him straight home, I’ll have to consider a kidnapping charge.”

Myrtle glared at him. “I’m on my way back to Cullen’s house now. And I wasn’t interrogating him—we were having a conversation and I was offering my sympathies.”

Red looked at Cullen, dozing again and hardly likely to dispute Myrtle’s version of events. “I’ve got to get home anyway,” she said with a sniff. “I’ve got to get ready for the United Methodist Women’s luncheon.”

Red looked more doubtful about Myrtle’s sudden desire to go to church than he had about the non-interrogation.

The United Methodist
Women’s luncheon would be a good opportunity to talk to a few of the slipperier suspects. Like Willow, who’d successfully eluded her last attempt at questioning her. Willow had espoused many different ideas on religion in Myrtle’s presence before and seemed to have formed an amalgam of different ones she liked from Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, and Christianity. Tarot cards were thrown in there somewhere, too. Since there wasn’t a place in Bradley, North Carolina, that shared her exact religious views, she was making-do at the Methodist church.

Myrtle heard Elaine’s
light tap on the horn. She grabbed her cane in one hand and opened her front door. And stopped in her tracks at the sight of a half-eaten cardinal corpse on her front doorstep. Myrtle glanced around for the perpetrator. The cat was lying near the bushes in a sunbeam, lazily watching her. Myrtle sighed. She’d have to get the shovel out later and move the little carcass.

She carefully stepped over the cardinal. As she got into Elaine’s minivan, she said, “There’s a bloody body on my doorstep, Elaine.”

“What? That’s great news, Myrtle! You’ve really made a feral friend. She’s giving you presents to show how much she appreciates you.”

“How can I tell her I’d appreciate it more if she
didn’t
give me any more little gifts? Although I’ve got a little fondness for the creature, I’ll admit. How do you think she got out of that trap without setting it off? Smart thing.”

“I get this feeling,” said Elaine in a carefully even voice, “that you’re rooting for the cat, Myrtle. That a part of you is really pleased by the fact that she’s escaping the trap.”

Myrtle shook her head but looked away guiltily.

“We’ve really got to get her fixed, you know. Otherwise she’s going to end up populating Bradley with feral kittens. And then we’ll have to trap all of
them
in your back yard.”

“Yes, all right, I know,” said Myrtle crossly. “It’s not like I’m helping with a jail break, Elaine. She’s smart. She’s outthinking us. But no, I don’t want a bunch of little feral cats in my yard. We’ll keep trying."

Jack made one of those sudden, bellowing baby noises that toddlers sometimes make out of the blue. Myrtle turned to smile at Jack in the back seat and he gummily grinned back at her from his car seat. “I was sure to tell Red today,” said Myrtle in a serious tone, “that I
do
attend community events of my own volition. Maybe you could remind him again later today. He doesn’t have to stick his nose into my business because I have plenty going on.”

Elaine knew that was precisely what worried Red. It was
what
Myrtle had going on that was the problem. Elaine felt pretty certain that Myrtle’s motive for attending the United Methodist Women luncheon was complicated and had little to do with joining committees or church fundraising.

“It’s always wonderful to spend time at the church,” said Myrtle piously. “So vital for those of us with little time left, you know.”

This was news to Elaine. She’d offered to take Myrtle to church with them the last few months to no avail.

“And it will be good to spend time with other believers, of course.”

Ah, thought Elaine. Now we come to the true reason why Myrtle was interested in going to the luncheon. “You think certain believers are likely to be there?” asked Elaine.

Myrtle’s look was cutting. “If you’re talking about Sherry, Blanche, and Willow, yes, I’m hoping they’ll be there. After all, they need spiritual nourishment after the rough week they’ve had with Jill’s death. And it might be helpful for them to talk to others about their feelings,” ended Myrtle in a self-righteous tone.

Elaine felt a giggle tickling up her throat. Myrtle would never forgive her if it sneaked out. Fortunately, the church was only a few blocks away and they were already pulling into a parking place.

The dining hall was full of ladies of various ages, old and young. Myrtle took a peek at the buffet line and made a face. It was a hot lunch, but the offerings looked suspect and the broccoli casserole looked soupy. She brightened at the glasses of iced tea at each placemat, though. The church did have good sweet tea.

As she had hoped, the ladies she’d wanted to see there
were
there. Blanche was already sitting at a table and talking to some of Bradley’s other society matrons. Tippy and Sherry were talking to each other near the buffet line and Willow stood morosely nearby.

Elaine leaned in to whisper, “I saw Tippy picking Willow up earlier. I think she thought it would be good for her to get out of the house.”

“Tippy mentioned it to me at the visitation. I guess Willow is her new cause.” Myrtle squinted across the room. “Why is Willow bringing her own food?” asked Myrtle.

“Oh, she’s a vegetarian.”

“Aren’t there veggies here?” Myrtle frowned over at the buffet table in the direction of the soupy broccoli.

“All the veggies were prepared by Southern cooks, you know. Cooked in gravy and bacon grease.”

“That’s right, she’s one of those clean-living nuts,” muttered Myrtle. “When she abandoned us during supper club, I was rooting around in her fridge and saw a bunch of organic stuff in there.”

“She certainly seems to be a health nut. But I was shocked yesterday when I saw her buy a pack of cigarettes at the gas station. It just didn’t seem to gel with her image.”

Myrtle shrugged. “You know how hippies are,” she said. “Or maybe it’s just the stress of losing her sister that made her pick up a bad habit again.”

Willow wasn’t looking her best. Again. This time she wasn’t even looking particularly clean. She looked to be giving one-word answers to Sherry’s attempts to include her in conversation, and Myrtle saw Sherry and Tippy shrug at each other. They saw Myrtle and waved.

“Want to go ahead and find a place to sit down?” asked Elaine.

Myrtle quickly chose a table in the middle of the dining hall in the hopes of being close to
somebody
there. She hung her bulky bag and her cane on the back of a chair and she and Elaine walked over to the buffet line.

It took a while to navigate through the line. Apparently some of the older ladies had a hard time choosing between the meatloaf and turkey and gravy. Or the broccoli and rice or green beans. Myrtle impatiently drummed her fingers against her plastic tray. Elaine seemed to be hovering in case the caneless Myrtle started to sway. Myrtle couldn’t decide if that was annoying or endearing.

She was horrified to see Erma Sherman bulldoze through the throng of church members. Erma bellowed, “Myrtle! Good to see you at the square this morning—driving Miles’ car around. I hadn’t seen you go out of your house this morning and you know I always worry that you’re lying on the floor with a broken hip.”

Sherry, who had just filled her plate, winced sympathetically at Myrtle as she joined Blanche and Willow off to a table that already had people sitting there. Shoot.

Erma gave an enormous cough, primly covering her mouth with her hands but neglecting to think about transferring germs before grabbing Myrtle’s hand. “Since there’s a murderer wandering around killing people, I was worried he’d got you! I was all set to break into your house after the luncheon and make sure your throat wasn’t slit or something. Good thing I saw you in yours and Miles’car.”

Myrtle shuddered and made a mental note to add a chain to her door. She ignored the snide reference that Miles and she had joint ownership over large purchases. Murderers she could handle…Erma Sherman was something else. She broke away from Erma as soon as possible, carefully made her way to her table, and then made a beeline for the ladies’ room to wash up.

By the time she got back from the restroom, a lot of the ladies were still milling around. It seemed to take forever for anything to get accomplished at the United Methodist Women with all the visiting that transpired. This was a major reason that Myrtle ordinarily didn’t frequent these meetings and luncheons. But visiting….and gossiping…was exactly why she was there today. Unfortunately, she and Elaine weren’t at the best place to do much of that. They were at a table with a couple of church ladies Myrtle didn’t know, as well as Tippy Chambers and Maisy Perry, Willow’s predecessor for the horoscope. Maisy was looking a little better than she had when she’d come down with her case of nerves. Myrtle still had hope that Blanche or Willow would come over to talk.

Maisy Perry was the poster child for nervousness. Her cadaverous body trembled constantly, and her eyes stared out through her huge glasses in unblinking horror at all the world showed her. When she talked, she fluttered her thin hands around so that she looked like a little bird trying to take flight. Myrtle sighed. Spending time with Maisy was enough to make Myrtle feel jumpy herself.

Myrtle poked her broccoli and rice and looked over at Blanche, Sherry, and Willow’s table, while Maisy explained why she’d needed a break from the
Bradley Bugle
and the grueling life of horoscope manufacturing.