A Body in the Trunk

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Adelaide gave him a grateful look. “No, not every day.”

  Myrtle said, “So you didn’t follow him? When you did this?”

  Adelaide shook her head. “And risk upsetting his wife? No. Neil was pretty routine-driven. When he left work, he was heading home.”

  “You didn’t see his car on the side of the road on your own way home?” asked Miles.

  Adelaide sighed. “No. I live in the opposite direction. I wish I had. I’ve been tormenting myself over it. If I’d passed by Neil while he was having car trouble, maybe he wouldn’t be dead right now. I wouldn’t have left him. I’d have called for help.”

  Myrtle said, “It’s never good to ask ourselves those types of questions, Adelaide.”

  Adelaide glanced back again at her team and Myrtle added quickly, “Who do you think might be responsible for Neil’s death? Do you know of anyone who wasn’t getting along with him? Heard of any arguments or disagreements?”

  Adelaide nodded. “As a matter of fact, I have. I was having some sandwiches outside the bank last week when my boss pulled into the parking lot.” She winced. “At first, I thought he was there to give me a hard time for being there—that maybe Neil had complained about my hanging out, waiting for him. Harassment, or something.”

  Which it certainly was. Myrtle said, “This is Holt Kelly? Your principal?”

  Adelaide gave another quick look around to make sure that the man wasn’t there and lurking over her shoulder. She gave another nod. “That’s right. But it turned out that he wasn’t there to see me, at all. He was there to talk to Neil.”

  Miles asked, “Could you hear any of their conversation?”

  “I was a little worried that Mr. Kelly would see me there, but I managed to roll my car window down enough to hear some of it. I wouldn’t necessarily call it a conversation; it was more of a yelling match,” said Adelaide.

  “What did you hear?” asked Myrtle.

  “Mr. Kelly was saying something about money,” said Adelaide with a shrug. “But I only heard the tail-end of it all. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.” She paused. “Do you really think that Mr. Kelly could have something to do with Neil’s death? But why?”

  Myrtle said, “I’m not sure. Did you ever get the impression from Neil that he knew your boss? That he was acquainted with him?”

  Adelaide said, “No, although I’m sure he probably felt as if he knew him. I’d talk about Mr. Kelly all the time. You know how teachers talk about their principals.”

  The scoreboard made a startlingly loud buzzing sound and Adelaide grimaced. “That’s my cue. It was good talking to you, Mrs. Clover. Mr. Bradford.”

  And she bounded down the bleachers in a surefooted way that made Myrtle very jealous.

  Chapter Ten

  ALTHOUGH MYRTLE WOULD have been happy to stay for the entire basketball game, Miles was ready to leave at halftime.

  “We talked with Adelaide. The principal apparently isn’t going to watch the game. And it’s very, very loud in here,” said Miles.

  It was true. Between the scoreboard buzzer indicating the many fouls, the buzzer to mark the quarters, the admirably ear-piercing cheerleading, and the squeaking of the players’ shoes on the wooden floor, the noise was deafening. Myrtle, however, had been thinking too hard to really take very much notice.

  “I suppose we could leave. Although the team is doing very well,” said Myrtle grudgingly.

  “That’s another reason to leave. The girls are doing so well that there’s not even the element of suspense. I doubt the other team will be able to scrape together fifty points in the second half, especially since they haven’t been able to score a single time,” said Miles. He stood up and carefully folded up his stadium seat, putting it on his shoulder.

  Myrtle did the same. “This is the point in a game when I usually start pulling for the other team. The poor kids.” She started hanging the seat on her shoulder and then handed it to Miles, instead. He sighed and slung it on his shoulder.

  Back in Miles’s car a few minutes later, Miles said, “So, back home? The game and talking to Adelaide were the big things we were supposed to knock out and those are done.”

  “Yes. But swing by the Piggly Wiggly for a minute on the way home. I want some tomato soup for supper and I’m sure I’m out,” said Myrtle.

  Soon they were walking the aisles in the Piggly Wiggly. Myrtle hadn’t gotten a cart, but Miles insisted on getting one. “We’ve done this before,” he said. “You’ll say that we don’t need a grocery cart because we’re only getting one thing. But before you know it, you’ll remember all the different things that you need at the store. I’ll be holding them and dropping them sporadically all through the aisles like some demented version of Hansel and Gretel.”

  Myrtle arched her brows. “As I recall, some of those times involved you remembering that you’d run out of coffee or milk.”

  Miles carefully took a wet-wipe out of a bottle that the store provided by the carts and solicitously wiped the cart handle clean of any intrepid germs.

  Myrtle sighed at the delay. Then she squinted, peering ahead. “Oh look,” she said in her stage whisper, “there’s your favorite person. Georgia Simpson.”

  Miles blanched a bit. “Oh no. This is why I avoided her call earlier. I don’t think I can handle running into another book club member. Especially Georgia. She’s liable to beat me up because she didn’t like the story.”

  “Just because she’s upset, it doesn’t mean that she’s going to become violent in the Piggly Wiggly,” said Myrtle. “She’s not that tough.”

  “What do you mean, not that tough? She’s covered with tattoos, has big hair that never moves, and she draws her own eyebrows on. Her eyebrows always reflect her mood.” Miles studied her. “She doesn’t appear to be in a happy one, Myrtle.”

  “Don’t be silly. I know you’ve always had a crush on Georgia. Let’s go up and talk to her.”

  Miles said, “We should just leave her alone. She’s entirely engrossed in checking out the various boxed meals.”

  “Georgia?” called Myrtle, giving Miles a look at the same time.

  Georgia Simpson wheeled around and grinned at them. “Well, now, lookie here! Just the man I wanted to see.” She glanced at Myrtle and said, “And hi to you, too, Myrtle.”

  Miles’s face was completely awash with anxiety. “Me? What did you need to see me about, Georgia?”

  “It’s about book club. And that book you got us to read.” Georgia’s face was thunderous and Myrtle guessed that she must be upset about the selection, but then she realized that was Georgia’s ‘thinking’ expression. Georgia muttered, “What was the name of that book, anyway?”

  Miles cleared his throat. “The Mayor of Casterbridge,” he squeaked.

  “That’s it! The very one.” Georgia stuck out her hand and said, “Just wanted to thank you in person for recommending it.”

  Miles’s jaw dropped and he absently shook Georgia’s hand. “You mean to say that you liked it?”

  “Liked it? I loved it. It’s been a while since I’ve read something like that. You know ... a psychological thriller,” said Georgia.

  Myrtle frowned. “A psychological thriller? We’re referring to the same book, aren’t we?”

  Miles gave her a hard look. He said in a genuine voice, “Thank you, Georgia. I really appreciate that. As a matter of fact, I was worried about what your reaction to it might be. I’ve been hearing from a lot of book club members that they’re having trouble understanding the story.”

  Georgia gave a belly laugh that boomed through the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly. “Isn’t that a shame? Thought those ladies were smarter than that. Least, that’s how they always act. That they’re smarter.”

  “Well, I’m glad there will be someone there who can offer some insight into the story during the discussion,” said Miles.

  He’d been leaning on the grocery cart and it suddenly set into motion, nearly casting him on the floor in the process. Georgi
a caught the errant cart with one hand and in a smooth gesture, shoved it right back over until it was in its original spot.

  Myrtle rolled her eyes and decided a change of subject was needed. “Georgia, what do you think about Neil Albert’s death?”

  Georgia’s penciled-in eyebrows now looked positively ferocious. “I thought it was a tragedy! Hope Red finds the guy who did it and strings him up. Or, if Red wants to sling the murderer my way, I’ll be happy to be the one to dole out the punishment. Neil was a good guy. I saw him in the bank every week when I went in to cash my checks. Always had a nice word to say.”

  “You never saw Neil arguing with anyone or anything like that?” asked Myrtle.

  “Not a bit! He was as nice as they come. Funeral’s tomorrow—did you know?” asked Georgia. “Eleven o’clock in the morning at Grace Hill cemetery.”

  “No, I sure didn’t. How did you find out?” asked Myrtle in consternation. She worked for the paper and this was her story. How was it that Georgia Simpson had information that she didn’t?

  “Word of mouth. Think the widow isn’t wanting a big deal made out of it,” said Georgia.

  “She clearly doesn’t know how Southern funerals operate,” said Miles dryly.

  Georgia said, “She’ll find out when a hundred casseroles land on her doorstep.” She glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch. “Good seeing you both. Guess I’ll see you at the meeting,” said Georgia.

  As Myrtle and Miles finished filling the cart (since Myrtle had indeed thought of more items that she needed), Miles said thoughtfully, “Maybe the upcoming book club meeting won’t be the disaster I thought it was going to be. If Georgia Simpson can understand the book, surely others will, too.”

  “I’m not at all sure that Georgia did understand the book,” said Myrtle with a sniff. “Psychological thriller, indeed!”

  “At any rate, let’s just let her talk when the discussion starts. Otherwise, it’ll be the Myrtle and Miles show. Then everyone will start complaining about how you and I pick books that are too challenging.”

  “That group would find Dr. Seuss challenging,” said Myrtle. “All right. So after we finish up here, we’re done for the day. But pick me up for the funeral tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like another fun day,” said Miles morosely. “And here I was wondering what could possibly improve on a day of high school basketball and a trip to the Piggly Wiggly.”

  “At least it’s better than figuring out who’s mowing their grass and making trips to Goodwill,” said Myrtle.

  The next morning, Myrtle worked on another story for the paper—this time more of a background article on Neil. She made a note to herself to visit Clara again for a quote. Then she glanced at the clock. It was still early, but she might as well go ahead and get dressed for Neil’s funeral.

  Myrtle reached into her closet and rummaged around. She saw a dark sweater, a dark blouse, a dark pair of pants. Where was her black funeral dress?

  The phone rang and she picked up. “Yes?” she barked.

  It was Miles. “Uh-oh. In a bad mood?”

  “Just frustrated. I can’t seem to put my hands on my funeral dress. You know the one.”

  Miles said, “Indeed I do. It’s attended many a Bradley funeral. Does it matter? Just put on slacks and a nice top. The town of Bradley isn’t going to shut down because you aren’t wearing your funeral dress.”

  “I’m going to find it,” said Myrtle through gritted teeth.

  “All right. I’ll be over there at 10:30.”

  Myrtle said, “Let’s make it 10:15. Once I find the dress, I’ll practically be ready to go.”

  After she hung up the phone, Myrtle proceeded to take her bedroom apart. Since the room was very tidy, this took some doing. Finally, she found the dress; it had somehow gotten lodged between her mattress and the bed’s footboard. Myrtle held it up, shaking her head.

  In the process of ironing the dress, she discovered that it had a large spot on it. That last funeral had been the one with the tables upon tables of food. She tried to get the spot out with a warm washcloth, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, she gave up and put on black slacks, a gray top, and a grim expression.

  When the doorbell rang at 10:15, Myrtle hollered from her bedroom, “Door’s open!” When she heard Miles come in, she called, “I’m just finishing up. Come on in.”

  Miles peered through her bedroom door to see Myrtle attempting to subdue her poof of white hair that was standing up like Einstein’s. He glanced around. “You neglected to tell me on the phone that your house had been ransacked by a band of robbers.”

  “Don’t be silly. I told you I was going to find the funeral dress, and I did. It just wasn’t in any shape to be worn. Maybe after the funeral you can take me by the store and I can buy a new one.” Myrtle followed Miles out to his car.

  “Considering the way they’re dropping like flies around here, that might not be a bad idea,” said Miles, pulling out of Myrtle’s driveway. “We spend entirely too much time at the cemetery.”

  “I don’t know. It’s a pleasant enough place. There are some beautiful oak trees there. Peace and quiet, too.”

  “Oh, it’s quiet, all right,” said Miles.

  “Just the same, I think I’d rather just visit. I wouldn’t want to live there,” said Myrtle with a smirk.

  Miles drove through the gates of Grace Hill cemetery, past moss-covered tombstones, down the winding road covered by a canopy of oaks.

  “Is that the service there?” he asked, sounding startled. “I thought that Clara was trying to keep the funeral on the down-low because she didn’t want a crowd.”

  “Yes, well, try and keep the good people of Bradley away from a funeral, especially on a quiet Saturday. This qualifies as entertainment,” said Myrtle. “Go ahead and find a place to park.”

  “Half the town is here,” muttered Miles.

  “Which may explain Holt Kelly’s presence,” said Myrtle, pressing up against her window to see better.

  “Oh good. I was worried we were going to have to make another visit to the high school in order to talk to him. Think we can grab him and ask him a few questions before he leaves?” asked Miles.

  “You better believe it. Although I think he might be a tricky one. He’s not exactly the type of person who talks a lot. And I don’t know how he’ll act when being questioned. He might just zip his lips,” said Myrtle with a frown. “I’ll have to approach him a little differently. Maybe I shouldn’t use the journalism excuse.”

  “However you want to do it. As long as it doesn’t involve basketball games,” said Miles fervently. “My back is still hurting from yesterday.”

  “How on earth could it be hurting? We were in stadium seats.”

  “Tell my back that,” said Miles.

  They approached the mourners. Clara was blinking in amazement at the number of people in attendance.

  “There are no seats left,” said Miles with a sigh.

  “I have a feeling that this service is going to be short and sweet,” said Myrtle.

  It was. There was a brief meditation by the minister and a Bible verse. A soloist sang the 23rd Psalm. Then the minister gave a short benediction.

  There was a swarm around Clara, who was the only one in the receiving line. If Neil had had a mother, father, or siblings, they didn’t appear to be in attendance.

  Myrtle leaned in and said, “Take a look at Sloan.”

  Her editor appeared to be trying very hard to have a friendly conversation with Adelaide. Adelaide, on the other hand, was standing in the very back and looked as if she were trying to be completely inconspicuous. Considering her relationship with Neil, that was understandable. Sloan, however, hadn’t gotten the memo. He was perspiring, whether from the heat or nervousness, and blushing furiously. Adelaide didn’t look as though she was picking up her end of the conversation.

  “I don’t think Adelaide is necessarily a good pick for Sloan,” murmured Miles. “She’s pretty far out of his league.
Plus the fact that she’s hung up on a dead guy.”

  Myrtle said, “But Sloan is a nice guy. And there is that horoscope of Wanda’s to consider. Maybe she’ll change her mind and decide to date someone single, for a change. But I’m still sure that I can find someone better for him.”

  Miles said in alarm, “Uh-oh. It looks like Holt is making a run for it! Catch him! I don’t want to go to any more games.”

  As Myrtle turned to look for Holt, she turned right into Erma Sherman.

  “Myrtle! Just the person I wanted to see,” she said.

  Myrtle shoved Erma into Miles. “Here! Talk to Miles!” and half-jogged after Holt.

  Eventually, she caught up to him. She was gasping for breath by then and Holt reached out to hold one arm and she leaned heavily on her cane with the other.

  “Miss Myrtle? Are you all right?” he asked in concern. He was a balding, pudgy man with black framed glasses. His brown eyes were wide with alarm.

  Myrtle decided to play it for all it was worth. “Oh, the heat. All those ... people,” she spat out in a pitiful voice.

  “Here, let’s find somewhere to sit down. Maybe away from everybody, if you can walk that far.”

  Still panting from her slow jog, Myrtle nodded, wordlessly. Holt gently led her over to a stone bench some distance away from everyone.

  “There now. Although we really should get you some water.” Holt’s face still had the alarmed look of someone who might have a medical emergency on their hands.

  “I think I’ll be all right. Thanks, Holt.” Myrtle caught her breath and said, “How are things going at the high school?”

  Holt gave a small laugh. “Does anything ever change at the high school? I’m thinking that you’d find that very little has changed since your retirement from there.”

  “That’s good, because I was thinking about coming back,” said Myrtle, managing a completely serious expression.

  Chapter Eleven