Progressive Dinner Deadly

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

The problem with hosting a supper club was that most of the houses on the street were modest in size. Oh the houses definitely had their strong points; after all, they were on the lake and each one on Myrtle’s side of the street had a dock with a boat. But the houses themselves were older homes, built in the 1950s. Most were your basic three-bedroom, two bathroom ranches. Miles had only two bedrooms and one bathroom. Which, Myrtle thought as she visited with Miles, was absolutely fine. All the space in the world that a bachelor needed. Except when hosting a supper club of thirty people. And especially when you provided them with alcohol, as Miles had so thoughtfully done for the hors d’oeuvres and cocktail leg of their culinary journey.

  A booming belly-laugh erupted just feet away from them. Miles looked startled. “What was that?” he breathed.

  “Georgia Simpson,” said Myrtle. She frowned. “I wonder what she’s doing here. She’s isn’t a reader. She wouldn’t have even been in book club. And it looks like she’s been drinking. I mean seriously drinking. With effort.”

  “Tippy called all the hosts to tell us to add one more person to the guest list. Apparently someone was interested in a supper club, but not a book club. I guess it must have been Georgia.”

  “So now we’ve reached a new club low,” growled Myrtle.

  The woman threw back her head and laughed her booming laugh again.

  “The epitome of genteel Bradley womanhood. Stinking drunk in acquaintances’ houses,” muttered Miles.

  “Keep it up, Miles. Don’t think she won’t hit a guy who wears glasses.”

  Miles looked somewhat affronted at this attack on his manhood.

  Georgia embodied the idea of a tough cookie, from her big hair that never moved even in high winds, to the tattoos covering her arms and legs. Her eyelashes were so heavily encrusted with mascara that her eyes stayed permanently at half-mast, giving her a kind of glowering look. She had plucked out most of her eyebrows, the better to draw in a pair in whatever theme her expression-of-the-day was in. Her hair was black on the bottom with a white-blond layer on the top. She was fond of wearing tee-shirts that sported rude sayings. Myrtle nudged Miles with her foot. “You’re gaping.”

  “She looks like a guy I was in Vietnam with,” murmured Miles in wonder as Georgia strutted over to them and grunted a greeting.

  “You know what this party needs?” Georgia asked in a grating voice.

  Miles stopped gaping and managed a look of polite interest.

  “Port-a-johns. You coulda had a couple put into your backyard, you know. Nice place, but one bathroom?”

  Miles nodded eagerly in agreement. Myrtle rolled her eyes. “Miles lives by himself, Georgia. Why would he need more than one bathroom?”

  But Georgia was already walking away. “Got to find a bathroom.”

  Myrtle looked after her, thoughtfully. “That’s the best mood I’ve seen Georgia in for a while. Parties must agree with her.”

  “You know this person?” asked Miles. He had an awe-struck note in his voice. “You—the Charles Dickens and William Butler Yeats fan. You know this Georgia creature.”

  Myrtle looked at him as though he were addled. “Of course, Miles. I taught her.”

  “Taught her!”

  “Miles, when you’re as old as I am and taught for as long as I did, you’ve taught everybody in the town between the ages of thirty-five and sixty.”

  Jill quickly joined the line behind them, peering around Myrtle at Georgia’s retreating back. This was interesting—Jill actually avoiding someone.

  Myrtle hoped Miles didn’t have anything in his medicine cabinet that he wanted to keep private.

  “Dear God,” breathed Miles, “there goes the party.”

  Myrtle craned her neck to see the front door. The inaptly-named Tiny, his looming figure filling the door frame, looked apprehensively into the room.

  “What is he doing here?” wondered Myrtle. “He’s no book club member. Or book club spouse. I’m not actually sure he’s a reader at all.”

  “He’s probably looking for a mate,” said Miles. He gloomily took a swig of his cocktail. “Now that he’s single again he’s out on the town looking for a new wife to torment.”

  “Was he ever tiny?” mused Myrtle. “I can’t actually remember a time that he was.”

  Tiny, by this time, had crammed his bulk into Miles’s living room. He’d managed to squeeze his six foot seven, three hundred pound frame into an uncomfortable-looking, shiny suit. And, somehow, had forgotten his socks.

  “Maybe it’s his brain that’s tiny?” murmured Miles.

  “I’m surprised at you, Miles. That wasn’t very nice.”

  “If he were nice, I wouldn’t have said it.”

  “He always seems to smell like gasoline,” mused Myrtle.

  “Maybe after he’s finished doing yard work he splashes a little on. Gasoline is just about as expensive as cologne these days, after all.”

  They watched as Tiny plowed through to the cocktail table. Miles watched him with glum eyes. “If I were going to have a gatecrasher, why couldn’t it be someone else?”

  Proving him right, Tiny immediately launched into an argument with Simon Caulfield and Georgia, who’d returned to the group—“There ain’t nothing wrong with hunting, Simon.”

  “Guns are dangerous things,” said Simon in an uptight voice, “I wouldn’t dream of having one in my house. If you’re a parent, which you are, you should be more responsible.”

  Tiny looked at Simon blankly at the mention of offspring. Then he recollected, “Oh. Well, he’s eighteen, you know. No bitty guy ... ”

  Miles groaned. “This evening is a disaster. I’ve got Tiny Kirk party crashing and starting arguments and I’m not big enough to kick him out. I’ve got Georgia Simpson staggering around in search of portable toilets.” He gestured at Georgia, who had a hand on Tiny’s bulging arm for support. Or amour. Or both. “And who knows,” he spluttered, “what might happen next.”

  Jill dialed a number on her cell phone and frowned. A shadow passed over her face. “He’s not picking up.”

  “Who?” asked Myrtle.

  “Cullen.” Jill gave a martyred sigh. “He needs to stir the barbeque in the crock pot. Maybe he’s fallen asleep. He’s had a rough day today. I guess I’ll have to go over and do it myself. Miles, it was great. I’ll see you over at my place in a little while.”

  But before she could hurry away, Jill’s sister, Willow floated up to the group in her flowing, hippy garb with an intense look on her pale face. She put out a hand and grasped Jill’s arm in a tight grip. “Did you say you were going home?” Willow demanded. Myrtle was sure she’d heard Jill and was just determined to make a point.

  Jill said shortly, “Yes, I’m going home. No, Cullen didn’t pick up the phone. Yes, I’ve got to stir the meat and make sure everything is ready for guests. Anything else you wanted to ask?” She jutted out her chin.

  For an allegedly peaceful person, Willow sure looked ready to pick a fight. “So where is he? If he’s not here and he’s not there, what’s he doing? And why isn’t he at home, helping you out? And I wonder where Sherry has gone. Have you noticed she’s not at the party anymore?”

  Jill’s face flushed an unattractive purple.

  “Did you know that everybody has been slipping over to your house tonight, bringing side dishes over? Know why? Because they know you can’t afford to feed everybody. Now maybe if Cullen decided to find a job ... ”

  Jill gave a beneficent smile. “I’m well-aware of everyone’s kindness. They’re just being good friends, Willow. And working isn’t Cullen’s gift. And you know all about gifts, don’t you? You’re always talking about how the Creator endows each of us, animal and human, with particular gifts ... ”

  It was at this point that Willow made a sound that Myrtle thought at first had come from some kind of smoke detector or burglar alarm. “Cullen’s talent is drinking, Jill. He doesn’t even know how to do anything else.”

  Jill’s ch
eery face turned into a mask of fury. She launched at Willow with a hissing sound and Myrtle watched in horror as the two started physically scrapping. The line for the bathroom was, however, determined to stay in place. Finally, it was Tiny Kirk, of all people, who came over to break up the scuffle. Jill yanked her arm away from Tiny, gave a huffy sigh, and headed right out the door. Willow looked suddenly deflated and unsure where she should go. She finally flitted off into Miles’s living room where she lit on his sofa and looked blankly around her as if surprised to see a party in progress.

  “You see,” Myrtle said earnestly to Tippy Chambers in Miles’s living room, “the problem with the supper club idea is that everyone’s spouses come. So it’s not just the dozen or so members, but their husbands, too. It doubles the number of people in a house.”

  “So what exactly are you saying, Myrtle? You think we need to limit the number of people who participate?”

  Myrtle shook her head vigorously. “No, no. I’m saying I don’t think this will work at all. I think we need to revert back to the book club. Back to a manageable number of people, back to meeting in the daytime. Back to books.”

  “But everyone was getting tired of the old book club, Myrtle. That’s why we’re doing something different.”

  Tippy really couldn’t help the fact that she sounded so condescending, thought Myrtle. She’d just been wealthy for so long that the money was ingrained into her vocal chords.And must Tippy talk so loud? Myrtle wasn’t deaf, but Tippy never seemed to remember that fact.

  “Well of course I know that, Tippy. But I thought we could change the book club into a real book club. A new-and-improved version of the old one where we study the classics. No one would be bored with classic literature.”

  Tippy frowned at Myrtle like she wasn’t sure she was following her. “The classics. Like Valley of the Dolls?”

  Myrtle slumped. This would be harder than she’d realized. She looked up as Miles hurried past her, navigating through the crowd. The party seemed even more crowded into the small space. Had even more people come in? Were there party-crashers here? It seemed like the number had tripled and that the decibel level had tripled, too. Georgia Simpson was being especially loud. She’d somehow managed to get seriously drunk, even though supper club had started just half an hour before. Could she have arrived at the party drunk?

  Georgia got even louder and coarser than usual. She hollered loudly at Simon Caulfield’s wife, Libba, who was right in front of her and didn’t need help with her hearing, “The flea market didn’t have squat, lemme tell you. You’d think once in a while somebody’d cough up something decent from their closets and bring it in to sell. Nuthin’! There was nuthin’ there. Not that I have any money. Not like some people.”

  Miles sidled up to Myrtle and murmured, “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo."

  Myrtle smiled. “Okay, Prufrock. Nice use of irony. She’s toasted, obviously.”

  “Any more toasted,” said Miles, “and we’d be scraping her over the kitchen sink with a knife.”

  Myrtle flinched as Erma Sherman came up and brayed, “This really is a treat. I don’t get out at night much, you know. Not like Miss Myrtle Clover.” She gave a haw-hawing laugh, making her sound even more like a donkey than she already did.

  Myrtle froze at hearing her name and half-turned, eyeing Erma icily.

  “Myrtle goes out every night for a two a.m. stroll, don’t you?” Erma grinned crookedly. “I wonder sometimes if she’s going out to visit a sweetheart.”

  “I don’t go out every night,” said Myrtle coldly. “And certainly not to see boyfriends when I do. I just have a little insomnia, that’s all.”

  “A little insomnia?” Miles said under his breath. Myrtle was a raging insomniac. It was a wonder she functioned at all on the miniscule amount of sleep she did get.

  “Besides,” asked Myrtle, “what are you doing up at two a.m.?”

  “I’m not always up. Just enough to notice when old ladies thump their canes down sidewalks.”

  Myrtle had no rejoinder to that, so just took a sip of her sherry and fumed. Fortunately, the focus changed to sleep problems in general with other people chiming in and the whole group walked off to get more wine.

  “I hate living next door to her,” Myrtle seethed to Miles. “I’m not that loud when I walk, am I?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed. Of course, I’m usually up at two a.m., myself.”

  “Next time I walk by and see your lights on, I’ll knock. We can scandalize Erma.”

  Georgia plucked up a napkin and put a handful of cheese straws on it, scattering them wildly as she did. Unaware of the mess she was making, she waved her hand. “Blanche!” she bellowed. “What’cha doing? I didn’t think you’d be here, since you hate Jill an’ all.”

  Myrtle moved in closer. Miles rolled his eyes at her nosiness and headed to the kitchen to bring in more wine.

  Blanche started looking uneasily around her.

  “You looking for her, too? When you find her, let me know. I’m planning to pop her right in the eye when I see her. Bam!” Georgia swayed forward and Blanche shrank away from her with a look of fascinated disgust. “Jill pulled a number on you, too, didn’t she? I know allll about that, Blanche. Alllll about it.”

  At this somewhat cryptic statement, Blanche rushed off toward the back of the house, face blazing.

  Georgia seemed to barely register that Blanche was gone as she stuffed the last remaining cheese straws—and part of the napkin—in her mouth. Myrtle wondered if it would be worth trying to ask Georgia anything while she was in this state. She might be able to strong-arm more information out of her while her guard was down, but the downside would be that Georgia’s information might not make a whole lot of sense. She had a feeling that Georgia would be able to fill in the blanks regarding Blanche’s hostility toward Jill.

  Myrtle had just decided to give Georgia’s cognitive skills a go when there was a sudden, piercing shriek. Erma Sherman waved her arms around in big circles, clearing people out of the way like a bulldozer. “My diamond earring!” she screeched. “It’s gone! Everyone start looking!”

  It was really amazing how quickly everyone followed Erma’s orders. Fortunately, Myrtle had age on her side as an excellent excuse not to engage in the hunt. She looked as feeble as possible while doddering over to Miles’s sofa. Everyone was on the floor, running their hands over the hardwood floors and area rugs. Erma wailed, “We’ve got to find it. It’s worth a ton of money. Real diamonds. And a family heirloom ... ”

  At that moment, Miles pushed through the kitchen door with the tray full of red wine and tripped right over the back of Tippy Chambers. “Whooooaaaa!” The tray went flying and the drinks fell over the backs of the guests. There was glass and alcohol everywhere, Miles sprawled out over the floor, there was cussing from people who would need expensive dry cleaning, and plenty of general assorted chaos. Myrtle enjoyed the chaos from a distance.

  “My diamond earring! Keep looking!” commanded Erma.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to risk being cut by broken glass right now,” said Miles dryly as he carefully got up from the floor and adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Maybe while I’m cleaning up, I’ll find it.”

  The party had definitely taken a turn for the worse. And unfortunately, Erma’s lost earring looked like it might end up as the most newsworthy aspect of the evening. Sloan would be disappointed.

  Many of the guests looked sweaty. Myrtle peered around the room. Too many people in a small space. Miles shoved open the windows as he passed them to let in more air. Simon Caulfield and his wife Libba walked past Myrtle. Simon continued stalking out the door, suit drenched, face furious.

  Libba leaned over the sofa to speak to Myrtle. “Could you tell Miles thanks for us? Simon got covered with wine so we’re heading home. Y’all have fun, though.” She disappeared out the door behind her husband.

  Miles stooped down by Myrtle a couple
of minutes later to pick up part of a glass that had somehow managed to find its way across the room. “You’ve had some casualties. Simon and Libba have left the building.”

  Tippy walked up. “And Willow,” she added with a sigh. “She got doused with wine and decided to change. I guess it doesn’t matter if she’s still changing when we get there as long as we can all get inside. Her house is next on the list.”

  “At this point,” said Miles as he delicately held the shard of glass, “anyone who wants to evacuate is welcome to do so.” He looked around him at the pandemonium. “Have you seen Sherry Angevine anywhere? I was going to ask her something about her flower garden.”

  “Actually, no. I haven’t seen her since early in the party. And I only really noticed her then because she had so much eye makeup on. She looks like one of those zombies from Night of the Living Dead,” said Myrtle.

  Tippy took the break from the earring search and smashed glass recovery to make an announcement. “Okay, everyone! For us to keep on track this evening, we need to move on to the next house. I’m sure Erma’s earring hasn’t walked out the door, so we’ll leave Miles to look for it later tonight. Remember, we’re going to Willow Pearce’s house next for soups and salads, then to Jill’s, before ending up at Myrtle’s house for dessert. We’re running a little bit behind,” this with a reproving look at the careless Erma, who seemed completely unaware that she was being reproached, “so we’ll probably spend just thirty minutes at Willow’s.”

  They all tramped over to Willow’s house, looking a bit like a well-sauced tour group with Tippy striding ahead as leader. Willow lived down the street from Miles in a smallish brick ranch on the non-lakefront side of the road. The road was lined with old sidewalks and shielded from the sun by ancient, massive trees on both sides. On Myrtle’s side of the street, the houses backed up to the lake, and the other side, including Red’s house, backed up to woods. The road curved to follow the line of the lake so Myrtle couldn’t see the houses on the other side of the bend, including Willow’s, Sherry’s, and Jill’s.

  Willow hadn’t left her front lights on, so Tippy called a group halt. “I’ll go ahead and ask her to turn on the porch lights. I don’t want our older ladies tripping.”

  Myrtle felt a little huffy about being classified as an “older lady,” considering that Tippy was fairly old herself, just well-preserved. Tippy swept down the front walk, silks floating along behind her. A cat leapt out of a shadow, hissing, and Tippy gave a short shriek before a quick recovery. She rapped at the door, then cautiously opened it. Reaching inside, Tippy turned on the outdoor lights, revealing a tidy yard and an herb garden. “Willow?” called Tippy. She shrugged and motioned everyone to come in. “She is expecting us,” she said.

  It was clear when they walked in that Willow had been expecting them. She had bowls of covered tossed and pasta salads set out on the tables. Clearly, she was, at some level, anticipating their arrival. “Where is she?” asked Myrtle grumpily to Miles. “Really, this is carrying things too far. I know Willow is really New-Agey and everything, but not to be hostessing your own party is really too much. She could at least be asking us if we need tongs for the salad. Because, for heaven’s sake, we need some tongs for the salad!”

  Miles was about to answer her back when Willow finally drifted into the room, carrying yet another feline. She wore another flowing garment to replace the one that the wine had spilled on. Myrtle was sure that if she ventured into Willow’s bedroom, that she would find an entire closet full of flowing, hippyesque garments. This one, at least, wasn’t as bright as the one she’d been wearing at Miles’s house.

  Willow waved a vague hand. “Help yourselves, everyone.”

  The phone rang and Willow picked up a cordless receiver. “Oh hi Paul. Now? Where is the van? How many cats is it? No, that’s fine, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She hung up and glanced around for her car keys until finding them on a table. Willow put the cat down on the table and floated to the front door with her keys.

  “Willow?” Tippy asked with a hard edge to her politely cultured voice. “You’re not leaving your guests, are you?”

  Willow said in a wispy voice, “Oh, yes, I need to. My friend trapped a whole colony of feral cats and was on his way to transport them to the clinic when his van broke down. I’ll have to help him out. Myrtle knows all about it,” she said. No Myrtle didn’t, thought Myrtle. And Myrtle didn’t want to.

  Tippy looked nonplussed. “Right now? The cats have to be transported right now?” Myrtle had never heard such a shrill note in Tippy’s voice before.

  Willow tilted her head to one side. “The cats will be frightened, Tippy. They’ll need to head over to the clinic for their spaying. Besides, the staff is waiting for them. And my friend is stranded, too.”

  Tippy opened her mouth again but Willow had already slipped out of the door.

  “Well for heaven’s sake,” said Myrtle crossly. This supper club had been a perfectly rotten idea. If they’d been drinking a nice glass of chardonnay and talking about Dickens, this never would have happened.

  Tippy clicked her tongue. “I’m not sure your supper club plan was such a wonderful idea, Myrtle.” Several other members looked reproachfully at Myrtle.

  “My—”

  “Well, I guess there’s nothing left to be done but assume responsibility for the hostess duties.” Tippy immediately disappeared into the kitchen, and then returned with a pair of tongs. She manned the salad table and started helping plates. Myrtle scowled. She hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place, Miles was still off cleaning up the mess at his house, and now she was feeling guilty about a party that hadn’t been her idea to begin with. Then she sighed. Plus the fact she was supposed to be documenting the thing for Sloan’s blog. She desolately pulled out her cell phone and snapped off a few pictures, unenthusiastically.

  Maybe it was time for a small drink. She hadn’t really imbibed at Miles’s house since there was so much competition over the restroom facilities. She looked around her. No drinks. Not only were there no alcoholic beverages, there was no water, no iced tea, and no lemonade. She’d have to completely abandon her idea of drinking a glass of wine. Clearly, Willow’s careful regard for her health extended to abstaining from alcohol. Darn her.

  “Unforgiveable!” muttered Myrtle under her breath.

  “There’s no tea,” murmured Tippy to Myrtle in a flat voice. Apparently, the dire lack of courtesy at Willow’s house had put her in a state of shock.

  “I’ll see if there’s any in the fridge that we can use. Surely Willow made some,” said Myrtle.

  “I can check,” said Tippy quickly.

  “Now Tippy, I’m not going to fall and break my neck in Willow’s kitchen, I promise you.” Tippy’s overprotectiveness grated on Myrtle’s nerves. She leaned on her cane and thumped off to Willow’s kitchen.

  It didn’t look anything like Myrtle’s own sunny, kitschy kitchen. Where Myrtle had red-checkered curtains, Willow had dark linen. Where Myrtle had natural light, Willow relied on lava lamps. And where Myrtle had candles for those rare candlelight suppers, Willow had incense. At least, thought Myrtle, Willow seemed to share Myrtle’s affinity for roosters in the kitchen. At least on her potholders. Although roosters didn’t seem to jive with the otherworldly theme of the décor, Myrtle thought as she rummaged through Willow’s refrigerator, which was stuffed with organic foods. Myrtle finally found, behind the tofu, cut up vegetables in zipper bags, and heads of broccoli and cabbage, a pitcher of iced tea shoved way in the back.

  Everyone heaped their plates. At least the food looked decent, even if Willow had flaked out. Actually, thought Myrtle, all in all there seemed to be an overwhelming amount of drama going on. Blanche looked like she’d been run over by a truck, which was probably the strain of being around Jill. Even though she hadn’t noticed Jill in a while. Not since she left Miles’s house to go stir the barbeque. But Blanche could still be stressed out, just worried they were going
to have a run in. Myrtle couldn’t imagine Jill starting something with Blanche at a supper club, though she had gotten into a fight with her own sister there.

  Sherry had surfaced from wherever she’d been. She seemed to have even more eye makeup on and looked like the cat that’d eaten the canary. She was rumpled, keyed up, and laughing very loudly at something Blanche was saying. And Myrtle was pretty sure that Blanche was in no mood to be funny.

  Miles was back, face flushed from his cleaning exertions. But he looked unhappy about being there.

  Erma Sherman was in an uncharacteristically hushed mood and kept fingering the earlobe where the missing diamond earring used to reside. Myrtle was just relieved to have a break from Erma’s usual foolishness.

  Much of the salad seemed to be falling onto the floor. The intoxication of many of Willow’s guests was likely to blame. Miles walked up to Myrtle and said, “I’m going to run back home for a few minutes. Just in case anyone is looking for me.”

  “Must be your Type-A nature kicking in. Are you fretting over the red wine stains on your carpet?”

  Miles shrugged a shoulder. “Just a little. Most of it fell on hardwoods, but I did pay a lot for those throw rugs. I’ll just run over there and press on the stains with some paper towels. I’ll be back before we go over to Jill’s house for the barbeque.”

  Plenty of women noticed that Miles had left. The older, female population of Bradley paid close attention whenever there was a new, eligible, attractive, older man in town. They brought over their tastiest casseroles, being sure to say that it was so hard cooking for one person—could he please take the extra helpings? They dressed up in their prettiest dresses for book club and wore carefully-applied makeup. And Miles was still considered a newcomer. The way Bradley operated, he’d probably still be considered a newcomer ten years from now. His obituary would probably read “Miles Standish, a recent resident of Bradley, died ... .”

  Erma grabbed Myrtle’s arm tightly. “Where is Miles, Myrtle? Where did he go?”

  Myrtle shook her arm free in irritation. “He’s gone home to clean up the mess, Erma. He didn’t want the stains to set and he didn’t spend much time on stain removal before he came to Willow’s.”

  “I’ve got to catch up with him,” said Erma breathlessly. “What if he forgets about my earring? He might throw it away with the trash!” She barreled out of the house.

  Willow’s portion of the progressive dinner wasn’t nearly as lively as Miles’s. Time seemed to drag on and on. There was an audible sigh of relief from the group when Tippy announced it was time to head over to Jill’s house.

  The guests were more muted this time as they walked. Myrtle felt worn out from the evening and everyone else was probably the same. In contrast to Willow’s house, Jill’s house was brightly lit both outside and inside. Tippy breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad we’re going to Jill’s,” she said. “I don’t like playing hostess at someone else’s house. And Jill is always so on top of things.”

  “Jill will be more organized than her sister,” agreed Myrtle.

  But Jill wasn’t on top of things enough to greet the party at the door, which was a bit of a surprise. Tippy cautiously opened the front door and peeped in. “Jill?” she asked. She hesitated. “Maybe she just had to run in the back for a minute. She is expecting us!” Tippy gave a forced laugh as the scenario at Willow’s house repeated itself.

  The group walked quietly through the front door. Miles caught up with them from behind and gave Myrtle a questioning look. “Jill’s AWOL,” she said quietly.

  “Jill?” called Tippy again. She wavered before calling, “Cullen?” Sherry, their next-door-neighbor, seemed to think that Cullen might need a louder summons. “Cullen!” she hollered.

  Cullen walked in, looking hung-over. Or maybe still drunk, Myrtle wasn’t sure. He registered the large group of people at his door. “Oh, the supper club,” he said. Then, “Where’s Jill?”

  “You tell us!” retorted Myrtle. What was wrong with this family? Had they never thrown a party before?

  “Maybe she’s in the kitchen. She could have plugged in her headphones and not be able to hear us.”

  “When she’s expecting company at any minute?” asked Tippy dubiously. Even Tippy’s ladylike manner was slipping after all the rudeness she’d observed over the evening.

  “This,” said Myrtle in an aside to Tippy, “is exactly why we should give up on a supper club and return to the book club model. This would never happen if we were all eating cucumber sandwiches, drinking iced tea, and reading Pride and Prejudice.”

  They opened the kitchen door and stopped short. They’d found Jill, all right. Lying on the floor with a puddle of blood under her head and a cast iron skillet lying next to her.