Progressive Dinner Deadly

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

Chapter Six

  “That cat,” Myrtle told Elaine, “is living the high life.” Watching the cat eliminating the squirrel population had turned out to be great fun. She’d had to call Elaine to tell her about it. “She’s hunting like a maniac, just for fun. Pigging out on dry cat food and tuna in my backyard. She’s going to be one fat, happy kitty.”

  “Uh-oh. I think I forgot to explain something. There’s more to the Friends of Ferals program.”

  “I thought you told me I should feed and water the cat and keep it outside and that was it!”

  “No, no. Well, yes, you’re supposed to feed and water it and leave it outside. But you’ve got to capture the cat first of all. Then I’ll drive you and the cat to the vet that participates in the program and we’ll get it spayed or neutered. And give it its shots. Because it could end up with rabies or something! You’ve got to protect yourself and the cat first.”

  Myrtle was stuck at capture the cat. “Capture the cat? Wait in the bushes with a bedspread? It all seems very cloak and dagger. She trusts me now.”

  Elaine said slowly, “Do you have feelings for the cat now, Myrtle? It sounds like ... ”

  “Of course not. This is a wild animal we’re talking about. Undomesticated. It just seems like ... a dirty trick, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure it won’t hold it against you, Myrtle. You won’t even be around when the cat is caught. Hold on, I’ll come right over.”

  A few minutes later, Elaine was at Myrtle’s house, equipment in tow. “This will be a piece of cake. We’re just going to leave the food in the trap. The cat has gotten a few meals from you, so it should be easy-peasy getting her into the trap. She’ll just think she’s getting her usual meal. Then the trap will close and tomorrow morning we’ll take her to the vet.”

  Late that night, when Myrtle’s usual insomnia struck, she peeked out the kitchen window into the backyard. The food was gone and there was no cat in the trap. Myrtle smiled.

  Myrtle did try to go back to sleep after checking the cat trap. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the casserole dishes at Jill’s house. Had Tippy made a note of the women from book club who’d signed up to help Jill out by bringing a side to supper club? All of those women would have dropped off food and been in Jill’s house—all, obviously, before her murdered body lay on the floor. Except for the killer.

  Myrtle peeked out the side window. Was Miles up, too? She checked the kitchen clock. Two a.m. It was her normal time for waking up, and Miles’s too. She absently pulled on a long raincoat over her nightgown for decency’s sake, took her cane from beside the door, and strolled out into the warm night.

  Erma’s lights were out, she noted with relief. All she needed was Miss Nosy charging out of her house and pointing a flashlight on her. When she got closer to Miles’s house, she frowned. She couldn’t really tell if his lights were on or not. There was sort of a dim light coming from one of the windows, but that could maybe be a light you’d leave on all night in the kitchen. Or a bathroom nightlight. Or ...

  “Mama!” hissed beside her.

  Myrtle jumped and whirled around to see Red glaring at her from his police car window. “Red!” she fussed. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  “Well, you’re scaring me, floating around in the middle of the night like a ghost. What the devil are you doing out here at two a.m.?”

  “What the devil are you doing out here at two a.m.?” asked Myrtle.

  “I’m on patrol, Mama. Making sure Bradley’s skillet killer isn’t on a murdering rampage. Now what are you doing again?”

  Myrtle fidgeted with the hem of her raincoat. “I’m just seeing if Miles’s lights are on. Or out. I had this thought about the casserole dishes at Jill’s house and wanted to ask him about it.”

  “I think your lights must be out. Now I know you like going on walks with your insomnia and all, but really—is this the safest time to be ambling around the neighborhood? A violent crime was just committed, not far from where you’re standing. And it was most likely somebody you know, in this very neighborhood. There were plenty of opportunities for your wonderful supper club friends to slip away and murder Jill Caulfield.” He sighed when he saw Myrtle’s dejected look. “Why don’t you get into the car and I’ll drive you home.”

  “Red, I’m just two houses from home.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like your friend is awake. Please don’t go waking him up in the middle of the night to talk to him about casserole dishes. Besides, you might trip yourself up with that long raincoat and nightgown. Let me at least get you to your front door.”

  Myrtle decided to give in. When Red was in one of his stubborn moods, there was no arguing with him. “Anyway, if you’re well and truly awake and bored, I know something you could do.”

  Myrtle raised her eyebrows.

  “Your helpful hints column. This is early Wednesday morning. Isn’t your deadline nine a.m.?”

  It was funny how the mere mention of the column had made her sleepy, thought Myrtle as she walked to the newspaper office the next morning. She’d fought the Sandman as she pulled tips from her email inbox and the mail she’d gotten during the week. She’d hit the sack with great relief after compiling the tips into article form and giving it a quick read-over. She’d definitely not wanted to get up when her alarm went off at eight.

  She pushed open the old wooden door of the Bradley Bugle office and saw Sloan flitting from one paper-laden desk to another. If he was looking for something, it would have to be a needle in a haystack with all the paper and pictures stacked in the newsroom. Somehow, though, Sloan always managed to find what he was looking for.

  “Miss Myrtle? Thank the good Lord you’re here. Got a column for me? I’m desperate for content this week. I’m looking for some column I did a while back that maybe I can stick in as filler.” Sloan lifted another pile of papers hopefully.

  “How’s that possible, Sloan? We had a murder in town this week—there should be gobs of content for you,” said Myrtle.

  Sloan made a big hushing sound and pointed his beefy arm towards the back of the newsroom. Now Myrtle saw Willow, listlessly pecking at a keyboard. Myrtle looked chagrined and Sloan drew closer and whispered, “Don’t worry. I don’t think she even registered that you came in. She’s in a real state. I had to call her this morning and ask her to do the horoscopes. I figured, we need the content, she needs a distraction, right?”

  “But why do you need more content?” Myrtle said under her breath.

  “Well, the Good Neighbors column is taking a break this week because Emily is sick. And then the cooking column writer is on vacation. There’s only so much I can put in about the murder because we don’t really know anything. I hope to heaven that you took some pictures and wrote up that post on the supper club so we can have something on the blog. I’ve played up just about every angle I could possibly think of and it’s pretty played out now.” He clumsily patted Myrtle’s arm.

  She guiltily remembered that the pictures she’d unenthusiastically taken at the progressive dinner were probably not all that great. Besides, she wasn’t even sure how to get them off her phone. Not to mention the helpful hints column. “I was about to forget about the column this week, myself. Red reminded me about it.”

  Sloan looked like he needed a Tums. “I don’t even like hearing that, Miss Myrtle. That’s all I’d need this week, another vacancy in the newspaper.”

  Myrtle said in a low voice, “If everything works out well, we could have a great story on our hands.” Sloan frowned and Myrtle said, “The murder? I’m trying to do some detective work. Investigative journalism. You know.”

  “Detecting?” Now Sloan was too excited for even his stage-whisper. “That worked out great for us the last time, Miss Myrtle. The article was fantastic and the newsstands sold totally out of it. Remember that the state paper even picked it up on the AP wire?” Sloan puffed his chest out. “I’m putting you officially on assignment. But keep up with the hel
pful hints, too. And the blog. When you crack the case, give me the exclusive. Or, heck, write it yourself. We can use another story like that to boost circulation.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” said Myrtle dryly. “In the meantime, here’s my column. Maybe you can show some enthusiasm over it, too.”

  Sloan gave Myrtle a cautious smile. He was always a little nervous of her sarcasm or bad humor, having been familiar with both when she’d been his English teacher long ago. He’d never really gotten over the experience. He scanned the paper she handed him. “Uh, great stuff here. Love the tip about putting safflower seed in your birdfeeder to keep the squirrels away.”

  Myrtle peered closely at him to make sure he wasn’t making fun of her. Satisfied, she nodded. “It’s a good tip. There are plenty of birdwatchers in Bradley.” A movement caught the corner of Myrtle’s eye and she saw that Willow stood right beside her.

  Myrtle still couldn’t believe the change in Willow. Her clothes and hair seemed to droop and she looked like she had just grabbed something from her closet—or that she was wearing what she’d slept in. She didn’t have a drop of makeup on, and she wasn’t one of those people who could really go without makeup.

  Sloan widened his eyes dramatically at Myrtle in sort of a get-a-load-of-Willow look before turning to Willow and saying with forced jocularity, “Got that horoscope done? Boy, you don’t know what a relief that is. We’d have panic in the streets if folks didn’t have the newspaper’s astrological insights into the week ahead.”

  Willow just looked at him blankly, then handed him the sheets of paper. “Okay. I’ll see you next week.” She glanced at Myrtle with a look Myrtle couldn’t really read, and then ambled out the office door.

  Sloan gave Myrtle a little push. “You’d better go after her, Miss Myrtle. In the interests of crime-fighting and all. Maybe she can give you some clues. She’d probably point the finger at Cullen, of course. She’s sure to, she couldn’t stand him. Half her horoscopes warn of steering clear of thin Scorpio men. Go, go!”

  Myrtle hurried out the door, thumping her cane as she went. But by the time she’d made it out onto the sidewalk, Willow had already gotten into her car and was driving away. Myrtle watched her car speed off. Shoot!

  Her thoughts didn’t get any cheerier when she spotted Red’s police car. He pulled up next to her on the sidewalk and rolled down his window. “Chasing suspects down the street, Mama? Maybe Willow doesn’t want to talk to you. Most people don’t want people snooping around in their business, you know. You should stop poking around.”

  “I was just going to ask her something for newspaper business, Red,” said Myrtle in a huffy voice. “I am a reporter, you know. And Sloan wants me to write a story about the case and do a little investigating.”

  “I’ll have to have a talk with my old buddy Sloan,” growled Red. He’d asked Sloan to get his mother a job at the newspaper to keep her busy and out of trouble. He thought she’d still be tinkering around with her helpful hints column instead of making the leap to investigative journalism.

  Red was too late in his good intentions to talk to Sloan. With a story shortage on his hands and a deadline just hours away, Sloan suddenly got a brainstorm for an interesting piece. Anyone picking up at paper at the Piggly Wiggly next day would see “Octogenarian Myrtle Clover Investigates Murder for the Bradley Bugle,” on the very front page.