Chapter Fifteen
Puddin entered Myrtle’s house triumphantly, queen of all she surveyed and not a cleaning implement in sight. “At least I don’t get myself murdered,” she pointed out, proving she’d somehow known that Jill had been cleaning at Myrtle’s. “You can count on me more than that.” She ran her hand along a table top. There was very little dust there, although Myrtle hadn’t done more than a little swipe since Jill last cleaned. “One of those freaky, obsessive-compulsive people, wasn’t she? Got to have everything perfect.” The last was uttered in a voice of snarling superiority.
“I could count on Jill to do a good job,” said Myrtle repressively. “How do you know about obsessive compulsives, anyway?”
“Oprah reruns,” drawled Puddin. At that moment, some odd backfiring noises emanated from Myrtle’s front yard.
“What on earth is that?” breathed Myrtle. It sounded like an invasion.
“Dusty. He’s mowin’ the front yard.”
“Well, how does he plan on doing that? I’ve got my gnomes out there!”
Puddin shrugged and pushed a strand of lank blonde hair off her round face. “Don’t think you do, Miz Myrtle. Mr. Red gave Dusty some money to haul them back in the shed for you. Didn’t want you to bust your back.” When Myrtle’s face flushed red with fury, Puddin added. “You wouldn’t want your back thrown, Miz Myrtle. Lemme tell you,” this as she took a seat on Myrtle’s sofa, “that’s just the worst feeling around. Can’t clean, can’t do nuthin’.” She reached out for Myrtle’s telephone. “Gotta make a quick call.”
Myrtle wasn’t sure which fire to put out first: the gnome-plucking, grass-hacking Dusty or the telephoning Puddin with no cleaning sprays. She decided to set things straight with Puddin once and for all. If they couldn’t get off on the right foot this time, then it was time to find somebody else. Although that would mean shelling out more money, thought Myrtle uncomfortably. She’d really rather just keep who she had.
With that in mind, Myrtle said, “Puddin. No time to make calls. I need you to put on some gloves and throw away some food in the kitchen.”
A startled look replaced the usually dour expression on Puddin’s doughy face. She got off the sofa, and peered around the kitchen door. “Bless the good Lord. What happened here, Miz Myrtle?”
“Oh, Willow Pearce tried to kill me. That stuff has poison in it, Puddin, so handle it with respect. I don’t have the time or energy today for your foolishness, so go ahead and take care of the mess. After that, you can wipe down the kitchen—it’s okay to use my supplies this time, but I know you’ve got your own for next time. When Dusty is done with the yard, you can leave.”
Puddin adopted her usual sullen look again. This was probably due to the fact that Dusty was notoriously poky with the yard work. Half the time was spent coaxing his ancient equipment to perform and half was spent trolling slowly around the yard, collecting his thoughts. Since he was her ride, Puddin usually spent the extra time resting her thrown back on Myrtle’s sofa in front of her soaps. With her new regulations in place, Puddin plodded into the disorderly kitchen. She stopped short, gasped, and hurriedly made the sign of the cross.
“When did you become Catholic?” asked Myrtle with irritation. If Puddin had embraced “high church,” the world really had turned upside down.
“It’s a witch!” breathed Puddin.
“A witch?” Myrtle leaned forward on her cane and craned to look around Puddin’s dumpy form. “Pasha!” Myrtle was alarmed to see the black cat in the kitchen. “Oh, you must have let her in when you poked your way in here. I hope she hasn’t gotten into any of the food!”
Pasha glared at Myrtle for thinking her so ill-bred.
Puddin stammered. “That-that’s a witch, Miz Myrtle.”
Myrtle peered at Pasha. “No. It’s a feline, Puddin.”
“It’s not! It’s a witch in disguise. It’ll bring horrible suffering on your home.”
Pasha blinked at Puddin.
“Puddin, this is a cat. It’s not, nor has it ever been a witch. It brings horrible suffering to the animal sacrifices she offers me and that’s it.” Myrtle was a bit pleased, however, by Puddin’s antipathy to the cat. Maybe Pasha could also help keep Puddin in line.
Puddin reluctantly walked over to the sink and put on some latex gloves, keeping her eyes on the cat the entire time. “Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield have a black cat. And look what’s happened to them.”
Myrtle didn’t answer for a moment and Puddin took that as her cue to start throwing away large clumps of vegetable casserole under the watchful eye of the black cat.
Progressive Dinner Deadly Page 20
