She studied him, a bit like a scientist studies a lab rat just before he administers something deadly. When Norm squeezed the lemon into his tea, she walked away, pleased by his inadvertent assistance.
That night in bed, her poor husband couldn't sleep.
"I have a tummy ache, Myrt," he whimpered.
Tummy? What grown man said 'tummy'?
"Must be something you ate," she said, rolling away from him so he wouldn't see her grin.
* * *
The following night, she made his evening tea with its special ingredient. She did this every day afterward. After a week, Norm began complaining that his vision was blurry.
Myrtle told him to get new glasses.
Then she upped the rat poison to one teaspoon.
This went on for just over a month—until the night Norman Murphy did something phenomenal. He dropped dead.
Actually, it wasn't so much a drop, more like a crash. And a splatter.
It happened while she was sitting on the couch, watching House. Norm went into the kitchen and brought back a pitcher of orange juice. He was standing right in front of her, about to set it on the coffee table, when he let out a tortured groan. The pitcher flew out of his hands and juice erupted into the air.
Unfortunately, Myrtle wore it. From the top of her head, down to her toes.
"For heaven's sake!" she sputtered. "Watch what you're—"
Norm hit the floor. He slid, face-first, until he rested at her feet.
"Norm?"
He didn't move.
She prodded him with her foot. "Hey, get up."
Still no movement.
That's when it hit her.
Norm was dead.
She cocked her juice-drenched head to the side, watching him for a long moment. She'd always wondered if she'd regret her actions, feel sorry for him, miss him, maybe even feel guilty.
"Nope," she said to his lifeless body. "Nothing."
With a shrug, she set to work on cleaning up the mess he'd made.
"Can't have a stain on the floor," she muttered. "Now can we?"
After all, it was Norm who always told her that if there was a mess in the house he expected her to take care of it. Right away.
It took almost an hour to get her husband wrapped up in an old tarp and drag him into the garage. It took another hour to clean up the orange juice and bleach the floor. After that, Myrtle had a leisurely shower, whistling all the while. Then she changed into a more practical outfit—black pants, a black turtleneck sweater and black leather gloves. She was tempted to wear Norm's black ski mask, but figured that might be overkill.
Since she'd made Norm take back the sports car the day after he brought it home, she had to settle for either his old Honda or her Mazda. Panting and straining, she inched his tarp-covered body into the trunk of the Honda. Better his car than hers.
"Shoulda gone on a diet, Norm."
With a final grunt, she heaved him into the trunk, crammed his legs inside and tossed a shovel in beside him. Letting out a satisfied sigh, she closed the trunk and drove half a mile out of the city. Finally, she veered off down a country lane, then pulled over.
Under a pitch black, starless midnight sky, she began to dig. Thankfully, the ground was soft, newly plowed. When the hole was deep enough, she opened the tarp and rolled Norm's body toward the edge.
"Dust to dust," she said. "Et cetera, et cetera."
She shoved him into the pit.
Norm hit the bottom with a soft thump. He landed face up, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. His left arm was bent, half-covering his chest, and one leg was twisted under him. His jumbled pose made him look like a puppet that had lost its strings.
She tossed the tarp into the grave.
An hour later, the puppet was buried.
* * *
That was almost two months ago. Now here she was, sitting at the kitchen table, scouring the classified section of the Edmonton Sun. She had to consider employment ads because Norm, the old coot, had forgotten to renew his life insurance policy. She should've checked into that before she decided to get rid of him.
"That was a grave error on your part, Myrtle." She doubled over in a fit of laughter. "Oh my, you're punny."
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
With a huge grin on her face, she opened the door.
A white-haired woman in antiquated cats-eye glasses stood on the porch, looking as though she'd just stepped out of Vogue.
Myrtle recognized her immediately and her smile faded.
"Mother Murphy. What brings you to town?"
"I'm looking for Norman," her mother-in-law said, peering down the aquiline tip of her nose. "He hasn't called me in weeks. That's not like him."
She pushed past Myrtle and strode into the living room, her regal head swiveling back and forth as her piercing blue eyes took in every speck of dust. "Where is he?"
"He went camping with the boys." It was the first thing that came to mind.
"Camping?" Mother Murphy's lips pursed in disapproval. "When will he be back?"
Myrtle gritted her teeth. "I'm not sure. Would you like to sit for a few minutes before you head back?"
Her mother-in-law gave her the look. The one that said her son had married a moron.
"Of course I'd like to sit. Do you think I'd drive all this way just to stand here? It was a four-hour drive, in rush hour traffic, and only to find out that my son has gone…camping, of all things."
They settled in the living room, Mother Murphy in the armchair and Myrtle on the couch. For a long moment they simply watched each other. Myrtle knew the old woman was sizing her up. It's what she'd always done, ever since Norm had brought his fiancé to meet his mother.
"I wanted to let Norman know I've updated my will," her mother-in-law said finally.
Well, that was a shock. And it must have been written all over Myrtle's face because the woman continued. "Wadsworth died, and since I can no longer leave my money to my dearly departed cat, I've made Norman my beneficiary."
"Good for him."
"Of course, he probably won't see anything for a few more years. My doctor says I'm in tiptop shape." Mother Murphy gave her a chilly smile. "You probably won't see much of it anyway. I'm sure Norman will want to buy a new car, since you made him give his last one back." She leaned forward. "I never could understand why he married you. You're so…common."
Myrtle bristled. "Common? Your son's a plumber, for crying out loud. Not the royal heir to the throne." Her eyes narrowed. "Unless it's a toilet."
Her mother-in-law gasped, one hand raised to her throat. "Myrtle! I'm appalled." She raised her chin in defiance. "I will be speaking to Norman about this."
Myrtle hid a grin. "You do that. I don't care."
"Well, you should care," the old woman threatened. "I am his mother after all. He listens to me."
"He didn't when you told him not to marry me."
The old woman stood slowly. "I best be getting back before my neighbors wonder where I've gone."
"Didn't you tell them?" Myrtle asked, surprised.
Her mother-in-law was usually very meticulous at letting her neighbors know when she'd be gone for more than an hour. The woman was always so petrified that she'd get stuck somewhere and poor Wadsworth—a miserable, unpredictable Siamese—wouldn't get fed on time.
Correction, Myrtle. A miserable, unpredictable and now dead Siamese.
"I completely forgot to tell them," Mother Murphy admitted. "I was worried that something had happened to Norman. I know you don't look after him. He told me how you refused to wash his clothes or make his favorite meals." Her eyes iced over. "And how you watch soap operas all day."
At first, Myrtle said nothing. She was too busy trying to remember if there was another tarp in the garage.
She took her mother-in-law's arm and steered her back toward the living room.
"What are you doing?" the old woman demanded. "Let go of me!"
"You should rest a bit longer,"
Myrtle said. "You look exhausted."
"Do I?" Mother Murphy touched her face. "Perhaps I should rest. It has been a long drive. And talking to you is enough to exhaust anyone."
Myrtle smiled with saccharine sweetness. "How about I make you a nice cup of tea?"
The Death of an Old Cow
(Myrtle Murphy Mystery #2)
Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life—except her damned mother-in-law was still breathing. And that wasn't part of the plan. The bitch should have keeled over after drinking the three cups of tea laced with arsenic. Instead, she was passed out on the couch—snoring, of all things. And alive.
Myrtle scowled. The nerve of her!
The white-haired woman in her antiquated cats-eye glasses no longer looked like she had stepped out of Vogue. More like a commercial for Wrinkle-Away. Her face sagged, each crevice threatening to suck in both the foundation and blush she had caked on that morning. Her mouth was parted slightly, and every now and then she choked on a snore, her body jerking from lack of oxygen.
Myrtle shook her head in frustration. "Mother Murphy, what am I going to do with you?"
The woman had come looking for her son, but Myrtle had laid him to rest two months earlier. Permanently. Norman was buried in the woods, fertilizer for the voracious plants around him. He'd always said he had a green thumb.
"He hasn't called me in weeks," Mother Murphy had said when she had arrived hours ago. "That's not like him."
Myrtle had lied, told her mother-in-law that Norman had gone camping with his friends—the "boys". When Mother Murphy mentioned that she had changed her will and made Norman her beneficiary since her mangy Siamese cat Wadsworth had died, Myrtle's mind started churning. And when the witch of a woman started in on her, calling her "common", Myrtle knew there was only one thing to do.
"How about I make you a nice cup of tea?" she had suggested.
Her mother-in-law had peered over her glasses as if Myrtle were a bug that needed to be squashed with her Gucci heel. Then she lifted her imperious chins and settled onto the sofa.
"Make it extra sweet," she commanded.
* * *
"Three cups," Myrtle muttered. "With enough of my secret ingredient to put down a cow."
She scowled at the woman. Then on impulse, she reached over and pulled the bobby pins from the woman's salon hairdo. For good measure, she mussed it up with both hands.
Myrtle stood back to admire her handiwork.
"There. You look lovely, dahling."
She had a good mind to get a tube of red lipstick and pull a Bette Davis.
Mommy Dearest.
"Now, what the hell am I going to do with you?"
She glanced at her watch. It was getting late.
The phone rang.
"Myrt, it's Harry. Is Norm back from his trip yet?"
It came out like: Myrt, is Sarry. Snorm back from strip yet?
Harry was one of the boys, and Norman's best friend. They had played football in college together. Harry called every week, usually drunk and slurring his words. Tonight was no different.
"You there, Myrtie?" he slurred. "Thought ya said he's coming back this week."
"He had to go visit his mother," Myrtle snapped. "She's sick."
She stared at the woman lying unconscious on the couch.
"Maybe dying even," she added, smiling.
"Well," Harry drawled as if it were a two-syllable word, "us boys are going to the old Morris farm and we wanted Norm to come with us."
"It's almost midnight, for God's sake," Myrtle snapped. "What the hell are you going to do out there at this time of night?"
"We's goin' cow tippin'" she heard Frank Burgess yell. Frank was Harry's twin brother and just as irritating.
Cow tipping?
Myrtle rolled her eyes and stared at the phone in her hand. Norm's friends were a waste of—
She glanced at the old woman lying on the couch and a smile crept across her face.
"The old Morris farm is just off Highway 14, right?" she asked.
Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just let Norm know. We're getting Morris back for the stunt he played on Norm at the golf course. Okay, Myrtie?"
"Sure. I'll call him at his mother's." She hung up.
Standford Morris had been the bane of Norm's existence. A month ago at the annual senior's golf tournament, Stan had rigged the brakes on Norm's golf cart. Norm had ended up in the lake. He had always wanted to get Stan back.
An idea teased at the edge of her mind.
Her eyes widened. "Cow tipping?"
In the garage there was one vinyl tarp left, the one Norm had used to cover his sports car. She retrieved it and quickly spread it out on the floor near the couch. Then she unceremoniously rolled Mother Murphy off the edge. The woman landed with a thud, let out a soft groan, then continued her snoring. Even after Myrtle rolled her in the tarp, she remained unconscious.
Myrtle prodded the tarp with her toe, wishing she could just roll her out to the middle of the street and leave her there. But that wouldn't do. Like Norm, there had to be no evidence leading back to her.
Hunched forward, she grabbed the tarp and heaved it, stepping backwards bit by bit. By the time she reached the garage door she was covered in sweat.
"You certainly weigh a lot, Mother Murphy. You're just a fat old cow."
Straightening, she chuckled and brushed her limp bangs from her forehead. Then she continued to haul the tarp-covered body down the three steps to the garage.
Thunk, thunk, thunk!
Her mother-in-law would have a headache…if she ever woke up.
Resting for a moment, Myrtle leaned against the car, considering her idea. If it worked, the police would never suspect her. They'd have other suspects to question.
Another ten minutes and Mother Murphy was securely dumped into the trunk of Norm's car. Then Myrtle set off toward Highway 14.
* * *
"Ah, I see you guys," she murmured as she killed the headlights and slowed the car to a crawl.
Under a pitch-black, moonless sky, she passed by the dirt road where Harry had parked his car. Up ahead, another dirt road was unimpeded by parked vehicles so she pulled off and stopped the car. A quick reconnaissance of the area showed that the boys were still in Harry's car, probably polishing off a case of Old Milwaukee. Small red lights flickered inside. The boys were smoking up a storm, and she guessed they weren't all cigarettes.
"Let's go for a walk, Mother."
She popped the trunk and hefted the tarp over the side. It slid to the hard, dry ground. Grabbing the edge, she began pulling it into the field, pausing every now and then to catch her breath.
She had worn Norm's old gum boots, and although they were far too big, she figured the treads would never lead the police to her door. They'd be looking for a man with size eleven boots. And she'd be sure to dispose of them on her way home.
She stopped suddenly and held her breath.
A motionless shadow blocked her way.
It took her a moment to realize it was a blasted cow. The only cow in the field.
Perfect!
She positioned Mother Murphy alongside the sleeping cow, careful not to make any sudden moves or sounds. Even the old bat was agreeably quiet, her snoring disappearing altogether. Myrtle was tempted to unroll the tarp. Maybe her mother-in-law had suffocated.
A door slammed.
Crouching low, she peered under the cow's belly, her eyes seeking the car.
Harry, Frank and two other men moved stealthily across the field.
Time to move, Myrtle.
As she moved away and headed into the bushes, she glanced back. There was a bare hump in the grass where Mother Murphy lay sleeping. The cow stood stock-still next to her.
From the vantage point of the bushes, Myrtle could barely contain her glee. The boys were loaded. They'd never notice the tarp, even if they tripped over it.
She heard faint snickers. Then someone shushed the others.
&n
bsp; After that everything happened in slow motion. It was almost like she'd been teleported back to the last college football game, where Harry had scored the winning touchdown. In a single fluid movement, the four beefy men ran at the cow, their arms stretched, making no sounds. Until they hit the cow.
Thwack!
"Tackle!" Harry shouted.
In the same instant, the cow went down, waking suddenly and letting out a startled moo. But the momentum of the men toppled it and the cow hit the ground—and the tarp containing Mother Murphy—with a sickening splat that seemed to reverberate through the night.
The men cackled with intoxicated amusement.
"Let's get outta here," Frank slurred. "My shoes are covered in shit."
"Gawd almighty," Frank said. "Can't believe we did it."
"Yeah, that old cow must be deader than ground beef," one of the other men said.
Myrtle stifled a laugh, then sneaked back to her car.
On the ride home, she couldn't help but think of that last comment.
"That old cow must be deader than ground beef," she mimicked. "Yep, she sure must be."
Myrtle Murphy had only two things left to do. She'd dump the gum boots in a trash bin on the way home. And she'd pick up a cheeseburger at Burger King. She had a sudden craving for beef.
Maid of Dishonor
(Myrtle Murphy Mystery #3)
Myrtle Murphy thought she had everything out of life, like a dead husband buried in the woods and a mother-in-law thankfully flattened by a sleeping cow. However, she began to feel rather lonely. After all, now that Norm was gone, the house was deathly quiet. So quiet that even her breathing seemed to echo down the hallway of the dreary two-story Victorian home. And there was an emptiness that pervaded each room, as if every molecule of oxygen had been vaporized and replaced with a void of stale, shadowed nothingness.
Like a tomb, Myrtle thought one day. And there's no Harrison Ford coming to my rescue.
It was time to do something about it.
She picked up the phone and carefully flicked through the Rolodex.
No telling who's in here.
Her hand paused suddenly. "Rick Ferelli? Well, lordy, how did that get in here?"
She plucked out the small rectangular card and squinted. She recognized Norm's handwriting immediately. But what the hell was he doing with her sister's ex-husband's phone number?
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