Wanda levelled a look at Myrtle. “Yer in danger.”
Myrtle sighed. “I’m well-aware I am. At least I take it seriously.”
“But you don’t stop nosin’ around,” said Wanda sadly.
“If you told me I was going to die, then I certainly would,” said Myrtle. She studied Wanda closely, but the reported danger was apparently not registering on Wanda’s psychic radar as fatal because Wanda only shrugged again.
Wanda said, “Got some more horoscopes fer next week.”
Myrtle dug around in her purse and produced a notebook and pencil. “All right, shoot.” Myrtle much preferred taking down dictation from Wanda instead of trying to decipher the illegible and mostly-illiterate scrawls she’d occasionally hand her.
Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat and appeared to be on the lookout for any intrepid insects that might be traipsing around Wanda’s home.
Wanda drawled, “Frank Wilson needs to change banks. Them fees’ll kill him.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. “What bank is he with?”
“He’ll know,” said Wanda.
Myrtle said, “All right. The next one?”
“Let Marian Moore know to jest send her kid to community college. He ain’t ready for a big school,” she said.
This continued for several more minutes until Wanda finished up. Myrtle carefully put her pencil and notebook back in her purse.
Myrtle said, “There’s one other thing I need to ask you, Wanda. Sloan and I thought the article on Lillian might be more interesting for readers if we mentioned the fact you’d made a fateful prediction for her. Would it be all right if I mentioned your name in the story?”
Wanda made a face. “Rather not.”
Myrtle said, “Well, I can certainly understand your reluctance. It is a crime story, of course.” Myrtle preened a little. She enjoyed the prestige of being a crime correspondent. “But remember you’re in the paper every week.”
“Jest there with the comics,” said Wanda dismissively.
“Yes, but with this particular newspaper, everyone turns to the comics first. Nobody can handle the rest of the paper until they’ve read something funny. And I think a lot of people don’t even read the comics first—they go right to your horoscopes. In fact, Sloan has mentioned several times to me that the subscriptions for the paper haven’t declined but have actually increased since you’ve been onboard.” Myrtle frowned. “I think he should be giving you some sort of new reader finder’s fee. Perhaps he should increase your compensation.”
Miles muttered as he glanced nervously around the shack, “For sure.”
“Anyway, I completely understand if you don’t want to be in the story. But I do think it might give your psychic reading business a bit of a boost having your name in a front-page story. Who knows—the article might even be picked up on the wire and other newspapers in other towns might run it,” said Myrtle, getting slightly carried away at the thought of her yet-to-be-written piece.
Miles frowned doubtfully at this.
Wanda tilted her head to one side. “Wouldn’t mind gettin’ more bizness.”
“Well, hopefully, and if the people of Bradley have any sense, it will lead to more business. Clearly, I can’t make any promises, though. The people of Bradley have proven themselves foolish on quite a number of occasions,” said Myrtle.
Wanda nodded. “Okay. Go ahead and run it.”
“Thank you,” said Myrtle with a smile. She looked around the shack and said, “Things look great here, by the way.” It did. Despite the laundry covering surfaces willy-nilly, there weren’t the stacks of clutter on the floor. “Is Crazy Dan not bringing as much stuff inside as he was?”
For a while, Crazy Dan was doing a good imitation of a hoarder. He’d drive by houses on trash day and see what people had left out for the garbage man on the street. Those things would make their way home and end up stacked against the walls, on tables, and in chairs. Myrtle and Miles had helped Wanda make numerous trips to the Goodwill to donate the items and Dan had been bringing things in just as fast as they went out.
“Dan has a new hobby,” she drawled.
Miles murmured, “I’m almost afraid to ask what that is.”
“Gawfin’,” answered Wanda.
Miles stared at Wanda. “Sorry?”
“Gawfin’.”
Miles turned to look questioningly at Myrtle.
“For heaven’s sake, Miles! Golfing. Pay attention.” Myrtle frowned at him.
Miles blinked. “That’s rather an expensive hobby, isn’t it? Green fees and equipment and all?”
Wanda shook her head. “Naw. He don’t play right. Picked up a gawf club off the side of the road and made his own course. Shoots balls into tin cans and scattered them cans all over the yard.”
“That’s very enterprising of him,” said Myrtle. She glanced at her watch. “Well, I suppose we should be heading out. I need to write that article and send it over to Sloan. I’ll give him the new horoscopes, too. Thanks for everything, Wanda.”
Miles stood up with alacrity. As Myrtle was walking out the door, he pulled his wallet out and surreptitiously gave Wanda some cash. “For a rainy day,” he said quickly.
Chapter Five
As Miles drove away , Myrtle said, “Why do I have the feeling that ‘golf course’ is soon going to be up on their sign along with ‘live bait,’ ‘boiled peanuts,’ and ‘psychic readings’?”
Miles sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s not all that different from miniature golf, if you think about it. At least it was a productive visit, right? You received your permission from Wanda for the news story. And you were warned about imminent danger again.”
Myrtle said, “She never said it was imminent. I’ll simply keep an eye out, as I always do. Now, let’s talk about tomorrow morning.”
Miles said uncomfortably, “I hope by ‘morning’ you mean eight o’clock and not four o’clock.”
“Technically, four o’clock is morning.”
“For some people. But not for people who haven’t slept for days,” said Miles pointedly.
Myrtle said, “I’m not hosting Lieutenant Perkins for breakfast at four o’clock, Miles. But I do think I need to prepare fairly early. For one thing, Puddin hasn’t cleaned my house for a ridiculous amount of time.”
Puddin was Myrtle’s unreliable housekeeper. The only reason Myrtle continued employing her was because her husband, Dusty, was an inexpensive yardman. It was impossible to find inexpensive mowing in Bradley.
Miles said, “What else is new?”
Myrtle frowned. “She’s been especially insufferable lately. I’m going to go ahead and call her now, although it will be a pain to have her vacuuming while I’m trying to write my story for Sloan.”
She took her phone out of her purse and dialed Puddin’s number. Dusty picked up.
“Too dry to mow, Miz Myrtle!” he hollered in the phone. “Not healthy for grass to be cut too short when it’s dry.”
It was always too wet, too dry, too hot, or too cold for Dusty.
Myrtle said impatiently, “Never mind about that, Dusty. I’m calling for Puddin.”
Dusty grunted and called for Puddin. A minute or so went by before Puddin said sullenly, “H’lo?”
“Puddin, it’s me. I need you to come by and clean for me.”
Puddin growled into the phone, “My back is thrown, Miz Myrtle.”
Myrtle said, “Absolutely not. That was your excuse for the last two weeks. And the last time I went to my internist, he told me in no uncertain terms that a back can be helped by moderate activity.”
Puddin paused and then said, “Speak English, Miz Myrtle.”
“He said you should clean for me. Now come on over. I have guests tomorrow morning for breakfast and no time for your foolishness.”
Puddin drawled, “Have to see if the car will start.”
&nbs
p; “Well, if it doesn’t, then take Dusty’s truck. It sure doesn’t sound as if he’ll be using it since he says it’s too dry to mow anyone’s grass,” said Myrtle with a sniff. “I’ll see you at the house in thirty minutes.” She hung up the phone.
Miles said, “About this breakfast tomorrow. You’re just planning on eggs and bacon and grits, right? Maybe some cereal?” His voice sounded hopeful.
“Absolutely not! That would be pedestrian and predictable. Perkins is a hard-working police detective and he deserves something special. I was thinking about making quiches. Or egg benedict. Or maybe even a soufflé.”
Miles gave her an anxious sidelong look and Myrtle snapped, “Eyes on the road, Miles! We don’t need to have an accident just a few blocks from home.”
Miles stared back at the road in front of him. “I think that’s taking on a lot, Myrtle. You have a front-page story to write for Sloan. You have to keep Puddin on track with her cleaning and make sure she’s not watching TV instead of working. Besides, you probably don’t even have all the ingredients you need for these fancy breakfast recipes.”
Myrtle waved a hand in the air. “Sure, I do. It’s just eggs and stuff. Those are staples at my house and Red just drove me to the store a few days ago. Besides, if there’s an ingredient I’m short on, I can just substitute something else. That’s what cooking is all about—creativity. And I’m a creative person.”
Miles sighed. Then he said quickly, “What can I bring over? Guests are supposed to bring over contributions, after all.”
Myrtle said doubtfully, “Do they do that for a breakfast? I’m not really sure about that. That’s more of a dinner thing where maybe they bring over a bottle of wine.”
“Perhaps it would be good to serve alcohol tomorrow,” muttered Miles.
“No, no, it’s way too early. Besides, Perkins has to go off to work immediately afterwards. It’s far too early even for mimosas or bloody Marys. I suppose, if you must bring something, perhaps a bread of some kind. That might work well. But I don’t want Perkins to feel uncomfortable if he doesn’t bring anything, so be sure to be unobtrusive when you bring it in.”
“I’ll try,” said Miles.
Myrtle was furiously writing her story for Sloan when she heard a loud vehicle rattling up in front of her house. She peeked out the window to see Dusty’s truck with Puddin’s pale, pasty, unhappy face behind the wheel. She opened the door and waited as Puddin slouched unhappily up the front walk.
Myrtle glared at her. “Where are your cleaning supplies, Puddin?”
Puddin glared back. “Don’t got ‘em, do I? I’m in Dusty’s truck. He don’t got no cleaners.”
“I don’t have time today for this nonsense. You should have grabbed your supplies from your car before you got into Dusty’s truck.”
Puddin raised her eyebrows. “You tole me to come right away.”
Myrtle gestured Puddin inside. “For heaven’s sake. You’d try the patience of a saint. Just come on in and use my cleaning supplies, like you usually do anyway.”
“Them supplies is expensive,” muttered Puddin sullenly.
“Yes, I know,” said Myrtle. “That’s my point. Never mind. You get started with the cleaning. I’ve got to finish this article and send it over to Sloan . . . I have a deadline.”
Puddin, naturally, picked the loudest activity to start with so she could be at the maximum level of being annoying. The vacuum cleaner roared back and forth beside Myrtle, being shoved around by a resentful Puddin. Myrtle put headphones on and gritted her teeth as she continued to write the story.
At some point, the roaring stopped and Myrtle continued to write, headphones on and soft music playing. But when she finally noticed it was far too quiet in her house, she took the headphones off and looked around the room. She saw Puddin sitting on her sofa, talking on the phone.
“Puddin!” hissed Myrtle.
Puddin said in annoyance, “One minute, Miz Myrtle.”
“I think you’ve already had that,” muttered Myrtle.
Puddin ignored her. “All right. All right, Bitsy. I’ll be right over there. Yep, got the truck.”
Puddin hung up and Myrtle stared coldly at her. “I hope by ‘be right over,’ you meant in two hours. You haven’t even finished vacuuming the house, Puddin!”
Puddin shrugged. “Can’t do it, Miz Myrtle. That was my cousin Bitsy.”
“Yes, I gathered it was one of your various and sundry cousins. What did she want?”
Puddin said, “She threw her back and needs a ride to the doctor.”
Myrtle closed her eyes and then slowly opened them. “Surely, thrown backs aren’t contagious.”
Puddin shrugged. “Maybe it’s one of them genetic things.”
“Maybe you could simply advise her on it, since you experience them so frequently yourself,” said Myrtle smoothly.
Puddin screwed up her face. “Don’t like it when you don’t speak English, Miz Myrtle. Anyway, gotta go. See you later.”
“Later when?” demanded Myrtle.
But Puddin had already gone, leaving the vacuum in the middle of the floor.
Myrtle muttered dire imprecations about the complete unreliability of Puddins in general and glanced around the small living room. She supposed it would appear clean enough if she kept the lighting fairly low. Would it be odd to dine by candlelight at seven-thirty in the morning? Regardless, she didn’t have any time to worry with it all. She needed to finish her story for Sloan and then get things ready for Perkins to come over tomorrow. She wanted to put out a fresh tablecloth in the kitchen and use her better china. She just needed to make sure her better china wasn’t dusty from disuse.
It took her quite a bit longer to do these things than she’d thought. But that was because Tippy called once again to speak to her and fret about the silent auction and the suitability of having it go on as planned or politely shelving it for another date. Myrtle had been tapping her foot through the entire phone conversation until she was finally able to get Tippy off the phone. She was worried Sloan had either forgotten about her story or had given up on it for the day, so gave him a follow-up call to let him know she had just emailed it to him ten minutes after she’d gotten off the phone with Tippy.
“By the way, you need to give Wanda a raise,” said Myrtle.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Why do you say that?” Sloan’s voice was cautious.
“Think of all the attention she brings for the paper. You’d told me yourself subscriptions were up and that simply doesn’t happen for newspapers these days. Since Wanda is such a draw, she should have a cut of the profits.”
Sloan said, “Miss Myrtle, we’re not really drowning in profits here. We’re barely keeping our heads above water.”
“So is Wanda,” said Myrtle sharply.
Sloan sounded miserable as he always did when he had to contradict Myrtle. “Miss Myrtle, I’m just not really sure that’s feasible.”
“I see.” Myrtle pursed her lips. “I didn’t want to do this, Sloan, but I happen to have a transcribed horoscope column from Wanda in my possession right this very minute. It has gobs of information your subscribers are going to want to see. But I don’t feel right hitting ‘send’ on the email until I have your word you’re going to increase Wanda’s compensation.”
There was a groan on the other end.
Myrtle snapped, “I don’t have time to play games. It’s time for me to turn in since I have a busy day tomorrow. But I’m sure there’ll be a lot of disappointed people when there’s no horoscope in the paper.”
A moment later Sloan quickly offered to increase Wanda’s salary by five percent. Myrtle smiled and sent the email.
Finally, she dropped into bed and, surprisingly, slept very soundly.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Myrtle rose rather late—past four o’clock. She hurried to the window to see if the
newspaper was there. Spotting it, she rushed outside to make sure her story was on the front page. It was. Sloan had even found a photo in his archives of Lillian’s flower shop to accompany it. And Wanda’s horoscopes made it in too, of course. In Sloan’s eyes, that was possibly the more important piece to include.
Myrtle carefully set the paper on the kitchen table, where her story could be easily seen. Then she pulled out one of her old cookbooks and searched for soufflés in the index.
“Miles was wrong,” she muttered to herself. “Just basic stuff in these things. Butter, eggs, flour, milk, salt, nutmeg.” She paused. There were quite a lot of eggs in this particular recipe. She checked her fridge. She’d simply have to be a couple of eggs short.
Myrtle glanced at the recipe again. What on earth was comtè cheese? “This recipe is no good,” she murmured. She walked into the living room to pull up another recipe off the internet. But she found the internet was surprisingly unobliging. It prompted her to use gruyère cheese or grated parmesan. She was pretty sure she had emptied the can of parmesan the last time she’d had spaghetti. Myrtle strode back into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. It appeared she only had a loaf of processed cheese. Velveeta would have to do.
Fifteen minutes later, Myrtle remembered that not only was she to prepare breakfast for Lt. Perkins, she was also supposed to concoct a casserole for Lillian’s son. And perhaps her daughter. The nice thing about casseroles was that you could sort of make them up as you went along.
“Let’s see. A protein, a vegetable, and a carb. And cream of something soup,” muttered Myrtle. The only problem was the only protein she had was solid as a rock in her freezer. Red and she had just gone to the store, but apparently they’d picked up all the wrong things. She snapped her fingers. She had all those cans of tuna in the pantry. She pulled out a few of them and then considered the vegetable. The frozen chopped spinach packets in the freezer would be messy and maybe watery once they defrosted. But if she put extra carbs in the casserole, it should absorb the excess liquid.
Hushed Up Page 4
