“Am I that predictable?” asked Miles with a grimace as he pulled the car into Puddin’s driveway.
“In a good way,” assured Myrtle.
Puddin grinned in the backseat.
The next evening Miles picked Wanda up early to drop her off at Myrtle’s house to get ready. He muttered to Myrtle, “You may want to feed her a little, too. Otherwise, you know what may happen.”
“Otherwise she might eat most of the food at the gala,” said Myrtle. “Got it. Although I haven’t run an inventory of my pantry yet. Red might have had a couple more meals out of me.”
Miles left to get changed before he picked up Puddin. Then he would drive all four of them to the gala.
Myrtle said to Wanda, “I hope you’ll like this top I found for you. I figured it would go well with your black pants.” Not that Wanda ever wore any other color of pant. For all Myrtle knew, it was the same pair each time.
She removed the garment bag and presented the top to Wanda. Myrtle was a little nervous about the top. The reason it might have been on the clearance rack was likely because it was a bit too sparkly for the average Bradley matron. It was red with black sequins and an asymmetric hem with a fringe hem sleeve that would reach Wanda’s elbows.
Wanda reached out and touched the top reverently before taking it gently from Myrtle. She looked solemnly at Myrtle. “Thank you. And Miles, too.”
“You’re very welcome Wanda, but I only hope it fits! It was the smallest size the shop carried,” said Myrtle. “Try it on and then we’ll eat a snack before the event.”
Wanda shook her head, carefully touching a sequin. “Better eat now and try it on after. Don’t wanna spill on it.”
“Good point,” said Myrtle. She frowned. “Oh wait. Speaking of spills, I just remembered that I spilled mayo on my new funeral outfit after Amos’s service. It’s still at the cleaners.”
“Got other clothes?” asked Wanda, walking toward the kitchen.
“That’s an excellent question. Ordinarily the answer would be yes, but I have the feeling that the dry cleaner is actually the repository of more than one outfit,” said Myrtle, frowning even more ferociously.
She hurried to the kitchen and yanked open the pantry. “I’ll pull out some ideas for things for you to eat, Wanda, and then I better see what I can find to wear.” Myrtle hurriedly pulled out cereal, milk, bread, ham, cheese, tomatoes, and chips and then strode off to her room.
When she opened the closet, she groaned. “This isn’t good,” she muttered, sliding the hangers around and looking at the clothes. Nothing said gala. Many of the choices didn’t even say Bo’s Diner. She made a face.
Wanda wandered in, holding a sandwich and surveying her closet thoughtfully.
“What do you think, Wanda?” asked Myrtle.
“I think you should git to the dry cleaner,” said Wanda.
“It’s too late. They close at noon on Saturdays and it’s far past that, anyway,” said Myrtle.
Wanda tilted her head to one side and then pointed to a pair of polyester gabardine pull-on slacks and a turquoise poly knit top with a banded bottom.
“Really? I don’t think one wears elastic waists at galas,” said Myrtle doubtfully. “And I’m not sure about the top either. It blouses out so. Really, the whole ensemble isn’t good.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Wanda.
“I suppose I can dress it up with jewelry,” said Myrtle. Although she didn’t have the type of jewelry that could dress it up to the extent that was required.
A few minutes later, she walked out to the living room wearing the rather casual ensemble. She found Wanda wearing the new top and admiring herself in the mirror near the front door. Wanda started and blushed.
“That top looks stunning on you, Wanda!” said Myrtle warmly. “Between you and Puddin, I’m going to look vastly underdressed.
“Thanks,” muttered Wanda a little shyly. Then, “He’s pullin’ in the driveway.”
A moment later there was a toot of the horn to prove her right. They walked outside to see Puddin, beaming from the front seat.
Chapter Twenty
Miles rolled down his window. “Do you . . . well, will you have trouble getting in and out of the backseat, Myrtle?” He gave Myrtle’s ensemble a confused stare.
“Certainly not! I’m fine sitting in the backseat with Wanda.” Myrtle devoutly hoped that no one was actually paying any attention to the length of time that it took her to fold her legs into the car. She blamed it all on the fact that she had to put the blasted cane in first.
Puddin was pleased as punch at being in the front seat with Miles, but her eyes darkened as Wanda quietly climbed in next to Myrtle. She started muttering what sounded like dire statements under her breath as Miles pulled out of the driveway and headed out toward the Bradley Country Club.
Myrtle ignored her. “So tell me, Wanda, what are you looking forward to tonight? And how is your gardening going?” She smiled. “Sort of like the old nursery rhyme: how does your garden grow?”
Wanda said solemnly, “Garden is okay. Tomatoes ain’t so hot. Lookin’ forward to the guy talking about herbs.” She paused. “An’ keepin’ Puddin safe.”
Puddin exploded from the front seat. “Just you keep yerself safe! Never needed nobody to protect me.”
Miles sighed at the inauspicious start to the evening.
Myrtle barked in her schoolteacher voice, “Puddin, declare a truce! Right now. Wanda is trying to be nice.”
Puddin pouted but grouched, “Okay.” She paused. “I know you just wanna look out for me.”
Myrtle said through gritted teeth, “Thank you. Changing the subject, Puddin, what are you looking forward to tonight?”
“The chicken pasta,” said Puddin with anticipation.
“Besides the food,” said Myrtle impatiently.
Puddin drew a blank. “Meetin’ people?” she said in an uncertain voice. Then she shrugged.
Fortunately, the trip to the country club didn’t take long. This club had been around for ages and was certainly not in the crowning glory it was when Myrtle was a little girl. The golf course was challenging mainly because of the shape the greens were in. The swimming pool was outdated and tufts of grass impudently pushed through cracks in the concrete surrounding it. The clubhouse itself looked rather tired and was in dire need of a fresh coat of white paint and black for the shutters. But it was the only place in town with an outdoor area large enough to hold this sort of event. White tents scattered the grounds. There was a large tent with chairs for the series of speakers and a couple of smaller tents with tables for food. There was even a tent set up for a botanical plant sale (with lots of plastic to keep everyone’s fine clothes clean).
They got out of the car. Puddin gaped. “Everybody looks pretty.”
“Well, they look their best, anyway.” Myrtle sighed as she looked down at her own attire. “All right, let’s make plans to meet up at the car at . . . what time, Miles? Ten o’clock? Ten-thirty?”
Puddin and Wanda looked at each other and then lifted up their watch-less arms.
Miles said, “You could both check your phones for the time.”
Puddin and Wanda looked at each other again.
“Will we ever be able to meet up?” asked Miles, looking discouraged. “Or will we end up camping out at the country club all night?”
Myrtle said, “There aren’t enough people in Bradley for us to get that separated from each other. I guess let’s meet at the car when the last speaker has finished.” She tilted her head to one side. “Puddin, this is the first chance I’ve had to really see that scarf. It looks good on you with the black outfit.”
Puddin grinned at her. “Thanks. Might hafta go back there now I got my fifty dollars. Nice of her. Specially since I ain’t never laid eyes on her before.” She spotted the food tent and said, “Gotta go.”
“Hold on!” said Myrtle, but the DJ turned the music volume higher and Myrtle’s words were lost.
Wanda said something quietly to Miles and then loped off.
Myrtle said curiously to Miles, “What was Wanda saying to you?”
Miles sighed. “She was pointedly reminding me that ginger ale was good for migraines. I certainly hope that doesn’t mean that she foresees a resurgence of my headache.”
Myrtle nodded distractedly. “I’ll need to talk to Puddin again.”
Miles said “I suppose there are a lot of people to talk to tonight. Are we following up with Philomena and/or Alice? Any other suspects here tonight?”
Myrtle gazed over at the ambulance parked some distance from the event and the EMTs standing casually outside it. “Not that he’s a suspect, but it looks like Philomena’s brother Steven is working the event.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. “Is there much need for an ambulance at a garden club gala? Might someone have a coronary at the excitement of learning more about the care of azalea bushes?”
Myrtle said, “More likely that someone faints from the heat. Or, in this town, that someone is a target of a murderer.”
“What do you make of Wanda’s determination to keep an eye on Puddin?” asked Miles.
Myrtle said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was bent on bothering Puddin. But knowing Wanda, I have to assume that she is simply concerned about her safety. And I’m enjoying that for once, I’m not the one who’s supposed to be in danger.”
They walked toward the tents and Miles said, “Isn’t that Josephine up there?”
“Josephine? At the garden club gala?” scoffed Myrtle.
“Well, Wanda and Puddin are here. Why not Josephine?” said Miles mildly.
Myrtle squinted ahead. “I don’t think Josephine is all that interested in horticulture. Even if she was, there’s probably a limited amount she could do while living in an apartment. Oh, wait. I see. It looks as though she’s working. She’s helping the catering crew and busing tables and whatnot.”
Miles said in an undertone, “Sounds like the perfect set-up for murder.”
Myrtle said, “Uh-oh. Tippy is heading this way.” She fruitlessly searched for a hiding place as the president of the garden club headed her way.
Tippy called out, “Myrtle? Is that you?”
Myrtle grimaced. “Hi, Tippy. Looks like a great event.”
Tippy said, “I’ve heard some great feedback already.” She paused and glanced at Myrtle’s outfit. “I knew I should have listed the attire on the invitation.”
Myrtle didn’t defend her clothing. Age had its privileges.
“If you have any extra time tonight, I’d love another volunteer for the golf cart shifts,” said Tippy. “It’s easy. If you know how to drive a car, you’ll have no problem with a golf cart.” She frowned. “You do know how to drive a car still, don’t you?”
“I drove just the other day,” said Myrtle with a sniff. She carefully didn’t mention the fact that Miles had found fault with her driving.
“Great! Then you’ll have no trouble. We’re simply picking up the elderly and infirm and transporting them to their car. You might need a ride yourself, I’d imagine,” said Tippy thoughtfully.
“Certainly not!” said Myrtle.
Tippy said in a hurry, “No, I suppose not. By the way, do you have the money for the rest of your tickets?”
Myrtle said, “I didn’t want to carry that much cash with me tonight. I’ll mail you a check.”
“Then you did sell the rest of your tickets. Good job, Myrtle, I knew I could count on you,” said Tippy, beaming.
Myrtle shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well, I always like to do what’s expected of me. See you later, Tippy.”
As they walked away, Miles murmured, “Were you trying to be a rebel, or does it come naturally?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Myrtle, annoyed. “I’m simply forgetful. All of my good clothes are at the dry cleaner. It doesn’t even matter since I’m so much more comfortable in what I’m wearing. It was the smartest choice.”
Miles said, “What do we do first?”
“Let’s get a plate of food and a glass of wine and have a seat,” said Myrtle.
“Was wine included in the price of the ticket?” asked Miles, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, but only the one glass.” As a particularly raucous laugh came from a nearby tent Myrtle said, “Of course, it’s a cash bar after that.”
Miles said, “I’ll skip the wine, anyway. Not only am I the driver, but I still have that migraine hovering in the background.”
They stood in a particularly long food line. Puddin, Myrtle noticed, was much nearer the front. Either a rush of people had gotten in the line after Puddin, or else she had cut in front of everyone. Myrtle rather suspected the latter. Myrtle tried calling out to her, but she either couldn’t hear her or deliberately ignored her.
Maisy Perry walked toward them with a smile. “Miles! Just the person that I wanted to see.”
Miles flinched, knowing that this couldn’t portend anything good. “Hello, Maisy,” he said warily.
Another loud burst of raucous laughter from the table of revelers made Maisy jump. Myrtle sighed. Maisy was the poster child for nervousness. Her thin body trembled at the smallest provocation and her wide gaze from behind her huge glasses seemed to have a horrified expression all the time. Myrtle usually ended conversations with Maisy feeling anxious, herself as if it were some horrid, communicable condition.
Maisy said to Miles, “I was hoping you might be interested in joining a Scrabble club that my friends and I are putting together.” She glanced over at Myrtle and said reluctantly, “You too, Myrtle, of course.”
Miles gave a short laugh. “I wouldn’t advise bringing Myrtle in unless it’s an advanced group. And I’m honored, Maisy, but I don’t think I have time in my schedule for playing Scrabble on a competitive basis.”
“Oh, it’s simply games among friends,” pressed Maisy. “At the church, so you know it can’t be too cutthroat.” She gave a tinkling laugh.
Miles looked desperately at Myrtle for some sort of escape route. Myrtle shrugged. They couldn’t get out of the food line if they wanted to eat, and Maisy was sure to continue extolling the virtues of the club the entire time. Myrtle didn’t particularly want to hear Maisy get whiny, so she threw Miles a lifeline.
“As a matter of fact, Maisy, Miles has been taking a class and doesn’t have much free time at all,” said Myrtle breezily.
Miles nodded eagerly in agreement.
Maisy asked Miles earnestly, “What type of class and when does it meet? Maybe there wouldn’t be a conflict.”
Miles looked to Myrtle for rescuing as he drew a blank as to what type of class he was taking.
“An art class. When does the Scrabble club meet?” asked Myrtle.
“Saturdays at noon.”
“Pity. That’s precisely when his art class meets. Isn’t that right, Miles?” asked Myrtle.
Maisy’s face fell and then she said in a chipper voice, “Well, the nice thing about being a club president is that I have the leeway to change the meeting time! I’ll change it if you’ll come, Miles.”
Miles looked down into Maisy’s anxious face. He reluctantly said, “All right.”
Maisy clapped her hands. As they ambled toward the food, she regaled Miles with the general wonderfulness of the group, the space, the sense of respect between players, and how well he was going to fit in while he glumly proceeded through the line.
Then, Myrtle and Miles were both aghast as Erma Sherman sat down at their table. “How’s the case going?” she demanded in a voice that was far too loud.
The only good thing about seeing Erma, reflected Myrtle, was that it made her feel better about what she was wearing. “It’s fine,” she answered in the kind of tone that indicated it was the end of the conversation.
Erma next turned her vile attentions on Miles. “Good to see you here at the gala. You really should join garden club.”
Miles looked distressed at this further
assault on his free time. “No time,” he muttered desperately.
Erma said, pursing her lips, “Well, that is a shame. Because you’ve got crabgrass in your yard and I’d think you’d be looking for some help in getting rid of it.”
Myrtle glared at Erma. “If Miles has crabgrass in his yard, it’s because it’s been infested by your yard, Erma. As you very well know.”
Erma gave her braying laugh and said, “Anyway, think about it. Boy, am I glad I made it tonight. I’ve had the worst intestinal problems this past week.”
Myrtle and Miles grimaced as Erma droned on about a most inappropriate topic over dinner. When she finally stopped short, they blinked in surprise.
Erma was gaping across the tent. “Why, Wanda is here!” She gave Myrtle an accusatory stare. “You didn’t tell me that Wanda was going to be here.”
“Should I have?” asked Myrtle, still annoyed at sitting next to Erma at all.
“Of course! I’m a huge fan of hers. Remember when I asked you to tell me the next time she was over at your house? But I’ve not heard from you about her,” said Erma.
Myrtle gave her a tight smile.
Miles, his curiosity forcing him to break his traditional silence when it came to Erma, said, “And why are you a fan of Wanda’s?”
Erma said, “Don’t you read the paper? She wrote a horoscope a few weeks ago that said Erma, call the electrician.”
“Did you call him?” asked Miles.
“Did I call him? Of course I called him! If a psychic calls me out by name and tells me to call an electrician, I’ll do exactly what she says. And guess what?” asked Erma.
Myrtle and Miles waited, but naturally Erma was one of those annoying people that actually made you ask. “What?” they both said impatiently.
“When he got to my house, he found a wiring hazard that could have burned down my house! Burned the whole thing down! What’s more, it was during that windy period—maybe it could have burned down your house, too, Miles!” Erma’s eyes gleamed at the thought of the potential carnage.
Wanda walked up to them. She did not seem to have made it to the food yet and she eyed the spread hungrily. Then she said to Miles, “You goin’ to listen to the next lecture?”
Cleaning is Murder (A Myrtle Clover Cozy Mystery Book 13) Page 17
