A Body at Bunco (24 page)

Myrtle beamed at him. “Really? Let me see that.” She walked over to the desk across the small living room and sat down. Her pocketbook was on the top of the desk and she reached in and fumbled around until she found the tattered sticky note. Then she carefully logged into Facebook.

Miles continued talking as she checked the
Bugle
’s profile page. “Did Sloan mention anything about his social media strategy? I have to say, this seems like a step in the right direction, but I was a little surprised that he’d try something like this campaign. Did he mention that he hired a publicist or a social media advisor to help him sort it all out?”

Then Miles gave a surprised yelp and Myrtle glanced over to see that Pasha had forsaken the sunbeam and had decided to scrutinize Miles in a very up close and personal way. From the vantage point of his lap. Miles eyed the black cat warily as she surveyed him. Finding Miles most disappointing, Pasha jumped back down again.

Myrtle turned back to the computer, distracted, still going from profile to profile and seeing all the mentions and the support that the newspaper was getting online.

Miles repeated his question about Sloan’s strategy and Myrtle said, “Sloan has
no
strategy. He tends to be very mistrustful of social media because he believes so-called citizen journalists will end up putting him out of a job one day. They share news too, you know. I decided that the
Bugle
needs to actually use its Facebook and Twitter profiles. When I logged in, they hadn’t been used for so long that they were starting to grow cobwebs in the corners.”

Myrtle stopped talking for a moment to continue reading. Then she crowed, “Miles, everyone is saying just the right things! They all are supporting the
Bugle
and mentioning that they want the paper to be the way it
used
to be. And they’re using the
hashtag
! Oh, this is very exciting.”

Miles appeared to be still puzzling through Myrtle’s previous statement. “So…you say that you
logged in
. Do you mean that Sloan has hired you on to help him sort out the social media for the newspaper?”

“No, I mean nothing of the sort,” said Myrtle impatiently. “Sloan has one foot still stuck in the last century. As I said, he mistrusts the online world. Since he wasn’t going to embrace it and he was going to continue making silly mistakes with our local newspaper—which is a treasure for the town—I needed to step in and work around him. Sloan unwisely had his social media passwords on a sticky note on his monitor and I took them.”

“He won’t make that mistake again,” muttered Miles.

“That’s how life lessons are learned,” agreed Myrtle. “Although I’m sure the results of my clandestine operation will delight him.”

Miles raised a skeptical eyebrow, but decided not to push the issue. Instead, he nodded his head to indicate the book on Myrtle’s end table. “How is it going?
On the Beach
?”

“I declare, Miles, I can’t imagine why this is one of your favorites. Are you sure I have the correct author and title? It’s most unappealing at this point.”

“Just stick with it,” said Miles a little absently. Then he added, “Speaking of unappealing, what’s that smell? I’m hoping I haven’t been invited for dinner.”

Myrtle gasped. “The casserole for poor Mimsy!” She hurried to the kitchen.

“Poor Mimsy indeed,” muttered Miles as he followed her.

Myrtle hastily pulled out the casserole from the oven and studied it carefully. “Oh, it’s fine.”

Miles said, “What are those green, crunchy things?”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Miles. You know how it irritates me. Those are clearly lima beans.”

“Those desiccated bits?” Miles sounded dubious.

“Of course they are. And I’ll simply fish out the ones that are a bit overcooked,” said Myrtle, pulling out a spoon.

“Will there be much casserole left once you do?” inquired Miles.

Myrtle narrowed her eyes.

Miles continued. “Is that
chicken
in the dish? Because it doesn’t really
smell
like chicken. The aroma is quite distinctly different.”

“It’s tuna,” said Myrtle, carefully removing a burned lima.

“But isn’t this the chicken casserole that you usually cook?” asked Miles, peering over the side of the Pyrex.

“Yes. But we’re allowed to be creative with our recipes, you know. Cooking is supposed to be an art form,” said Myrtle.

Miles appeared to be trying very hard not to speak. Pasha gazed suspiciously at the casserole from the doorway.

“All right, well, that’s done at least. But it’s way too hot for me to carry over there. Let me just cover it with foil and we’ll give it ten minutes to cool,” said Myrtle.

“And turn the oven off,” advised Miles. “Was
that
what the temperature was set to? No wonder it was scorched!”

Myrtle said, “It’s so tedious when you’re critical, Miles! Tell you what. While I’m covering this and we’re waiting for it to cool, why don’t you give me more tidbits for the social media updates.”

Miles stared blankly at her. “Do I know any updates?”

“I’d imagine you do, if you can summon them to mind. I know how all the old biddies in town always corner you when you’re shopping. You must know a lot about what’s going on.”

He sighed. “It’s the truth. Let’s see. Molly Tillis is thrilled to bits because she’s going on her first cruise. I believe she’s already told the whole town about it, but it still might be worthwhile to put online since she’d probably ‘like’ it and ‘share’ it some more.”

“Exactly the kind of thing that Sloan
used
to put in the
Bugle
. And then someone like Molly, who has never left the town of Bradley, would buy up ten extra copies of the newspaper because it had her name in it and this trip. Okay, that’s definitely going up.” Myrtle walked back to her desk and Miles trailed behind, still thinking.

Miles snapped his fingers. “You know, I don’t think Sloan has printed any hospital updates since this whole change-the-newspaper campaign started. And you know how people would always look forward to seeing the list of who was in the hospital.”

“There are gobs of ghoulish people in this town,” said Myrtle. “And Sloan isn’t feeding the trolls. You’re right. That list
has
to go in there. The only problem is that Sloan got the list by people calling the newsroom and reporting that they or their family member was in the hospital. And we don’t have that list.”

Miles said, “Sadly, I apparently
have
been spending too much time listening to the biddies. I believe I may have a fairly reliable current list. And then you can make an update saying to tag the
Bugle
or email if they’re hospitalized. Do you have the newspaper’s email password, too?”

“It was on the sticky. Silly Sloan.” Myrtle spent a few minutes busily writing status updates on Facebook and Twitter. “This is genius, Miles. I think Sloan should pay us a huge bonus for saving the newspaper.”

“Let’s make sure your plan works, first,” said Miles.

Myrtle glanced at her watch. “Okay, I think the casserole should be cool enough to take over there. Now remember, this is
my
casserole for Mimsy. You had nothing to do with it.”

“I certainly didn’t,” agreed Miles calmly. “I’ll be sure to reinforce that fact when we arrive. Since I’d hate to take any credit, of course. Although I likely will carry it for you…it’s pretty heavy with all the rice in it. How did you think you were going to manage carrying it, holding a cane, and walking that distance?”

“It’s not so far,” said Myrtle.

“It is if you’re carrying a casserole and a cane.”

“I was going to use a tote bag and dangle it over my arm,” said Myrtle breezily.

“This glass dish is extremely heavy, itself. Don’t you want to transfer the casserole into something disposable so that Mimsy doesn’t have to worry about returning it to you?” asked Miles.

“Of course not. The whole point is that I get to talk with Mimsy again and ask
more
questions. I’d only use a foil casserole container if I were genuinely trying to help,” said Myrtle.

They walked out the front door and Pasha scampered out behind them.

Myrtle was about to lock the door when she heard Red call out from across the street. “Hold up, Mama! I’m going to need to be in your house.”

Myrtle sighed and muttered to Miles, “This family togetherness is all getting rather tiresome.”

Miles surveyed Red’s front yard. “They still have backhoes over there. That’s not a good sign.”

“
None
of it is a good sign. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed being alone until I wasn’t alone very often.” As Red approached, Myrtle called out, “It’s all yours, Red. How are things with the case coming along? Any new leads?”

Red gave her a wary glance as he walked up. “Hi, Miles. Mama, the case is coming along fine. No, I don’t have any new leads. Do
you
? And I certainly hope the answer is no.”

Myrtle said, “Why would I have leads when I’m not even investigating?”

Red studied the bag that Miles carried. “Where are y’all off to, then?” There was a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

“Nowhere important. Just running by Mimsy’s to drop off a casserole for her. Considering that the funeral was today and everything,” said Myrtle.

Red nodded, still eyeing the bag. “Miles, did you have any input into this casserole?” He sounded hopeful.

Miles shook his head. “Not a bit.”

“That’s right,” said Myrtle. “It was all my brainchild.”

Red said under his breath, “That’s what I was afraid of.” Before Myrtle could lodge an indignant response, he said quickly, “Say, Mama, did you have anything to do with the newspaper campaign?”

Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “What campaign is that?”

“I noticed that the
Bradley Bugle
’s social media has really lit up. And then somebody put some poster board signs around town on the streetlights. They say ‘#SavetheBugle’ and ‘#FreeBugle.’ I was thinking that maybe you’d convinced Sloan to make some changes. I know you weren’t happy with the direction the paper was going in,” said Red.

“Its direction? You mean the fact that it was becoming an unproofed, unedited tabloid? Let’s just say that I expressed my displeasure over it,” said Myrtle. She wasn’t ready to own up to her part in the social media thing. Maybe her hacking would actually be unlawful? She wasn’t very good about keeping up with what was lawful and what wasn’t. “But that’s wonderful that people are being supportive about preserving the small-town feel of the paper.”

Miles added, “I’m not very surprised that Sloan’s changes have generated a movement. Folks can be very protective over their newspapers.”

Red said, “I agree. I’m glad to have the paper back to normal or at least seemingly heading in that direction. But, ‘movements’ make me nervous, speaking solely as police chief. Oh, and Mama, thanks again for helping Elaine at the dealership today. Y’all picked a great van. I’ll see y’all later. Tell Mimsy that Elaine and I said hi.”

Which Myrtle did a few minutes later. Mimsy did seem pleased to see them. “Aren’t y’all sweet? And wow … this is still warm. I can see we’ll have this for supper. John was just saying a few minutes ago how hungry he was and I was just wondering if I’d have to pull some of the casseroles out of the freezer. So, so sweet.”

Myrtle beamed.

Miles said quickly, “Actually, it’s
Myrtle
being sweet. I can’t take responsibility for the casserole.”

Myrtle gave him a suspicious sidelong look. He grinned innocently at her.

“Well, thank you, Myrtle. That was really kind of you. And I so appreciated your being at the funeral this morning.”

“Of
course
I attended. And it was such a nice turnout for Luella,” said Myrtle.

Miles was now looking uncomfortable. “I’d have been there myself this morning, except I was still a bit peaked. It’s amazing the difference a few hours can make. I’m so much better now than I was earlier.”

Mimsy smiled at him. “That’s kind of you, Miles, and I’m happy to hear you’re better.” She paused. “Could y’all excuse me for just one minute? I’m going to let John know there’s supper out here for him and I’ve also got to pull some jeans out of the dryer before I’m not able to wear them anymore!” She gave an easy laugh and walked to the back.

Miles glanced nervously at the casserole.

“For heaven’s sake, Miles. It’s a chicken casserole, not a bomb.”

“It’s a
tuna
casserole, remember?” Miles shifted uneasily. “You don’t think they’re going to invite us to eat with them, do you?”

“We’ll tell them we have something else to do,” said Myrtle. “That’s very sensitive of you to try to spare them from having to entertain on such a trying day.”

Miles’s gaze returned to the casserole.

Chapter Nineteen

John Kessler walked into the kitchen. He’d always reminded Myrtle of a stork with his long neck and tall, thin frame. He wore glasses with black frames and had a kind smile. He reached out to shake their hands but Miles shook his head, “I’ll refrain from the handshake since I’ve recently been ill.”

Myrtle said, “Although he’s been using hand sanitizer every five minutes. I don’t believe you can find a more germ-free handshake anywhere.”

“I appreciate the heads-up, though,” said John. “That’s probably the last thing we need over here—a virus.”

Myrtle clucked. “You’ve both have had a hard time, haven’t you?”

“It hasn’t been easy. It would be better if the police would leave Mimsy alone.” John stopped short and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I forgot for a second I was talking to the police chief’s mother.”

“Believe me, no offence taken. There are plenty of times when I’m mad at him, too,” said Myrtle.

“The thing is that Mimsy had nothing to do with all of this. She was
very
fond of Luella and terribly upset about her demise. And this other lady? I’m sorry; I don’t know her very well.” John gave Myrtle and Miles a questioning look.

“Alma,” supplied Miles.

“That’s right. Anyway, Mimsy’s been nothing but helpful to Alma in the past. Always brought her fresh vegetables from our garden because she thought she could use them. Things like that,” said John.