A Body at Bunco (8 page)

Hunting the noxious cookies. And perhaps refilling his wine. “All right, yes, I saw him do that, too. But he was trying to help me out. Besides, Miles has no issues with Luella White—he didn’t even know the woman.”

Puddin raised a straggly eyebrow. “She sure did act like she
wanted
to get to know him. I saw her watchin’ him.”

“Wishful thinking. So is Miles the ketchup bottle, then? I’m confused,” said Myrtle impatiently.

“Naw, because I don’t think Mr. Miles has it in him to murder nobody. Too proper. More likely to hire somebody to do the job instead of getting’ his own hands all dirty. Naw,
Poppy
is the ketchup bottle.” Puddin, pleased at the diorama she was creating, carefully set up the ketchup bottle near the salt shaker, which she laid on its side.

“Let me guess,” said Myrtle, rolling her eyes. “Luella is the saltshaker.”

But Puddin was distracted by the sight of salt spilling out of the recumbent shaker. She hissed and threw some salt over her left shoulder. “Have to blind the devil standing there,” she muttered to herself.

Myrtle leaned her head into her hands. Now
she
was getting a headache. “Really, Puddin. You need to stumble out of the nineteenth century. Your superstitions will be the end of you.”

Puddin was now squinting at the salt, pepper, and ketchup in confusion. “Wait,” she said slowly. “I think I mighta got this wrong.”

“Just give up, Puddin,” said Myrtle crossly. “I’m assuming that you didn’t see anyone coming out of my backyard wielding a bloody wrench. I believe we’re done here.”

“Speaking of that, Dusty wants his wrench back that you took,” said Puddin, looking stern.

Myrtle always felt as if she’d stepped through the looking glass when she tried having a conversation with Puddin. “That
I
took? I did no such thing! Dusty is being forgetful as usual and leaving his tools scattered around. And this time one of his tools was used as a murder weapon. The SBI has it now and who knows when they’ll release it.”

“SBI?” Puddin looked suspicious.

“The state police. State Bureau of Investigations. They’re examining it for evidence, although Red said it looked to him as if the metal handle was wiped clean of fingerprints. If I were Dusty, I’d want to clean it really well if I used it again. Or just purchase another one.”

Puddin said slowly, “Yeah, but that Dusty don’t like spending money much. Guess we might have to if the police take too long with it.” She frowned at the salt and peppershakers and the ketchup. “Ya know, I feel like something here is wrong.”

“There are things on multiple levels wrong here, Puddin. Why don’t you just think about it for a while and then get back to me if anything comes to you?” She’d had enough of all this. “And please wash those dishes.”

Puddin snapped her fingers. “There was one thing I thought you oughta know. About Miz Florence. That old lady, you know. I clean for her sometimes and one day I seen her crying. She said that Luella was being mean to her. Luella saw Miz Florence hit the gas pedal instead of the brake and run right over a curb downtown.”

Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “Did she run into a shop?”

“Naw, she finally hit her brakes before she run into the building. But it was close, Miz Florence said. Then I sat down with Miz Florence for a while, seeing as how she was upset and everything.”

This didn’t surprise Myrtle a bit, considering Puddin would sit down instead of work any day of the week.

“I tole her that it didn’t matter none in Bradley. Tole her that
you
hadn’t had a car in well nigh ten year or so and you walk everywhere, even though you have to lean on a cane and all. And that you are much,
much, much
older than she is and still get around great,” said Puddin.

“All right, all right, get on with it! I’m old, okay. Got it.” Myrtle was now thinking longingly of the
Tomorrow’s Promise
episode that she had taped the day before.

“Anyhow, she said that the place she wanted to go was out of town so far that she couldn’t walk there if she tried. Said she had a sweetheart she met at a bridge tournament. And she said that her daughter tole her if there was one more report of Miz Florence’s bad driving, her daughter was going to take her keys away,” said Puddin meaningfully. “And Luella was bein’ real spiteful and said she was going to call up her daughter and tell her that Miz Florence was a menace to society. Then Miz Florence’s daughter would be taking her keys away, but good.”

“Well then, I’d say that Miss Florence’s daughter would be signing herself up to chauffeur her mama wherever she wanted to go,” said Myrtle.

“Except that Miz Florence’s daughter is a Yankee and lives in Cincinnati,” said Puddin smoothly. “Said she’d drive her mama anywhere she wanted to go…if she moved there. But Miz Florence don’t want to go. She likes her sweetheart.”

“And if she moved up north, she’d have to give up that relationship,” mused Myrtle, nodding.

“Now I have to go,” said Puddin grandly. “I don’t have time to sit around and chat. Once I’m finished here, I’ve got to go clean at Miz Mimsy’s house.”

As if Puddin were being forced to chat by
Myrtle
, when it was always the other way around. “I didn’t realize you cleaned for Mimsy. When did that start?” Because she would have said that Mimsy had too much sense than to hire Puddin for housecleaning.

“Oh, her usual cleaner’s been sick for weeks now. So I’m filling in.”

Myrtle said, “Keep your eyes and ears open while you’re there. Maybe see what Mimsy says while you’re there or what visitors she has or what’s going on.”

Puddin nodded. “I’ll be your eyes and ears, Miz Myrtle. What’ll you give me in return?” Her small eyes gleamed with avarice.

“If you have
information
for me—
useful
information, then I might be willing to pay you for it. But I get to decide if it’s useful or not.”

Because all she needed was for Puddin to give her the inside scoop on what Mimsy Kessler had for lunch.

“And be sure to wash those dishes!” Myrtle added.

Chapter Six

When the house was finally fairly clean, and minutes after Puddin’s departure, the phone rang. It was Sloan Jones from the paper. “Miss Myrtle, I’m getting ready to put together the paper for tomorrow and just wanted to see if you had anything for me.” His voice had a pleading quality to it, a sort of desperation it didn’t ordinarily have. Usually, he was very deferential to Myrtle, having been a student of hers many years ago. The paper must be in bad shape, indeed.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Myrtle.

“Do you? Oh, that’s wonderful, Miss Myrtle! You caught up with Luella White then? I knew y’all would hit it off when you finally managed to spend some time with her. You have a lot in common, after all.”

Myrtle paused. “Honestly, Sloan, I can’t think of a single thing that Luella White and I have in common. We have even less in common now—considering that she’s dead and I am most certainly not.”

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then a mournful, “Miss Myrtle, what happened?” His tone implied that Myrtle had been extremely careless with his valued source.

“It has nothing to do with
me
, Sloan! Well, except that she died in my backyard. And that the murder weapon belongs to my handyman. And that one of my guests is apparently a ruthless killer. But I certainly am not at fault in this!” said Myrtle hotly.

“There goes my gossip feature, then,” said Sloan glumly. “Now I’m going to have to rely on what people send in. It will all be about how many cookies the Brownie troop sold and Miss Margaret Williamson’s prize begonias at the fair. Say goodbye to the
Bradley Bugle
. I only hate that it’s happening on my watch.”

“Sloan, for a newsman, you’re remarkably unobservant. Have you heard nothing I’ve been saying? A murder occurred. During a gathering I was hosting. In my very backyard. The suspects are people that most folks in this town will know and I can write the inside scoop. Who cares about the gossip feature when you’re sitting on a goldmine? I’ll finish up my article and email it over to you in time and I guarantee you it will be a smashing success.”

Sloan said a bit doubtfully, “Are you writing it like you usually do, though? I mean, no disrespect intended, Miss Myrtle.”

“You mean am I writing it following the highest standards of journalistic integrity? No, because it’s for the
Bradley Bugle
and I’ve given up. I’m sprinkling my own observations in and making my byline read “an Eyewitness Account by Myrtle Clover.”

Now Sloan’s voice was a bit peppier. “You know, this might work, Miss Myrtle. It’s a pity we don’t have a story like this every week.”

“If we had a story like this
every
week, it wouldn’t be news, would it?” asked Myrtle. She glanced at the wall clock. Between Puddin’s nonsense with the salt and peppershakers and Sloan, she was getting absolutely nothing done. “No time to chit-chat, Sloan. I have to go talk to some folks. I’ll email you the story soon.” And she hung up.

Five minutes later, she was walking down Magnolia Lane in the direction of Estelle Rutledge’s house. She knew exactly where she lived since Elaine had told her it was the ‘modern’ house on the block. What Elaine was too kind to say was that it was the house built forty years ago that had aspired, and failed, to look modern for the time. It was boxy, with too many windows, and evoked a sort of treehouse appearance…with no trees in sight on the property. It also was some kind of split-level but the levels were diagonal from each other. It looked as if the house was a victim of a particularly violent earthquake. Most Bradley residents had considered the residence, standing out strikingly as it was among the ranches, something of an eyesore that had been put up with for ages. Myrtle simply believed that the architect had consumed hallucinogenic drugs.

But of course, Estelle, as a newcomer to Bradley, had nothing to do with the construction or design of the house, so Myrtle couldn’t hold that against the woman. However, she had chosen, apparently of her own free will, to live there. And that was a strike against her right there.

Myrtle also wanted to find out a bit more about the storm-chasing business. How exactly did one chase storms? Why did one need special equipment to do so? And what made Estelle Rutledge aspire to do such a thing to begin with? How did this hobby or career tie into the case, if it did?

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear a sound until there was a small, nudging, familiar dry cough next to her. She glanced to her side to see that Miles was keeping pace with her and had perhaps done so for some time. He gave her a reproachful look. “You know I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that post-modern mess of a house. And I’m your sidekick, after all. Next time, invite me.”

Being caught at being thoughtless always made Myrtle cross. “Yes, all right. Sorry.” The sorry was very begrudging. “I just got caught up in my musing and my feet started taking me here.” She paused. “And how did you know that’s where I was going? Have you been talking to Wanda?”

Wanda was a psychic and a cousin of Miles, a fact which Miles would rather forget. “No,” he said stiffly. “You were simply walking in this direction and she’s the only suspect who lives in this direction on Magnolia. What’s our excuse for being there? I’m assuming that we’re not just going to start accusing Estelle of murder and see what happens next.”

“Of course not,” snapped Myrtle. But, as a matter of fact, she’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t really come up with a premise for the unexpected visit at all. She fished in her pocketbook for a second. She pulled out a lipstick. “Someone forgot their lipstick and I’m trying to connect it with its owner.”

Miles looked doubtful. “Surely that’s not a very good reason for a visit? Maybe if it were a cardigan or something. That’s one of your lipsticks, isn’t it?”

“It
is
one of mine, yes. What if I brought one of my cardigans and someone actually claimed it was theirs? Then I’d be out a cardigan. Besides, a lipstick can be very valuable to a woman. These wicked makeup companies discontinue shades all the time. Trust me, it’s a good excuse,” said Myrtle.

They walked up to the front door and Myrtle knocked. “Does Estelle even wear makeup?” murmured Miles. “She doesn’t really seem the type.”

“It’s simply a pretext,” hissed Myrtle.

Estelle opened the door at once, her face curious and completely makeup free. And surprisingly welcoming. “Miss Myrtle from last night. And…sorry, I don’t remember your name. Wait. Is it Niles?”

“Miles,” said Miles a bit stiffly.

“That’s right. Can I help you with something? Oh wait. Where are my manners? Come inside.” Estelle beamed at them and pushed the door open wide and led the way into the dimly lit house. Miles carefully closed the door shut after he and Myrtle walked in. Estelle seemed amazingly eager to visit with them. It made Myrtle wonder if she might perhaps be a little lonely—new to town, living alone. Did one have a team when one was chasing storms? Or was it more of a solo venture?

There was a strong smell of tuna in the house, which Myrtle noticed at once, nose twitching. Miles appeared more distracted by the architecture. There appeared to be stairs at odd places, walls of different sizes and slants, and oddly shaped scattered windows and skylights. “Your home is very interesting,” said Miles to Estelle as they followed the middle-aged woman toward what appeared to be a living area. “Did you pick it for the architecture? That is, have you always been interested in modern architectural design?”

Estelle seemed surprised by the question, or maybe it was the shape of her eyebrows and her large, round eyes that gave her a sort of perpetual look of surprise. “It was available and I needed a house in Bradley. That’s really why.” She motioned vaguely at a sofa and a couple of worn armchairs. “Here, why don’t you sit down?” She paused again, thinking, as if she wasn’t often in the position of playing hostess. Myrtle wondered how many visitors she got here. “Can I get you something to drink? I can’t offer food because I haven’t been to the store lately. I just get busy and you know, the next thing I know all I have in the house is a can of tuna.”