Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (14 page)

If he'd hoped to placate her, he was wrong. Myrtle said, "I was
thinking more of my solving the case, Sloan." At his blank expression, she added, "It's basically just a cerebral exercise, you know."

Sloan became very busy at his desk, pushing some stacks of
paper one way and pulling others another. "Right. Okay."

"So during the curse of my investigation, I mean the course of my
investigation..." She squinted suspiciously at Sloan when he made a
strange hiccupping sound. "I needed to find out some information
on Benton Chambers and his dealings with Parke Stockard."

Sloan looked suddenly serious. "You're not poking around into
Benton Chambers' business are you, Miz Clover? He's one of our biggest advertisers. All those election ads." Sloan gazed sadly at the
open window as if he could see money floating out of his newsroom and back into Benton Chambers' pocket.

"I'm just trying to get at the truth, Sloan." She used her best
schoolmarm voice and watched Sloan slump in his seat.

"Well, it's no harm telling you, I guess. Not like it has anything
to do with it."

Sloan absently pushed his water glass to one side and trailed
his finger through the water ring he unearthed. He hesitated again,
looking plaintively at Myrtle. She coughed peremptorily and he
sighed and said, "Benton Chambers is running for re-election on
the platform of more diligent zoning, and possibly even a moratorium on development."

"That part I knew, Sloan. It's on all his campaign flyers."

Sloan stared at his forefinger as if wondering how it had gotten
wet. He rubbed it absently on his wrinkled button-down shirt.
"Parke wasn't happy and talk is she pressured Benton to embrace
the development." Thinking about the lovely, dead Parke prompted
a gusty sigh.

"But why would that bother Benton? So she wouldn't vote for
him. Big deal-one vote."

Sloan pulled at his shirt collar. "Right" Under Myrtle's penetrating stare, he blurted, "Talk is that Parke Stockard had some info
on Benton Chambers. Something he didn't want made public."

Myrtle thought back to her conversation with Shelia in the
diner. This seemed to corroborate her story that Parke knew he
was having an affair with someone other than herself.

"Who exactly is behind this talk?"

Sloan shifted his eyes away and shrugged. Probably Wonder Boy.
She made a mental note to talk to Josh Tucker about what rumors
he'd unearthed.

"So Parke Stockard might have threatened to reveal Benton's
secret, ruining his bid for re-election and his reputation if he didn't
support her development project."

Sloan shrugged again. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree,
Miss Myrtle. Maybe you should be taking a closer look at her son,
Cecil. Now he's a piece of work, let me tell you." He was still smarting
from an ugly comment Cecil made to him a couple of weeks ago.

"Word has it," he said, "that Cecilia is kicking smirking Cecil
out of Parke's house."

"Banished from Eden, hmm?"

"More like run out on a rail. His gambling really got her goat,
and she thinks he conned her momma out of all kinds of money."
Sloan gave a satisfied smile at the idea of Cecil Stockard in a dinky
apartment eating cans of baked beans.

"I don't see Parke getting conned out of jack. She just had a
soft spot for Cecil."

Sloan glanced up at the wall clock, remembering his deadline.
"What about your column, Miss Myrtle? Can't slack off on your
day job to play detective."

Myrtle said icily, "I suppose you do have some space to fill now
that Parke's column is gone. Don't you have enough copy from
trophy-winning Wonder Boy?" She scowled at the large trophy of a
quill pen that was glorified on Sloan's desk.

Sloan's jowls fell with desperation now and he said, "Well, I was
going to have to edit her column anyway. After all, you had a much
bigger following than Parke Stockard. People just eat up your arti- Iles-" Myrtle frowned at him, "-like the nose bleed and leg cramp
tips?"

Myrtle could swear she heard a suppressed giggle again. "I happen to have some great tips this week. Very useful hints on sharpening garbage disposal blades." Sloan knit his brows. "By putting
ice cubes in the disposal and running it."

Sloan shuddered. "Tell the readers not to stick their hands in
there. All we need is to get sued because some bozo stuck his hand
in the blades to see how sharp they were."

Myrtle was giving a dismissive sniffing for effect when she caught
the faint scent of cigarette smoke and she remembered the scent of
smoke in the sanctuary. She leveled Sloan with a serious look that
froze him in his seat. "Sloan. Have you started smoking again?"

Sloan had the grace to look guilty. "Only when I'm drinking,
Miss Myrtle."

"Considering there's a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam and a
glass on the desk, that's not very comforting." A blush crept across
his jowly features and Myrtle asked, "What about Won-umJosh? Is he a smoker?"

Sloan snorted. "No, he's the cleanest-living newsman I've ever
come across. No vices as far as I can tell. And he lived in New York.
Gotham City!" Sloan shook his head-whether in admiration or
disgust, Myrtle couldn't tell.

"Sloan?" Myrtle asked sweetly. "Could you give me josh's cell
phone number?" Sloan looked uncertain. "Since he's such a fantastic
writer, maybe he could give me some tips to improve my column."
Myrtle hoped Sloan wouldn't see through her lie. After all, it should
be obvious that her column didn't need any improvement. She had
nothing to worry about, though-Sloan was in total agreement about josh's extraordinary talent. He gave her the number, which
Myrtle dialed on her way out the door. After all, josh could have a
useful perspective on the case, as much as she hated to admit it. He
is both an old-timer and newcomer to Bradley.

He quickly picked up. "Josh Tucker here."

"Josh. It's Myrtle Clover." She thought she detected a sigh on
the other end of the line.

"What can I do for you, Miss Myrtle?"

"I wanted to meet with you for a little while tomorrow. Maybe
pick your brains about the case?"

Now the sigh was clearly audible, even to Myrtle's elderly ears.
"You know I'd really love to, Miss Myrtle. But I'm a little busy right
now.

Myrtle adopted a wheedling tone. "It would really mean a lot to
me. Your mom and dad are such good friends of mine-" the lie
made her wince, "-and I'd love a chance to catch up with you. Plus,
I've found out some information, myself. I can give you a tip." Now
all she had to do was come up with something to tell him tomorrow.
Well, it could be any kind of ding-batty thing. She was old, after all.

Josh still seemed uncertain about whether this would be a wise
investment of his precious time. "A tip concerning ...?"

"Um-well, something I was talking with Kitty about. Yes."

Now she thought she heard a groan. Maybe Kitty, crazy as she
was these days, wasn't exactly the best person to use in her story.
She should have thought of saying that Red had given her some
information. "Okay, Miss Myrtle," he said soothingly. "Maybe we
can meet up for a late lunch. At Bo's Diner?"

And another helping of heart-attack-on-a-plate. Well, she'd lived
this long. "I'll meet you there!" Myrtle was all smiles when she hung up the phone. If there was anyone who knew anything about the
case, it would be Mr. Investigative Reporter. It could mean a real
break in the case. As she was walking home, she suddenly had an
idea. She looked at josh's cell phone number, which Sloan had written down for her. It had sounded familiar and now she knew where.
She pulled out the old receipt from her pocketbook where she'd
written down the numbers Parke had called from her cell phone.
Parke had called Josh Tucker the morning she was murdered.

At home, Myrtle couldn't stop thinking about the case. She really
did need a sidekick. All the detectives in books and movies had them.
It would be helpful if her sidekick could have a younger back and
feet, too. She decided to give Elaine a call and mull over the case
with her.

Myrtle was about to hang up the phone after it rang on Elaine's
end eight times when a harried "hello" came through. There was
wailing in the background that sounded like Jack, some harsh
French that Myrtle assumed was cursing, and what sounded like a
wild animal going through death throes. "Wrong number!" said
Myrtle, reaching over to put the phone back on the hook.

"Myrtle? Is that you?"

"That's what I should be asking you! You don't sound like
yourself. Is everything okay? What's that ruckus?"

"Oh god. Jack got into a jar of Mentholatum."

"I'll call Poison Control!"

"Hmm? No, he didn't eat it. He smeared the whole jar over his
hair." Elaine seemed to be running away from the chaos, since the
loud noises were rapidly receding into the background. "And JeanMarc. Well, he tried to help with the laundry. All the baby stuff,
you know, makes a lot of laundry. I really appreciate his help," she said convincingly. "But the washer got out of balance and..." she
gave a little giggle. Or was it a sob? "... tried to walk out the door."

"Jean-Marc?"

"No, the washer. It's thumping around and walking. But it
might unplug itself soon."
"

I can call you back later." Myrtle felt desperate now. Stress radiated through the phone and she was right in the line of fire.

"Did you need something?"

"It was nothing." Myrtle knew she was going to be tackling this
case alone. Red was right; Elaine had too much going on.

MYRTLE GLARED AT THE bunny crack on her ceiling again. Telling
yourself to go to sleep wasn't any good when you weren't used to
following orders. Time for her warm milk nightcap. She tossed the
covers off and headed for the kitchen.

She poured the milk from the pan into her glass and stepped
out onto her screened back porch. It was surprisingly cool tonight,
not like the humid, buggy nights they usually had this time of year.
She looked down the wooded hill leading to the lake and the rickety dock. She used to go down to the lake on nights she couldn't
sleep and sit on the dock to watch the water and listen to the night
animals calling each other and the water lapping up against the
sides of the dock. She even had a rocking chair out there just for
that purpose, although she hadn't gone down there for a while.

She looked longingly out at the dark water, then picked up her
cane and a flashlight. The full moon would light her way down the
hill, too. A little milk, a little rocking by the lake, and she'd be ready
to sleep the rest of the night.

She thought she heard a rustling in the bushes when she stepped
out into the yard. Probably one of Erma's pet squirrels, she thought.
Or a snake. But she'd rather think about the squirrels instead.

The path leading down to Myrtle's dock had, in more active days,
been worn into a dirt trail with knobby tree roots intermittently allowing themselves to be stairs. Now, with more infrequent use, the
path was getting overgrown. Myrtle brought a flashlight, but the
moon provided enough light for her to leave it off. The dock had
seen better days, too; it was faded to a gray wood with lots of knotholes. Red wasn't thrilled about her forays down to the dock-since
it was a floating dock, it bobbed around a bit. Every once in a while,
though, Myrtle liked to sit there and look at the water and feel the
breeze off the lake. The weathered rocking chair on the dock was
there for that very reason, although Myrtle was sure that if Red realized she was rocking on the dock in the middle of the night, it would
be quickly dispatched back up to her screened porch.

Myrtle settled into the old chair and rocked slowly, mulling over
the case. What was Althea hiding? She was evasive and vague whenever Myrtle saw her. And Cecil, the stereotypical bad guy. How easy
it would be to peg him as the killer considering all his other undesirable traits. Is that something the real murderer would count on,
though, and use to his advantage? She shivered. There was a pall
hanging over this case that got under her skin from time to time.

Suddenly, Myrtle heard a noise behind her and the hair on the
back of her neck stood up. She was about to whirl around when
she felt a vicious shove aimed at the middle of the rocking chair's
back. As the chair thumped onto the dock, Myrtle felt herself fly
though the air and into the water. After a second of blind panic,
she shrugged out of her heavy bathrobe and kicked through the murky water to clutch a white bumper hanging from the dock. She
caught her breath, then swam to the lakeshore. The water wasn't
deep, thanks to the persistent drought for several summers. Dripping wet, she shivered despite the warm night and looked fearfully
around for her attacker.

The curved path leading up to her house looked more ominous
now with the many pine trees and azalea bushes on its sides offering many places to hide. She plodded up onto the dock, soaking
wet and shivering with shock. Picking up her cane from the floor
of the dock, she turned to go back up the hill to her house. She
heard rustling in the bushes ahead and her heart slammed into her
rib cage as a dark shape loomed out of the darkness. She held her
cane out like a shotgun and called, "Who's there! Who is there?"