Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (15 page)

An older man of about seventy years with steel-gray hair, wirerimmed glasses, and a concerned expression approached her cautiously.

"The Pilgrim!" gasped Myrtle with relief. He looked at her with
concern.

"Gone for a swim? Miss Myrtle, isn't it? Wasn't a very good idea,
was it? Why don't we just go inside and find a warm drink, dry clothes,
and a telephone? Who is in charge of... uh ... who should I call?"

"Call the police. And my son. They're the same."

An inquisitive yoo-hoo reached their ears. "Myrtle? That you?"

Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, Myrtle saw the panic in the
Pilgrim's eyes. His reaction to Erma was definitely a sign of intelligent life, Myrtle noted. He pulled her silently along the path and
quickly into Myrtle's house. The door closed behind them and
Erma Sherman's curtains stirred in the window. She was obviously
back from her gambling expedition. Myrtle shivered and her companion pulled a throw off the sofa and put it around her. "Best
get changed," he said gruffly. "I'm Miles Bradford, by the way."

"Ah, that explains it," said Myrtle. Miles raised an eyebrow and
she answered, "Miles Standish. William Bradford." To her horror,
she gave a tremendous hiccup. Good lord, he must think she'd
been drinking. She'd swallowed half the lake while she was in there.
Shivering, she hurried to her bedroom and heard Miles making
the phone call.

A few minutes later (not surprisingly, since Red lived diagonally
across the street), Red was in her den, seeming to take up most of it
with his restless large frame. His graying red hair stood up on end as
if he'd dug his fingers into it. He had on a pair of sweatpants, a pajama top, and a pair of tennis shoes. Erma Sherman must be having
a field day. Red introduced himself to Miles, thanked him for helping out his mother, then asked him, "What exactly happened?" He
held up his hand to stop Myrtle as she tried to interrupt. "One minute, Mama. I want to hear it from Mr. Bradford first."

"Miles, please. Well, I'm something of an insomniac," Myrtle
smiled smugly as her suspicions were confirmed, "and I was up in
my kitchen getting a snack when I saw your mother going down
into the woods toward the lake."

Red gritted his teeth, then said, "Go on, please."

"I didn't think too much of it. I thought she might be an insomniac, too, because I'd seen her lights on other nights when I was up
and unable to sleep. But a little while later I felt a bit uneasy, so I
hurried down there and saw your mother, sopping wet, coming back
up the path and looking at me like she'd seen a ghost."

"Mama, I know this isn't a nice thing to say to a lady, but you're
not a spring chicken anymore. Going through the woods on a poorly cleared path to a rickety floating dock after midnight? Pitching into
the water, fully dressed?" Red broke off, seeing a Greener Pastures
Retirement Home prospect instead of his mother.

"She had her cane with her," vouched Miles. "And waved it
threateningly at me. Very convincing," he added to Myrtle, who
bowed in response.

Red was pressing on his forehead now as if to offer some counterpressure to the throbbing he felt inside.

"Besides," said Myrtle, "I didn't pitch into the lake, Red. I was
pushed. Hard."

"Tell me everything."

She did, although she didn't know much. All she knew was that
one minute she was mulling over life in the rocking chair and the
next was flying into the lake. Red and Miles both listened quietly.
Miles' expression was one of shock and puzzlement, and Red's was
a mix of anger and concern.

"What kind of homicidal hamlet is this? What makes someone
fling an elderly woman-sorry, Myrtle-in the lake?"

"She's not just any elderly woman," said Red in a growling tone.
"She's Miss Meddlesome Myrtle who messes with murder. And
somebody didn't like it."

"Payback is hell," said Myrtle, her words laced with venom.

Red was unimpressed. "Whatcha going to do, Mama? Knock
them upside the head with your fat pocketbook? Challenge them
to a thumb-wrestling match? Cook them supper?" He snickered.
The last was really unforgivable. Why Red was under the delusion
that Myrtle couldn't cook was beyond her. He could just get used to
the gnomes in the front yard, because they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. Maybe she even needed to add a couple to her collection.

After a few more questions, Red rubbed his eyes wearily and
made motions to leave. He gave his mother an especially tight hug
and Myrtle blinked tears away. She knew the night could have gone
much differently if she hadn't been so determined to get out of the
lake. Miles Bradford told Red he'd stay a while with Myrtle since
he wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep anyway. That elicited
a spark of curiosity and interest in Red's eyes before he tramped
out into the night.

Miles and Myrtle stared at each other. Myrtle was sure she presented quite a sight in her slippers, pajamas, and fluffy robe. Her
hair was not in its customary carefully arranged poof, but lay wetly
flattened on her head. She didn't feel at all self-conscious, though.
And she certainly didn't feel the flutter of heartstrings that the
lovelorn ladies camped on his doorstep probably did. She felt very
comfortable, though. Her new neighbor seemed intelligent, capable, and-was still driving. Could this be the Watson she'd been
looking for?

She remembered her manners and offered to make her visitor
some decaf coffee or tea. He stood up instead. "I'll get it. You probably just need to put your feet up for a little while."

Myrtle settled back on the big pillows on her living room sofa
and sighed. Miles said, "Can you fill me in on what's been going on
here?"

"Call me Ishmael," said Myrtle. A lesser man would have dug
out his cell phone and called Red back to the house. But, being a
fan of Moby Dick, Miles realized that Myrtle meant that there was
quite a story to follow.

So Myrtle told it. She told him all about her investigative prowess and the murder. She told about discovering the body, figuring
out likely suspects, and questioning them. She even touched on
her lack of a sounding board, Elaine's sudden hectic schedule, and
the French exchange student. And Miles Bradford's steady gaze behind his wire-rimmed glasses and serious demeanor made her decide to share even more with him-her suspicions about the suspects, and clues she'd found. Through it all, Miles listened quietly,
nodding his head occasionally, or asking a question about something he didn't understand. He got up a couple of times to refill
their mugs with decaf coffee.

After she finished talking, they were quiet for a couple of minutes, just thinking and swirling their coffee around. "It sounds like
you have some good ideas, Myrtle. I see you get a lot of your information from hearsay, but it seems to work for you." He added slowly,
"I'm not sure, though, why you're getting involved. You didn't care a
fig about Parke Stockard. And Red and the state police sound perfectly capable."

Myrtle resumed the silence for a moment before answering.
"Pure willfulness, I guess. I want to show Red that my brain is still
working at full capacity. This case represents a challenge for me.
Lately, I felt like I was being swept under the rug-like I was supposed to just watch my soaps and have milk and cookies and live on
in blissful stagnation."

Miles wondered what his role in all this was supposed to be. Was
he just a sounding board or was she looking for some sort of crimefighting associate? Maybe it was too early for her to know. It looked
like she wanted to get some glory from all this and might not want
to share the spotlight with him. He decided to just be available, but not pushy. Listen, but not offer too many ideas. And, obviously, not
scold her for taking risks. Why not take risks at her age?

"Who do you think pushed you into the lake? They obviously
spent some time watching your house and saw you leave it. Was
there anyone who you've been pushing for information lately that
might have wanted to kill you?" he asked.

Myrtle leaned her head on the back of her overstuffed sofa. "I
don't really know that they were trying to kill me. They might have
just been trying to warn me off. Scare me. Make me long for the
soaps, milk, and cookies." She sighed. "I can't believe someone
slipped by Erma's eagle eye though."

"So you've been nosing around in general. Is there one person
over another that you think might have been feeling you were digging too hard?" Miles asked.

"Not really. I spent some time with Kitty Kirk and she's supposedly malicious enough to have given Parke food poisoning. Cecil
isn't exactly Mr. Nice Guy, either. But the murderer could easily have
picked up on the fact I'm asking a lot of questions and gossiping
around town. I guess it could have been anybody. If they're desperate enough to kill, they're desperate enough to push an old lady in a
lake." She paused. "We've also got a local politician who's covering
up an affair. And running for re-election."

Miles asked, "Who is it?"

Myrtle was positive she caught a glint of interest in his steely
eyes. He was looking much more promising as sidekick material.

He leaned toward her, light shining on his glasses. "So?" he
asked impatiently.

"So Benton Chambers has a honey that he's meeting up withright in the middle of nowhere in Crazy Dan Land." Myrtle
beamed. It felt great to be the imparter of information.

"Crazy Dan Land? That hubcap place way out in the country?"

Myrtle nodded. "Way out in the country is the perfect place for
messing around."

"Do you think Parke somehow found out?"

"Bet she did. She seemed like the kind of person who could
find out just about anything. It sounds like maybe she had a fling
with Benton, too. She wouldn't have wanted to use that as her leverage, though-could have damaged her own reputation. But if
she had an affair with him, it probably made her realize that he
might be cheating with other women, too. It would have been easy
enough to tail his car and find out"

Miles still looked dubious. "You think he would actually kill
her over that kind of thing?"

Myrtle shot him a condescending look. "You obviously don't
understand politics. That's the kind of scandal that could blow an
election. Think of all the politicians who have been brought down
by matrimonial infidelity."

Miles asked, "What's he like? Benton's one I haven't met yet."
Myrtle looked thoughtful. "Well, for one he's not the person on
the Town Council I'd go to with a problem. He's all bluster and
swagger and no substance. Plus, he probably drinks too much. He's
got that bloated, flushed look."

"So," mused Miles, "Benton follows Parke to the church?" He
raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"He would have known she was going to be there. After all, his
wife was going to the same church meeting."

Miles inclined his head, granting her the point. "So he meets
up with her at the church. Maybe he tries to convince her to keep
quiet about his affair."

Myrtle snorted. "He'd have had to use all his persuasive techniques. She was going to use that information as leverage to force
him to support her development plan, I bet. Then he'd have to
change his platform."

"He pops her on the head and takes off back home. His wife is
his alibi?"

Myrtle nodded. "Yes, Tippy said he was home with her. And he
said the same. Covering for each other." She sighed.

Miles noticed Myrtle suddenly looked tired and he glanced
over at the loudly ticking kitchen wall clock. 3:30. "I'd better get
back home. If I stay any longer, we'll be the talk of Bradley."

Myrtle made a sour face. "We probably already are. Erma was
looking out her curtains when you came in. She'll likely ignore the
fact I looked half-drowned and come up with some wild story
about Red coming over to defend my honor and you defeating
him and staying until the wee hours." She slapped the arm of the
sofa with her hand in irritation.

Miles smiled, revealing very nice teeth. "Well, it will probably
enhance your reputation if you're so concerned about not looking
like a put-to-pasture biddy."

Myrtle brightened. "That's so. Might make things a little more
interesting around here." She showed Miles out, then stumbled to
bed for a dreamless sleep.

His MOTHER HAD REALLY done it this time. She had taken leave of
her senses, getting involved in his murder investigation. You'd
think she had nothing else to do with her time ... that she couldn't
find any legitimate hobbies in the town of Bradley. Perkins was
going to start thinking that Myrtle Clover was Parke's killer-with
boredom as her motive.

Red couldn't figure out why she was so stubborn over this. She
was just bound and determined that she was going to crack the case
and get some sort of glory or an award or something. Now she'd
managed to put herself in mortal danger. And Red was going to have
to take a perfectly good lunch break and spend some time cutting
back her shrubbery to make it villain-proof. He heaved a sigh.