Chapter Eighteen
Myrtle swallowed hard. “I suppose so, If you really want to visit, Simon. How’s that leg of yours doing? That’s a nasty bite Kojak gave you.”
Simon growled, “Stupid dog. I knew you’d figured out I killed Cullen when you were looking at my leg.”
“Willow told me that Kojak hated you. And I knew you were lying about cutting Cullen’s grass because I saw Tiny Kirk doing yard work there the day of Cullen’s murder. But you’re wrong—I didn’t put it all together until right before you walked through my door.” She summoned up the old schoolteaching voice that used to have a quelling effect on Simon in the classroom. “This is stupid, Simon. Put that knife down. You’re only adding to your problems.”
He shook his head, emphatically. “Math never was your strong suit, Miss Myrtle. I’m thinking if I get rid of you now then I’m actually subtracting from my problems. Everyone thinks Cullen killed Jill, either in a drunken rage or because he wanted to be free to marry someone else and couldn’t afford a divorce. And then Cullen conveniently killed himself out of guilt. But you ... ” now his voice snarled, “had to start nosing around. Why’d you care? What possible difference could it make to you?”
“The police already knew it was murder,” said Myrtle, shifting her weight onto her cane. They knew right away, because of the note you wrote. None of this is my fault, Simon. It’s your fault for writing the suicide note you did. It’s your fault for being on bad terms with Kojak. And it’s your fault for killing your brother.” Myrtle was going to talk as much and as long as she could. The more she talked, the better a chance she had at getting out of this fix.
“My brother.” Simon laughed brokenly. “Half-brother by blood and never a real brother to me in any sense of the word.”
“I remember when you were both in school together,” mused Myrtle. “You were always the dutiful older brother, weren’t you? Always doing your homework, making good grades. And Cullen ... .”
“Cullen was a loser. As always.” Simon’s voice was harsh. “He never did anything he was supposed to do. He cheated his way through school, and people always, always liked him. Our dad loved him.” He stopped abruptly. Myrtle looked closely at him. It looked like he was choking back tears.
“Surely he loved you, too?” said Myrtle, leading him on.
“No! He never did. And when dad got sick, Cullen got to him with his lies. He told Dad that I ... ”
Myrtle’s mind whirled. What kind of lie was guaranteed to upset Joel Caulfield the most about his son? Drugs? That he’d gotten some girl pregnant? That he didn’t want to join the family business? Then she had an idea. “He told your father you were gay. That would have been the unforgivable sin for Joel Caulfield, wasn’t it? To him that would have been a direct slap at him. It would have undermined his own masculinity, and that was very important to him. I remember he was a big athlete and outdoorsman.”
Simon’s eyes glittered. “It was all a lie. Cullen knew Dad would disown me and he could take the inheritance for himself. And that’s what happened.”
“And it’s been eating away at you for years,” said Myrtle. “You hated your brother for that, didn’t you?”
“Not only did he turn my father against me, but he took the money that should have been mine and drank it away.” Simon spat the words out.
“Did your wife know you felt this way?” Myrtle did want to know. But she was even more interested in stalling Simon. Was there any way she could use her cane to dislodge the knife?
The mention of his wife erased some of the lines on Simon’s face. “Libba didn’t know anything about it,” he said. “She would just have been upset about Cullen’s lies. She just knew I couldn’t stand him.”
“It must have been hard on you,” mused Myrtle, “that your wife, who has had so many health problems, needed the money so much more than your brother who wasted it.”
“I thought the money was gone, or I would have found a way to get some of it a year ago,” said Simon. “I thought that since Jill was working so hard that they must be totally out of cash. I didn’t know about the lottery ticket.”
“I suppose,” said Myrtle thoughtfully, still watching the knife, “that it was an easy decision to kill Cullen. He’d double-crossed you, fixed it so you couldn’t even talk to your father at the end of his life. He’d basically stolen the money from you—money you could have used to treat your wife’s cancer. And, once you found out that Jill did have money and she was so conveniently murdered, all it took was for you to knock off Cullen and the money would finally be yours.
What I don’t know,” Myrtle continued, “is how you knew you were in Cullen’s will. Why were you so sure he wouldn’t send the money over to a far-flung relative or a charity or something?”
Simon snorted. “Cullen? Charitable? Please. Willow had mentioned before that Cullen was too lazy to even make out a will. She was worried about Jill being taken care of. She said that Jill had actually made a will and left everything to Cullen. And I’m Cullen’s next of kin. It would have taken a while to work its way through probate court, but the money would have finally ended up where it needed to be.”
Simon moved restlessly toward Myrtle and she babbled hurriedly. “So you put gloves on and went into your brother’s house. You knew where he kept his gun because Jill has talked about it often enough. You made sure your fingerprints weren’t on the gun at all and, of course, Cullen’s would have been all over it.”
Simon smirked. “Well, it was his gun.”
“And you made it appear that he’d killed himself. You put his hand around it. Forced Cullen to pull the trigger. He must have been pretty drunk. That was quite a chance you took, wasn’t it? What if you’d gotten there and he’d been completely sober?”
“I would have come back later. But I wasn’t taking much of a chance, considering Cullen’s pattern of drunkenness the last couple of days.”
“But you made a mistake when you typed out a suicide note.”
“As far as I knew, Cullen had killed Jill. And, I figured if he hadn’t, nobody was going to come forward and correct the police and admit to the crime. It seemed like a good way to reinforce the fact that it was suicide.”
“Except that Willow had already been arrested for Jill’s murder and confessed to having done it.”
“Except for that. Yes. But I had no way of knowing that Willow was going to be discovered the same night I killed Cullen. It was a good idea at the time.” Simon sounded petulant.
Myrtle raised her eyebrows. He actually needed a pat on the back that badly? From someone he was going to murder?
“Jill had left him money. A significant amount of money.”
Simon gave a short laugh. “And how long would that have lasted? Remember, he was drinking liquor all day long and had no income whatsoever. He would have burned through that money fast. And it would have been a total waste. How much better would it be to use that money to help Libba? And to maybe do some good for once?”
“Plus, you succeeded in making Cullen look weak. Weak enough to take his own life and as weak as you thought he made you look to your father.” Myrtle pressed her lips into a thin line as Simon advanced with his knife. “There’s nothing you’re going to solve if you kill me. Now you’re even using your own knife. You’re going to lead Red right to you.”
Simon said, “This knife? There’s nothing special about it—except it came from Jill and Cullen’s house. I thought it might come in handy one day, so I took it with me the other night. And murdering you will solve some problems for me. I’ll have my freedom still and the money to enjoy it for the first time in my life.”
And at that very moment, a miracle happened. From the corner of her eye, Myrtle glimpsed that the arrival of her savior, in the unlikely form of Pasha the feral cat. Pasha had crept through the open kitchen window (thank God for the burned biscuits) and was making one more determined effort to show Myrtle how to hunt and kill. Myrtle thanked her lucky stars. Th
is time, she carried her most unusual prey yet—a live bat.
Simon, so focused on his prey, and still gabbing exultantly about getting away with murder, was completely unaware of Pasha’s gift ... .until the bat, dumped on the floor by the cat, flapped awkwardly up and flew smack into Simon’s head.
Simon looked stricken, eyes wide open, mouth agape and flapping as he dropped the knife to wave his arms frantically at the bat. Myrtle—a lot less worried about the bat than she was about Simon—picked up her cane in both hands and, with the new-found strength courtesy of fear and the new gym membership, cracked it over Simon’s head.
He crashed to the floor in a heap and Myrtle quickly stooped and picked up the knife with shaking hands and backed up to the telephone to call Red. Pasha looked at the unconscious Simon curiously. She seemed impressed by the size of Myrtle’s prey. And so ended Myrtle’s hunting lessons from Pasha.
The police were also impressed with Myrtle’s prey, who cooperatively remained unconscious until their arrival.
“I’m not sure why you keep opening the door to killers, Mama,” said Red. “I’d have thought you’d have learned your lesson after Willow.”
“I had no idea that Willow was a murderer until later in her visit, Red, as you well know.”
“Okay, but you apparently knew that Simon killed Cullen. If you go around killing your own siblings, it’s not likely that there’s much in the way of morals holding you back from murdering snoopy old ladies.”
“He forced his way in! And held a knife on me.” said Myrtle. “What else was I supposed to do? I was planning on calling you right before he pushed into the house. I had no thoughts of confronting Simon Caulfield, I promise you.”
Lieutenant Perkins quickly stepped in to prevent the spat going any farther. “Well, whatever you did, we owe you some gratitude, Mrs. Clover. Again. You’ve gotten a very dangerous man off the streets.”
“Pasha was really the hero,” said Myrtle, an uncharacteristic tear trickling out of her eye. She quickly wiped it away, frowning in irritation with herself. “Trying to share her bat with me. What a little love.”
Detective Perkins could think of other descriptions of the cat that were a lot more apt. His guys had had a hell of a time capturing the cat and the bat. Since Mrs. Clover had mentioned that the cat needed its shots and to be spayed, they’d tracked it down and finally gotten the hissing, spitting creature into a cage to be taken to the vet. The bat had been easier, in comparison.
“It certainly looks as though Pasha deserves a medal,” he said, soothingly. “I know how everything ended, but I’m not sure how you pegged Simon Caulfield for his brother’s murder.”
Myrtle beamed. She was always most pleased when being asked how she’d unraveled the case. “Simon was always a likely suspect. After all, I’d seen Cullen and Simon get into a fist fight at Fit Life. There was obviously a lot of old anger and resentment there.”
“Not only did anger provide a motive, but when Puddin was cleaning my house the other day, she noted that Simon and Libba had fallen on hard times. That’s something that was news to me. They’d never been wealthy people, but they’d always gotten by fairly well. But Puddin said that her cousin said that the Caulfields were even having trouble paying their grocery bill and had to let Puddin go as a cleaner. And Tiny Kirk said that he didn’t think Simon was going to be able to pay him for the yard work at Cullen’s house.” Myrtle ignored Red’s eye roll at the convoluted third-hand gossip.
“So Simon needed the money,” said Lieutenant Perkins.
“He was Cullen’s only living relative, so he knew the money would come his way at some point. And he knew that there was some money there because Georgia Simpson kept complaining about the lottery money she thought she’d been cheated out of.”
“There was definitely a motive,” said Red. “But how did you determine he was the killer?”
Myrtle looked discomfited. “From Kojak.”
“Kojak!”
“Yes,” said Myrtle with great irritation. “Don’t look like that. I didn’t have a long intellectual conversation with the dog or anything. But Willow had called me the morning after she’d tried to kill me.”
Myrtle ignored the fact that Red was holding his head like it hurt. “She only wanted me to check on Kojak for her. She thought I was a big animal lover because of the Friends of Ferals thing. And maybe I am,” said Myrtle, thinking gratefully again about Pasha’s role in saving her life. “I suggested that maybe Kojak could have a home with Simon and Libba. Apparently, they’d already taken in the cat, Miss Chivis. But Willow was adamant that Kojak hated Simon. I guess the dog had witnessed too many scuffles between Cullen and his master’s brother.”
Perkins nodded encouragingly.
“But when I went over there, Kojak was really wailing. He sounded horrible. Sherry and I went in and discovered Cullen’s body, which had been what upset the dog so badly.”
“Then,” Myrtle continued, “I went over to the Caulfields’ house to bring some food over. Tippy had gotten me on that bereavement committee so Blanche and I went over to visit.”
Red looked concerned. “Libba Caulfield ate your food, Mama?”
“And loved every bite,” said Myrtle. She had no idea whether Libba had even eaten any of the casserole, but she was really getting quite fed up with these inferences.
“Anyway,” said Myrtle, “Simon came in with shorts on and a huge bandage on his leg. Like something had tried to eat him.”
Red frowned, “I don’t think Cullen was in any shape to have fought Simon off, Mama.”
“No, no! Kojak had bitten him. The dog had attacked Simon when he killed his master.”
“And when I asked Simon how he’d gotten hurt, he said he’d been hurt while mowing his brother’s grass. But I’d seen Tiny Kirk out there, mowing the grass, when I was looking after Kojak. I knew Simon had lied. And then, when I’d gotten back home, I heard dogs barking outside and I remembered poor Kojak.”
Perkins and Red looked at each other again. Myrtle thought they looked tired.
“But Red, you’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve got plans to do some quieter activities now.”
Red raised his eyebrows.
“I’m going to write the most exciting story the Bradley Bugle readers have ever read. It’s going to be the perfect follow-up to the story I wrote about Willow. And maybe,” said Myrtle, “I’ll even blog about it. You know—put some extra bits of information on the blog for the online readers.”
Red put his head in his hands like he thought it might go spinning off. “Wait. You’re exercising at the gym—-and working out enough to fend off a man over thirty years younger than you are. You’ve started going back to church. You managed to cook a casserole that apparently didn’t kill Libba Caulfield (at least as far as we’re aware.) And you’re blogging too?”
Myrtle looked smug. “Social media is the new frontier.” Myrtle wasn’t exactly sure what social media was, but she loved the complete bewilderment on Red’s face. The next week was going to be fun. Wait ‘til she joined Twitter.
***
Acknowledgments: Thanks, as always, to my family for their love and support. Thanks to my mother, Beth Spann, a fabulous first reader. Thanks to Kendel Flaum for the lovely cover and Judy Beatty for her careful editing. And thanks to the online writing community, for all their help and encouragement.
About the Author:
Elizabeth writes the Southern Quilting mysteries and Memphis Barbeque mysteries for Penguin Random House and the Myrtle Clover series for Midnight Ink and independently. She blogs at ElizabethSpannCraig.com/blog , named by Writer’s Digest as one of the 101 Best Websites for Writers. Elizabeth makes her home in Matthews, North Carolina, with her husband and two teenage children.
Other Works by the Author:
Myrtle Clover Series in Order:
Pretty is as Pretty Dies
Progressive Dinner Deadly
A Dyeing Shame
A Body in the Backyard
Death at a Drop-In
A Body at Book Club
Death Pays a Visit
A Body at Bunco
Murder on Opening Night
Cruising for Murder (2016)
Southern Quilting Mysteries in Order:
Quilt or Innocence
Knot What it Seams
Quilt Trip
Shear Trouble
Tying the Knot
Patch of Trouble (2016)
Memphis Barbeque Mysteries in Order (Written as Riley Adams):
Delicious and Suspicious
Finger Lickin’ Dead
Hickory Smoked Homicide
Rubbed Out
And a standalone “cozy zombie” novel: Race to Refuge, written as Liz Craig
Where to Connect With Elizabeth:
Facebook: Elizabeth Spann Craig Author
Twitter: @elizabethscraig
Website: elizabethspanncraig.com
Email: mailto:
[email protected] Thanks!
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Extras:
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