Chapter Eleven
It was most disappointing how efficient Elaine’s new cleaner was. Myrtle’s mind had clearly been poisoned by the indolent Puddin and her sluggish housekeeping. She’d expected that she and Jo would have a little chatting time while Jo stalled. Myrtle was used to stalling. What was truly baffling was Jo’s highly-developed work ethic.
Myrtle drummed her fingers on the kitchen table as Jo energetically attacked the kitchen floor—on her hands and knees, no less. She’d tried to bring up a little conversation, but Jo was so focused on the task at hand that she either grunted a response or offered something monosyllabic in reply.
Jo didn’t even glance up as Myrtle’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” Myrtle demanded, unable to keep the irritation from her voice. “What?” It was Red.
Red growled into his phone, “Mama, your unit is so old that they’ve had to order a replacement part for it. And the warehouse that makes the part was out of stock.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose you want to just get a whole new system put in, do you?”
“With whose money? Retired schoolteachers don’t have that kind of cash, Red. And I don’t think small-town police chiefs do, either.”
“That’s for sure.” His voice sounded tight. “I guess you’ll be staying with us another night. They seem to think it could be shipped over tomorrow. Expedited.”
“Believe me, I’m no happier about this than you are. I’ve got stuff I need to do at home.” Myrtle hung up, muttering to herself.
To her surprise, Jo finally decided to talk. “You were just staying here short term, Miss Myrtle? I didn’t know what the story was.”
Myrtle sighed. “It’s a short story. Broken a/c. Hot octogenarian. You know.”
“We’re going to have to get our unit replaced soon. I’ve got a repairman over almost every month. It keeps needing coolant added—I guess there’s a leak in the lines somewhere.” Jo asked in a kind voice, “You’ll miss being over here, won’t you? When your air is fixed? I bet you get lonely, living by yourself.”
So Jo felt some pity for her. It was easy to see how she came up with that impression, since Myrtle had been following her from room to room, trying to have a conversation. It was the perfect way to take advantage of the situation.
“It does get lonely.” Myrtle did her best to look sad but brave. “One of my biggest pleasures is just to sit and chat with people.” Jo frowned a little and Myrtle realized she might be taking it a little too far. She hurriedly added, “Red and Elaine try to make time for me, of course, but Red is busy with work and Elaine has Jack.” She shrugged.
Jo gave a quick glance at the kitchen clock, then pulled out a chair. She really was a nice woman. And nice was definitely easier to work with when you were trying to get information out of someone.
“Am I messing you up?” Myrtle asked. “You’re heading off to Bootsie’s after this, right?” She leaned in near Jo as if there were spies listening in. “By the way, doesn’t Bootsie look disgraceful these days? She’s trying to dress as if she were a teenager!” She clucked and shook her head.
Jo laughed. “She’s going through a midlife crisis, I guess.”
“Midlife? To what? Is she going to live until one-hundred and twenty?”
Now Jo really laughed. “She’s not that old. Yet.”
“I can’t wrap my mind around what she’s trying to do with her look,” said Myrtle with indignation. “Wearing short skirts and tall boots and sleeveless blouses at her age?” She rolled her eyes. “It makes me half-think that she’s got some sort of love interest.”
Jo’s gaze sharpened and Myrtle looked innocently back at her. “Mercy, it looks like you think she has some sort of love interest, too.”
Jo studied her as if gauging the danger of gossiping with Myrtle. Myrtle did her very best to look as innocuous as possible. “Well, be sure not to say anything to anybody, but I’ve wondered. You know—because of the way she’s dressing.”
“Have you seen Bootsie out with anyone?”
Jo shook her head. “No ma’am, I sure haven’t. But I’ve noticed something unusual in the last couple of months. Like you said, she started dressing different and wearing more makeup. After I get there, she’ll be upstairs getting ready to go out, then heads out of the house right before lunch. She’s always got tons of perfume on— and I get headaches when I smell floral scents.”
“Did you ever ask her where she was going?”
Jo said, “The first time I did. That’s because it wasn’t her normal routine. So I asked her if she were going out for lunch with friends. And she turned bright red and started stuttering like she didn’t know what to say. Then she rushed out the door.” Jo shook her head. “I didn’t ask her again. But it does make you wonder.”
Yes, it did. It sounded like a little surveillance was in order.
The surveillance was going to take a little prep-work—and involved borrowing Miles’ car again. Since he seemed to treat the car like it was his own child, it was going to take a little doing to get Miles on board. In the meantime, Prissy was the next suspect on Myrtle’s list and she decided to go pay a little visit to her.
Taking some children’s books with her would probably make her mission more believable. Then she could ask Prissy’s opinion of the books. She threw a few books from Jack’s room into a canvas bag, then crossed the street to her house. There was a small box with some of Red’s childhood books at the top shelf of the hall closet.
Minutes later, Myrtle carefully climbed Prissy’s steep stairs, set down the bag of books on the porch and balanced with the cane while ringing the old-fashioned buzzer.
Prissy peered out the lacy curtains beside the front door. With reluctance, she opened the door. “I wish you’d just call, Miss Myrtle. I hate you climbing these steep stairs.” She opened the door, motioning Myrtle inside.
“Stairs? Oh, they’re no problem for me. I’m fit as a fiddle. I just thought I’d drop by real quick and get your opinion on the books I picked out to read to your preschoolers.”
She sat down gingerly on the old settee in Prissy’s living room and pulled out the books as Prissy rambled on, praising her devotion to literacy.
Something, though, was apparently wrong. Prissy was staring at the books that Myrtle had brought.
“It’s sweet of you to think of the children. They’ll love to have you read to them. But...” Prissy sighed. “These books are a little too advanced for the preschoolers. I don’t think the three and four-year-olds will grasp Robinson Crusoe or...Crime and Punishment.”
Prissy continued rummaging through the bag. “And the board books must be some of Jack’s old books.” She held up Baby’s Busy Day. Myrtle winced. She should have checked those books before she left. Prissy must think she’s senile.
Prissy continued prattling. “I wouldn’t expect you to have children’s books lying around, Myrtle. Why don’t you run by the library? The children’s librarian—remember Miss Hatch?—will probably be happy to point you in the right direction.”
Myrtle suffered through Prissy’s high-volume monologue for several minutes, nodding at what she hoped were appropriate times. Growing impatient, she slumped in her chair, fanned herself and waited for Prissy to realize something was wrong. When Prissy continued her adulation of the benevolent Miss Hatch, Myrtle clutched her head and gave a melodramatic moan.
Prissy blinked at her as Myrtle gasped, “So sorry, Prissy. Your steep steps unsettled me more than I thought. Room...spinning. Fix me a drink?”
Prissy started clucking again, clicking her dentures and casting anxious looks at Myrtle before scurrying to the kitchen. In the meantime, Myrtle spryly hopped up and hustled to the back bedroom.
A sappy screensaver of birds flying under a rainbow covered the computer monitor. Myrtle jiggled the mouse and a word processing program came up. Myrtle gaped at the erotic writing on the screen. No flowery Regency prose here; only descriptive passages of a passionate love scene.
And, judging from the stacks of nearby paperbacks, all by Tessa Rose, she’d written quite a number of them.
Myrtle high-tailed it back to her chair to resume her medical episode. She was just in time, as Prissy hurried in with a glass and a small pitcher of ice water on a small tray.
She drank a little of her water as Prissy fussed around her. “Let me get a cool washcloth for you. You’ve just lost all of your color!” Prissy walked to the back of the house, babbling as she went, until she suddenly went quiet. Myrtle froze. Had the screensaver cut back on, or did Prissy have it set on a delay? Prissy finally returned with the washcloth and a shrewd look on her face.
Myrtle took the washcloth and held it against her forehead as she gave a weak smile. “I feel much better now. Thanks for all your help. I really should go to the doctor and find out what’s causing these spells! Um…let’s see. Where were we? Oh yes. So, what day will be best to read to the children?”
Tersely, Prissy said, “I’ll have to give you a call. I’m not really sure right now what the schedule looks like for next week.” Myrtle drained her water and rose.
“Well, thanks again. I should probably go.” She grabbed her cane and hefted the heavy bag of books. Prissy opened the front door for her and Myrtle stood at the top of the stairs before turning to ask Prissy if the children had a favorite book for her to ask for at the library.
Myrtle was never able to fully remember what happened next. It all seemed to take place at once: Prissy’s surprisingly strong hand on her arm, Myrtle’s loss of balance, her stumble, and the horrible sensation of falling.