A Dyeing Shame

  Chapter Twelve

  Apparently a previously dormant and uninvolved guardian angel miraculously steadied Myrtle and kept her from pitching headlong down the staircase.

  This time she wasn’t faking her weakness when she sank down onto the top step of the porch. Prissy gasped, “You nearly met your Maker!”

  “And you were trying to help Him make my acquaintance.” panted Myrtle. “You shoved me!”

  Prissy’s face was white. “Of course not. I was trying to steady you. You wobbled before you fell forward. Naturally, I wasn’t in the right position to stop your fall…”

  “Naturally.” Waving aside Prissy’s invitation to come back inside to rest, Myrtle carefully maneuvered down the stairs and through the tidy yard to the street. Feeling every one of her eighty-odd years, Myrtle trudged back to Red’s house where she had her first afternoon nap in years.

  Myrtle didn’t feel in a very chatty mood at supper. Or a hungry one, she thought as she pushed her food around on her plate. What was worse, she’d put the bag of books back at her house after her nap and discovered the painting was in flamboyant display on her coffee table.

  Red raised his eyebrows. “Not interested in shrimp and grits, Mama? I know that’s one of your favorite meals.” Myrtle looked at him balefully and he continued, “Okay, spill it. What’s happened?”

  She was just deciding that she could give him a taste of his own medicine and clam up, when she realized that this was the perfect way to bring up the case in a non-pushy, Red-repellant way. So Myrtle reluctantly told Red and Elaine about her afternoon with Prissy and its exciting climax where she nearly broke her neck on Prissy’s front stairs.

  “Miss Prissy tried to push you down the stairs?” Red’s eyes were huge.

  “You’re making it sound ridiculous. But I’m sure I felt her bony hand on me and it wasn’t trying to steady me. I steadied myself.”

  “So, what you’re saying, Mama, is that you think Prissy killed Tammy by shoving her down the stairs and she was going to shove you down the stairs, too? Don’t you think that sounds a little crazy, if she was trying to distance herself from the first crime? And all because of some dirty books?”

  “I think shoving two victims down steep staircases is exactly what Prissy would do. She’s not the most creative person around,” answered Myrtle.

  “Apparently Prissy is very creative. After all, she’s writing erotic fantasies and making all that content up. Unless she’s somehow living a secret life and writing from her own experiences.”

  Myrtle shuddered. “I guess she’s more creative than I gave her credit for. Maybe she didn’t mean for me to fall down the stairs, just to shake me up a little and give me a warning.”

  Elaine frowned as she absentmindedly scrubbed some grits off Jack’s face. “I don’t totally understand why Miss Prissy is so desperate to hide these books. She’d be a local celebrity if the word got out.”

  “Not likely,” said Myrtle. “Remember, this is a small Southern town. The preschool mommies would never be able to look her in the eye again. Maybe she wouldn’t feel comfortable at the program anymore, with parents giggling over her all the time. I don’t know how Tammy found out about the books, but it’s obvious she knew about them. Prissy could’ve gone over to the Beauty Box later that night and pleaded with Tammy to keep quiet. But then things could have gotten out of hand.”

  Red shook his head. “I just don’t see it, Mama. Remember, the killer wore gloves. That shows premeditation, not a crime committed in the heat of an argument. And I still don’t know how Tammy could have known about the books.”

  Myrtle glared at him. “Maybe she reads erotic romance and saw something that made her realize Prissy was the author. Actually, Prissy probably told her about the books. Tammy frequently belittled Prissy, so maybe Prissy burst out one day that she was a published author. Who knows? And maybe Prissy still wears driving gloves. She’s so prim that I’d believe it. Or maybe it was premeditated after all. If she’s wicked enough to try to shove innocent ladies down staircases, she’s probably capable of anything.”

  Red frowned at her. “I’m still having trouble with this shoving thing.”

  “Prissy shoved me.” Myrtle spoke slowly, in case Red was having cognitive trouble.

  “Prissy did.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ninety-five pound Prissy.” Red tilted his head at his mother.

  “Your point being?”

  “Ninety-five pound cadaverous Prissy pushed strapping, one-hundred and— ”

  “Never mind! I’m an old woman, Red, growing feebler every day.”

  Red looked doubtful.

  Elaine spoke up, “Are you going to pull Miss Prissy in for questioning? These books show that she had a motive to kill Tammy. She wanted to keep her secret.”

  “This doesn’t do anything but give the police a line of questioning. Now listen,” he said as both Elaine and Myrtle butted in, “Listen, y’all! There’s no hard evidence. There’s nothing linking Miss Prissy to the homicide. But next time we talk to her, I can ask questions about her books…I’ll say that we have a source that informs us that she has this secret series. We’ll see what Lieutenant Perkins and I can find out.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising. In fact, it sounds like my boring, exhausting, and dangerous afternoon tea with Prissy Daniels was all for nothing,” said Myrtle with disgust.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” replied Red. “It’s shown us what her motive might have been.” He grinned. “And those little preschoolers sure will love your stories, Mama.”

  It was never fun to wake up at night realizing you’d forgotten something. And that night, Myrtle sat up straight in bed, gasping. The cat! Oh no. Poor Pasha would be wondering where her food and water were. She was a feral cat, but she’d gotten used to being spoiled.

  Myrtle grabbed her robe and slippers, her cane, and her keys. This time she really would have to be quiet. If Red caught her outside again in the middle of the night, he’d probably clamp on one of those ankle bracelets they put on criminals on house arrest.

  She slipped out the front door, looking it behind her, and hurried across the street, letting herself in the front door. Myrtle found some cat food in the kitchen and put it outside in the backyard with a big bowl of water. She heard a rustling in her bushes and out ran Pasha, looking very glad to see her. There was something very rewarding in that.

  She rubbed Pasha for a few minutes, talking to her in a soft voice, before walking back into the house again. Myrtle was just walking to the back door when she saw with horror that the painting was back on her mantel. When had Miles returned it? How had he gotten in?

  Myrtle snatched the painting off her mantel. It was time to return the favor. And she just happened to still have a set of keys to Miles’ house from when she housesat for him.

  Miles’ back door made all kinds of squeaks and groans. She froze, but he never appeared. She took the painting and slid it in the narrow space between his refrigerator and counter. There. That should take a while for him to find it.

  The doorbell rang and Red raised his eyebrows. “Kind of early, isn’t it?” he muttered. He looked out the door. “It’s Miles,” he told her before he pulled open the door.

  “Sorry if it’s early,” said Miles, carrying a bag with one hand and pushing his steel-framed glasses up his nose with the other. “Well, I knew Myrtle would be up and Red, I figured you’d be about to head off to the station. But Jack and Elaine…”

  “Elaine is already at the gym doing a yoga class or something,” said Red, taking a last bite of his English muffin and wiping his mouth off with a napkin. “And Jack is…well, he’s really quiet. Which probably means he’s up there coloring on his wall with a Sharpie or something. I’ll check on him before I head out,” he said, hurrying off. “Help yourself to some coffee, Miles.”

  “You know,” said Miles in a thoughtful voice, “I had terrible nightmares last night.”

  “Did yo
u, Miles? I’m sorry to hear that,” said Myrtle. She spread some butter on a muffin.

  Miles poured himself a cup of coffee. “Yes. It was almost as if there was some horrible piece of artwork that was poisoning my dreams just by its very presence in my house.”

  Myrtle took a bite of the muffin and shrugged.

  “Then,” said Miles, speaking very precisely, “I discovered that there was a horrible piece of artwork in my house.”

  “How very observant of you. Interestingly enough, I made the same discovery myself recently.”

  “Yes. Well, while I was over getting your mail, I dropped the painting off for you to enjoy it for a while. I’m supposed to be having houseguests shortly—some family coming through town to visit. I think it might be best if the painting stays at your house for a while. Especially considering that you’re not even there, yourself.”

  “Fine. I guess. Well, thanks for the mail, anyway,” said Myrtle, taking the small stack from him. “You know, I used to wait for the mailman every day because I actually had real mail. Now it’s just a few bills or statements or maybe a little junk mail. That’s probably why I forgot to get it—it’s just not interesting anymore.”

  Miles pointed at one envelope. “This one looks a little interesting. Or at least it doesn’t look like junk mail.”

  “It might be something for my helpful hints column,” said Myrtle with a puffy sigh. “I keep thinking I’m done with that stupid column now that I’m an investigative reporter for the Bugle. But Sloan keeps yanking me back into it because people still send tips and read the thing. I might end up writing that column from the grave.”

  She opened the envelope and her breath went out in a hiss between her teeth. “Holy moly.”

  “What is it?” Miles moved next to her.

  “It’s a tip all right.” She showed him the paper, which had letters cut out from a newspaper to form words that said “Here’s a tip for you—watch your back!”

  Miles looked at the paper solemnly. “Myrtle, it looks like it’s time you backed off.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Miles. As far as warnings go, this one isn’t all that harsh.”

  “You don’t think a threatening letter should be taken seriously?” Miles thoughtfully studied the paper again.

  “Not at all. Not compared to being pushed down the stairs, anyway.”

  “What?”

  So Myrtle had to fill him in, which she did while she poured them both some more coffee. Miles seemed to share Red’s point of view of Miss Prissy as evildoer. “Really?” he asked in a doubtful voice. “I just somehow don’t see Prissy flinging people down stairs.”

  Myrtle was about to hotly debate this point when Red hurried back in again. “Okay, all’s fine. He covered his room with toilet paper, but that’s not as bad as other stuff he could have done.” He looked at the pile of mail on the kitchen table. “What’s that?”

  Myrtle showed him the letter. “Are you going to check it for fingerprints?”

  Red answered, “Paper doesn’t usually hold fingerprints. I’ll show it to the forensic guys, but I doubt anything will turn up. Besides, it might not have even come from the killer. It’s not like I can pin a murder on whoever sent this out.”

  “There’s got to be something you can find out about it. With all the forensics stuff the state police has?”

  Red shook his head. “Not really, Mama. The message was glued on standard printer paper and this is just a plain business envelope. Anybody in town could have picked them up at the drugstore. The newspaper was probably the Bradley Bugle, which everyone gets. It’s not like it’s going to be cut from the New York Times and we just have to find out who subscribes. Nothing in life is that easy.”

  “You can’t look for cut up newspaper in people’s trash or see if the suspects have this same type of paper or envelopes?”

  “I can’t search every house in town, Mama. I can’t search any houses unless I have probable cause, which I don’t. This isn’t even technically a threatening letter. It doesn’t threaten bodily harm or blackmail.”

  Miles said, “Whoever sent it sure didn’t mail it with goodwill, though. It was unsolicited in her mailbox.”

  “So is all the junk mail we get. Look, I’ll try my best, but don’t get your hopes up.” Red grabbed his car keys, mumbled out a goodbye and left.

  Miles and Myrtle moved into the living room where Jack was now playing with some toy trucks. “You know, Miles, I must be getting close enough to scare somebody.”

  “Exactly why you should quit. Let Red and the state police do their jobs.”

  “I’m letting them do their jobs. Actually, I’m helping them do their jobs by finding leads for them. I ought to be on their payroll,” said Myrtle.

  “I think you ought to back off. You’re not paying any attention to this warning.”

  Myrtle glanced down at the note again. “Prissy is the first person who comes to mind.”

  “You’re developing a Prissy complex. It could be any of the suspects.”

  “I somehow don’t see Connor smearing newspaper cut-outs with glue sticks. It just seems like a sort of girly thing to do,” said Myrtle.

  “He could have done it,” argued Miles. “It would have been a way to scare you off the case without really hurting you.”

  “I wish I knew what Tammy had on the other suspects. Judging from Prissy’s secret, she must have had something juicy on them. Let’s brainstorm.”

  Miles looked a little out of his depth. “Oh, come on, Miles! You’ve got some imagination deep down inside you somewhere. You must have some, if you had a career as an architect.”

  “Engineer,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Whatever. Now, if I were a writer for my soap opera, I’d come up with tons of possibilities.”

  “Maybe Bo is a CIA agent, worried about having his cover blown. The diner could just be a front,” suggested Miles hesitantly.

  “How fanciful of you, Miles! Yes, that’s exactly the kind of brainstorming I mean. Except, of course, that’s completely wrong. Bo has never stepped foot out of this town his whole life. Anyway, he has an alibi.”

  “Okay. Hmm. Bootsie is actually a closet PETA operative. Her furs are fakes and she spends her lunch hours rescuing animals from cosmetics testing.” Miles looked smug as Myrtle clapped.

  “I’ve got one. Prissy is a man,” said Myrtle, waving her finger at Miles.

  “How about this: Connor isn’t really Agnes’ son; she snatched him from a stroller during a trip to Alabama.”

  They both burst out laughing. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Myrtle said, “Ok, that was good for a giggle. But who knows? In this town, it could be true. I’m going to go out later when Elaine gets back and investigate some more. I’ll call you later to check back in.”