A Body at Book Club (Myrtle Clover Mysteries) (4 page)

“Sometimes cats will hide out for a while until the need for water drives them out. I wouldn’t worry too much—she’s probably fine.” Lena’s gaze flicked over from Myrtle to Rose’s house. “Looks as if someone else has arrived.”

“It might be the medical examiner,” said Myrtle, also looking toward the house.

Lena frowned. “Does the medical examiner usually come for a natural death? Rose said that Naomi had emailed to say she was sick and couldn’t make the meeting. Does Red think that this was foul play?”

Myrtle shrugged. “Who knows? Red never tells me anything.”

Miles said thoughtfully, “I’d imagine that he has a responsibility to report a death like this.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “She was pretty young to have died so suddenly from a stomach bug.”

Lena continued squinting at the house.

Myrtle said in what she hoped was a casual tone, “It’s a pity, isn’t it? I didn’t really know Naomi as well as I should have, considering that she’s a book club member.”

“You weren’t missing anything,” said Lena coolly.

Miles and Myrtle shared a glance. “So you weren’t close with Naomi?”

Lena snorted in response. “Hardly. But I’m not the only one who wasn’t.” She nodded her head to gesture around her. “Take a gander at Maxine Tristan. She looks positively jolly at this turn of events.”

Myrtle remembered Maxine’s grin at the news of Naomi’s demise. Maxine was now engaged in conversation with another club member, but was grinning widely in response to everything said. She looked to be in a very happy mood.

“Am I missing something here?” asked Myrtle. “Is there a reason Maxine didn’t like Naomi?”

“I’m not one to tell tales,” said Lena briskly. “I only make observations.” She raised her eyebrows as Red appeared at Rose’s back door.

“He’s going to want to speak to everyone,” said Myrtle with a sigh. “And that always takes forever.”

“I’m going to volunteer to talk with Red first because I really need to get back to the clinic. Hope Pasha shows up soon, Miss Myrtle.” And she strode up to the house.

Chapter Four

The next morning, Myrtle ate her breakfast and then decided to walk over to the
Bradley Bugle
office. A blast of humid air hit her as soon as she opened the front door and she made a face—she’d hoped to avoid the heat by heading out so early.

Last night, she’d made a
Missing
poster with Pasha’s picture on it and wanted to use the newspaper’s copy machine to make a bunch of copies. Myrtle had realized at around midnight that she didn’t have a really clear photo of Pasha on her computer and the pictures she
did
have were on her camera. She was going to have to get Red’s or his wife Elaine’s help getting the pictures off her camera, since she couldn’t remember how she’d done it last time. Calling them at midnight, however, was not going to make them eager to help her. In the meantime, this poster would have to make do. She squinted at it. You could tell it was a black cat, she decided. Even though Pasha was running when Myrtle took the picture, turning her image into a bit of a black smudge.

Myrtle had put her cell phone number on the poster as the contact number and had even charged her cell phone last night. It was now with her in the large pocketbook dangling from her arm. Red would be so proud.

Myrtle pushed open the old, wooden door to the newspaper and entered the cluttered newsroom. Once again, she smelled the musty-stale-paper-smell of the place. The room was filled with piles and piles of paper and photographs. Sloan Jones, the editor, claimed that he knew what every bit of paper in there was and could retrieve it whenever he needed. Myrtle had serious doubts about this.

Myrtle scanned the dimly lit room until one of the piles (or what she’d
thought
was one of the paper piles) moved on a wheeled chair to face her. It was Sloan, a hefty man with an ever-expanding forehead. He looked disappointed to see her. Their relationship was a little strained since Sloan was apparently rather terrified of Myrtle. He too-clearly remembered all the times she’d fussed at him in middle school for throwing spitballs and passing notes. You’d think that by the time he’d reached his forties, these memories would have faded. For Sloan, that didn’t appear to be the case.

“Hi, Miss Myrtle.” He gave her a grimacing smile. “Have you brought in your helpful hints column for me? That’s awfully speedy of you. You must have read my mind. I know it’s not due until later in the week, but if you’ve got it, I’ll put it in tomorrow’s edition. That’s the most popular column we’ve got in the paper.”

“No, I’m just here to borrow the copier. Pasha has disappeared and I need to put up some posters.” She held up the mocked-up poster with the blurry picture of Pasha.

Sloan squinted at the picture. “Pasha?”

“You remember—the feral cat that took up with me?” Or was it that Myrtle had taken up with Pasha? “She’s run off because of bad dogs and I need to make sure she’s all right. As far as the helpful hints column—I might have to take a pass on it this week. There seems to be a bigger story looming on the horizon,” said Myrtle.

Sloan began perspiring and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his face. “Oh, is that the death of Naomi Pelter you’re talking about? I don’t think there’s much story there, Miss Myrtle. Got sick, looked for help, died on the way to help. Sad, but no real story to report.”

Myrtle studied him thoughtfully as he started nervously picking at the hem of his handkerchief. “Red’s gotten to you, hasn’t he?”

Sloan gave a rather high-pitched laugh. “I don’t know what you mean, Miss Myrtle.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean. Red came in or gave you a call and told you to warn me off this story. What I want to know is why,” said Myrtle sternly.

Sloan quickly opened his mouth to argue the point, and then sighed, drooping a bit. “You nailed it. Red dropped by on his way to the station this morning and asked if I could divert you from following up on this story.” He quickly raised his hands as if in self-defense as Myrtle started fussing. “But I don’t know why, Miss Myrtle. I just assumed it was the same old reason—that he wants you to take it easy and stop chasing criminals around Bradley.” He shrugged. “It’s not a lot to ask, is it? You could take it easy, stay safe, and write your tips column for the paper.”

Myrtle made a face.

“Folks love the tips column,” Sloan said quickly. “You just wouldn’t believe how often they tell me how much they
love
it. Boy, do they love to get those stains out of their clothes!  Who has the money these days to throw out stained clothes? No sir, they want to get those stains out and re-use them. You’re practically a hero, Miss Myrtle.”

“Let me stop you right there,” said Myrtle. “Enough of that nonsense. I’ve heard many more compliments on my in-depth articles on various murders in Bradley. We could train a chimpanzee to write those tips columns, but investigative journalism requires complex thought.” She tapped a finger against her forehead.

Sloan’s face fell. Myrtle headed to the copier and made twenty copies of her poster. She was sure that would give Sloan time to come up with some other fool’s errand to try to send her on for the paper.

Sure enough, when Myrtle turned away from the copier, Sloan was holding a small box in his hands. “We got some promo freebies in the mail yesterday, Miss Myrtle. Want to do some write-ups for us? And you’re welcome to take the stuff home, too.  They might prove useful. Let’s see. We’ve got a …” he peered into the box and held up a thick-handled can opener meant to assist arthritis sufferers. “…helpful can opener that could be a lifesaver for our Bradley retirees.”

Myrtle made a
pfft
sound. “I don’t need one and don’t want to write about it. I haven’t a smidgeon of arthritis.” She crossed her fingers at the fib. Her arthritis only acted up when it was rainy, so it was practically the truth.

Sloan sadly replaced the can opener in the box. “Will you at least have the tip column ready for me soon? I know it’s due later in the week, but if you send it earlier, I can run it tomorrow even. It’s pretty popular, as I mentioned.”

It occurred to Myrtle that perhaps a small mention of her missing Pasha as a postscript to the column might be a good way to get the word out. After all, this was The
Bradley Bugle
, not the
New York Times
.

Sloan peered anxiously at her and then jumped as his office chair suddenly gave an ominous, squeaking groan beneath him. He stood up quickly, frowning at the chair suspiciously, as if it were the chair and not his weight that was at fault.

“Tell you what,” said Myrtle. “I’ll email the story to you later this afternoon.” And she’d put a plea at the end of the story to watch out for Pasha. Maybe even include a photo.

Sloan blinked in surprise. “You will?” He looked concerned again. “We
are
talking about the helpful hints, right? Since you’re not working on the Naomi Pelter story.”

“Of course,” said Myrtle smoothly.

“Where are you going now?” asked Sloan, apparently still not convinced that Myrtle meant to leave the story alone.

“Right now? I’m going to find my cat.” She carefully slid her photocopies into the plastic grocery bag she’d brought with her and leaned heavily on her cane as she left.  And if finding her cat meant running into a couple of suspects along the way, so be it.

Claudia Brown had certainly looked as if she had something to hide when she heard about Naomi Pelter’s death. Myrtle hadn’t imagined her guilty expression. Putting a missing poster near Claudia’s house seemed in order.

Myrtle tacked up the poster on the stop sign at the corner where Claudia lived. Like most of the streets in Bradley, the stop sign was simply a suggestion to motorists. Most of the time, drivers only slowed down, hastily looked both ways, and kept right on driving. Hopefully, they’d also glance over Myrtle’s poster with the blurry Pasha.

Unfortunately, Claudia didn’t appear to be driven to do yard work today. Her blinds weren’t even open on her house. Knowing Claudia and her usual bubbly personality, Myrtle found this a bit strange. Was she mourning Naomi? It seemed unlikely—no one was really mourning Naomi, at least as far as Myrtle could tell. Perhaps she should check in with Claudia and make sure she was all right. She could use Pasha as a cover. Besides, Claudia had seemed most concerned about Pasha when Myrtle had mentioned her disappearance at book club.

“Pasha?” Claudia squinted at Myrtle through her cat eye glasses moments later. “Who?”

Apparently, Claudia suffered from short-term memory loss. At least she showed the presence of mind to invite Myrtle inside. The day had really heated up and Myrtle was ready to enjoy a little air conditioning.

Except Claudia’s house was fairly toasty. There was a small, oscillating fan in a far corner of the living room, lethargically swinging from left to right. “Air broken?” asked Myrtle.

“Oh no. I just get so chilly. You know.”

Myrtle did
not
know. Especially in the summertime. But then, Myrtle had a very solid build. Claudia looked as though a small breeze might knock her off her feet. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked Myrtle.

Presumably to warm up. Assuming that no iced beverages were going to be offered, Myrtle said, “Thanks. With cream and sugar, please.”

Claudia hurried to the kitchen, tightly-permed curls bouncing as she left. She was still talking in an aimless, filling-the-time kind of way, even though Myrtle couldn’t make out the words over the listless whirring of the fan and the sound of a lawnmower from the house next door. There was lots of clutter on the sofa, chairs, and surrounding tables. Myrtle made a bit of room by stacking some of it and sat down on a weathered floral sofa to wait.

A few minutes later, Claudia returned with a cheery smile and two coffees, which she proceeded to slosh over the rim on her route to Myrtle. “There we are. Now, let’s see. You came here to ask about someone named Pasha?”

“A cat. A black cat named Pasha. She’s missing. I brought up the subject at book club,” said Myrtle.

At the mention of book club, Claudia started anxiously pulling at her ear lobe. Myrtle longed to tell her to stop pulling at it, since her ears were certainly large enough without any stretching involved. She bit her tongue.

Claudia said slowly, “Oh. I’ve blocked out most of book club, I think. It was such a traumatic day, don’t you think? So awful about poor Naomi.”

“So you were a friend of Naomi’s?” asked Myrtle. “You liked her? I’m only asking because she seems to have made some enemies along the way.”

Claudia’s face streaked with a red flush. “Naomi? She was…well, she was …” She appeared deep in thought, trying to think of a kind word to use to describe the woman. Finally, she brightened after a silence, which was becoming painful for Myrtle. “She was talented! Yes, she was talented.”

Then her face crumpled and she burst into tears.

Myrtle stared in horror at her, then quickly opened her gigantic pocketbook, fumbling around for the small packet of tissues that she could have sworn she’d put in there. She finally pulled out one that had a smudge of red on it.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s clean, I promise. I only used it to blot my lipstick.”

Claudia seemed to have no compunction about using the tissue, blowing her nose vigorously.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime to Myrtle, Claudia said, “I’m sorry. It’s just hard for me.”

Apparently, Claudia was a lot fonder of Naomi than Myrtle had thought. Maybe Myrtle had misread her expression when Naomi’s death was revealed. Perhaps she’d been in shock or something.

But that explanation didn’t
feel
right. It seemed to Myrtle that Claudia was not being completely forthright. And there were tears welling up again in Claudia’s eyes again. Myrtle desperately jumped in.

“I suppose everyone felt the same?” asked Myrtle.

Claudia’s eyes were confused behind the cat eye glasses.

“I mean about Naomi. Everyone joins you in feeling it’s a great loss to the community?” asked Myrtle.

“Oh, no,” said Claudia, shaking her head until the curls bobbed again. “I wouldn’t say that
everyone
thought Naomi’s death was a great loss to the community.” She rubbed her cheeks, making them even blotchier. “Rose has said some dreadful things about Naomi. Really dreadful!” she reiterated, peeking out at Myrtle between her fingers as she rubbed her forehead.

“I suppose neighbors do tend to get upset with each other sometimes,” said Myrtle, thinking of her own epic struggles with Erma Sherman. She was going to
have
to do something about that nasty crabgrass.