A Dyeing Shame (18 page)

Myrtle ground her teeth. “Just so you know, I have plenty of worldly riches.”

“A widowed schoolteacher?”

“You’ve been really overstepping your boundaries,” she grumbled.

“And the retributive literature assignment?” grinned Red. Most of his childhood punishments involved Myrtle’s forcing him to read and be tested on the driest, most arcane texts. This somehow hadn’t killed his lifelong love of reading.

Myrtle considered. “All the chapters in
Moby Dick
that pertain to whale lines, darts, harpoons and general whale anatomy. Read them twelve times consecutively. Testing will be essay-style.” She gave a hint of a smile.

They drove in silence for a moment, then Myrtle said, “How’d you find time to run out here and rescue me with a murder investigation going on?”

“The state police are doing most of the work right now. Although I still have plenty, believe me,” said Red in a sour voice.

“What’s happening with the case?”

He sighed. “Same as any other murder case, I guess. It’s just that I’m not usually working murder cases. But Perkins hasn’t solved Tammy’s murder either, so I shouldn’t feel bad that I haven’t.”

“What’ve they found out?”

“Nothing much.Mostly what you already know. Someone wearing gloves handled the murder weapon. The door to the Beauty Box wasn’t locked or broken into; somebody just walked right in. There were no signs of a struggle. Tammy had her back to the killer, who stabbed her and pushed her down the stairs. No one heard or saw anything. The main suspects have no alibis and DNA from half the town was present in the salon.”

Myrtle snorted. “No one saw anything? In this snoopy town? I think people know more than they want to let on. Or maybe they don’t
know
that they know something.”

Red pulled up into Myrtle’s driveway. “Oh, since you’re here,” she ignored Red’s groan, “Could you grab the basket I put together for the women’s shelter? Then you can drive me by the Beauty Box. I just can’t hold my cane and the basket at the same time.” She sounded as pitiful as she could. It was a good opportunity to try to talk to Dina Peters, too.

Red said, “I guess I have some time. Sure. Dina will be sorry to see me coming though; she does a frightened bunny act anytime I show up.”

“Well, you’re investigating her, after all. How do the others act?” asked Myrtle.

“About how you’d expect.Bootsie Davenport puts on a “lady of the manor” act with us. Kat Roberts is belligerent. Strange-looking girl, there. Let’s see—Agnes Walker is courteous, but not helpful. Connor’s defensive. And when we interview Prissy Daniels, I pack smelling salts in my pocket.”

“Prissy couldn’t be that bad,” scoffed Myrtle.

Red looked thoughtful. “She might be faking it. I’d swear she’s even tougher than Kat.” He went in for the basket.

It occurred to Myrtle that there was something else that needed to be delivered. Really, Miles was being completely absurd about the painting. He always complained that his out-of-town guests would stay too long anyway. He only had the one bedroom, so when he had guests he slept on a rollaway bed in his small office. She’d probably be doing him a good deed by leaving the painting for his guests to see it.

She hurried inside and grabbed the painting and Miles’ house key. Since Miles was safely away, she quickly let herself in, put the painting against the bedroom wall, and hurried out. The snatches of the hymn wafted through her head. Yes, this painting could be responsible for Miles getting rid of his company in a timely fashion.

Dina was delighted
to see them. Or to see Myrtle’s donations, at least. Dina raved about the progress she and other volunteers had made at the shelter.

“And,” she added, smiling shyly at Myrtle, “thanks for making me put the donation jar in Bo’s diner. We’ve gotten so much money from people’s spare change.”

“Everybody in town goes to that diner and it’s the perfect way to get contributions,” said Myrtle.

Red broke in. “Dina, while I’m here, did you remember anything else from the night of the murder?” Dina pushed up her big glasses anxiously to get a better look at Red. “Sorry to bring it up again, but the investigation is still going on and your memories of that night aren’t getting any fresher,” he explained.

Gone was the self-assurance and enthusiasm present when Dina gushed over the shelter. She spluttered for a second before answering, “I don’t think I came up with anything else, Chief Clover. I mean—it was a very boring night.”

Red raised an eyebrow. “Aside from the murder where you lived and worked you mean?”

The sarcasm unsettled Dina. “I don’t know what you want me to remember.”

Red sighed and Myrtle bit back a smile. Getting information from Dina was like squeezing blood from a particularly unintelligent turnip. “Dina, I don’t
want
you to come up with things to remember. I want you to try thinking of little details, maybe things that were different than usual. Things that didn’t seem important at the time but that stand out more now.”

Dina fidgeted with her frizzy hair, pulling the curls out, then letting them coil back again. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know. Like I said, I ate supper by myself, since Tammy had gone out with Connor. I fell asleep with the TV on. When I woke up, it was two or three in the morning. I turned off the TV and went back to sleep.”

“You didn’t hear anything from the salon side of the duplex?” asked Red.

Dina shook her head miserably. “The walls are pretty thick, so sound doesn’t travel much from the salon to my room. The television probably blocked out some of the noise, too.”

“No shouting? No arguments? No bodies thumping down the stairs?” Red asked.

She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated again. She looked like a puppy waiting for encouragement.

“It’s okay, Dina. Let me know if you do think of something.” As Red and Myrtle walked out of the Beauty Box, Red shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t see how that girl functions, I really don’t.”

Myrtle said, “I bet her mind is a big warehouse full of discarded information that might be worth something. She’s a nice enough girl. She just spooks easily. I hear she’s been an angel at this women’s shelter.”

“Maybe. But being an angel doesn’t make her any more fun to be around. Remember your favorite Twain quote?” asked Red.

“You mean:
Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company?
Yes, I know.”

Red sighed. “She’s as scatterbrained as ever or even worse. I saw her wandering the streets yesterday holding a pair of hair shears like she was Edward Scissorhands. Her elevator just doesn’t make it to the top floor.”

Myrtle laughed. “She tried to abduct Dirty Doggy the other day. Walked right out the door carrying it and I had to chase her down.”

Red looked ill at the thought of losing Dirty Doggy. “Don’t tell me things like that, Mama. It’s too scary to even contemplate.”

The next morning,
Myrtle’s phone rang bright and early. “Miss Myrtle? It’s Prissy. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be at Elaine’s or back at your own house by now.”

It never ceased to amaze Myrtle how fast news traveled in small towns. “Yes, I’m back at home.”

“I called to give you a tip for your column.”

“Oh, good, I’ve been hoping to get some more. Reminds me to check my mailbox, too. What’ve you got for me?”

“I once heard that if you break a wine cork, you can strain the wine into your goblet through a coffee filter.”

It was a strange tip from a cardigan-wearing, herbal tea-drinking teetotaler. “Got it. Thanks. While I’ve got you on the phone, is it okay if I read to your preschool classes Monday?”

“Of course, Miss Myrtle, that would be great. Try to come around ten-thirty. Did you find a good book to share?”

“The children’s librarian picked out a couple.”

“I know the kids will love them. Thanks so much,” gushed Prissy before ringing off.

Prissy really did have a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. Or could she really be imagining her hostility and the shove?

The doorbell rang. It was Miles, looking rather grim, for some reason. “Come on in, Miles. I was just getting off the phone with the evil Prissy. I’m convinced she’s looking for another opportunity to push me down a staircase. I’ll have to watch my step at her blasted preschool.”

“You’re calling each other on the phone, now?”

“She was just calling with a tip for the column. One other than for me to be careful on steep staircases. I guess I’ll have to write the column soon—I’ve been focusing all my time on the investigative reporting. Which reminds me—when are you picking me up for the stakeout?”

“Picking you up in
what
?” Miles’ voice was suddenly cold.

Myrtle frowned at him. “In your car, Miles.”

“My car is having its transmission replaced, even as we speak. I’m not sure what you did to it to break it—”

“Absolutely nothing! I was just driving. And very sedately, too! Clearly you put me in a defective vehicle.” Myrtle sighed. “This is terrible news, Miles! When will they fix your car so we can have our stakeout?”

“They say it’ll be ready to be picked up early tomorrow morning. But Myrtle, really, do we have to know the identity of Bootsie’s paramour?”

“We don’t have to know his
identity
so much. It’s more to confirm that the rumors are true. There’s no motive for Bootsie to have murdered Tammy if she’s just sneaking off every week to get Botox injections or something,” said Myrtle.

“This isn’t a project that really appeals to me.”

“How about if I just
borrow
your car, then. You don’t even have to go.”

This idea apparently was even less appealing to Miles. They made plans to meet the next morning.

The motel near
the interstate overpass was intended for exhausted drivers desperate for shelter. The inn’s philosophy was apparently that the poor traveler would be too pooped to notice the worn carpet, thin 1970s-era bedspreads, and the particleboard furniture. A decrepit neon sign proclaimed “Motor Lodge.” Only the ‘r’ remained lit up. A smaller sign under the neon one advertised “HBO” and “American-Owned.” Myrtle couldn’t imagine another country that would claim it.

Miles parked the car under a tree in a distant parking space of the nearly deserted lot. “Look, there’s her car,” said Miles, pointing to a cream-colored Caddy. She shook her head as she considered the dismal motel. “Not listed in the travel agents’ honeymooner registry, is it?”

“Well, if you think about it, it’s the perfect place. No one would look for her here, after all. I bet the staff is pretty discreet…she’s probably their best customer. She won’t run into anybody she knows from town, and it isn’t on Judge Davenport’s route to the courthouse. Inexpensive and convenient. Anonymous.”

“With Bootsie’s airs and graces and the Southern Belle act she subjects us to, it’s hard to believe that she hangs out at cheap motels.”

“Yes, she does have a ‘to the manor born’ act.” Myrtle frowned. “Is it ‘to the
manner
born’ or ‘to the
manor
born’? Both make sense, if you think about it? From
Hamlet
, but which word did Shakespeare use?”

Miles shrugged, used to Myrtle’s metaphysical ramblings and non sequiturs. He pulled out the binoculars and handed them to Myrtle. “You want the first look at our quarry when she comes out?”

“You know, this is very exciting. We’re like real private eyes. All we need is a camera with a zoom lens to make us official,” said Myrtle.

“And a paying client,” reminded Miles.

“I’m still kind of surprised that she’s doing this. I guess it’s the thrill of it all. She’s had a boring life, after all. She’s been stuck with Judge Davenport her whole life. Now she’s middle-aged and he’s old. And from the looks of it, he’s going to be around for a while. I don’t think she has a lot of fun.”

“Hold on, there’s somebody walking out one of the doors on the second floor,” said Miles.

“Is it Bootsie?”

Miles kept peering through the binoculars. “I guess so. But she sure doesn’t look like president of the Cotillion board in that get-up.”

Myrtle snatched the binoculars away from him. She gaped at Bootsie in three-inch heels and a mini skirt heading quickly down the staircase and towards her Cadillac. “What’s she thinking? Has she been pilfering clothes from Kat’s closet? Let’s see if we can see who her companion is.”

Myrtle held her breath as she swung the lenses back in the direction of the motel room door. Sure enough, a youthful dark-haired man sauntered out. “Now who is
he
? He looks somewhat familiar…” She handed the binoculars back over to Miles.

“My yardman,” said Miles, staring at the figure. “I bet he does the Davenports’ lawn, too.”

“You must have a better-looking yardman than I do,” grumbled Myrtle. “The only good part about Dusty is that he’s cheap. That’s the whole reason I can’t fire his wife, Puddin. They’re a package deal and it’s impossible to find a cheap yardman in this town.”

As her friend went into the motel’s office to return the keys, Bootsie appeared to be wriggling into a matronly dress in the front seat while juggling her cell phone. She started the Cadillac and pulled quickly out of the parking space. Myrtle and Miles ducked down low until the sound of the engine died away. “She wasn’t even really looking around to make sure no one was watching,” said Miles.

“She’s probably been doing this for so long that she’s getting careless. Maybe she feels safe here.”

They watched as the handsome young man left the motel’s office and noisily used his remote to unlock a sporty black car. He was dressed casually, but expensively, in jeans and a polo shirt. Myrtle and Miles watched silently, their eyes following his car as it roared off. They didn’t notice the large figure striding rapidly towards them.