A Dyeing Shame (7 page)

For a while Myrtle resigned herself to contemplating the guest room ceiling. If she were at home, she’d get up and be productive—put away the pots and pans she’d put in the sink to soak, fold some clean laundry, pay a couple of bills. Or do a few crossword puzzles. But here she had a feeling she’d just bang into things and wake Jack up. Everybody knows the rule—you don’t wake sleeping toddlers. Ever.

The other thing she’d do, if she were home, was go on a walk. Naturally, she’d end up at Miles’ house. Miles was an insomniac too, bless him, and she’d almost always see a light on and go over and knock on his door. They’d have a cup of tea or a glass of wine, then Myrtle would walk back home and sleep soundly the rest of the night. The longer she contemplated the guest room ceiling, the better this plan seemed. She could talk with Miles some more about the case, too.

Myrtle pulled on her long robe, grabbed her cane, and conscientiously locked the door behind her with her copy of their house key. She set off down the silent street.

There was a little moon to light her way as she walked. And, sure enough, there was a light on in Miles’ front window. They really formed a mini insomniacs support group.

Myrtle rapped on Miles’ door and he immediately opened it. He wore a long, navy-blue bathrobe belted tightly over what looked like plaid pajamas. “Want some tea?” he asked, heading to his kitchen, slippers flopping as we walked. He looked completely unsurprised and started pulling out the measuring cup he used to boil water in.

“Did you even look out the peephole before you opened the door? Because there’s a killer out there, remember?” Myrtle followed him into his kitchen and pulled out two teacups.

“No, of course I didn’t look. It’s two o’clock in the morning, Myrtle. Who else visits me this time of day? At least I was awake this time. I don’t
always
have a hard time sleeping, you know. Are we really convinced there
is
a killer? Do killers knock on doors, anyway?”

“I’m sure they would if they knew that you’d just open the door right up. Never mind. I woke up, couldn’t go back to sleep, started thinking about the case, and decided to visit. Oh. And I decided to assign you a mission, since you’re all gung-ho about being a sidekick.”

Maybe gung-ho was the wrong word. Miles was looking decidedly apprehensive.

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “What kind of mission? I’m not going to be able to fly under Red’s radar as much if we overdo my snooping around.”

Myrtle waved her hand dismissively. “Where you’re going wrong with your information-gathering technique is that you’re passing it off like idle gossip or being snoopy. What
you
do well is polite concern.”

“Polite concern.”

“Yes. You don’t want to be
involved
with the problem, but you’re politely providing an ear for the poor person who is in need of getting something off her chest. That’s your angle,” said Myrtle.

The microwave bleated, announcing that the water was heated. Myrtle put tea bags in their cups and Miles covered them with hot water. “And whom am I supposed to be directing this polite concern toward?”

“That’s what I was mulling over. I’m leaning toward Dina. She’s absolutely pitiful and she’d be a natural choice for you to be sympathetic to. She might be the only person around who still
liked
Tammy. And, after all, she was her housemate. Maybe she saw or heard something on the night of the murder. I mean, really, can someone be the victim of a violent crime and fall down a staircase and
not
be heard? Tammy wasn’t a small woman.”

Miles took a sip of his tea and winced at the hot water. “You have a point. We should find out what Dina was doing when Tammy was murdered. Actually, we should find out when Tammy was murdered, period. Got any ideas on finding out the time of death? It’ll be hard to figure out if alibis are genuine unless we know the estimated time of death.”

“You’re starting to sound like one of those forensic crime shows, Miles.”

“It’s the truth! And, considering where you’re staying, it seems to make more sense for you to be the one to find out when Tammy died. I’m sure Red knows. Maybe even Elaine knows, if Red is in the habit of talking with her about cases.”

“All right. I guess I’ll do the dirty work, then. And you go see Dina and pat her on the back for a while.”

A loud knock on Miles’ front door made both of them jump. “Better look through that peephole this time,” murmured Myrtle. “Considering that it’s definitely not me out there.”

Miles cautiously looked out. “It’s Red.” he said as Myrtle cursed.

“Evening, Miles,” said Red, courteous as usual to the older man. “Do you, by any chance, have my deranged mother over here for a visit?” Then he looked at Myrtle and shook his head. “I
thought
I should probably do a bed-check on you, so I set an alarm. Sure enough, you weren’t in your room when I checked. Aren’t you a little old to be sneaking out in the middle of the night?”

Myrtle tried to look as dignified as an octogenarian in a bathrobe could possibly pull off. “I was trying to spare y’all, that’s all. I didn’t want to wake up the whole house with my insomnia. Especially Jack. He gets up early enough as it is…a two a.m. wake up call was a little too much.”

“He sure does get up early.” Red looked sleepy just thinking about it.

“Tell you what—since I’m disturbing your sleep and probably Elaine’s too, how about if I go on Jack-duty later this morning? When he wakes up, he can spend some quality time with his Nana.” Myrtle felt pleased with herself. It was nice to Do Good. Traces of an old hymn floated through her brain.

Red rubbed his temples. “I suppose so, Mama. But can you just come back home with me and stop imposing on Miles? I can’t sleep until I know you’re safely back in bed.”

Myrtle blinked at him. “I can’t imagine why you’re so concerned, Red. After all, Tammy’s killer acted first thing in the morning before the Beauty Box opened. He’s probably conked out somewhere, fast asleep and dreaming evil thoughts…not out attacking little old ladies in the middle of the night.”

“Where did you get the idea that she was killed in the morning? No, she was murdered sometime the night before. So it’s
not
safe to be traipsing around Bradley, North Carolina, in your PJs.” Red strode to Miles’ door and Myrtle turned and gave Miles a long wink. Apparently the key to weaseling information from Red was to trick it out of him in the wee hours of the morning.

Happy toddler talk
woke Myrtle at six o’clock. She pulled on bright blue knit pants and a knit top and peered into Jack’s room. He stood on his bed, watching Myrtle suspiciously. It was nearly dawn, the only time of day for a walk when the weather was scorching. “Mama?” he asked.

“Oh, we don’t need Mama right now, Mr. Jack. We’re going to have ourselves a happy walk.”

Jack, still eyeing Myrtle with puzzlement, clutched his lovey, Dirty Doggy, in a chubby hand. Dirty Doggy’s filth had reached epic proportions and Jack’s attachment showed no signs of easing up. This morning Dirty Doggy was sporting the evidence of Jack’s dinner last night. According to Dirty Doggy’s coat, Jack had feasted on pureed peas and had, as usual, insisted on his friend’s presence with him as he ate.

Dirty Doggy was in dire need of a day at the spa. The stroller ride would distract Jack from missing his friend and the wash cycle would be over when they got back. If Jack got too desperate, she could always hand it over, still soggy. Myrtle grabbed the offending item and marched to the laundry room. After dumping in half a container of soap and stain-remover, she hurried back to Jack.

“Nana’s fixing you some breakfast, sweetie,” said Myrtle. Jack opened his small mouth to protest. “Uh-uh,” said Myrtle in her best no-nonsense tone. “We’re letting Mama sleep.”

What did little guys eat for breakfast? She felt Jack’s eyes boring critically into her from as she fumbled around in the pantry. Myrtle surveyed the dazzling display of chips and breakfast cereal in Elaine’s pantry while Jack muttered under his breath.

“Let’s eat and run, sweetie,” said Myrtle, making an executive decision. She grabbed a banana, put some cereal in a zipper bag, and headed to the garage with Jack.

Jack climbed into the umbrella stroller and Myrtle absently offered him the banana. Would Agnes be up this early? Probably. Shouldn’t she have seen or heard something? Her house was right next door to the Beauty Box. If the murder had taken place some point before midnight, then Agnes would have probably been awake. She was a night owl, for sure.

The sound of her name stopped her. Agnes Walker’s expression suggested that she’d called her name a few times already. “Time to invest in hearing aids, Myrtle?”

Myrtle had
excellent
hearing. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.”

“Are you
sure
you’re thinking this morning? Poor Jack might be trying to get your attention, too. A whole banana? Couldn’t you have at least peeled the thing? Poor child. Let’s go inside so Miss Agnes can take care of you.” Agnes stuck her newspaper under her arm, took Jack by his hand and helped him out of the stroller. He trotted beside her into the house.

Myrtle was feeling a little sour, but bit her tongue. She needed to get information from Agnes, after all. She parked the stroller outside the front door and followed Agnes in.

Myrtle winced at the baby talk that Agnes was speaking to Jack. There was something unattractive about baby talk coming out of a seventy-year-old face. Besides, Jack was way past baby talk. He could even speak some Spanish and French for heaven’s sake. How had Connor turned out so well? You’d think he’d still be calling bananas
nanners
, if that was how Agnes had talked to him. Agnes peeled the offending banana and was carefully slicing it up in small pieces on a china plate. Jack clapped his hands.

Myrtle said, impatiently, “So, what do you think happened to Tammy?” At Agnes’ uncomprehending frown, she elaborated. “Who did her in, Agnes? It wasn’t an accident, you know.”

Agnes frowned. “Where are my manners this morning? Would you like a Coca-Cola or a coffee, Myrtle?”

Myrtle, realizing gossip wouldn’t commence until all the pleasantries had been observed, agreed a Coke would be wonderful. When Agnes had given her the drink and a small napkin and once again addressed Jack with sickening baby talk, she sat down facing Myrtle.

“Maybe it was a drifter?” asked Agnes.

“I doubt there are vicious vagrants roaming Bradley. This was somebody Tammy knew. I’m sure of it.”

Agnes fiddled with her glass, swirling the ice cubes around and staring at the fizz. “We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but we all wanted to kill her, after her performance at the salon. You know that.”

“She didn’t direct any barbs at me,” said Myrtle, somewhat indignant over Tammy’s discrimination against her. She absently watched Jack squeeze the banana through his fingers.

“She didn’t say anything directly against me, either, but got my back up teasing me about Connor.” Agnes’ face turned a spotty red with the memory. Myrtle wondered if Agnes took anything for high blood pressure.

“Did you see anything? You’ve got VIP seats at the Beauty Box, living right next door.”

“I didn’t see or hear a thing. I spent the evening reading.”

“The whole evening? It must have been a really absorbing book. What was the name of it?”

Agnes said with irritation, “I can’t remember anything these days. Some political thriller or other.”

That wasn’t likely. Agnes had a penchant for weighty biographies and a mind like a steel trap. Jack was now smearing the remains of the banana onto his arm. Figuring his finger painting would keep him occupied, Myrtle ignored it and changed tactics with Agnes. “Were Tammy and Connor happy together?”

Agnes gave a gloomy sigh. “They seemed to be. They were always going out to supper or to the movies. If Tammy was acting like her old self, I swear I wouldn’t have minded them dating. Drinking brought out the worst in her, though. I hated seeing the two of them together. To be perfectly honest,” Agnes said with a hard edge to her voice, “I’m not sorry she’s dead.”

Agnes finally noticed that Jack’s arm had a little banana sculpture on it and that he was now experimenting with banana as a hair conditioner. Clicking her tongue, she strode to the kitchen for some paper towels. She looked vigorous. Agnes was her friend, but she was certainly strong enough to plunge some scissors into someone’s back and push her down the stairs. Could she possibly have killed Tammy to keep her away from Connor? Myrtle wondered if
any
woman was good enough for Agnes’ Connor.

While Agnes used most of a paper towel roll to clean Jack up, Myrtle asked, “What was Tammy getting at with poor Prissy? And with Bootsie Davenport?”

Agnes shook her gray head. “She obviously thinks Bootsie is running around on her husband. Whether she knew something definite or not, I don’t know. Maybe Tammy saw Bootsie out with some man. Or maybe Bootsie told Tammy during Tammy’s more discreet days. But Prissy Daniels? I can’t imagine getting any dirt on her. She seems completely innocuous.”

Myrtle frowned. “Tammy might have been inventing trouble. She was picking at everybody else there, too. She sure made it hard to pin the murder on one person. I guess the main suspects must be Kat, Bootsie, Prissy, and Dina.”

Agnes said, “And probably me.” At Myrtle’s raised eyebrows, she added, “Oh, don’t act so innocent. You know I didn’t want Connor to date Tammy. I’ve been pretty open about that.” Agnes set down the almost empty roll of paper towels and gazed absently at the cleaner and shinier Jack.

“What about Bo? I remember hearing Tammy trash-talking him, saying how he mistreated her. I know their marriage ended badly.”

Agnes gave an unladylike snort. “
She
bullied
him
, you mean. Bo is too much a gentleman to talk ugly about a lady, so the slander remains.”

Jack, bored with the genteel and unchanging scenery offered by Agnes’ house, made a warning whine, so Myrtle cut the visit short. As she left, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Agnes knew more than she was letting on.