A Body in the Trunk

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Red leveled a serious look at her. “I understand that you’ve been threatening to come out of retirement.”

  Myrtle sniffed. “That’s not a threat, that’s a promise.”

  Red put his hand to the side of his head as if to stop a pounding headache. “Mama, what’s going on? First off, your bills weren’t paid.”

  “Bill, singular. And I’ve already explained that the late bill had to do with the unprofessionalism of our mail carrier.”

  “And now you’re talking about going back to work? You’re in your eighties, Mama. You think you can handle a classroom of unruly teens?” demanded Red.

  “I handled them with a good deal of expertise for decades. Sloan Jones still trembles when I walk into a room,” said Myrtle.

  Red sighed. “I’m just trying to figure out how this all adds up. Late payments, wanting to go back to teaching. Are you having financial problems? Because, if so, I can’t see where your money is going. Definitely not into your wardrobe or cars or shoes or anything. Or am I going to open your bedroom door and discover you’ve been ordering things off the internet and hoarding them in there?”

  “Certainly not! And for your information, I’m just as poor as usual—no more and no less!”

  Red continued, “Because you know that I’m happy to help you out. I can even take over your bill paying, like I mentioned. Happy to do it.”

  “I’m sure you would be, but no thanks. I don’t need you in my business and I don’t need an accountant. I’m perfectly capable of handling my own affairs,” said Myrtle, glaring at him.

  “All right, all right. But let’s talk about the work thing again,” said Red.

  “Just go on back to investigating the case, Red. I know you must be swamped right now,” said Myrtle.

  “I was wondering why you weren’t plying me with questions about poor Lyle. Clearly you already know about his death. Considering you were cooking up a storm in your kitchen, and all,” said Red.

  “I’m not plying you with questions because I’m about to enjoy a nice, relaxing and information-filled lunch with Lieutenant Perkins from the SBI, himself,” said Myrtle, enjoying the vexed look on Red’s face. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish up figuring out Puddin’s nonsense and be on my way.”

  Myrtle turned around, stomped into the house and closed the front door with an excessive amount of force. She walked up to Miles and Puddin, who was still on Myrtle’s computer.

  “Were you about to make any sense out of Puddin’s foolishness, Miles?” asked Myrtle.

  “As a matter of fact, Puddin made something of a discovery,” said Miles, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  Puddin gave Myrtle a smug look.

  “And this discovery is?” asked Myrtle impatiently.

  Puddin said, “You might not know, but I clean for Mr. Holt sometimes.”

  Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “I’m very surprised to hear this. I assumed he had higher standards.”

  Puddin shrugged. “Sometimes his wife works and she needs an extra hand. Hard to find somebody who just comes out every once and a while. Anyway, I heard him talkin’ over there. On the phone.”

  Myrtle glanced at her watch. “Miles, can you possibly expedite the telling of this tale?”

  Miles cleared his throat. “Well . . . okay. Puddin, stop me if I go wrong. Puddin was aware that Holt is one of our suspects for Neil’s murder. Apparently, she’d seen Red leaving Holt’s house when she was on her way in to clean. There was a phone call from a political pollster of some sort. Holt stopped the pollster, saying that he couldn’t vote. Puddin wondered if a previous felony of some sort was the cause.”

  Puddin nodded her head over at the computer. “So I started Googlin’ him. Nothin’ on the first page of results. Nothin’ on the second. Nothin’ on ....”

  “I’ve got the picture, Puddin. Where was there a result?”

  “It was on page six or seven or eight. Guess no one ever dug that deep. Has a mugshot and everything.” Puddin’s eyes gleamed with malice.

  Myrtle said, “But I thought ex-felons could vote after a certain number of years.”

  Miles said, “They can. But they must re-register. Maybe Holt hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

  Myrtle walked over to peer more closely at the computer. The mugshot showed a younger Holt, and a different name, but it was definitely him. “Drug trafficking,” mused Myrtle. “That sounds serious.”

  Puddin shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Same as dealin’ drugs. Just a fancy name for it.”

  Miles said, “Holt could have been in possession of a good deal of drugs and the police decided that he intended on selling them. That’s a felony.”

  Myrtle said, “So he moved from Boston and settled in Bradley with a different name. But the school would have done a background check on him. And why on earth would he choose to go into education?”

  Puddin gave Myrtle a triumphant look. “Once I started Googlin’ his old name, all kinds of stuff came up. He was a principal back then. And you can get a new identity—there’s people that sell those.”

  “But his references? Surely the school would have wanted references from his old school!”

  “Faked,” said Puddin with another shrug.

  “Well, this is all very discouraging,” said Myrtle. “We have a high school principal who is a former criminal.”

  Miles said, “Maybe the school will want you to come back to work there—as an interim principal.”

  Myrtle made a face. “Never in a million years would I take them up on it. Administration is terrible.” She sighed. “We should tell Red about this. The school will want to fire him, and Holt, or whoever he is, has certainly committed crimes if he bought a fake identity. But I want to wait until I can get some more information from Holt. He might not be Neil’s murderer, after all.”

  Miles said, “Maybe not, but he sure has a motive. Neil recognized him from his old life in Boston. Maybe Neil was blackmailing Holt in exchange for his silence.”

  “That could be why Holt was overheard asking Neil about money. Instead of Holt asking Neil for money for a home renovation, he might have been offering him money to keep Neil quiet,” said Myrtle. She glanced at the clock. “All right, now we really do have to go. Puddin, off my computer and back on kitchen clean-up duty.”

  As Miles drove them to Bo’s Diner, he said, “Why was Red so upset?”

  “When is Red not upset?” asked Myrtle. She rolled her eyes. “He heard about my so-called plans to return to teaching. It freaked him out. He thinks I’m having financial difficulties.”

  “Now we’ve been talking about it so much that I’m almost thinking it’s true,” said Miles.

  “I’m too fond of my retirement to ever go back to teaching. Instead of lunches with state policemen at Bo’s Diner, I’d be eating in a school cafeteria or eating from a bag in my classroom. No thanks,” said Myrtle.

  “I have the feeling that you’re keeping Red up at night,” said Miles.

  “Let him wonder,” said Myrtle.

  They parked and walked into the diner. Lieutenant Perkins, always punctual, was already in a booth and politely stood to greet them as they came in, speaking in his formal, measured way. They ordered food (Miles followed Myrtle’s lead and ordered hot dogs this time) and then Myrtle said, “This is such a treat. Usually whenever we’re having a conversation, something unspeakable has happened. Of course, now something unspeakable has happened, but at least we’re not at the scene of the crime like we usually are.”

  Perkins tilted his head to one side and gave Myrtle a considering look. “Doing some sleuthing?”

  “Oh, not so much. But news travels fast here in Bradley, remember? And Lyle Solomon lives right on our street,” said Myrtle.

  Perkins said, “You know that it’s a murder investigation. I’m not in the position to divulge any information surrounding the case.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You always remind me of one of those Buckingham Palace gu
ards. You give absolutely nothing away.” She sighed and then a crafty look came into her eyes. “Let me ask you something. If I were to give you some useful information, could you share some useful information, in turn?”

  “How useful?” asked Perkins, a touch of suspicion in his voice.

  Miles said, “If it’s what I think she’s going to share with you, it’s very useful info. Although I’m a bit surprised she’s planning on sharing it.”

  Myrtle said, “Hopefully, it will be worth my while. I was able to find out that Holt Kelly isn’t who he says he is.”

  Perkins’s brows drew together in a frown. “In what way? He’s the principal at the high school, is he not?”

  “Oh, in that instance, yes. He’s the principal. But he shouldn’t be the principal. I discovered, or, rather, my usually-inept housekeeper did, that he was convicted of a felony under a different name while in Boston,” said Myrtle.

  Perkins’s eyes narrowed. “But the school would have run a background check.”

  “Apparently, according to my worldly housekeeper, backgrounds can be faked,” said Myrtle with a shrug.

  Perkins said, “So he was originally from Boston.”

  Miles said, “And Neil was originally from Boston.”

  “And Holt, or whoever he is, would have been desperate to conceal his secret. Who knows, maybe his wife doesn’t even know about the felony. He met her while he was living here,” said Myrtle.

  “Interesting information indeed,” said Perkins thoughtfully.

  “Now it’s your turn. Hand it over,” said Myrtle.

  Perkins shook his head. “You’ll need to ask me some questions. I’m not just going to start blabbing everything related to the case. And I did have a question for both of you, first. Since Lyle is a neighbor, did either of you see or hear anything?”

  “No. Which makes me very annoyed,” said Myrtle.

  Miles shook his head. “Nothing. Did the murder take place at Lyle’s home?”

  Their food arrived and Perkins waited until the waitress had placed everyone’s hotdogs and fries down. Then he said slowly, “His body was actually discovered by a fisherman at the park.”

  “At the park? That early in the morning?” asked Myrtle.

  Perkins had a teasing look in his eye. “You don’t really think that anything after dawn is early, do you? I know you’re the local insomniac.”

  “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t go to the park that early,” said Myrtle.

  “According to his wife, Mr. Solomon always went to the park that early in order to clear debris from the paths and fill bird feeders. He volunteered his time there before heading to his regular job,” said Perkins.

  “How was he killed?” Miles carefully wiped ketchup off his fingers with his napkin.

  Perkins said, “He was hit over the head with a large stick.”

  “A stick? That doesn’t sound like a very effective weapon,” said Myrtle.

  “This stick was more like a small tree trunk,” said Perkins.

  Myrtle spoke absently as she drowned her French fries in ketchup, “In old TV shows, the weapon would always be something like an ornamental dagger of some sort.”

  Perkins shrugged with an apologetic smile at the inadequacy of the murder weapon.

  Myrtle said, “All right, how about alibis? What’s the scoop there? Have you discovered that anyone wasn’t where they said they were for either Neil’s or Lyle’s murders?”

  “Lyle Solomon’s alibi fell through, but under the circumstances, it really doesn’t matter,” said Perkins.

  Myrtle asked, “Anyone else?”

  Perkins finished off the last of his French fries. “Holt Kelly’s alibi fell through. At least, when we spoke to his wife, she didn’t seem to realize that she was his alibi and very innocently told us that she had been off at the church bingo supper when she was supposed to be home with Holt.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Miles.

  Myrtle said sternly to Perkins, “Is there anything else we should know? No? Then let’s have a lovely conversation and catch up.”

  And they did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AFTER THEY FINISHED their lunch and made their goodbyes with Perkins (who had been visibly more relaxed and even a bit fun after Myrtle stopped asking about the case), Myrtle and Miles headed into the parking lot.

  “Where to now?” asked Miles.

  “I’m thinking that I should check in with Sloan at the paper. Since he tried to tread on my territory with the first murder, I’m wondering if he’ll try the same thing with the second,” said Myrtle. She started walking in the direction of the Bradley Bugle.

  “Plus, you want to play matchmaker,” said Miles, rolling his eyes as he followed her.

  “I wouldn’t dream of matchmaking. Sally hasn’t even had a funeral service for Lyle yet. However, I’d simply like to point out what a nice person Sally is. Plant a seed in his mind, you know,” said Myrtle.

  Sloan was the lone inhabitant of the newsroom, making his way through the piles of paper and photographs in the dim light like a mole. He glanced up in surprise as light from outdoors came streaming through the door with Myrtle and Miles. “Oh, hi,” he said, flustered as he usually was when in Myrtle’s presence. He smoothed what little bit of hair he had down and straightened his rumpled shirt. “Miss Myrtle—it’s good to see you.”

  “Hi, Sloan,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page with the coverage of Lyle Solomon’s death. It’s part of my Neil Albert story, since the deaths are clearly connected.”

  “Are they? I just found out about Lyle’s death a couple of hours ago. I figured they were probably related, considering that Bradley couldn’t have two random murders in one week’s time. Sure, that’s your story. Of course.” Sloan seemed very eager to please.

  Myrtle thought that he seemed a little too eager to please. “Once again, I’m surprised that you’re so happy to relinquish a crime story to me. Ordinarily, you worry about what Red will say.”

  Sloan flushed. “That’s true. But you know how much a newspaper relies on good working relationships and tips from local cops. Plus, Red can be pretty persuasive when he wants to be. But no, he came by to see me about the story, as a matter of fact.” Sloan’s broad face wrinkled in concern. “He wanted to see if I could throw a couple of extra stories your way. Something about you having money troubles?” Sloan’s voice was apologetic.

  Myrtle gritted her teeth. “That’s a fabrication of Red’s. He added two plus two and came up with twenty. But never mind. I want the story, after all; it doesn’t really matter how I acquire it.” She paused. “Although it’s a rather terrible story, isn’t it? Poor Lyle. And poor Sally.”

  “Have you talked to her? Sally, I mean?” asked Sloan with a lilt of curiosity in his voice.

  Miles gave Myrtle a hard look.

  Myrtle said, “As a matter of fact, Miles and I went over there this morning to deliver some broccoli soup to Sally.”

  Miles interjected hurriedly, “It was Myrtle’s concoction, actually. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Sloan frowned, looking even more concerned. “Homemade?”

  Miles said, “Tippy was also there helping out and she made sure to label it.”

  Myrtle waved her hand in annoyance. “Tippy acts as if she knows everything. Labeling the food so that Sally can send thank-yous? As if I need a thank-you note later. Sally has more important things to do than to carefully write notes to everyone who provided her with a meal.”

  Sloan and Miles exchanged a cryptic look and then Sloan quickly nodded. “I’m sure she does. Is she holding up all right?”

  “Actually, she’s holding up extremely well. She isn’t as broken up as you’d think—I got the impression that she and Lyle had grown apart somewhat during the course of their marriage. I believe she’s ready to move on. And she’s just such a nice woman,” said Myrtle with great emphasis.

  To her credit, Sloan now looked rather interes
ted. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “She certainly is.” Myrtle saw Miles looking at her sharply and said, “Well, I suppose that’s it. I’ll email a story to you later today.”

  They walked back out into the blinding sunlight and Miles said, “You know that Sally might not have a whit of interest in Sloan Jones.”

  “Sloan has many loveable qualities,” said Myrtle. “And I can be very persuasive. I’ll have to point out all of Sloan’s attributes to Sally when we see her next.”

  “Where are we heading now?” asked Miles.

  “I think we should head to the high school. After our lunch with Perkins, all roads seemed to lead to Holt, didn’t they?”

  Miles unlocked his car. “I’m sure he’ll be so excited to see us.”

  Myrtle said, “Well, school is out for the day already. He might as well talk with us, right? It’s school business, after all.”

  “Oh, is this a job interview, then?” asked Miles.

  “However I can best get the man to talk. As I’ve said before, he’s not much for conversation. If I get him started with job-related stuff, then maybe I can more easily work my way into the murders.” Myrtle put on her seatbelt with a decisive click.

  Several minutes later, they found that the high school parking lot was still fairly busy. “I thought school was out for the day,” said Miles.

  “Yes, but then you also have clubs that meet after school, and athletics, too. You remember, don’t you?”

  “My last real involvement with high school was a lot longer ago than yours was.” Miles pulled into a parking space.

  They walked into the school’s front office and a few minutes later were sitting with Holt in his modest office. He had pictures of his wife and his dog hanging up, and the walls were lined with books and magazines. It didn’t look like the office of a drug dealer, but then, Myrtle supposed that was the whole point.

  Holt awkwardly leaned back in his chair and observed them. “What can I help you with today, Mrs. Clover?” His expression indicated that he was very much afraid he knew what she’d come to see him about.