After a little reading and a short nap, Myrtle started feeling a little hungry. She realized that in her concentration to produce a wonderful casserole for the Caulfields, that she’d forgotten to feed herself. Myrtle peered doubtfully into her fridge, then opened her pantry. Not only did everything look unappealing, the assorted ingredients didn’t seem like they’d add up to a meal. Every recipe she could think of was missing at least one major component. She was even out of cereal and grits. She sighed. Maybe cheese biscuits and grapes would make a decent supper. She’d get Red to take her to the store tomorrow.
The mind-boggling thing to Myrtle was that the Caulfield’s kitchen was in much the same state. Libba would never ordinarily allow her supplies to get so low. And she wouldn’t be the horrible hostess as she’d been earlier. Maybe Puddin was actually right for once and Libba was losing the use of her mind. She definitely hadn’t been this bad off when she’d been sick several years ago. You’d hardly have known she was ill with cancer at all—she was so on top of things, even when she was in the bed. Jotting down who’d brought in casseroles, or come by for a visit. And you’d always get the nicest, most well-bred thank you note from her.
Simon’s behavior wasn’t all that normal, either. And what was the deal with the huge gash on his leg and his secretive manner?
Myrtle heard dogs barking outside and looked out her window. She hoped Pasha was okay. Funny how that cat was growing on her.
The dogs continued barking in what seemed like a domino effect from one yard to the next. It was like the Hounds of the Baskervilles out there. Myrtle gave a gasp. What about Kojak? Now that Cullen was dead, there wasn’t anyone over there to take care of the poor dog. Willow was in jail and she’d said that Kojak hated Simon, so the dog couldn’t go to the other Caulfields. Maybe she should call up Red and see if the police had taken the dog to the shelter.
Myrtle frowned. Wait a minute. There was something in that line of thought that she needed to explore. What was it? Kojak. It all came together quickly.
Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by the acrid smell of smoke coming from the direction of her kitchen. The biscuits! Myrtle hurried into the kitchen, shoved open a window, turned off the oven, and pulled out the biscuits, which now strongly resembled lumps of charcoal. Shoot! Now what was she going to eat?
The knock at her back door made her jump. She hoped whoever it was wasn’t hungry. And that she could get rid of the person quickly so she could make her victorious phone call to Red and let him know she’d solved the case.
She opened the door a crack. “Miss Myrtle,” said Simon Caulfield, “I thought we could talk a little about that suicide note now.”
“I know I said I’d talk to you about it later, Simon, but it’s going to have to wait. I’ve got this important phone call that I’m making.” She firmly pushed on the door to close it again, then desperately shoved at it as Simon applied his own considerable strength to the other side.
With another shove, he’d pushed his way through. “No, I think now is a good time to visit,” he said in a hard voice. And Myrtle realized he held a knife in his hand.
Progressive Dinner Deadly Page 24