“No, no, I don’t mean that one. I mean the first discovery in the attic. The one that made him money.”
Miles sat back thoughtfully in his chair. “Well, there’s not very much to tell. He had a bunch of things in his attic and he decided to clear it out.”
“Were these his things in the attic? Or was the attic still full of a previous owner’s things?”
Miles said, “No, these were his. But he hadn’t actually gone through them. There had been some deaths in the past years in his family and he’d ended up with a lot of boxes and bags in the process. He didn’t have time to deal with them because he was still working so he’d put them up in the attic to handle later. They stayed up there until he finally got around to dealing with them.”
Myrtle said, “And Orabelle didn’t get any of these things? That seems rather odd.”
“My understanding is that it was his wife’s family. Once she passed away, Darren was really the only one left, even though he was related by marriage.” Miles put his hand on his knight and then moved it away again rapidly. “At the time, it seemed more of a hassle than anything else.”
“Until he discovered the painting.” Myrtle sighed when she saw Miles released the knight.
Miles looked at her sharply and then studied the chess board again. He absently said, “Yes. When he discovered the painting, he realized it might be worth something.”
“And it ended up being a Degas or a Van Gogh or something.”
Miles frowned at her. “No. Darren didn’t suddenly become a multi-millionaire overnight. But it was an ‘important’ find. That’s what the experts said. I can’t remember the name of the artist. But the painting was worth several hundred thousand dollars.”
Miles tentatively placed his hand on his rook and Myrtle’s eyes grew wide. He drew his hand back as if the chess piece had burned him.
Miles said irritably, “I can’t believe you don’t remember all this. It happened just a year or so ago and it was in the Bradley Bugle.”
“Yes, but to me it was lumped in with all the rest of Sloan’s ‘feel-good’ stories. You know: the prize-winning apple pie, the fisherman with the tremendous catch. The valuable painting in the attic.” Myrtle shrugged. Then her eyes narrowed. “So the paper printed how much the painting was worth?”
“Not just what it was worth. What it actually drew at an auction.”
Myrtle considered this. “So everyone knew. Including his family.”
“Well, sure.” Miles put his hand on another pawn and moved it without looking at Myrtle this time. “Are you saying his family might have wanted to do him in for financial reasons?”
“I’m only saying it might be a motive. And I saw a pair of sunglasses in Darren’s yard that I’m sure couldn’t have been his. They certainly didn’t look like Orabelle’s either, although she was very interested in them.” Myrtle took Miles’s bishop.
Miles groaned. “Maybe we should play at another time. I don’t seem to have my mind totally focused.”
Myrtle rubbed Pasha. “That’s fine. Soon the paper will arrive and we can work on the puzzles.” She frowned. “I could go ahead and make my casserole for Orabelle. That does need to be done.”
Miles sighed. “I wish you’d just let it go, Myrtle. Maybe we could just bring her some bagels and cream cheese.”
Myrtle stared at him. “Bagels and cream cheese? As comfort food after a family member’s demise? For heaven’s sake, Miles. I can promise you that’s not a tradition in Bradley. Plus, there’s the fact that I’m out of funds until my check comes.”
“Right, I’d forgotten about that. All right, then, I guess make your casserole. Don’t you want breakfast, as well? Not just toast?”
Myrtle shifted slightly in her chair and Pasha took the hint and gracefully jumped to the floor. Myrtle stood up. “No, I don’t think so. My plan is to go over and sample some of these baked goods of Elaine’s. Jack’s such an early riser that it shouldn’t be too long. Plus, I want to check the paper and make sure Sloan did justice to my story yesterday.”
“He agreed to let you write a story on Darren’s death?” Miles raised his eyebrows.
“It only took a little pushing.”
Miles said, “I predict you’ll have a very interesting breakfast at Red’s house.”
“If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t say a thing.” Myrtle sniffed.
Chapter Six
As Myrtle walked back a few minutes later, she peered carefully at Red and Elaine’s house but didn’t see any lights on. She unlocked her door and walked in, holding the door open for Pasha. The feral cat, however, decided to go off on her own adventure and bounded away. At least she had a full stomach.
Myrtle set to preparing the casserole. She pulled out a battered cookbook from the 1970s and studied a spattered page. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. She’d have sworn the casserole didn’t have green beans in it. Myrtle peered in her pantry. There wasn’t a can of green beans to be found.
She sighed and pawed through the cans to find an appropriate substitute. Finally, she frowned at a couple of cans of asparagus that were hiding in the very back. Luckily, they appeared to still be a couple of months away from expiring so it was good to use them up. Besides, they were of about the same size and texture as green beans. And the same color, too.
Myrtle checked back with the recipe again, which somehow seemed completely different from what she’d remembered. The casserole had ground beef in it and she certainly didn’t recall it being a meaty casserole. She dubiously opened her freezer to find no ground beef whatsoever. There was frozen chicken, though. At least she had the cream of mushroom soup. She hadn’t realized she was out of Worcestershire sauce, but she had light soy sauce which she carefully mixed in. The cheese presented another problem until Myrtle realized she had grated Parmesan cheese in a can in the back of her fridge.
The longest part of the compilation process was defrosting the frozen chicken. For some reason, the chicken simply refused to defrost. She knew she’d set the correct defrosting function on the microwave, yet the ends were cooking and the middle was completely icy.
Myrtle checked the recipe again. “Well, if the chicken is cooking at 375 degrees, it certainly won’t be frozen by the time it’s all finished.”
So Myrtle mixed everything together and then put the tater tot potatoes on the top. She looked at it in satisfaction and popped it into the oven. It needed to cook for 40 minutes, which would give Myrtle plenty of time to check the newspaper story and then see if there were signs of life over at Elaine and Red’s house.
The newspaper article was there on the front page. Sloan had somehow found a picture of Darren and it accompanied the story. Satisfied, Myrtle put the paper on her coffee table. Spotting lights on at her son’s house, she traipsed across the street.
Red opened the door and groaned when he saw his mother there. He appeared to be in the process of getting ready for the day with his uniform on, but his top was only half-buttoned. He held Jack, who looked grouchy until he spotted his beloved Nana. Then he gave Myrtle a big smile.
“See, I’m already having a beneficial effect on the household,” said Myrtle briskly.
“That’s sorely needed. Here, you sit down on the sofa and I’ll put Jack down next to you with some of his trucks. Then maybe I can actually get ready for my day.”
A few seconds later, Jack was busily driving his trucks over Myrtle’s arm.
“Where’s Elaine?” asked Myrtle.
Red rubbed his face as if trying to wake up. “In the kitchen. Baking.” He lowered his voice. “It’s the new hobby.” He gave Myrtle a meaningful look. They had both seen a lot of hobbies come and go.
“But a good one. Elaine is an excellent cook.” Jack was now trying to play “crash” with the trucks, so Myrtle picked one up and gave him a target.
“Agreed. But the problem this time is my waistline.” Red gave his stomach a regretful look.
Myrtle said, “That’s wh
y this visit of mine is again beneficial. I need to eat. You need to unload baked goods. It’s the perfect solution.”
Red put his hands on his hips. “Is that why you’re here? To eat?”
“I appear to be short on funds until the end of the week,” said Myrtle with dignity.
“I could have sworn I saw Miles helping unload your car yesterday. It sure looked like a lot of groceries.” Red was now beginning to look suspicious.
“It was. Unfortunately, however, I didn’t go with a list. There was nothing really to make meals out of.”
Red said, “That doesn’t sound like you. Are you sure you’re not here to squeeze information from me about this case?”
Myrtle glared at him. “Red Clover! Here is your elderly mother, admitting her poverty and all you can think about is that I might be trying to horn in on your case!”
Red held up his hands. “All right, all right. I’m just saying, usually you’re a lot more fiscally-conservative until your check comes in.”
“I was being fiscally-conservative. Every single thing I purchased was on sale. That’s where I went wrong. I was led astray by buy-one-get-one free deals.” She paused. “But how is your case going? I’m only asking because I’m concerned about you and how your life comes to a screeching halt every time you have something big to work on.”
Red said, “It’s going just fine, Mama. Just fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll grab the paper, munch on a buttery biscuit, and finish getting ready so I can start hunting the guy down.”
Myrtle shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the paper. She’d seen it on their front walk, of course, and decided to leave it where it lay.
“For heaven’s sake, Red, why not finish getting ready first? You might scare people wandering outside in your current condition.”
Red’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t look that bad. What’s in the paper that you don’t want me to see?”
Myrtle frowned at him. “Absolutely nothing. I simply don’t want the Clover family name to be so poorly represented.”
Red strode to the door. “I have a sneaking suspicion.”
Myrtle sighed and Jack, still busily crashing his truck into Myrtle’s truck, looked up at her with concern. She beamed at him and said, “What a bright boy. Why don’t you bring me a story?”
Jack carefully hopped down from the sofa and trotted off to find a book.
Red came back in, his face stormy. “I’m going to have to have a word with Sloan again.”
“You’re being ridiculous. All I’m doing is reporting. I’m not making the news.”
“Yeah, but somehow you always end up getting yourself into a jam. I want you to leave this case alone, Mama. Don’t you be asking questions and sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. There’s a dangerous individual out there.” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at her.
Myrtle snorted. “As if I have time to do anything. My day today is going to be monopolized by book club.”
“Good. That should keep you out of trouble for a while.” Red looked over at his son as Jack came running back in with a book and clambered back up the sofa to sit in Myrtle’s lap. “And that story will keep you occupied, too.”
Myrtle studied the cover. “Mr. Peebles is Sick.” She frowned at Red. “Hardly great literature. We’re going to have to work on your juvenile library collection.”
Red chuckled. “It’s Jack’s favorite. Such a favorite that he likes to listen to it over and over again. In back-to-back fashion.”
Myrtle summoned a brave smile and sniffed. “Clearly, you haven’t the patience for such endeavors, but I do.”
“And just be sure you don’t mess up the virus’s voice when that part comes up. It’s got to sound really scary.” Red’s eyes were mischievous.
“You obviously don’t recall that my storytelling skills are a tour de force.” Jack snuggled up next to Myrtle and she put an arm around him. “And now it’s time for me to read to my grandson.”
Red took the hint and stomped off to finish getting ready.
Myrtle discovered that Mr. Peebles was indeed quite sick. The virus was dire and Myrtle apparently voiced it well because Jack was completely entranced. Naturally, Mr. Peebles was victorious at the end of the story, which Jack did indeed want to hear again.
By the third rendition of “Mr. Peebles is Sick,” Myrtle was heartily sick herself . . . of Mr. Peebles. It seemed the sort of book her hypochondriac neighbor Erma would have on her bookshelf.
“We need to introduce you to Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel,” muttered Myrtle to Jack. “Or perhaps Babar. And Dr. Seuss.”
“Bye!” Red sang out as he happily left the house. Myrtle scowled after him. When Red came home later, she’d make sure her entire gnome collection was in her front yard. She’d call Dusty just as soon as she left the house. She gave a satisfied smile. Red hated looking across the street at her gnome army.
After a couple of minutes and just as Myrtle was wrapping up another retelling of the book, Elaine came in. She rolled her eyes. “I thought we’d made sure that book had been conveniently ‘lost,’” she said apologetically.
Elaine scooped up Jack, who was still looking longingly at the story as if contemplating demanding yet another read of it. “Want some breakfast?” she asked with a smile.
Myrtle definitely did. Her stomach had been growling the whole time she was reading to Jack, despite the fact that the story focused on various illnesses. The aroma of freshly baked breads kept wafting from the kitchen. Myrtle had the feeling she was going to be able to easily eliminate a lot of Elaine’s stockpiled baked goods.
A few minutes later, Myrtle was happily eating croissants with real butter. “This is your best hobby yet.”
Elaine beamed at her as she gave Jack a plastic plate full of cut-up bits of bread and bananas. “Thanks! It’s the tastiest, anyway. The only problem is that it makes so much.”
Myrtle took a sip of water and said, “That may not be a problem at all. I was telling Red a few minutes ago that I find myself unexpectedly short on funds for the remainder of the week. I’ll be happy to put a dent in your baking.”
“Good. Red says he’s getting heavier with all the extra food around, but I don’t see it.”
Myrtle figured Elaine must just be blissfully unaware. Or, possibly, in denial.
After Myrtle finished, she watched as Jack, now full, started carefully dropping little pieces of bread on the floor. He’d pick up a piece, look sideways at Myrtle, and then watch as it hit the floor.
“I should stop this, but for some reason, it’s very entertaining,” said Myrtle to Elaine as she gestured to the floor.
Elaine sighed and grabbed the bread from the floor. “He’s clearly done. He’s gotten into floor decorating lately. He apparently thinks it’s some sort of new art form.”
Myrtle said, “At least you have enough bread around here to waste. By the way, are you going to book club today?”
Elaine shook her head. “Jack doesn’t have preschool today and I didn’t read the book.”
“I hardly think that matters. You could probably read the back cover and be able to discuss the story. You know how this book club’s selections are.”
“Just the same, I think I’ll skip this one.” She snapped her fingers. “But why don’t you take some bread and pastries with you?”
Myrtle said, “I suppose I could. Although I’d already planned on bringing something else.” She frowned suddenly. “What time is it?”
Elaine told her and Myrtle abruptly stood up. “I’ve got to run.”
“Something wrong?” Elaine stuffed a couple of plastic bags full of baked goods into one of her hands.
Myrtle called behind her as she hurried to the door. “Only my casserole for Orabelle. It might be a little overcooked. See you later.”
Myrtle was relieved to find there was no smoke in the house when she opened the door. She jerked open the oven door and was even more relieved to see there was no b
lackening of the casserole. However, it did seem a bit dry. Myrtle poked it with a fork. Then she opened her pantry door and discovered she had one more can of cream-of-something soup in the very back. She opened it and spread it carefully on top of the casserole like icing.
“There,” she said, satisfied.
Myrtle decided to let the casserole cool for a while before sticking it in the fridge. Her next chore was to make some weed-killer since Wanda was so insistent about Erma’s weeds. Myrtle disliked spraying pesticides in her yard, so made up her own concoction with a recipe from the internet she used before. It smelled a bit like a large Italian salad and made a lot more than she’d remembered it making. She poured it carefully into a large sprayer and decided she’d have Dusty take care of it when he was there. She also wanted him to take care of pulling her gnomes out, the sooner the better.
Glancing at the clock, Myrtle decided that if Dusty and his wife Puddin, Myrtle’s housekeeper, weren’t up already, they certainly should be. She picked up the phone.
After quite a few rings, a groggy Dusty picked up. “What’s goin’ on?” he howled into the phone.
“What’s going on is morning. You should experience it, Dusty.”
“It ain’t mornin’! It’s dark out there.”
Myrtle said, “It’s only dark because it’s cloudy. For heaven’s sake. Listen, I have some things for you to do today. As soon as possible.”
“It ain’t them gnomes again, is it?” asked Dusty in a sulky voice.
“It’s the gnomes, yes. I need them all out in the front yard.”
Dusty groaned.
“Pointed at Red’s house, as usual,” said Myrtle.
“Ain’t enough room for all of ‘em in the front! Some’ll have to go in the back.”
Myrtle said, “I’m sure you can find a way to put them all in the front yard. I want to make a real statement this time. And I have a new addition that I’d like to have front and center right in front of Red’s house.”
A Body in the Attic Page 5