Death of a Suitor

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Elaine said, “You get points for trying, Myrtle. But sadly, Lieutenant Perkins hasn’t been around.”

  “He’s probably too busy. Investigating two homicides will do that to you.” Myrtle tilted her head to one side. “Perhaps you could send me a surreptitious text if Perkins comes unexpectedly to dinner.”

  Elaine chuckled. “Won’t Red think it’s very suspicious that I send a text and then you show up?”

  “Not really. We could even set up a code.”

  Miles looked interested. “Codes can be fun. I used to create and send coded messages to my friends when I was a kid.”

  “Of course you did,” said Myrtle, sounding not in the least surprised at Miles engaging in such a nerdy activity.

  “What kind of code?” asked Elaine.

  “Oh, I don’t know. You mentioned picking up martial arts. You could say something like ‘I achieved a purple belt today.’”

  “There is no purple belt,” said Elaine. “There is white, orange, blue, yellow, green, brown, and black.”

  “Even better for our purposes,” said Myrtle complacently. “Then it really will be a special code. And that way I don’t have to spend all of my time looking out my living room window to see if Perkins is across the street.”

  “Have you been doing that?” asked Miles, sounding doubtful.

  “No. But I could have been.”

  Elaine said, “Okay, I think I can manage sending a code. And now, I should probably go. Jack’s going to be needing a nap after all this excitement.”

  Myrtle said, “But he’s been so good!”

  “That’s how I know he needs a nap. It’s the calm before the storm.” Elaine scooped him up and said, “Thanks so much to both of you for keeping an eye on him.”

  “Hope you feel better,” said Miles.

  Jack reached out and planted a sloppy kiss on Myrtle’s cheek and she gave him a tight hug. “Darling boy.”

  After they left, Myrtle said, “I’m thinking if I crash the dinner with Perkins, I should bring something -with me to eat. Don’t you think? I could just act as if I’d made it for myself and then bring it over.”

  Miles looked grim. “Although I liked the part about the codes, I’m less-certain about the rest of the plan. You don’t even know that Red will host Perkins for supper.”

  Myrtle waved a hand breezily. “Oh, he always does. And he hasn’t yet, or Elaine would have told me. I know—I’ll make pudding for dessert. I haven’t done that in ages.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  MILES FROWNED. “PUDDING. Isn’t that complicated?”

  “Pudding? Complicated? It’s not brain surgery, Miles. It has only three or four ingredients.”

  “That sounds like the most dangerous type of recipe. The kind that appears simple but is actually very treacherous.”

  Myrtle ignored this. “I’ll make it right now so I can be prepared at any time.”

  Miles shifted uncomfortably. “I thought we were going to continue your interviews. Isn’t it time to speak with Nicole Jackson?”

  “We’ll speak to Nicole just as soon as I make this pudding.”

  Miles said slowly, “Do you even have all the ingredients?”

  “Why are you being so contrary about my pudding? I’m certain that I have all of the ingredients.” She hurried to the kitchen, cane stomping as she went. “As memory serves, I need cocoa, vanilla, and cornstarch. Or flour. Something.”

  Miles looked increasingly nervous. “Maybe it would be a good idea to locate the recipe. Do you remember what book it was in?”

  “That might take the whole day,” said Myrtle sternly. “Really, Miles. You have such a bee in your bonnet over this.”

  “I just think it would be much better to go off a recipe. Here, I’ll look up pudding on the internet.” Miles strode to Myrtle’s small desk and started tapping at the keyboard. Myrtle sighed and peered over his shoulder.

  “Here. This one looks easy.” Miles’s voice was relieved.

  “They’re all easy. That’s the point of pudding.”

  Miles hit a button. “I’m printing this one out.”

  He carried the printout to the kitchen and pulled ingredients out of Myrtle’s cabinets and fridge. “Sugar, salt, milk, butter, vanilla, cornstarch, cocoa.” He frowned at the milk. “That’s not enough milk, according to the recipe.”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine,” said Myrtle dismissively.

  “It’s not nearly four and a half cups.”

  “Then I’ll simply add more butter,” said Myrtle with a shrug.

  “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  Myrtle sighed. “You’re getting all worked up over this. Why don’t you go home for thirty minutes and then head back over? After that, I’ll be completely ready to head over to see Nicole.”

  Miles looked as if he might have a lot more to say. But he clamped his lips together and quickly exited.

  The problem, Myrtle decided at one point in the process of concocting the dessert, was that pudding had far too many dry ingredients. Everything seemed to explode everywhere when she took it from its container. At this point, she was going to have to have Puddin clean up the pudding. This amused her to think about and she laughed aloud, spilling a good deal more cornstarch in the process.

  Once Tippy called her in the middle of the process to ask if she’d like to serve on a committee at church. Myrtle decidedly did not. After getting off the phone with Tippy, Myrtle reflected that it was certainly easier to say no to things when one was in one’s eighties. After all, there were limited years left . . . definitely too few to spend time doing things you didn’t care to do. When she returned to the pudding, she wasn’t at all sure where she’d left off with the recipe. She picked up with the cornstarch.

  The conversation with Tippy had somehow taken longer than it should have. Tippy could be chatty. Looking at the clock, Myrtle turned up the heat on the stove to make up for the lost time. Then she set about trying to find her whisk. There was one particular drawer where the whisk should reside. She turned the drawer upside down on her kitchen table and went through every instrument . . . no whisk. How did one lose a whisk?

  She noticed a burning smell suddenly and turned the heat down to medium on the stove. Myrtle decided to use a fork instead. Sadly, the milk and sugar seemed to have scorched a little while she’d looked for the whisk, but she remembered there were many desserts that were revered for a smoky taste and were thought to be quite exotic. Smoked bread pudding was one of them, she recalled. So really, her smoked pudding would be au courant.

  Myrtle poured the pudding into glass ramekins and put plastic wrap over them. Then she shoved them in the fridge. She checked her mail and smiled widely at an unexpected check from a medical overpayment. Then she looked at the clock. She was just thinking that Miles should be coming over at any time when there was a tap on the door.

  “Hi there,” she said, opening the door wide to let him in.

  Miles walked in cautiously. He sniffed the air and made a face. “Did something happen with the pudding?”

  “Yes. The pudding was cooked.”

  Miles said, “No, I mean beyond being cooked. In fact, it smells as if it might have been cooked a little too much.”

  “As a matter of fact, the pudding was smoked. It’s a very modern approach to pudding,” explained Myrtle.

  Miles frowned at this. He walked into the kitchen and paused. “Wow.”

  “What?”

  Miles said slowly, “The mess.”

  “Oh yes, I know. Everything exploded everywhere when it was being measured. Pudding has too many dry ingredients.” Myrtle put her hands on her hips, still troubled over the missing equipment. “You haven’t seen my whisk anywhere, have you?”

  “Did you have a whisk? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you whisking anything.”

  “Of course I have a whisk! Everyone has a whisk. It’s practically a rule for homeowners. What would I do if I wanted to whisk egg whites?”

 
; Miles knit his brows. “I’ve never known that whisking egg whites was something you aspired to.”

  Myrtle bored of the subject. “Let’s go see Nicole. First, though, I’m going to see if I can get in touch with Puddin.”

  Miles gazed around the kitchen again. “Puddin might balk at this.”

  “I can handle a balking Puddin. Anyway, she balks at everything: dust, crumbs on countertops, dull furniture. It’s nothing new.”

  Puddin did indeed balk on the phone. Her voice was suspicious on the other end of the line. “You say there’s kitchen mess?”

  “Yes. There are some dry ingredients on the counters and floors. Maybe on the kitchen table, too.”

  Puddin said, “My back is thrown, Miz Myrtle.”

  “Your back is always thrown at the most inconvenient of times, Puddin. But here’s the real problem—if the kitchen stays like this then I’m going to be tracking the dry ingredients all over the rest of my house. The problem is going to worsen exponentially.”

  Miles agreed with this and could be heard in the background saying, “I’ll be tracking it around, too.”

  “So you see, Puddin, we must take immediate action.”

  There was a distinct groan on the other end. Then Puddin said in a crabby voice, “Guess I’ll come over then.”

  It was hardly gracious, but about right for Puddin. Myrtle said, “Good. You know where the key is, don’t you? Miles and I will be out conducting some business.”

  “Under that gnome, ain’t it?” muttered Puddin.

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that. There are quite a few of them out there right now, courtesy of Dusty.”

  Puddin growled, “Put it under the one with the fishin’ pole, then.”

  “The darling one with the red fishing pole and the impish expression on his face? Why Puddin, I didn’t realize you had a favorite in my collection.”

  There were more, rather dire, mutterings on the other end and Myrtle cheerfully said, “See you soon, then.”

  “Are you? Going to see her soon?” asked Miles.

  “It remains to be seen, as it always does with Puddin. I’ll get more done if I disable the television somehow. Sometimes I accidentally disable it anyway by pressing the wrong button on the remote.”

  Miles said, “Do you remember how you disable it? It sounds like a very effective way to keep Puddin from watching game shows when you’re not here.”

  Myrtle walked over to her remote and pointed it at the TV. “I think it’s this ‘input’ button here. I’m always trying to hit the ‘mute’ button and hit this one by accident.”

  Miles studied the remote. “I can imagine that hitting input would shut things down.”

  “Especially if I hit input and then select a service that I don’t pay for. One of those streaming ones. I have the feeling that Puddin wouldn’t be able to find her way out of that. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’s very tech savvy.”

  “No. No, she doesn’t.”

  Myrtle sighed. “The only problem is that I might not be able to find my way out of the input labyrinth. Once I had to call Red. That was most annoying.”

  Miles pushed his glasses up his nose. “I think I should be able to help you out with the remote. You shouldn’t have to call Red over it, at any rate.”

  Myrtle beamed at him. “Perfect. The less I can rely on my son, the better.”

  She hit a few buttons on the remote and watched as the screens on the television became ever more puzzling and incomprehensible.

  “Perhaps that would be a good place to stop,” said Miles, looking slightly nervous. “If you keep pressing buttons, I may not be able to follow the breadcrumbs out of the forest. Besides, I’m pretty sure Puddin will be stumped by what you’ve got up on the screen.”

  Myrtle nodded with satisfaction. “And with nothing else to do, Puddin will have to address the disaster in the kitchen. Now, let’s head over to see Nicole.”

  Miles shifted uncomfortably. “I certainly hope we’re not having to go to the salon. I can’t think of a plausible excuse for my being there.”

  “That you’re my driver, of course. I don’t have a vehicle of my own, as you well know.”

  Miles said, “Why don’t you call the salon and figure out when Nicole is working. That way we’re not driving all over town looking for her in various places.”

  Myrtle did call them. And, as it happened, Nicole was due at the salon in the next thirty minutes.

  “Pooh,” said Myrtle. “Now we’ll have to wait. If we go over to her house, it won’t give us enough time before she has to go to work.”

  Miles said, “Why don’t we take a walk? I could stretch my legs a little.”

  “Fine. As long as we don’t linger too long in front of Erma’s house. I don’t think I have it in me to deal with an Erma encounter.”

  Miles cautiously stuck his head outside the door, looking both ways. “The coast is clear.”

  They hastily passed Erma’s house then breathed a sigh of relief. There was a brisk breeze blowing, which made the walking very tolerable. Myrtle thumped her cane emphatically as she walked down the sidewalk. Dogs barked at them from nearly every house.

  Miles gave a startled exclamation and Myrtle followed his gaze. “Pasha!” she said. “What a clever girl. Are you following us on our walk?”

  “If she’s so clever, why did she brush up against my legs?” muttered Miles. “She just about gave me a heart attack.”

  “You shouldn’t be so jumpy, Miles. Pasha was merely saying hello. Oh look—there’s Sherry, out in her yard. Wanda mentioned her last time and I’ve meant to visit and see if she can provide a clue to this investigation somehow. Goodness, but she does a lot of yard work. She always makes the rest of us look awful in comparison.”

  Sure enough, Sherry was cheerfully deadheading roses with her pruners. She stopped when she saw them and came over to chat.

  “How’s it all going?” she asked. “Myrtle, I haven’t seen you at the gym lately.”

  Myrtle said, “I know. I’ve been taking my exercise in other ways lately.”

  Sherry raised her eyebrows. “Why do I have the feeling you’ve been tackling our latest crimes in Bradley? I saw your article in the paper recently.”

  Myrtle did her best to appear modest, failing utterly. “Well, you know how it is. Always something happening here in town. It only looks like a quiet place.”

  Sherry nodded. “There’s always all sorts of drama happening here, that’s for sure.” The word drama apparently called something to mind and she looked over at Miles. “How are you holding up, Miles?”

  Miles looked unhappy at being associated with drama. “Oh, I’m doing fine. Keeping busy.”

  Sherry said, “I know it’s wicked to speak ill of the dead, but I can’t help it. I think Eloise treated you just abominably. You’re well rid of her.”

  Miles appeared to badly want to change the subject. “What types of neighborhood drama are you alluding to, Sherry? Anything interesting going on?”

  This time Sherry tactfully refrained from mentioning Eloise, her cheating, and her untimely death. “Well, let’s see. There’s a feud going on between Hampton Ridgeway and Lois Kerby. Hampton was spotted putting her dog poop bags into Lois’s trash bin.”

  Myrtle snorted. “That was dumb on Hampton’s part. Everyone knows Lois spends the day looking out her front window with binoculars.” She gave a cheery wave in the direction of Lois’s house, figuring she was being watched.

  “Exactly,” said Sherry.

  Miles didn’t look particularly impressed by this bit of drama, so Sherry dug deeper into her memory. “Prentiss Mabrey said that Robert only leaves his house to mow the grass and go to the liquor store.”

  Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “I’ve noticed he mows his lawn just about every single day. I do hope he’s not imbibing at the same time he’s operating the mower.”

  “Hm,” said Miles, still looking rather unfazed by all the neighborhood
gossip.

  Sherry brightened as something occurred to her. “Speaking of drinking, your editor actually is a lot more fun than he looks.”

  Myrtle knit her brows. “Sloan is?”

  “Surprising, isn’t it? I was out with Nicole Jackson last night and we ran into him.”

  Myrtle said slowly, “You’re friends with Nicole?” There was quite an age difference between them. Sherry could be Nicole’s mother.

  “Sure! Well, I was friends with her mom and then sort of adopted Nicole as one of my own kids after her mom passed away. Nicole also does a great manicure, if you haven’t been.” Sherry waggled her multi-colored nails at them.

  “Actually, I’ve been to see Nicole at the salon.” Myrtle showed off her own nails and Sherry looked impressed by Myrtle’s daring.

  “Anyway,” continued Sherry, “I took Nicole out with me last night to cheer her up a little. It’s been real hard on her, you know, with Jax’s death and everything. I thought she could do with a night out. We ran into Sloan there, sitting at the bar.”

  “Unsurprising,” murmured Myrtle.

  “We got to talking with him and before you knew it, we were all singing a song along with the jukebox.” Sherry grinned in remembrance.

  “I wish I’d been able to see that,” said Myrtle. She would actually have liked to have taken a picture and posted it on the Bradley Bugle’s social media accounts.

  Miles said slowly, “So Nicole was out last night, then.”

  “She certainly was. We had a great time,” said Sherry firmly.

  Myrtle said, “What time did all of your shenanigans—the singing and whatnot—end?”

  Sherry shrugged. “Oh, I’d say it was around nine-thirty. I started getting sleepy with all the beer. I’m not young like Nicole was, so I headed on home. But I was glad that I had the chance to cheer her up. She’s missing her dad, of course. On top of that, though, she’s also worried about money.”

  Myrtle recalled that the topic of money seemed to come up fairly frequently in conversation with Nicole. “She wants to move from Bradley, I believe? She mentioned moving to Atlanta.”

  “Well, that’s what she wants to do, but the problem is that she just doesn’t have the money. And she was really appalled at how long probate takes. It’s really a full year or thereabouts. She won’t be getting any of that estate money for a while.”