This time Red snorted and Myrtle hissed, “There seems to be a horrible cold virus among us.”
Perkins said mildly, “What sort of impression did you have of Mr. Subers? As a teacher or otherwise?”
Myrtle considered this. “He was bookish, but not good with the mechanics of English. He couldn’t have cared less about grammar and was lazy and creative with his spelling. One thing I always noticed was that he was distracting in the classroom.”
Perkins asked, “Distracting in what way?”
“The girls always knocked themselves out to get his attention. They were quite energetic in their efforts. But he’d keep his nose in his books. He was a nice-looking boy, but it occurred to me at the time that a good part of his appeal was how he appeared ... distant. Removed. Disinterested,” said Myrtle.
Red said, “I’ll point out that these observations were from forty years ago. Let’s allow that the poor guy might have changed in his lifetime.”
Miles cleared his throat. “Actually, I can verify that Amos Subers is still considered something of a catch. He’s apparently quite the ladies’ man. Although I don’t have a theory on his appeal.”
Myrtle said, “Judging from the books in his home, maybe his allure is the same thing—an aloofness.”
Perkins nodded, taking it all in for a few moments. Then he said, “Thanks for this. And I’m sure I’ll see you later.” He and Red walked toward the house slowly, with Red filling him in on the details of the case as they went.
Myrtle motioned to Puddin to get out of the police car and walk over. Puddin heaved herself out of the cruiser and slouched over to them. “So hungry,” she said grouchily.
“Hunger is the least of your worries,” said Myrtle sternly. “Pull yourself together. What kind of foolishness have you been spouting to Red? He seems to think it’s a possibility you’re somehow involved in this mess.”
Puddin started howling like a toddler. Myrtle snapped, “Stop that! I’m already miffed with you, Puddin. You’ve put me in the position of saying nice things about you for the last hour.”
Puddin gave a shuddering sigh and prodigious sniff. Myrtle rummaged in her tremendous purse for a packet of tissues, which she thrust impatiently at Puddin.
“Now what happened?” asked Myrtle.
Puddin said, “Went in to clean and old Amos was dead.”
“Yes, I’ve grasped that part of the narrative. Now tell me the rest of what happened.”
“The door was unlocked, but he weren’t particular about that. Walk in and shouted for Mr. Subers.”
“Shouted for him?” asked Miles.
“Owed me money!” said Puddin, glowering.
“And did you report that detail to Red? The shouting and the owing of money and whatnot?” asked Myrtle.
Puddin gave a hesitant nod as if sensing that this was perhaps not the best tack to have taken.
Myrtle pursed her lips.
Puddin said in a defensive voice, “Mama told me not to lie!”
“She probably also told you if you didn’t have something nice to say, not to say anything at all,” said Myrtle. “And telling Red that Mr. Subers was a tightwad was probably not the way to go.”
Puddin was suddenly struck with a thought. “Now he’s dead and I can’t get my money!”
“His beneficiaries might be inclined to settle his debts,” said Myrtle.
Puddin squinted suspiciously at her again.
Myrtle said, “Go on with the story. I’m assuming there was no answer when you shouted for Mr. Subers.”
“Figured he was avoiding me,” Puddin said in a sullen voice. “So I sat down to relax.”
“Because you were so worn out,” said Myrtle, rolling her eyes.
“From cleanin’ your house!” said Puddin.
“The level of cleanliness at my house does not correspond with exhaustion on yours,” said Myrtle.
Miles smiled.
“Well, I didn’t sleep good last night,” Puddin snarled. “Anyway, game shows was on. I settled down to watch. Then I wanted a little somethin’ to snack on.” Her eyes were shifty.
“I’ve no doubt,” said Myrtle. “This all sounds very familiar.”
“So I went into the kitchen to look in his pantry. An’ there he was!” Puddin threw up her hands to indicate the impertinence of the dead man.
“And then you called us in complete hysteria,” said Myrtle.
“Didn’t think Dusty was home,” said Puddin. Her stomach growled loudly, and she sighed at its emptiness.
Myrtle squinted down the street. “The cavalry is coming.”
Miles looked too. “In a most unlikely guise.”
Puddin frowned suspiciously and watched as Wanda approached them. Now that she was closer, they could see that she was clutching a white bag.
“I do believe that’s a takeout bag from Bo’s Diner,” said Myrtle.
Miles said, “Which is easy enough to guess, considering that the bag is dripping grease.”
Puddin didn’t seem to mind the grease one bit. She grabbed the bag when Wanda proffered it and hastily dug into the fries and hot dog, giving Wanda a grateful smile.
“Figured you was hungry,” said Wanda, carefully picking her words so as not to include any mention of prophecy.
Puddin managed a smile as she quickly consumed the contents of the bag.
Miles said, “All right, I suppose I should start the process of getting everyone back home. I know how to get Wanda back home, but I’m not exactly sure where you live, Puddin.”
Puddin said, “I got my car here.”
Miles said, “Yes, but Red didn’t want you driving, considering how upset you’ve been.”
Myrtle said, “We should take Puddin home first, unless Wanda has plans.”
Wanda gave her an arch expression as if to say that plans were not usually a major part of her life.
“All right, Puddin’s house it is. Besides, I need to talk to Dusty for a few minutes,” said Myrtle.
They climbed into Miles’s car. He winced at Puddin’s greasy bag but didn’t say a word as she continued eating.
Chapter Five
PUDDIN’S HOUSE WAS a crooked little place plopped on a large lot that made the house look even smaller than it was. The yard was a riot of weeds and knee-high grass and the home was ringed by dead bushes. Considering that Dusty was a yardman by trade, it recalled the old saying, “the shoemaker’s children go barefoot.”
Puddin leaned forward in the car to peer at the driveway. “He’s home,” she said with a shrug.
“Excellent,” said Myrtle as Miles parked the car.
Wanda pushed open the car door on her side, but shook her head when Myrtle gestured for her to come along. “I’ll sit here. Got some visions comin’ through.”
Puddin looked alarmed and hurried away from the car as if the incoming visions might explode like bombs around her. Belatedly remembering her manners, she mumbled a thanks to Wanda for her lunch.
Dusty, although home, did not look pleased to see them. In fact, he looked aghast as Puddin again burst into tears at the sight of him. He gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Somethin’ happen?” he asked as he gestured for them to come in. He spotted Wanda sitting in Miles’s car and stared curiously at her but didn’t say a thing.
The interior of the home attested to Puddin’s general lack of interest in housekeeping. While somewhat clean, there was clutter on every available surface of the home.
Myrtle said, “Puddin happened upon a body today.”
Dusty stared at her. “At yer house?”
“All the bodies in this town aren’t found at my house, you know. This one belonged to Amos Subers,” said Myrtle.
Dusty nodded. “Puddin cleans there but I don’t do his yard.”
“I figured as much,” said Myrtle. The yard had actually appeared fairly well-kept.
Puddin stemmed the flow of tears long enough to holler, “They think I did it, Dusty, because he owed me money! But I didn
’t. He was all right. I sorta liked him, actually.” Here Puddin looked a bit cagey. She had apparently reached the conclusion that it would be better for her to profess admiration for the dead man instead of playing up his indebtedness to her.
“What did you like about him?” asked Myrtle in a pressing manner.
“The house weren’t never that messy, so cleanin’ was easy. Not like yours,” said Puddin cuttingly.
“What I’m curious about,” said Myrtle, “is what you were doing between the time you left my house and the time you went to Amos Subers’s house.”
Puddin frowned. “I went right to his house.” She glanced at Miles who appeared fascinated with the amount of clutter in the housekeeper’s house. “Have a seat,” she said.
“There’s no way you did. I simply don’t believe you spent that much time watching game shows at his house,” said Myrtle.
Miles, who didn’t seem to want to rebuff Puddin’s offer of hospitality, glanced desperately around for a suitable surface for him to park his rear on.
Puddin quickly said, “Oh. I went and ate.”
Miles eyed the greasy bag that she was still clutching in a chubby hand.
Myrtle drawled, “Try again, Puddin. Third time’s the charm.”
Puddin drew in a deep breath. “I were with Dusty.”
Dusty blinked at her. “At whut time?” He’d been watching Miles’s increasingly desperate attempts to find a seat. Dusty walked to a chair and unceremoniously upended it, allowing all the assorted wrappers, unopened mail, and catalogs to fall to the floor. He motioned to Miles to have a seat which Miles gingerly did. Myrtle shook her head impatiently when Dusty offered to create a place for her to sit.
“I was with you this mornin’,” she snapped. “You remember.” It was more of a command than a question.
“I remember wakin’ up an’ you was there,” said Dusty. He did not seem to be onboard with being an alibi.
“You’re confused about the time,” insisted Puddin. “We never put much stock in clocks.” She nodded at a wall clock that displayed a time that might have been correct on the west coast.
“If you say I wasn’t with you this mornin’,” Puddin said in a voice that was both helpful reminder as well as a threat, “then they thinks I killed him.”
Dusty gave this a moment’s thought before he said gruffly, “Ah. That musta been when you got me breakfast.”
“Breakfast. Yes,” said Puddin in relief.
“A breakfast which Puddin clearly didn’t partake in,” said Myrtle with a sigh. “Never mind. We’ll eventually get to the bottom of it all. Puddin, since you spent a good deal of time in Amos’s house, perhaps you can help us determine who might have wanted to kill him.”
Puddin looked at her television set as though she wanted to have nothing to do with any further discussion of Amos Subers, alive or dead.
Miles said, “If we had another suspect besides you, it would help.”
Put this way, Puddin looked thoughtful. “He had a black eye not long ago. It’s gone now.”
“Who hit him?” asked Myrtle.
“Him was datin’ Philomena. From the library,” said Puddin, squinting up her face in her effort to produce thoughts.
Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “A librarian gave him a black eye? That somehow seems out of character.”
Puddin shook her head. “Nope. Her brother gave it to him.”
“Who told you that?” asked Myrtle. Puddin sometimes wasn’t the most reliable source of information.
Puddin said indignantly, “Him himself! I asked why his eye was black and he told me. Simple as that. I see the brother around and about. He dates a waitress at Bo’s Diner.” Her eyes gleamed with gossipy glee.
“Did he elaborate as to why Philomena-the-librarian’s brother happened to give him a black eye? Because it all sounds rather extraordinary,” said Myrtle.
Puddin shook her head again. “Nope. But I asked Bitty.”
Bitty was one of Puddin’s many cousins and an accomplished gossip. She was, also, decidedly not bitty but rather rotund.
Myrtle felt as though she were pulling teeth. “And Bitty said what?”
“That her brother hit him because of his sister,” said Puddin.
Myrtle said, “Okay. One other question—did you see or hear anything when you arrived at Amos Subers’s house?”
Puddin squinted in deep thought. “That awful dog next door was barking at me. I barked back.”
Myrtle sighed. “I mean, anything that might have a bearing at all on Amos’s murder.”
Puddin resumed squinting. “Saw her leave.”
“Saw whom leave?” asked Myrtle.
“That Alice. The woman he was seeing,” said Puddin. She looked longingly at the television set again and appeared to glance around for a remote. Miles, still perched on the chair, looked alarmed at the prospect of adding a blaring TV to the general chaos of the room.
Myrtle realized this was as much information as she was going to be able to get from Puddin, as dissatisfying as that was.
“Before we leave, Dusty, I need you to do something for me,” said Myrtle.
Dusty looked at her in alarm. “Too hot to mow!” he howled.
“No, no. You mowed a couple of days ago, remember?” said Myrtle.
“Them gnomes,” he said with a sigh.
“Yes, please,” said Myrtle. “And if you could do it this afternoon, that would be ideal. I’ve found it’s more effective when the gnomes are pulled out directly following an infraction by Red.”
“What wuz it this time?” asked Dusty with idle curiosity.
“My cane,” said Myrtle, grimacing.
Dusty glanced down at the offending object which Myrtle was clutching in her right hand. “Seems to me yer usin’ it.”
“Yes, but he wants me to use it in my own home. I know the way perfectly in my house and can touch various pieces of furniture if I need support. Plus, Red has been especially sassy lately. Anyway, can you make it?” asked Myrtle impatiently.
Dusty glanced at the nearby wall clock. “Yep.”
“That clock is three hours behind,” said Myrtle.
“Still works if you do math,” said Dusty with dignity.
Miles and Myrtle joined Wanda in Miles’s car. Miles set off for Wanda’s house.
“Anything good in the vision department?” asked Myrtle.
In response, Wanda silently handed Myrtle a piece of paper on which she’d scrawled what looked like ancient hieroglyphics but what Myrtle knew was intended to be modern-day English.
“Ah. The weekly horoscope for Sloan, then?” asked Myrtle. She gave the slip of paper a look of trepidation. “And on the back of what appears to be one of Miles’s gas receipts.”
Wanda shrugged a thin shoulder. “The visions wuz comin’ in. Had ter record them.”
Myrtle nodded and carefully put the piece of paper into her pocketbook. “I’ll transcribe this later and hand it in to Sloan.” Sloan Jones was the editor of the Bradley Bugle newspaper where Wanda publihed a horoscope column. Myrtle had a helpful hints column there, but much preferred writing investigative reports for Sloan. And she had a good article for him today.
A good while later, Miles pulled up to Wanda’s hubcap-covered house.
“Let us know if there are any developments,” said Myrtle. “Or if anything interesting pops up on your radar.” She glanced around at the unwelcoming red clay, the cars standing on cement blocks like mechanical statues on pedestals, and the large rocks scattered through the clay. “Where is this garden going?”
Wanda beamed at the mention of the garden. “Near the door. One of them pocket gardens.”
Myrtle peered at the front door. There was an old cooler there that had ‘live bayt!’ written on it in what looked like paint. There was also a tire, a plastic bucket that was so old it was nearly white, an overflowing garbage can, and a crumpled tarp. She said, “I do love your sense of adventure, Wanda. And I’m sure that the garden club g
ala will likely have someone lecturing about pocket gardens there.”
Wanda bestowed her with another gap-toothed smile and happily walked into her house.
Miles said as he drove off down the rural highway toward Bradley, “I’m not sure that Wanda will fit in very well with the rest of the garden club.”
“Well, she fits in well with me. And I fit in well with garden club. If garden club knows what’s good for them, they’ll be charmed and delighted to have her there at the gala,” said Myrtle with a sniff.
Miles’s expression was doubtful.
“Where are we going now?” asked Miles. “To the grocery store? Considering that you now have less food than you had to begin with?”
“No time for groceries yet, Miles. We’re hot on the trail,” said Myrtle. “Let’s run by the Bugle office so I can let Sloan know about my coverage of the Subers murder. Then we can visit Philomena at the library.”
“Glad you’re keeping your editor so updated,” said Miles. “He doesn’t mind that you assign yourself all the big stories?”
“Sloan is grateful for the help,” said Myrtle, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s a small-town newspaper without a lot of resources. He’ll be absolutely delighted that I’m taking it on.”
“Even though Red won’t want you to have anything remotely to do with the story or the case itself?” asked Miles. “That doesn’t sound like Sloan.”
“Red wouldn’t dare try to stop me. He’ll already face my gnome army later in the day. He wouldn’t want to try my patience again,” said Myrtle in a confident tone.
Miles drove grimly on.
As Miles had predicted, Sloan’s face did not exactly reflect the delight Myrtle had claimed it would. Instead, he looked anxious—as he usually did whenever his former English teacher stopped by the newsroom.
“Ah, Amos Subers. Yes.” Bits of perspiration beaded up on the big man’s face and neck. “Which reminds me! I had someone rave about your helpful hints column yesterday. He praised it up one side and down the other! Said that he’d tried out your suggestion about using a drying rack to keep his plastics still in the dishwasher and that it was a life changer!”
Cleaning is Murder Page 4