Cleaning is Murder

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Myrtle frowned at him. “Why are you trying to change the subject, Sloan? I’m not here to talk about helpful hints. I don’t get the same professional satisfaction in helping people prevent static cling as I do when writing an investigative article on crime in Bradley. Besides, they aren’t my tips. They’re reader tips that I share. I simply wanted to let you know that I’ll work on the Subers story so that you wouldn’t write the article yourself.”

  Sloan swallowed. His face was miserable. “It’s just that Red stopped by here on the way over to the police station and asked me to keep you from getting involved in that piece.”

  Miles shook his head and started thumbing through some old copies of the Bugle on a nearby desk.

  Myrtle sighed and looked at the ceiling as if patience might somehow be found there. It apparently wasn’t because she looked back at Sloan and said, “This is how it works. You try to keep me from writing stories that Red doesn’t want me to write. I push back. You fold. I write an amazing story that people are talking about for days. Can we go ahead and skip the argument? After all, it is a free press.” She rummaged in her large pocketbook and removed a slip of paper, dangling it tantalizingly in front of Sloan’s face. “Do you know what this is?”

  Sloan squinted at it. “A gasoline receipt?”

  “That is correct. It’s a gasoline receipt as well as being a treasure trove of Wanda’s latest predictions,” said Myrtle. “Unfortunately, visions struck Wanda while she was sitting in the backseat of Miles’s car. This is the result.”

  Miles gave an admiring chuckle. Wanda’s column was a tremendous hit for the town of Bradley. Her predictions were alarmingly precise and direct, to the extent that the good citizens of Bradley held their collective breaths whenever a new one was published.

  Sloan took the slip of paper, staring at it. “But this makes no sense at all, Miss Myrtle. I couldn’t run this in the paper.”

  “Well, that’s where I come in. By now, I’m an expert in deciphering Wanda’s scribblings. As you know, I’m the one translating them. I just wanted to point out how much trouble you would be in if I didn’t help you. Of course, if you want me to help you, you’re tacitly acknowledging that I’m writing the Amos Subers story. Which only makes sense, considering I was one of the first people on the scene there,” said Myrtle with a sniff.

  Sloan slowly handed her back the paper. “You’ll do a great job with the story,” he said. He appeared to be relieved that their traditional push and pull over her assignments was over ... for the day, anyway.

  Myrtle beamed at him. “Excellent. Now tell me how things are going with you. Are you and Sally Solomon still seeing each other?”

  Sloan shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid we’ve hit a snag, Miss Myrtle. I’ve been so caught up with things at the paper that I believe I come across as sort of boring to her.”

  “Nonsense! I’ve known you for most of your life and I haven’t found you boring at all,” said Myrtle.

  Miles cleared his throat. “What kinds of things are you talking about when you go out on dates?”

  “Dates?” Sloan blinked at him.

  Myrtle said, “Aren’t the two of you going out for lunches or dinners or getting breakfast or seeing plays or concerts or anything?”

  Sloan looked subdued. “Should we be? We usually either talk on the phone or else I drop by her house after work and we chat a little.”

  Myrtle said, “That’s all wrong, Sloan. You should still be in the wining and dining phase. As Miles was asking, what types of things are you talking about when you’re visiting each other?”

  Sloan looked like a deer in the headlights. “You know. What stories I’m running in the next day’s paper and how I’m redesigning the Bugle website. Stuff like that.”

  Miles winced.

  Sloan said, “But she seems real interested in it. Sally even gave me some suggestions for the paper, like using more photos and having more of a visual approach to storytelling.”

  Myrtle said, “That’s fine, but you need to branch out. You need to revisit topics like music, movies, books ... things like that.” Her eyes grew wide, and she snapped her fingers. “I have a great idea! You should take her to the garden club gala. It will be an evening of food and plants.”

  Miles gave a muffled cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

  “The garden club gala,” said Sloan slowly. “You know, I do think she likes plants. At least, I see them at her house.”

  Myrtle pulled out an envelope from her purse. “And, lucky for you, I’m selling tickets! Miles will be there, too.”

  Miles gave a gloomy nod of confirmation.

  Sloan looked thoughtful. “Do you think that will help? Going to events and such?”

  “It certainly won’t hurt,” said Myrtle.

  Chapter Six

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Myrtle and Miles got back in his car.

  “And I thought I was rusty at dating,” said Miles as he drove off toward the library.

  “You may be, but Sloan is a disaster,” said Myrtle. “I don’t have to be Wanda to see their relationship is doomed unless he makes changes. Think how helpful we were, Miles.”

  “He regaled his date with a discussion about revamping the newspaper website,” marveled Miles.

  “Which he’s doing a terrible job at. He took the whole thing down to work on it and has been updating it in spurts. It looks as if the entire website is down,” clucked Myrtle. She peered closer at Miles. “You look anxious, Miles. What’s the trouble?”

  Miles said, “I wish I’d known that we were going to the library today. I have an overdue book to return.”

  “Well, swing by your house first and pick it up. It isn’t as if we live far away.”

  Miles shook his head. “I’m not done with the book yet.” His face looked slightly green as it did whenever he contemplated doing anything remotely wrong.

  Myrtle said, “I can tell you’re wracked with guilt over this overdue book. What’s the title?”

  “It’s the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes,” said Miles. It appeared to grieve him to even mention the book.

  “For heaven’s sake, Miles, that’s hardly a bestseller. I don’t think that the town of Bradley is on pins and needles waiting for the book to be returned to the library. Just renew it.”

  Miles pulled into a parking place at the library. “I’ve already renewed it,” he said miserably.

  “Then renew it again! You’re allowed two.”

  Miles unlocked their doors. “I’ve already renewed it twice. I’m reading it slowly and savoring every word. I thought we could apply some of Sherlock’s methods to our investigations.”

  Myrtle got out of the car. “You mean we should have noted that Amos had a fierce argument with Philomena because of the evidence of a hastily tossed-aside library book and the carpet fibers on his shoes?”

  Miles’s eyes grew wide. “Did you notice that?”

  “Don’t be silly. Amos didn’t even have shoes on. We’ll have to be a lot sharper than that if we even try to be more like Sherlock.” Myrtle gave Miles a narrowed look. “And don’t feel the need to confess your overdue book to Philomena. It’s not as if you owe the library much money.”

  “Fifty cents,” said Miles, glumly.

  “Just zip it, then. I want to focus her on Amos and their relationship and not have her thinking about missing books and fines and whatnot.” Myrtle pushed open the library door.

  “It’s not missing,” said Miles stiffly. “I know exactly where it is.”

  “Never mind that. Let’s figure out which one is Philomena. I know I taught a Philomena Fant, but it was a million years ago. I do remember that she was a brilliant student, although her parents seemed to spoil her to pieces. They both came into the school and argued with me about giving Philomena an A-minus. Anyway, I’m quite sure her appearance has changed in the meantime. The library staff should wear nametags,” said Myrtle irritably.

  Miles seemed to be caught
up in the spirit of Sherlock. “Let’s use the process of elimination. From what I’ve heard about Amos’s proclivities, I don’t believe he was likely dating any of the male librarians.”

  Myrtle scanned the area. “True. And I don’t see him dating that young woman over there. He seemed to date peers or near-peers.”

  “We should talk to the woman over there, then,” said Miles, a triumphant note in his voice. He pointed to a dainty woman in her late-fifties with blonde hair.

  Myrtle nodded. “She seems a likely candidate. What’s more, she resembles Alice Porper quite a bit. It looks as if Amos had a ‘type.’”

  They walked over to where Philomena was shelving books off a cart. She smiled at them as they approached, revealing dimples. “May I help you?” she asked. She had china-blue eyes, putting Myrtle in mind of her grandmother’s Wedgewood. “And it’s good to see you again, Miss Myrtle. I always enjoyed your English class.”

  Myrtle paused. She realized that this woman had taken part in some sort of a relationship with Amos and likely didn’t even know that he had passed away. Here she was at work when she might have taken the afternoon off after such a revelation. Red must not have spoken to her yet. She decided it would be best to ease into questions. The last thing she wanted was an explosion of tears.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s good to see you too, Philomena. I remember your being an excellent student. And yes, you could give us a hand. Miles here has recently developed an interest in Sherlock Holmes. I thought there must be some sort of companion book he could read for additional information on the stories or maybe on the life of Doyle.”

  Miles blinked slowly at her.

  Philomena said, “How interesting! Yes, I know I’ve seen such a book. Let me check in with the catalog on that computer over there.”

  As soon as Philomena had stepped away, Miles hissed at Myrtle, “I didn’t really want to draw attention to me or my overdue Sherlock.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ll enjoy the book and I needed to start a conversation that didn’t immediately involve the murder of someone close to Philomena,” said Myrtle.

  They both stopped whispering and gave rather fake smiles as Philomena approached them again. She said, “If you’ll follow me for a minute, I know just where we can find the book.”

  And she did. “This looks like the perfect companion read, Miles,” said Myrtle, flipping through the pages. “It covers all things Sherlock.” She looked at Philomena and said as an aside, “He’s become quite obsessed with Sherlock and Watson.”

  Philomena’s dimples were in attendance again. “Are you two planning on doing some investigating yourselves?” she asked.

  Myrtle said, “Funny you should ask that. We certainly are. A trip to the library was in order after our rather disturbing morning. You see, we discovered the death this morning of someone in town. Amos Subers.”

  Philomena’s eyes grew wide and she stepped back until the bookshelf partially supported her. “No,” she whispered.

  Miles didn’t look enthused by the prospect of Philomena passing out on the floor, despite her tiny stature. He said gruffly, “Here, come and sit down.”

  Philomena allowed herself to be led to a study table and sat down quickly in a chair. “Are you sure?” she pressed them. “I saw him yesterday.”

  Myrtle said, “Oh dear. We didn’t mean to upset you. You clearly must have known him. Unfortunately, yes, we’re sure that he’s passed away. And that he was murdered.”

  Philomena gave a big, shuddering sigh. Myrtle watched warily for the sign of tears.

  “Yes, I knew him. How awful. We ... well, we used to be in a relationship.” She looked at Myrtle through narrowed eyes. “You said it was murder.”

  “I’m afraid so. There’s no way he died from natural causes. But no worries, I’m sure that we’ll—I mean, the police will—discover who was responsible and bring them to justice. Obviously, you hadn’t heard anything about this yet,” said Myrtle. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Philomena slowly shook her head. “I’ve been here working all morning.” She said in a careful voice, “And I mean all morning. I’ve been busy shelving and checking out books and recording new acquisitions. I had no idea that Amos was dead.”

  Miles said, “It’s only been in the last few hours that he was. There was no way for you to know.”

  Myrtle said, “I was wondering what your impression of Amos was. What kind of person was he? I taught him ages ago and my impressions of him are a little skewed.”

  This made Philomena smile. “I can only imagine what impression he left on you as a student. Spitballs? Pencil fights? He was a few years older than me, so we weren’t in school at the same time.”

  Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “Not at all, actually, but it’s interesting that you would think he would have been that kind of a student. He was actually fairly academic and bookish. But he didn’t care a whit about grammar or the mechanics of the language.”

  Philomena nodded her head. “That makes sense. I was trying to imagine a normal teenaged boy, but Amos was anything but normal. That’s one of the things that he and I had most in common—books. We shared a love of literature.”

  Miles said, “You should speak to our book club.”

  Myrtle and Miles were always looking for ways to improve the book club selections. They’d try foisting classic literature on the group but they would always return to beach reads.

  Myrtle said, “Miles, what a brilliant idea! You’re absolutely right. Philomena would be the perfect speaker. Then maybe she could recommend books for our club to take on.”

  Philomena’s face was doubtful. “I don’t know that I’m much of a speaker. Actually, the idea sort of terrifies me.”

  “But we can pay you!” said Myrtle. “Tippy has been collecting club dues for the past hundred years and all we ever spend it on is a rather anemic brunch at the end of the year. And you’ll be able to push past your nervousness with your passion for books.”

  Miles said, “It sure would be nice to read Faulkner or Hemingway for a change.”

  “It’s settled!” said Myrtle, beaming. She took a small notebook and a pen out of her pocketbook and jotted something down. “Here’s Tippy’s number. We have a meeting this week, actually.”

  Philomena paled. “That seems very soon.”

  “Yes, but it will be a nice distraction from poor Amos, won’t it? And I promise you that our group is anything but scary,” said Myrtle.

  “Except for Erma Sherman,” said Miles.

  “Yes, but Erma is allergic to good literature. She likely won’t even attend,” said Myrtle. “But, goodness, I got so distracted that I forgot that you never really answered my question, my dear. Amos? What was he like? You mentioned that you both shared a love of books and then we got off-track.”

  Philomena said slowly, “He was ... rather wonderful, really. And not, all at the same time. He could be a profound thinker and share all of these marvelous ideas about the universe and life. But then he would be honed in on the here and now and wouldn’t want to spend a couple of dollars for a sweet tea at the restaurant. He had this way of focusing on you as if you were the only person in the world ... until he didn’t.” Her voice was bitter.

  Myrtle waited for a moment to see if any other remembrances were forthcoming. When they apparently weren’t, she said, “Who could have done such a thing? It was clear that Amos must have had enemies. Not only was he murdered, but it was obvious that he’d been in some sort of a recent fight.”

  Philomena flushed. “The two things are likely unconnected. But I can tell you one person that he didn’t get along with well. In fact, they had a public argument right here in the library.”

  Myrtle perked up. This sounded promising. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know the woman’s name, but I’ve seen her around town. She’s short and has a dumpy physique. Lank blonde hair and a rather doughy complexion. She was yelling at him here ... something about
money,” said Philomena. “Amos waved her away as if she were some sort of annoying gnat.”

  Myrtle now seemed in a hurry to wrap up their conversation. “Well, thanks for this. It doesn’t sound promising, though, does it? Even Amos didn’t think it was important, considering he was waving her away.”

  Philomena said, “Really? Someone demanding money right before a murder doesn’t seem important?”

  “Not when it’s a person like that. But you’ve been incredibly helpful with the Sherlock Holmes book,” said Myrtle.

  “Well, let me check it out for you,” she said smoothly, heading for the circulation desk.

  Miles’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He whispered, “Myrtle! I can’t have this book checked out on my card. She’ll see my overdue book.”

  Myrtle said, “Pooh! No one cares about your fifty cents or whatever the meager fine is, Miles. It’s hardly a moral failing to have a late library book.” She stared at him. “You’re perspiring profusely. Settle down.”

  Miles gave her a miserable look. “I don’t want her to see that I’m overdue.”

  “For heaven’s sake. I’ll put it on my card and then you can return it with the other one or when you’re ready.” Myrtle fished out her library card. “It’s not worth the agony.”

  Myrtle presented her library card to Philomena, who took it with a smile and another flash of her dimples.

  “I hope you’ll both enjoy the book. If you like it, I can find other, similar books. There’s an excellent biography of Doyle that we have and then there are some interesting new Sherlock stories that you might enjoy,” said Philomena.

  “New stories?” asked Miles. “As in long-lost stories that Doyle wrote?”

  “Oh no. No, these are written in the twenty-first century.” Philomena handed Myrtle’s card back to her.

  Miles made a face. “I’m not sure I’d like those. I’m a stickler for reading the genuine article.”

  “But the Arthur Conan Doyle estate authorized these,” said Philomena with a smile. “You might want to give them a try.”