Edit to Death

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Myrtle gave her a wry look. “You were apparently pretty confident that you could.”

  Pearl watched as Myrtle sifted through the papers some more. She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe you could take a look at it after I’m gone. It makes me feel anxious having an editor read it while I’m right here.”

  “I don’t even have my red pen in hand,” said Myrtle, raising her eyebrows. Then she frowned. “Now Pearl, are you going to be really sensitive when I make suggestions and things? Should I be careful with what I tell you?”

  “Oh no! No, I want the truth and I want the thing corrected.” She hesitated. “I know I printed it out so it would be easier for you to edit, but is it easier that way? Or should I have just emailed you a copy of it or something?”

  “No, this is fine. I was just telling Miles that I edit better on paper,” said Myrtle. “All right. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take me to do it, but I should get an idea twenty or thirty pages into it.”

  “That’s perfect. I feel so much better now that it’s in your hands. And I’ll leave you both to your lunch,” said Pearl, standing up.

  Myrtle said, “What you’ve brought me is worthy of supper. Miles and I are going out to grab lunch and then tonight I won’t have to cook because of the lovely casserole you brought. It’s the perfect day.”

  Pearl smiled at her and then hesitated. “I might check in with you later. Just see what your first impressions are.”

  “Of course. I’m not sure how far in I’ll be,” said Myrtle. She was starting to wonder if Pearl was going to be one of those who liked to hover.

  “Right. Okay, well, thanks again.”

  She left and Myrtle said to Miles, “Let’s head over to Bo’s Diner before any more people come in. Just let me stick this in the fridge.”

  They were walking to the front door when Pasha’s face appeared in the front window. “Hungry again,” said Myrtle, shaking her head.

  “Can’t she wait until we get back? We won’t be very long if we’re going to come back in time for Tomorrow’s Promise,” said Miles.

  “I’ll just open the window in the front and the back one in the kitchen. Thank goodness it hasn’t been buggy outside this year. I’ve had to pop the screens off half my windows to allow Pasha egress,” said Myrtle.

  Bo’s Diner was thankfully not as crowded as it usually was. And it was only minutes until they’d received their food.

  Miles cast a wary eye on Myrtle’s pimento cheese dog with barbeque sauce. “What does that odd concoction taste like?”

  Myrtle took a thoughtful bite. “Actually, it’s delicious. Bacon, tomato, pimento cheese, barbeque sauce, hot dog—what’s not to like?”

  Miles shuddered. “It would end up chasing me all night long when I was trying to sleep.”

  “Only because you have a very delicate digestive system,” said Myrtle. “You certainly won’t have to worry about your salad chasing you around. That’s a very mild-mannered menu item and the toppings look particularly wimpy today.”

  Miles said, “We can’t all have cast-iron stomachs. On other topics, what did you make of Pearl? Didn’t you think that was a sort of weird conversation?”

  Myrtle said, “It was weird. First off, I never would have seen Pearl Prentiss Epps writing a memoir of any kind. I mean, she’s sharp as a tack, but I don’t picture her as being introspective enough to write her life story. Secondly, I’d have imagined that any memoir that Pearl wrote would be something about her family tree—the story of her family a couple of generations ago, and then her upbringing.”

  Miles nodded. “Like you mentioned—her family had come from nothing, and through hard work had made themselves a good life in Bradley.”

  “Precisely. But this seemed like a completely different project. She wasn’t nearly as relaxed as she had made out,” said Myrtle.

  Miles thought about this. “She seemed relaxed to me. To me, it just seemed like the whole thing was very orchestrated: bringing the food and the manuscript in the tote bag, etc. She certainly was determined to have you help her out.”

  “Determined and ill at ease. Pearl wanted to get a reaction from me right away, remember? And she might have been smiling, but underneath that, she seemed very tense.”

  “Did you have a first impression of the memoir?” asked Miles.

  Myrtle shrugged. “I only glanced through it to make sure that there weren’t a lot of egregious errors on every page. If there had been, I’d have had to ask for more money and more time.”

  “You didn’t ask for any money,” said Miles.

  “Yes, but that’s because she’s definitely going to give me something. It won’t be enough for editing an entire book, but it won’t be nothing. I know Pearl—she’ll make it right,” said Myrtle.

  Miles said, “At any rate, Red will be pleased. That looked like a huge manuscript. It should keep you busy and out of trouble.”

  Myrtle said, “Red has been so busy that he’s not even paying any attention to what I’m doing. Aside from sending people over to harass me.”

  Miles raised his eyebrows. “That’s a change. Ordinarily, he’s on top of whatever you’re up to.”

  “Oh, Jack’s been especially active. He’s such a brilliant little boy, you know.”

  “I know,” said Miles quickly, as if hoping to head off Myrtle from cataloging Jack’s many areas of genius.

  “He has a mind like a steel trap,” said Myrtle proudly. “He figured out how to work the locks on the door and Red had to get deadbolts put in so they could keep Jack in the house. Jack would push the stool over to the door, fiddle with the locks, and let himself out. He came over here twice, the little dear.”

  “I bet that has kept Red busy,” said Miles.

  “And Elaine has been keeping him on his toes, too,” said Myrtle.

  “She’s not trying that healthy cooking hobby again, is she?” asked Miles with a shudder. “I like healthy food and what she was preparing even scared me.”

  “No, she’s moved on to another hobby. Photography,” said Myrtle.

  “Hasn’t she tried photography before?” asked Miles, crinkling his forehead.

  “Yes, but she’s trying it again. She felt badly because she had all of this expensive photographic equipment and then abandoned the hobby,” said Myrtle. “Sloan is keeping her busy taking pictures for the newspaper. Sometimes, she takes Jack along with her.”

  Miles said, “What kind of photojournalism assignments is Sloan sending her on?”

  “I suspect that Sloan is just trying to keep her busy as a favor to Red. Unfortunately, Elaine isn’t the best photographer ever. She took photos at Gemma Cook’s 100th birthday. I suppose a handful were okay,” said Myrtle in an unconvinced voice.

  Miles said, “Well, it’s hard to look one’s best when one is turning 100. Perhaps the fault doesn’t lie all on Elaine’s side.”

  “It would have helped things if Elaine’s thumb hadn’t appeared in most of the pictures,” said Myrtle.

  “Ah.”

  Myrtle said, “Anyway, that’s the kind of stuff Sloan is sending her on. So the fact of the matter is that Red has been very busy and Elaine has been very busy. You’ve been rather busy, yourself, experimenting with your phone and whatnot.”

  Miles said, “Why do I have the feeling a big statement is about to follow?”

  Myrtle said sternly, “Because I haven’t had very many opportunities to get rides from any of you. I have been walking into town so much that I feel as if I’ve been training for a marathon.”

  “Do they have walking marathons?” mused Miles.

  “That’s why I’ll be talking with Boone Epps about used cars,” said Myrtle in a satisfied voice.

  Miles stared at her. “But you haven’t had a car in ages. Not since I’ve moved here.”

  “Exactly. I didn’t need one, either. But now I’d like the convenience of being able to hop into a car and drive somewhere without asking someone for a ride. Someone who’s too busy to giv
e me one,” said Myrtle.

  Miles said, “Well, if you wanted to get Red’s attention, I’m sure this will be the way to do it. I doubt he wants you driving around.”

  “That’s because he’s ageist. I’m the safest driver in Bradley,” said Myrtle.

  “Because you drive twenty miles an hour,” said Miles.

  “There’s no reason to rush,” sniffed Myrtle.

  They finished their meals and spoke to a few people on the way out. Then Miles drove back to Myrtle’s house.

  Myrtle unlocked the door and Miles walked over to pick up the remote. “Just in time for the show,” he said.

  Myrtle nodded absently. She stared at the table. “Where is Pearl’s manuscript?”

  “The manuscript? You put it on the table.” Miles turned on the television and the dramatic theme music for Tomorrow’s Promise blared.

  “Mute that thing,” grouched Myrtle.

  “The show?” Miles frowned at her. “Wasn’t it the whole reason we didn’t order pie at Bo’s Diner?”

  Myrtle glared at him and Miles muted the show.

  Myrtle said, “Did you move it?”

  “Move what? The manuscript? I didn’t even touch the thing,” said Miles.

  Myrtle stood in the living room and slowly turned to see every corner of the small room.

  Miles said, “Maybe you wandered into the kitchen with it.” Now he stood up and walked over to Myrtle, staring at the spot on the table where the manuscript should have been.

  “Miles, the only time I went into the kitchen, I was putting Pearl’s food into the fridge. I wouldn’t have lugged a seven- or eight-pound manuscript into the kitchen with me,” said Myrtle.

  They stared at each other.

  “Your windows are all open,” said Miles slowly.

  Myrtle frowned. “Do you think that maybe Pearl had second thoughts about having me look at it, after all? That maybe she started considering the impact her memoir might have on her family?”

  Miles shook his head. “No way. She was clearly sold on the idea of putting family secrets out there. She even thought that the book would solve problems by forcing them out in the open.”

  Myrtle nodded. “Besides, Pearl would just call me and tell me she’d changed her mind. She wouldn’t break into my house and take the thing. Seriously. A seventy-something year-old woman climbing through my windows?”

  Miles said, “But she apparently told her family last night that she was taking the manuscript to the next stop on its publication journey—editing.”

  Myrtle fumbled for her phone. “I’m calling Pearl.”

  She found the number in her contacts, dialed it, and waited. “She’s not answering.”

  Miles said in a reasonable voice, “Pearl could just have her ringer turned off. Maybe she’s at a church meeting. Or eating lunch. We can’t leap to the conclusion that something is wrong.”

  “I’m leaping,” said Myrtle grimly. “Pearl loves that phone of hers and I’ve never called her when she didn’t pick it right up. She’d even answer a call in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. We’re going straight over to her house this minute. And while we’re there, we’re going to ask her family where that manuscript is.”

  A few minutes later, Miles pulled the car up to the curb in front of Pearl’s house. It was a beautiful gray brick house with climbing roses clinging to the walls and a riot of flowers and flowering shrubs in the front yard instead of grass.

  Miles said, “I’ve always thought this kind of front garden made a lot of sense. No lawn to mow and it looks pretty most of the year.”

  Myrtle said, “Pearl and Hubert are always out here messing with it, though—weeding it, spraying it, deadheading old blossoms. It’s not exactly low-maintenance. Plus, Dusty would flip his lid.”

  Dusty was Myrtle’s yardman. He was lazy to the bone and would do anything to avoid mowing her grass. In Dusty’s opinion, it was always either too hot, too wet, or too dry to mow. But his fee was reasonable and never increased. Plus, he would use a weed-trimmer around Myrtle’s gnomes whenever Myrtle was annoyed enough at Red to drag them out into the front yard.

  Myrtle walked carefully down Pearl’s cobblestone front walk to the front door, leaning on her cane to ensure that she didn’t stumble. “Treacherous,” she muttered.

  She rang the doorbell and then rapped on the front door without waiting for anyone to respond to the bell. Myrtle tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Maybe Pearl went out to lunch,” said Miles mildly.

  “Without Hubert? His car is out front.”

  “Maybe it was a girls’ lunch,” he suggested.

  Myrtle just tightened her lips and rapped on the door again.

  A second later, Hubert, Pearl’s husband, answered the door. He gazed at Myrtle wordlessly. Hubert was a big fellow with a barrel chest and long out-of-fashion sideburns.

  Myrtle and Hubert stared at each other. Myrtle waited for a greeting or at least words of some sort and Hubert seemed to be waiting to try to find any words at all.

  Myrtle opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it back shut again as Hubert finally started croaking out some words.

  “Dead. She’s dead,” he said, eyes open wide.

  Chapter Three

  MYRTLE GAVE HUBERT a sharp look. “Have you called Red?”

  He still gazed blankly at her.

  “Have you called the police?” she snapped. “Or an ambulance? Maybe you just think she’s dead.”

  Hubert’s expression didn’t change and Myrtle gave an impatient sigh. “Miles, could you call Red?”

  Miles was already dialing his number.

  Myrtle said briskly, “All right, Hubert. Why don’t you take a seat?” She pointed to a white wicker chair on the front porch and Hubert obediently headed over to it and plopped down.

  Then Myrtle took out a tissue from her purse and carefully pushed the front door open. She didn’t see anything. Myrtle walked through the small entranceway into the den and then to the staircase against the back wall.

  There she saw Pearl, her head in a very odd position on the floor. The rest of Pearl was on the stairs behind her. Pearl’s eyes were staring blankly in an expression that mimicked Hubert’s, except blanker.

  “Do we need an ambulance?” called Miles from the porch.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Myrtle grimly. “But we will need Red.”

  “He’s not picking up, so I called the station and the deputy is coming over,” said Miles.

  Myrtle muttered, “That’s right; he was supposed to be speaking at some sort of community policing seminar.”

  “Which deputy is this, now?” asked Miles.

  “A new one. The last one thought Bradley was a little too small for him,” said Myrtle.

  “What is this guy like?” asked Miles.

  “Not as bright as the last one,” said Myrtle. “And he requires a bit of hand-holding.”

  Miles gave every indication of being about to ask her another question and she quickly interjected, “Can you keep an eye on Hubert? I’ll be right back.”

  She crouched down to see if there were any clues that she could see near Pearl without touching or moving her. She couldn’t see any broken fingernails or any other signs of a struggle. It didn’t look as if she’d been strangled and then shoved down the stairs. There were no rugs on the stairs that might have tripped her up. Under the circumstances, and judging from what had happened with the manuscript, her fall and death seemed extremely suspicious.

  Myrtle carefully walked into the den and glanced around. There were no signs of a manuscript anywhere. She looked for a chunky, clunky computer with stickers on it and didn’t see one. She walked to the kitchen. Again, no sign of any stack of papers and no computer.

  Myrtle walked, frowning, back out to the porch. She was relieved to see that Hubert seemed to be himself again.

  “I’m so sorry about Pearl,” said Myrtle to Hubert.

  He nodded and gave a big sigh. “It was a shock to see
her like that. I’d left for the grocery store to stock up on beer and came back home with it. Then I remembered I had a prescription to pick up at the drugstore, so I headed over there.”

  Myrtle said, “Did you speak with Pearl when you came back from the grocery store?”

  Hubert said roughly, “I didn’t see her, and she didn’t call out to me, if that’s what you mean. But I was nowhere near the staircase, so I couldn’t see her—if she was already there. I only went to the kitchen and then I was back in the car again.”

  Myrtle said slowly, “Did you know that Pearl came to visit me, today?”

  Hubert shrugged. “She mentioned something about it last night, but I didn’t realize that’s where she was off to this morning.”

  “But you knew that she had written a memoir?” asked Myrtle.

  “A book?” Hubert shrugged dismissively again. “She yakked about all kinds of things, you know. Sometimes I’d listen, sometimes not. Yeah, she’d mentioned that she’d written a book. But I had no real interest in it. I haven’t read a book since I was in school.”

  A police car pulled into Hubert’s driveway.

  Myrtle frowned. “I thought the deputy was coming. That’s Red.”

  Her son had inherited her height and was over six feet tall. The red hair that had given him his nickname was now turning gray—something he tended to blame his mother for.

  He narrowed his eyes at Myrtle and went directly to Hubert. “You okay, Hubert?” he asked, leaning over to look him in the eyes as he sat in the wicker chair.

  Hubert said in a broken voice, “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry. You just stay right here and we’re going to sort it all out,” said Red in a grim voice.

  He strode into the house after nodding in greeting to Miles. Two minutes later, he walked back out again looking even grimmer.

  “Hubert, may I speak with you for a few minutes? Let’s talk in your yard over on that bench, if that’s all right,” said Red.

  Myrtle and Miles watched as Red and Hubert engaged in a relatively short conversation.

  Miles said, “I could tell you weren’t very fond of Hubert,” said Miles.