Edit to Death

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Elaine hid a smile at Myrtle’s recurring proclamation of the preschooler’s brilliance. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, Myrtle. Red filled me in on what happened today and I know that you and Pearl were friends. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is most definitely not all right,” said Myrtle. “Something was stolen from my house today and someone murdered my friend.”

  Elaine blinked at her. “Red somehow neglected to mention that,” she said slowly.

  “Red is apparently several steps behind me,” said Myrtle brusquely. “I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that Jack’s genius comes completely from you, Elaine.”

  “Can you fill me in?” asked Elaine.

  Myrtle did, giving an animated version with lots of gestures to illustrate Pearl’s visit, the theft of the manuscript, and the tragic discovery at Pearl’s house.

  Elaine frowned. “And Red isn’t wanting to call it murder?”

  “Well, naturally he’d prefer not to have the bother, right? No murder means no investigation, no state police, and more of a normal week. I know how busy Red is, and he’d rather skip all the extra work, I’m sure. Or, maybe he doesn’t want to admit that I’m right about the fact that it was foul play and no tragic accident.” Myrtle shrugged as if the workings of Red’s thought processes were beyond her.

  Elaine said, “I’m sure he’ll come around soon, if he hasn’t already.” She glanced over at Myrtle’s laptop, which was sitting on the table. “Are you working on a story for Sloan?” She squinted at the laptop and then winced. “I see the article covers Pearl’s murder. Are you sure that Sloan will run that?”

  Myrtle said in a lofty voice, “Sloan will run anything I say right now. He’s so completely distracted and lovelorn that he isn’t paying a bit of attention.”

  Elaine nodded. “I know what you mean. The poor guy. My freelance assignment over there is really taking off because he’s not editing me at all. I just take pictures and stick them up on the Bugle’s social media sites.”

  Myrtle realized that it might be nice to have Elaine in her corner with the news story. “But do you know what this story needs? Pictures. That’s the way to really bring it to life. You’re ready to move from social media to print, Elaine. And this is the time and the story to do it.”

  Elaine’s face lit up. “Do you think so, Myrtle?”

  “I especially loved that picture you took of the largest tomato at the fair. The light was wonderful for that picture.” Myrtle was glad she was able to come up with a sterling example of Elaine’s abilities. Most of her pictures either had odd composition, weird shadows, were blurry, or displayed Elaine’s omnipresent thumb. Apparently, it had been impossible to mess up the tomato picture.

  Elaine beamed at her. “That was a good one, wasn’t it? And Bernese was so pleased that her prize-winning tomato was on the Bugle Facebook account.” Her face fell. “But Sloan hasn’t given me the green light to take pictures for the paper itself. Only the social media accounts.”

  Myrtle said, “You haven’t been paying attention, Elaine. Remember, Sloan is totally distracted with his romantic problems. You can do anything you like. If he does notice, you’re welcome to blame it all on me”

  Jack leaned over to give Pasha a kiss on the top of her head and the cat bumped her head against his in affectionate response.

  Elaine seemed to accept this. “Okay,” she said slowly. “But how do I take a picture that corresponds to your story on Pearl? It seems like I’d just be running an old picture of Pearl from the paper’s archives or that I’d have to go over and take a picture of Pearl’s house—and that wouldn’t be very tactful at this point.”

  Myrtle frowned. She was right. It had to be something that wasn’t too intrusive. If only she still had that manuscript. Then Elaine could take a picture of it as the element that spawned Pearl’s murder. In Elaine’s less-than-capable hands, the picture would be blurry anyway—perfect for being discreet.

  Elaine brightened. “I know! I’ll take a picture of you!”

  Myrtle drew back a bit. “Of me?”

  “Sure. After all, you’re the reporter, the editor, and someone who was immediately at the scene when Pearl was discovered,” said Elaine. She was already fumbling in her tote bag of a purse for her camera.

  Myrtle was less pleased with this idea. She was never wild about being the subject of a photo, even in expert hands. She shuddered at the thought of what Elaine could make her look like. “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “It’s perfect! Here, sit at your table there, where your manuscript went missing. And look serious.”

  Myrtle plopped down at the table. The serious look came naturally as she watched Elaine pick up the camera and aim it in her general direction.

  Elaine looked through the viewfinder. “Something’s wrong with this thing,” she muttered.

  “The lens cap is still on,” said Myrtle, somehow managing to repress a sigh.

  “Silly of me,” said Elaine with a laugh. “You can tell I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Which would likely compound the problem. An inept photographer suffering from a lack of sleep.

  “Perfect!” said Elaine as she took the picture. “Now, let me take a couple more.” Jack came over to her and wrapped his arms around her leg as she balanced the camera and trained it on Myrtle.

  “Your thumb is creeping over the lens,” said Myrtle.

  Elaine laughed again. “Oops. That finger is something of a scene-stealer.”

  She took the picture and then leaned back to inspect her work. “Oh, they came out great, Myrtle!”

  Elaine showed them to Myrtle. Myrtle was pleased to see that they weren’t as bad this time as she’d feared. Perhaps she was starting to catch on.

  “And on the first try, too,” said Myrtle. “Well then, that’s all we need for the story, right? I’ll go ahead and finish this up and then send it along to Sloan. Can you email the picture to him so that he’ll have it to accompany my piece?”

  Elaine nodded. “You’ll email your article today, then?”

  Myrtle said, “I’m not even sure that Sloan knows anything about Pearl’s death. In this particular instance, I’m walking down there.” She paused. “Just to let you know, I’ll likely be purchasing a car. I’m getting tired of catching rides with others and sometimes walking doesn’t agree with me.”

  Elaine just blinked at her. “Walking doesn’t agree with you?”

  “That’s right. Oh, I don’t mind it sometimes, but when you’re carrying a cane, it’s rather limiting in terms of what you can carry with your other hand. It used to be exercise. Now it’s annoying.” Myrtle made a face to indicate the level of annoyance that walking generated.

  Elaine’s face crumpled in worry. “Have you mentioned this to Red?”

  “Of course not. Red’s been too busy. Besides, it’s none of Red’s business what I spend my money on,” said Myrtle a bit huffily.

  Elaine slowly asked, “And, sorry for asking, but you do have the money for a car?”

  Myrtle shook her head. “Not for a new car. But who wants a new car? No, I’m thinking of getting a used car. That way, it’s already been broken in by someone else.”

  Elaine said, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Pearl’s son owning a used car dealership, would it?”

  “I was actually talking about it before then. Miles can corroborate. But it is an especially attractive prospect now, under the circumstances,” said Myrtle.

  “Just be careful,” said Elaine. “Can’t I just drive you down to see Sloan?”

  Myrtle shook her head. “You have a million other things to do, Elaine. I’ll be fine.”

  When Elaine left with Jack, Myrtle settled down to finish off her story and then edit it. In her own eyes, it was something of a masterpiece. She never came right out and said Pearl was murdered, but it was subtly implied.

  She’d just finished revising the article and was printing it out for Sloan when her phone r
ang. Myrtle walked over to the wall phone in the kitchen and picked up. “Hello?”

  A croaky voice grated, “Yer in danger.”

  Chapter Five

  A SMILE PULLED AT MYRTLE’S lips. Wanda, an impoverished psychic who lived with her brother Crazy Dan, was a gifted seer and had become a friend. She was also Miles’ cousin, much to his chagrin. “You’re too late,” said Myrtle crisply. “I’ve already had my home broken into and something important stolen.”

  Wanda said, “Still in danger now. Should walk away.”

  “You know better than that,” said Myrtle.

  Wanda sighed, a sound that devolved into a deep cough.

  “You haven’t started smoking again, have you?” asked Myrtle suspiciously.

  “Naw. My lungs ain’t so good, that’s all,” said Wanda. Then, “While yer at Sloan’s, kin you give him my horoscopes?”

  Wanda was writing the paper’s horoscopes. They were wildly popular because of their specificity. She’d tell one resident to get his mower serviced and another to avoid driving a car on Tuesday. But Myrtle was the interpreter since Wanda was functionally illiterate. Myrtle bit back a sigh. This likely would take time.

  Myrtle found a spiral notebook and poised her pen over the page, balancing the phone receiver on her shoulder. “Okay, shoot.”

  Wanda carefully detailed all the forthcoming events of the week. But when Miles was mentioned, Myrtle sighed. “Oh, Wanda. This will drive Miles nuts. He won’t be any fun at all. In fact, if he reads this, he’s likely to stay at home and not even answer his door.”

  Wanda’s voice was determined. “He should know.”

  Myrtle looked at her notebook in dismay. Wanda had stated: Miles. Germs is on their way. Beware.

  “You know that Miles is one step away from wearing a hazmat suit when he leaves home,” said Myrtle fretfully. “He lays a handkerchief on chairs he thinks might be germy before he sits down. He carries hand sanitizer in his pockets at all times.”

  “Exactly why he’s gonna get sick,” said Wanda. “He ain’t used to the germs like we is.”

  Myrtle groaned. “Okay, I guess the horoscope will have to run.” It would run, but Myrtle had ideas for intercepting it before Miles saw it. She simply couldn’t allow her sidekick to be sitting on the sidelines for this investigation. She was bound and determined to find out what happened to Pearl and who was responsible.

  Wanda finished up her recitation of the horoscopes to come, thanked her, and signed off. Then Myrtle spent the next twenty minutes editing the horoscopes so they made sense. Finally, she set off for the Bradley Bugle.

  When she arrived at the newspaper office, she pushed open the creaky wooden door to enter the paper-ridden newsroom. She glanced around. No Sloan. She waited for a few minutes, just in case Sloan perhaps had visited the restroom. No Sloan.

  Myrtle frowned. She didn’t have all day to hang around. Where could he be? He hadn’t locked the door, so presumably he intended on returning. Then she thought of the little bar within walking distance of the newspaper office. She suspected that Sloan might well be there, drowning his sorrows. He wasn’t ever averse to a drink and had certainly visited the bar in the past.

  Myrtle walked over, the stories clutched in her hands. When she entered the bar, several of the patrons looked startled. A couple of her former students said, “Miss Myrtle!” as if she’d caught them misbehaving at school. She gave them a tight smile and they sat a little straighter in their chairs.

  Sure enough, Sloan slumped on a barstool, morosely staring into a beer. The bar was playing mournful country songs which Myrtle was positive wasn’t helping matters any.

  “Sloan,” she said crisply, carefully settling next to him at the bar. Fortunately, Myrtle was very tall and the barstool was the type with a back on it. She hung her cane from the bar.

  Sloan jumped violently and then gaped at her. “Miss Myrtle!” he said, unconsciously parroting the other bar patrons. “What are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t see a sign saying no octogenarian retired teachers allowed,” said Myrtle with a sniff. “Since I couldn’t find you in the newsroom, I figured this might be a likely location.”

  Sloan was a mess. What was left of his hair was hanging in strands over his large and ever-expanding forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, whether from drinking or from crying, Myrtle wasn’t sure. And she was fairly certain that Sloan wasn’t on his first beer. However, he straightened up on his stool as she gave him the once-over.

  Sloan seemed uncertain as to what to do. “Do you . . . well, do you want a drink, Miss Myrtle?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s been a horrid day.” Myrtle turned to the bartender, whom she’d also taught, and glanced disapprovingly at the liquor bottles. “Do you have sherry here?”

  The bartender scrambled around behind the bar. “Uh, just a second. I might.” He pulled open cabinets both above and below the bar and triumphantly produced a dusty bottle.

  “Might I have a very small glass?” asked Myrtle.

  Sloan said, “You might as well have a very large one. I know you’re not driving.”

  “Just because I had a bad day, there’s no cause for getting sloppy,” said Myrtle in a pointed tone. Sloan tucked his shirttail in, in response.

  When Myrtle was served, she took a small sip and then said to Sloan, “Now what on earth is going on? Don’t you have a paper to publish?”

  Sloan groaned and put his head in his hands as if he had a toothache. “That’s just the thing, Miss Myrtle. I don’t know what happened to the day. At one point I looked at the clock and it was ten a.m. The next thing I knew, I looked at the clock and it was the end of the day.”

  “Whatever happened to the middle of the day? There’s a whole lot more to the day than just ten and five,” said Myrtle.

  Sloan shrugged. “That’s what I don’t know. I tinkered with the paper . . . I definitely did that. Then I decided that maybe I should check what was going on with the paper’s social media. You know I have Elaine doing photos for us.” He gave Myrtle a sideways glance.

  “Don’t worry, I’m completely aware that Elaine is a disaster as a photographer. Okay, so you went online to check the Bugle’s Facebook and Twitter and whatnot. What happened then?” asked Myrtle.

  “Well, then I got sort of distracted, I guess. I went over to look at Sally’s social media because she posts on there a lot and I can get a good idea of her day. I saw what she’d eaten for breakfast and then when she left off for work,” recited Sloan.

  Myrtle broke in. “And that’s when you fell asleep from sheer boredom?” she guessed.

  He shook his head. “Wasn’t boring to me. It just made me realize that if we were together, maybe I’d have been there with her during some of the stuff. Maybe we’d have eaten lunch together at the diner or somewhere. I guess the day just started flying by and I didn’t even notice.”

  Myrtle said, “And tomorrow’s edition of the newspaper?”

  Sloan gave a small hiccup. “Once I realized it was too late to pull everything together, I decided to jump ship and come here.”

  Myrtle said sternly, “It is not too late. You have all the material and just need to put it together.”

  Sloan looked sorrowfully at Myrtle. “I don’t think I can. Was just going to tell everybody that the press went down and that’s why we didn’t run.”

  Myrtle glowered at him. “It is not too late. How many times do I have to say it? My word, you sound just like you did back in school when you didn’t hand your homework in. Don’t you know it’s better to be late than not publish it at all?”

  “Folks won’t miss one little paper,” said Sloan.

  Myrtle decided that it was a sign of his current intoxication that he argued with her at all. Usually she made him shake in his shoes.

  Myrtle leaned forward. “Let’s recap this. You spent the entire day getting sucked into social media online. Then you realized that the paper wasn’t done. Then you came to a bar?”r />
  Sloan considered this. “That’s about the long and the short of it, yes.”

  “Well, the people of the good town of Bradley are expecting their newspaper tomorrow. The newspaper that they paid for. What will they do for direction in their lives without Wanda’s words of advice?” demanded Myrtle.

  Sloan said, “I don’t know if Wanda’s horoscopes technically qualify as advice.”

  “When she tells someone not to water their grass seed because it’s going to rain? That’s not advice?” Myrtle’s voice crept higher and the former pupils in the bar shifted nervously in response.

  “Okay, I guess you’re right. But they can skip it for one day,” mumbled Sloan.

  Myrtle took a large sip of her small sherry. “What about the fact that there’s a huge news story that people are going to be looking for?”

  Sloan frowned. “What story is that? Did Mildred actually win the peach cobbler prize at the fair finally?”

  Myrtle said, “It’s a testament to your total absorption in losing Sally that you’re even asking this. Apparently, you haven’t heard the news that Pearl Epps is dead?”

  Sloan blinked at her. “No. Oh, gosh. You’re right—that is a story. Everybody knows Pearl.”

  “Not only that, but Pearl was murdered—likely by someone in her own family,” said Myrtle. She took another sip of the sherry.

  “Murdered!” Sloan gaped at her again.

  “That’s right, murdered. Except I had to be fairly subtle in the writing of the story since that fact isn’t yet accepted from all corners,” said Myrtle.

  “You have a story ready to run?” asked Sloan, sounding more interested and engaged now.

  “I certainly do. Not only that, but Elaine has taken a photo to accompany the article and has emailed it to you,” said Myrtle.

  Sloan looked gloomy and Myrtle hastened to add, “It’s actually a good picture.”

  Sloan glanced at his watch and sighed. “Guess I better get with it, then.”

  “I’ll help you compile the paper for an hour or so. But let’s get on with it,” said Myrtle briskly.