Edit to Death

by Elizabeth Spann Craig

  Myrtle pressed her lips together. As if Puddin would know anything about sisters. Now, cousins she would know about. She quickly interjected, “How were they alike?”

  “You know—they were both really strong, opinionated, organized women. I never went into either Mama’s or Nell’s house and saw a bunch of clutter or mess of any kind,” said Boone. He snorted. “Unless Daddy had made a mess while Mama was out of the house.”

  Puddin muttered, mostly to herself, “Dusty makes a lot of clutter and mess.”

  “Daddy is a total slob. But you’d never have known it because Mama would just pick right up after him. He’d lay down a container of yogurt and a spoon and Mama would whoosh in and pick it up, tossing the carton and putting the spoon in the dishwasher. That’s how everything stayed immaculate.”

  “Pearl always did have a lot of energy,” said Myrtle.

  Boone gave Puddin a smile, “But with Mama gone now and Daddy not exactly at the age to pick up new and better habits, it might be a real good idea for Puddin to start helping out at their house. He’s going to have a mountain of trash in there in no time.”

  Puddin, who’d been smiling fatuously at Boone, suddenly looked crestfallen and then a bit sullen. Myrtle was familiar with this expression of Puddin’s. It transpired whenever she realized she might have some work ahead of her.

  Boone said, “As for Nell, I’m guessing that it was a burglary gone wrong. Maybe the guy thought that the house was empty, but she was there. When Nell surprised the burglar, he reacted out of fear.”

  Myrtle said delicately, “Going back to Pearl. You know how things are in a small town, Boone. People talk. Was everything all right between you and your mom?”

  Boone’s eyebrows now shot up so high that they were lost in the hair that flopped down on his forehead. “You mean somebody said that Mama and I had argued and that maybe I shoved her down the stairs because of it? That’s ridiculous!”

  “What was the argument about?” asked Myrtle. She wondered if Boone would reference the same argument that Nell had mentioned—that Boone hadn’t wanted Pearl to continue driving. Or maybe, there was another argument that he would bring up. Or many others.

  Boone frowned. “It wasn’t like I fought with Mama all the time. She and I got along real good. But lately, I’d been worried about her safety. She was starting to have little fender-benders in the car. She’d also have a real tough time parking and kept dinging up her car. Mama was getting older and her reflexes weren’t so hot.” He paused for a second and gave Myrtle his trademark gleaming smile. “No disrespect intended, Miss Myrtle. I know your driving is just fine.”

  Puddin made a face at this.

  “That’s all that was about. Me looking out for my Mama. I hate to hear that folks are saying otherwise. They should be very careful about what they say. Considering my position in this town, I would surely sue for slander if I needed to,” said Boone.

  There was something in his tone that made Myrtle shiver.

  He quickly turned back into the over-friendly car salesman. “So, make sure to come back here with your husband, Puddin. I look forward to getting to know y’all and showing you your next car.”

  Puddin simpered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MYRTLE WAS STILL ANNOYED as she drove to Puddin’s pharmacy. Puddin, on the other hand, was humming to herself.

  “Stop that humming, Puddin. It’s so off-key that I can’t even place the song. Completely irritating.”

  Puddin, still clutching the passenger side door with one hand, glared at her. “It’s obviously ‘The Darin’ Young Man on the Flyin’ Trapeze.”

  “No, it’s obviously horrible and needs to stop,” said Myrtle shortly. Then she gave Puddin a side glance. “And don’t chew your nails.”

  Puddin set her chin stubbornly and then clung with both hands to the door as they approached the square downtown.

  “There’s Red again. It seems like all he does is eat,” muttered Myrtle as her son wandered out of the police station with a large submarine sandwich in his hand. She gave a jaunty toot of her horn and he turned red in the face at the sight of his mother in a black vehicle with a terrified Puddin in tow.

  She navigated the pharmacy drive-through and Puddin got her medicine. Then she set off for Puddin’s house to drop her off.

  Puddin said, “Maybe Dusty’ll have time to go see that car Boone done showed me. What time does they close out there?”

  “Late. Probably nine o’clock since people will sometimes go there after work,” said Myrtle indifferently.

  Puddin sniffed. “Won’t clean his daddy’s house, though. Filthy.”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s filthy yet, but it’s likely in a state a lot messier than ninety percent of the houses that you deal with on a regular basis,” said Myrtle with a sigh.

  Puddin said, “His mama was nice to me, though. An’ she was writin’ a book.”

  Now Myrtle turned all her attention on Puddin. This made Puddin screech and point out the windshield. “Th’ road! There’s a kid!”

  Myrtle slammed on the brakes. But once again, the reported road hazard was nowhere near the actual road. “Puddin! The child is playing on the playground.”

  Puddin said sulkily, “Don’t mean he won’t run into the street.”

  Myrtle took a deep breath and tried very hard to collect the shreds of her patience. “What do you know about Pearl’s book?”

  Puddin got a sassy and smug look on her face. She liked being the one who knew things. She especially liked holding such information over people who didn’t know things. “Jest that she was writin’ it. She saw me at the library and we started talkin’ about books.”

  Puddin had recently become more of a reader and would check out books from the library on a monthly basis. She’d gotten her back up when Myrtle had made an assumption about her reading habits (or lack of them.)

  Myrtle drove slowly again. “Did she tell you any details about her book?”

  “Her was readin’ Grapes of Wrath,” reported Puddin.

  “No, the book she was writing!” Myrtle’s head throbbed.

  “Oh, that.” Puddin squinted her face up in her typical ‘thinking’ posture. She was clearly desperate to remember the information and impress Myrtle with her knowledge. “Said it was about secrets.”

  “What secrets?”

  Puddin said, “Somethin’ to do about ancient history. Least, that’s what she said. Long ago stuff.”

  “Stuff that might have happened when Boone was a young man?” asked Myrtle sharply.

  Puddin obviously badly wanted to be able to offer this information, but it just wasn’t there. “Maybe,” she said cautiously.

  Myrtle said, “I don’t know what else it could be. History from long ago? Nothing interesting really happened to that family unless she could write about Tara Blanton going missing.”

  Puddin shrugged. “Don’t know nuthin’ about that. All she said was that maybe it would give her little girl peace.”

  “Well, that’s an extraordinary thing to have said. And she didn’t say anything else? And you didn’t ask anything?”

  Puddin shrugged again. “She had to go. Somebody came up and started talkin’ to her.”

  Myrtle dropped Puddin off at home and then drove back to her house in something of a fog. She was mulling over all that she’d learned. When she got back home, she noticed a lot of cars on her street and frowned. Then she gasped. “Book club!”

  Myrtle hurried inside, cane thumping as she went, and flung open her fridge. Miles had been so insistent that she not bring any food over. His insistence alone was irritating. Under scrutiny, however, the food that she had in her house was rather lacking, at least in terms of its ability to double as an hors d’oeuvres. There was one bunch of lackluster grapes. Its best days were behind it, but that seemed to be the only option. She rinsed them quickly in the sink and then flung them on a plate.

  Then she looked at her own reflection. She made a face.
Whereas she looked perfectly fine for investigating a murder and going to a car dealership, she didn’t really pass for book club. But she was out of time. Myrtle put a little color on her face and then hurried out the door. It was a pity that she didn’t have the book. But the fact of the matter is, that book club had fallen off her radar this time. This annoyed her since she was very sensitive to the rare times that she actually forgot things.

  Book club was in full swing when she arrived. Miles gave Myrtle a quizzical look when she came in since Myrtle was never late.

  “Have a doctor appointment that ran over?” asked Georgia Simpson in a booming voice. Georgia was a tattooed, heavily made-up woman with big hair of various colors. She always had an odd effect on Miles, who appeared to have a strange crush on her. Georgia gave a tremendous laugh which ricocheted through the room.

  Myrtle frowned at her. “Why would you imagine I was at the doctors?”

  Georgia put out a large hand and clumsily patted Myrtle’s sleeve. “Don’t be sensitive. Red mentioned the last time I saw him that you’ve been doing poorly. Besides, it seemed like the obvious choice because you’re never late. Figured you’d been held hostage at a doctor’s office or some other place where you couldn’t get freed up.” She turned around to a table behind her and turned back around with a large bottle of scotch. “Here, have a drink.”

  Myrtle gaped at the bottle and then took a few steps up to the table to see it in its entirety. There was a well-represented bar with vodka, gin, scotch, bourbon, and various mixers. She turned to look at Miles, who was miserably stuck in a conversation with Erma Sherman. He gave her a helpless shrug.

  Georgia gave her big laugh again. “Have I scandalized you, Miss Myrtle? Sorry. But when the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

  “The cat being Tippy?” asked Myrtle.

  Georgia said, “Exactly. Tippy never wants to have drinks at book club because she supposes it would mess up our book discussion time.”

  Myrtle thought that the book discussion time was pretty messed up already.

  “So when I realized that Miles was hosting today and that Tippy wouldn’t be here, I thought I’d liven things up. I called up Blanche, who’s pretty fun-loving,” said Georgia.

  Blanche was walking by them at the time and gave Myrtle a saucy wink.

  “And you probably wouldn’t guess it, but Erma has quite a bar at her house, too. I gave her a little call and she brought in some booze as well. So now we have happy hour,” said Georgia. “And you can walk home, so you can drink just as much as you like.”

  Suddenly Myrtle, who only drank sparingly and usually sherry at that, felt a bit like a strong drink. It had been a long day and one with many surprises. She had spent a lot of time recently in the company of a used car salesman who may or may not be a murderer. Her son was being exceptionally pushy and was spreading dire rumors about her health. And she hadn’t been remotely ready for book club today and wouldn’t even be able to make her usual snarky comments about the book. She pressed her lips together and then said, “Make me a bourbon, Georgia. I rarely mix my own drinks. It won’t hurt to have the one drink.”

  Georgia whooped and turned to the bar. What Myrtle didn’t know was that Georgia’s idea of a normal drink was rather skewed. Georgia fixed it and shoved it at Myrtle, who took a cautious sip of it and made a face.

  Georgia howled with laughter. “That expression of yours! That means it’s a good drink!”

  Myrtle decided that she would hand off the drink to Miles at the first available opportunity. The doorbell rang and Georgia held up a finger. “One second, Miss M. This’ll be the pizza.” A cheer went up from the assembled women as the door opened to reveal the pizza man.

  Myrtle couldn’t decide if she’d walked into her usually staid book club or accidentally wandered into a fraternity party.

  The pizza delivery man walked in with a stack of pizzas. In return, Georgia gave him a stack of bills. Miles hurriedly directed him to his small kitchen to lay down the pizzas. Georgia said to Myrtle, “Everybody who wanted pizza contributed. Did you want some?”

  Myrtle shook her head. “I’d rather have some of Miles’s hors d’oeuvres.” That was, perhaps, a lie, but not a big one. Miles was looking very gloomy about the alcohol, the pizza, and most likely the assortment of germs wafting around his small home. It might help if she displayed interest in the food he’d prepared. She carefully prepared herself a plate of mini quiches, brie and crackers, and mixed fruit and ignored the cheese pizza that was calling out to her.

  Miles sidled up to her a minute later. “Bedlam,” he said in a dejected voice.

  “On the plus side, Miles, it will go down as a book club meeting to remember,” said Myrtle.

  “Tippy will hear about it and blame me.”

  Myrtle said, “Why would she do that? You don’t seem to have anything whatsoever to do with this debacle.”

  “Because I’m the only man. As the only man present, it’s my job to be blamed,” said Miles.

  He really seemed to be getting himself into a funk. Myrtle picked up her Georgia-prepared beverage and thrust it at Miles. “Here. You should drink this.”

  Miles looked at the red plastic cup with misgivings.

  Myrtle rolled her eyes. “I took only one sip and I’m perfectly healthy. Besides, the alcohol in this thing would kill any germs intrepid enough to be in the cup.”

  He took an experimental sip and his eyes opened wide.

  “Georgia made it for me,” said Myrtle. “I have the feeling that the strength of the beverage is usual for her. We might have to serve her water soon.”

  They both looked over at Georgia, now laughing uproariously at something Erma said.

  Miles looked glum. “For sure. Erma is never funny.”

  “In fact, Miles, the entirety of book club is looking rather . . . happy. It may end up that you’re hosting a sleepover here for those who can’t make it home.”

  “Then I’ll leave them to it, pack a bag, and head to your guest room,” said Miles quickly.

  The noise level in the living room was growing to epic proportions. “Miles, you need to call the meeting to order or there won’t be a book club.” Myrtle finished off her brie cheese and crackers and winced as someone’s laughter approached hyena level.

  Miles appeared reluctant to break the party up.

  “None of this is even supposed to be happening,” reminded Myrtle. “There should be no liquor. There should be no pizza. There should only be literature and discussion. And perhaps a bit of murder investigating at the tail end of the meeting.”

  Miles slowly walked over near his front door so he was facing the majority of the chairs. He cleared his throat. Nothing happened.

  “Everyone?” he said weakly.

  Everyone continued partying.

  Myrtle shook her head at him. “Where’s your bell?” she hollered across the room at him.

  Miles shook his head, not able to hear her over the ruckus.

  “The bell!”

  Miles had an antique dinner bell with a long, decorative handle, one of a few nice pieces in his home. Myrtle impatiently glanced around the room for it and spotted it near his silver service on the sideboard. She grabbed it and swung it violently back and forth.

  She had to admit that, antique or not, the bell had a nice, rich gong to it. Finally, they had the attention of the room.

  Myrtle gave them all a repressive look and drew herself up to her full six feet, looking down at them all. She didn’t seem a bit retired in that moment. She seemed as if she hadn’t been on any hiatus at all from the classroom. She gazed at her unruly students.

  “Thank you!” she said. “Now, it’s fine to have fun, but things are getting out of hand.”

  Most of the book club members looked chastened and contrite. Georgia took another sip from her red plastic cup and gave her a wink.

  “Miles has gone to lots of trouble to host us today, so let’s give him a thank you,” she continued.

>   Myrtle paused while a bunch of appreciation washed Miles’s way. He gave a bob of his head in uncomfortable acknowledgment. Then he took a long drink from his own red plastic cup.

  “The first part of our meeting is done and now we’ll move on to the book discussion,” she said firmly.

  The ladies all put down their cups and pizza and obediently took out their books. She turned to Miles and said, “All right, you can lead the discussion.”

  Miles cleared his throat and walked over to where Myrtle had been. Myrtle sat down. She frowned. It seemed as if the one drink, at least she presumed the one drink, that Miles had enjoyed, had affected him quite a bit.

  Miles said, slurring his words, “So, the name of the book is It’s a Ways Out.”

  Erma gave her heehawing laugh and called out, “The title of the book is It’s a Long Time Coming.”

  “Right. What I said,” said Miles. He gave a small hiccup. Myrtle narrowed her eyes.

  Miles paused and then gazed out the window as if he’d rather be outside. Anywhere but in this room, in fact. He seemed to be grasping for any sort of memory at all about the book. Finally, he said, “In the book, stuff happens.”

  The book club members gaped at him. This was Miles, after all. Miles who had tried to foist The Brothers Karamazov on them in a previous meeting. Who always found some depth in even the shallowest beach reads they’d picked.

  “Some of it is bad stuff,” he warbled tipsily. “Some of it is good stuff.”

  Erma appeared to be mightily amused by Miles’s impressions of It’s a Long Time Coming. “What bad stuff?” she asked.

  He turned unsteadily to look at Erma. Myrtle stood up again and walked briskly over to Miles. “You don’t have to answer that, Miles. You’re the host, so why don’t you tell everyone to take turns sharing their thoughts on the book? That’s what we usually do, after all.”

  Erma was clearly disappointed at being deprived of her entertainment. “But what did Miles think about the story?”

  Miles, in the process of being led to an available chair by Myrtle, paused for a second and said, “Bad. It was a bad book.”