Death Pays a Visit : Myrtle Clover #7

Chapter One

"Hello, Myrtle," said Miles calmly opening his front door.

Miles wore his customary plaid pajamas, slippers, and navy-blue bathrobe. His silver hair was neatly combed. Myrtle patted her own poof of gray hair and found that it appeared to be standing on end like Einstein's. She impatiently smoothed it down.

"Hi, Miles," said Myrtle. It was three forty-five in the morning, but somehow Miles didn't seem at all surprised to see her there. But then, Miles frequently seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to Myrtle's nocturnal visits.

Myrtle, dressed in her oldest and most comfortable robe and slippers and bearing a cane, walked into Miles's tidy kitchen. It was a bachelor's kitchen with sensible pull-down shades in the windows, a sturdy wooden table and chairs that seated four, and appliances meant to cut his cooking time considerably. He had set out a carafe of coffee, cream, sugar, and two coffee cups. There was also a small platter of what appeared to be homemade cookies on the table, alongside two plates. Myrtle looked suspiciously at the cookies, not wanting to believe them homemade since her own efforts at cookies had recently gone very poorly. But they appeared to be genuine.

"Sure of yourself, weren't you?" asked Myrtle. "Confident that I was visiting tonight?"

Miles shrugged. "I hoped you were coming to help me pass the time. I haven't slept much this week. I didn't get around to watching the last episode of Tomorrow's Promise and thought we could have a snack and watch it if you came over."

Myrtle squinted at the cookies again. "Not getting domesticated, are you?"

Miles considered this thoughtfully. "I'm baking. I believe I must be bored."

"I can't say I didn't warn you," said Myrtle rather smugly. "I've lived in Bradley, North Carolina, my entire life and it just doesn't get more exciting than the church bake sale or the craft fair in the fall. Have you joined all the Organizations for the Aged?" She poured herself a generous cup of coffee and stared into the mug. The coffee appeared very, very dark and she'd unfortunately not left much room for cream. She made up for the lack of cream by putting in several tablespoons of sugar and cautiously stirring the brew so that it wouldn't slosh.

Miles looked annoyed. "I'm not particularly aged, Myrtle. Sixty is the new...."

"Right, right. I've heard all that poppycock. Sixty is the new forty or something. Well, you're over sixty. And you sure don't feel forty, do you?" said Myrtle. She spilled some coffee onto her robe and stared down at the small puddle in irritation.

Miles pushed a pile of napkins in her direction with a sigh. "What Organizations for the Aged are you referring to? Maybe there's one that I've missed."

Myrtle held up her fingers, enumerating them. "The historical society. Friends of the Library. The Bradley Museum board. Garden club. Our book club."

"Done, done, done, done, done," said Miles morosely.

"Played bingo in the church rec hall? You can win stamps," said Myrtle succinctly.

"No thanks." Miles made a face. "I don't seem to be lucky at bingo. Or, when I think I've won, I'll find out they were playing a special variation where you only win if you get the outside corners or something. Sometimes I only end up with the free space marked out."

"So no bingo. Although you really should play. It's a silly game, but there are those prizes, you know. I haven't had to buy stamps for years. Let's see. Sometimes the community theater has good musicals," said Myrtle. "I think they're playing Oklahoma next. I'll go see it with you."