A Body at Bunco : Myrtle Clover #8

Chapter One

"Need help, Miz Myrtle?"

As soon as her yardman, Dusty, had asked the question, an irritated look passed across his lean features. Myrtle smiled. Volunteering for more work was usually not in Dusty's game plan.

"As a matter of fact, I do, thank you." Myrtle bumped the door to the metal shed open wider with her hip.

Dusty slouched against the frame of the storage shed, a ragtag figure in frayed, grass-stained khakis, and a floppy hat over lanky gray hair. "We ain't pulling all them gnomes out, are we?"

Myrtle's collection of yard gnomes was extensive, it was true. And the gnomes were an impressive sight when they were arranged throughout her front yard. The sight of their winsome faces infuriated her son, Red, who lived across the street from his octogenarian mother. Which happened to be the whole point.

"Oh, I think that they all need to make an appearance, Dusty."

Dusty turned his head and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into a nearby bush. Myrtle wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Red done stepped out of line again?" he asked.

"He certainly has. This time he's really gone too far, Dusty. I need to make a point. Draw a line in the sand."

Dusty scuffed a worn leather boot at the red clay that served as soil in Bradley, North Carolina. "No sand here, Miz Myrtle. Besides, can't you make your point without all them gnomes out? You know I can't mow when they're covering your front yard. I'll have to use the string trimmer and that thing is broke more often than not."

Dusty's grudging willingness to trim around the gnomes was the sole reason for his employment. Aside from that willingness, he was lazy, unpredictable, and coarse.

"You just mowed, so we're in good shape for a week or so." She grunted as she pulled out a particularly winsome gnome that was inexplicably holding a chainsaw.

"Okay. I done finished fixin' the broke spigot, by the way."

Myrtle said, "Wonderful. Now maybe I can actually water the bushes out back. Please make sure you collect all your tools. Last time they were scattered here and yonder. And when you're all done with the gnomes, be sure to lock the gate to the backyard."

Dusty gave an affirming grunt and reached in for a gnome wearing sunglasses and holding a saxophone and glumly carted it off to a prime location in the front of Myrtle's house.

He returned with Myrtle's son Red in tow. "He's onto us, Miz Myrtle," said Dusty with a shrug of a shoulder.

"Keep on going, please, Dusty. Red and I will have a little talk inside over some milk and cookies."

Red's face was thunderous and he ran a hand through his red hair (now with a good deal of gray mixed in) until it stood on end. "Mama, what is this gnome invasion in response to? I've been so busy and you've been so busy that I haven't made contact with you for days." Dusty grunted as he carried a scuba diving gnome out of the shed and Red looked at it with distaste. "And I sure don't need any milk and cookies. I've gained several pounds in the last couple of weeks."

Myrtle thought the weight looked fine on him. Red had inherited her own propensity for height and stood several inches over six feet. As a teen, he'd been thin as a rail. He looked much better with the heft of weight on him.

"Oh, these are low-fat cookies," said Myrtle with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, they were laden with fat. And sugar. What was the point, otherwise? But sugar helped to sweeten Red's moods, so it was the perfect tool. Except Red seemed as firmly planted in her yard as a tree. She sighed and instead sat down in an old wrought-iron chair on her patio. Red plopped down across from her.