A Body at Bunco : Myrtle Clover #8

Chapter Six

 When the house was finally fairly clean, and minutes after Puddin's departure, the phone rang. It was Sloan Jones from the paper. "Miss Myrtle, I'm getting ready to put together the paper for tomorrow and just wanted to see if you had anything for me." His voice had a pleading quality to it, a sort of desperation it didn't ordinarily have. Usually, he was very deferential to Myrtle, having been a student of hers many years ago. The paper must be in bad shape, indeed.

"As a matter of fact, I do," said Myrtle.

"Do you? Oh, that's wonderful, Miss Myrtle! You caught up with Luella White then? I knew y'all would hit it off when you finally managed to spend some time with her. You have a lot in common, after all."

Myrtle paused. "Honestly, Sloan, I can't think of a single thing that Luella White and I have in common. We have even less in common now—considering that she's dead and I am most certainly not."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then a mournful, "Miss Myrtle, what happened?" His tone implied that Myrtle had been extremely careless with his valued source.

"It has nothing to do with me, Sloan! Well, except that she died in my backyard. And that the murder weapon belongs to my handyman. And that one of my guests is apparently a ruthless killer. But I certainly am not at fault in this!" said Myrtle hotly.

"There goes my gossip feature, then," said Sloan glumly. "Now I'm going to have to rely on what people send in. It will all be about how many cookies the Brownie troop sold and Miss Margaret Williamson's prize begonias at the fair. Say goodbye to the Bradley Bugle. I only hate that it's happening on my watch."

"Sloan, for a newsman, you're remarkably unobservant. Have you heard nothing I've been saying? A murder occurred. During a gathering I was hosting. In my very backyard. The suspects are people that most folks in this town will know and I can write the inside scoop. Who cares about the gossip feature when you're sitting on a goldmine? I'll finish up my article and email it over to you in time and I guarantee you it will be a smashing success."

Sloan said a bit doubtfully, "Are you writing it like you usually do, though? I mean, no disrespect intended, Miss Myrtle."

"You mean am I writing it following the highest standards of journalistic integrity? No, because it's for the Bradley Bugle and I've given up. I'm sprinkling my own observations in and making my byline read "an Eyewitness Account by Myrtle Clover."

Now Sloan's voice was a bit peppier. "You know, this might work, Miss Myrtle. It's a pity we don't have a story like this every week."

"If we had a story like this every week, it wouldn't be news, would it?" asked Myrtle. She glanced at the wall clock. Between Puddin's nonsense with the salt and peppershakers and Sloan, she was getting absolutely nothing done. "No time to chit-chat, Sloan. I have to go talk to some folks. I'll email you the story soon." And she hung up.

Five minutes later, she was walking down Magnolia Lane in the direction of Estelle Rutledge's house. She knew exactly where she lived since Elaine had told her it was the 'modern' house on the block. What Elaine was too kind to say was that it was the house built forty years ago that had aspired, and failed, to look modern for the time. It was boxy, with too many windows, and evoked a sort of treehouse appearance...with no trees in sight on the property. It also was some kind of split-level but the levels were diagonal from each other. It looked as if the house was a victim of a particularly violent earthquake. Most Bradley residents had considered the residence, standing out strikingly as it was among the ranches, something of an eyesore that had been put up with for ages. Myrtle simply believed that the architect had consumed hallucinogenic drugs.