A Body at Bunco : Myrtle Clover #8

Chapter Eleven

 Myrtle decided it was certainly late enough in the morning to start her investigation. And clearly, she should start moving toward Alma's house. If Red spotted her in that direction, why she was simply taking her morning walk, that was all. If he spotted her on Alma's property (because sometimes that nice Lieutenant Perkins from the state police would give her a drop or two of information), then she'd simply say that she'd been taking her walk and decided to make a short detour to remind him that he was welcome to shower at her house as soon as he was done with the crime scene.

As she passed Miles's house, though, something made her stop again. Maybe it was that he'd looked so wretchedly pitiful in that recliner earlier. Maybe it was the fact that he'd been so piqued last time when she'd set off investigating on her own, without him as sidekick. Perhaps it was that she was just the slightest bit worried about him. Although she did think that men were ridiculously melodramatic when they were sick.

She tapped lightly on Miles's front door again. Again, there was no response. Myrtle tapped more emphatically and waited again. She glanced around Miles's yard as she waited. He must have been planning to cut his grass either yesterday or today. It was looking too long for Miles. Miles's yard was usually kept in total control—grass a particular, regulation height. Shrubs made to bow to his domination over them. No misbehaving weeds. Everything in order. Miles's yard was now looking decidedly mutinous.

Since there was no response to the second round of tapping, Myrtle attempted to peer through his window and sheer curtains again. It was a lot more difficult now, though, than it was at night. At night, dark outside and light inside, she could see relatively clearly. Here she thought she still saw a forlorn figure in the recliner, but she couldn't swear by it. Myrtle recalled that she still had Miles's extra key from the previous summer when he'd left his home and (rather unwisely) his houseplants to her care as he'd traveled. She decided that drastic times called for drastic measures.

Myrtle found the key on her key ring and opened Miles's front door. She walked into Miles's living room, which felt rather stuffy. Sure enough, Miles was in the recliner and he was sound asleep. Or unconscious. At any rate, he wasn't awake.

Myrtle walked over to him. "Miles!" she said, taking him by the shoulder and giving him a little shake. He was perspiring and some of his steel-gray hair was matted to his forehead. He murmured in his sleep, but didn't wake up.

"Fever," muttered Myrtle. And the man didn't have any water or anything to drink near him. Also, from the way the bathroom door was wide open in the back and the light on, it seemed as if Miles had some stomach upset. That, and the fever and the perspiration...he should have water. And saltine crackers. Myrtle firmly believed that everyone should have saltine crackers when they were ill. And fresh air. The stale, stuffy air in the house needed to go.

Myrtle pushed aside the curtains and pulled open a stubborn window. Then she rummaged in the cabinets in Miles's kitchen until she located an ice bucket. She filled it with ice and put it on the floor next to Miles's chair. Then she poked around in the kitchen some more until she located a large thermos, which she filled with water. After filling that, she hesitated before finally deciding that more would be better when it came to fluids and Miles. She found a large water bottle in the back of Miles's container cabinet and filled it with water, too. She put all the water and a large plastic tumbler on the small table next to Miles's chair. To make room, she had to move several volumes of William Faulkner's works.

"Nobody should gorge themselves on Faulkner when they're ill," muttered Myrtle. Too much stream of consciousness could add an element of nausea, even if one weren't nauseated already.

She added to the pile with a plate of saltine crackers, a couple of ibuprofen, and an antacid. Then she wet a washcloth and put it over his forehead. Miles never stirred once during the entire process. Having witnessed enough dead bodies lately, this prompted Myrtle to feel for a pulse. She immediately found a very determined pulse and ceased to be overly concerned.