A Body at Bunco : Myrtle Clover #8

Chapter Fourteen

After Myrtle had finally gotten the prescription and roused Miles long enough for him to take it, she was ready to put her feet up for a while. Lugging Miles around town, even if she had been able to outsource some of the lugging, was still an exhausting process. And she felt as if he were on the right road at last. She'd checked in on him forty-five minutes after that anti-nausea pill and he'd seemed a lot more chipper. And awake.

Myrtle sat down on the sofa and fumbled with the remote to bring up that afternoon's installment of Tomorrow's Promise. But her head was still miles away. Wanda had said that Miles wouldn't be sick for very long. She always seemed to know what she was talking about, as hard as that was to believe. There was something else she'd said that had bothered her ... that Myrtle was on the wrong track. Myrtle wondered again about that earring.

Myrtle finally managed to put the murders out of her head. She spent the rest of the day watching her soap opera, doing the last couple of days' worth of crossword puzzles, and eating a very simple supper of canned salmon and instant grits. When she turned in that night, she fully expected her usual nocturnal nonsense of nagging insomnia. Instead, though, she slept soundly through until five the next morning. And five was almost like the middle of the day for Myrtle.

She got up, ate a healthy breakfast, and started tracking down her funeral clothes. She'd planned in advance this time since her funeral attire had had various issues for the last couple of funerals she'd attended. She kept finding annoying stains or missing buttons or torn hems. It was quite extraordinary...almost as if some malevolent elf had been sabotaging her wardrobe. Considering the damage to her clothing, you'd think she'd been attending some sort of bacchanalian bachelorette party instead of funeral-going. As she looked in her closet, she also noticed she was very, very low on clean clothing. Myrtle wasn't at all sure when she was going to find time to do some laundry, especially with Elaine popping over all the time to do her own.

And she'd had an epiphany this morning. It was right when she was staring at the severe navy-blue coat dress in her closet. She'd been standing there, frowning at the thing, making sure it didn't have any defects, when it occurred to her that she had a new line of questioning for the remaining, living suspects.

Who has something against Mimsy Kessler?

Because, really, what if Wanda were right? What if Myrtle were on the wrong track, trying to find out who had something against Luella White? What if someone had something against Mimsy and was trying to set her up as Luella's and Alma's murderers? What if Myrtle weren't merely on the wrong track, but at the entirely wrong station?

Which was when Myrtle switched from her epiphany and back to her funeral dress. It was quite wrinkled as if someone had taken it from the closet, stomped on it vigorously, and hung it back up.

Myrtle was, indeed, so efficient that morning that she was carefully pressed, wore immaculate stockings with no runs, chose sensible jewelry, and had her hair combed and makeup on at ten o'clock. She then commenced to wait for her ten-thirty ride.

The phone rang shortly after ten. She certainly hoped it wasn't Florence with some hair-brained excuse.

But it was Miles. His voice sounded a lot more like Miles and a lot less than the petulant toddler he had sounded like during his less-lucid moments at the doctor's office yesterday. "Did I dream it, or is there a funeral for Alma Wiggins today?"

"There certainly isn't. She's dead, but no one has the power to hustle her into the ground quite that fast. It's a service for Luella White, our first-murdered. At eleven. I'm leaving for it presently," said Myrtle. "And no, you can't go."