A Body at Bunco : Myrtle Clover #8

Chapter Eighteen

Myrtle considered her conversation with Poppy as she walked back home with the small bag of groceries. She could feel the underlying resentment in her words. But Myrtle also got the impression that Poppy was proud of her friendship with Mimsy and grateful for it, too. Could Poppy possibly have both resentment and gratitude for Mimsy? Might her jealousy prompt her to do something that she regrets? Because Myrtle definitely also felt that sense of regret from her.

Myrtle walked up her front walk and set the bag down so that she could open her front door. As she did, Pasha bounded in front of her and into the house.

"Pasha! I didn't even know you were there," chided Myrtle. Then she frowned. "Can I check your mouth? You didn't bring any take-away bags home with you from the newsroom, did you?" She certainly hoped the end of her day would not involve trying to bribe Puddin to come by and dispose of a rodent for her.

Fortunately, Pasha didn't appear to have brought her own snacks. But whatever her hour in the newsroom had entailed, it seemed to have exhausted her. She curled up in a late-afternoon sunbeam and fell right asleep.

Myrtle went immediately to the kitchen. The whole point of the casserole was to keep Mimsy from having to cook supper tonight and it would be rather pointless if Myrtle didn't get it over to her in time. She quickly found her recipe card in the old metal box. It looked as if it had gone through battle, stained and bent from years of use. Myrtle squinted at the card and then looked again at the rooster clock on her kitchen wall. She was going to have to hurry with this and take whatever shortcuts she could.

The recipe called for an oven temperature of 350 degrees so Myrtle preheated for 450 to make things go a bit faster. Then she started pulling the ingredients out. To her dismay and annoyance, she did not have either the chicken or the French-style green beans that she was so sure were at home. Rooting around in her pantry, however, she was able to put her hands on some canned tuna and a can of lima beans. She hesitated for a moment. No, tuna surely was bland enough to substitute. And limas were practically as bland as vegetables came.

The clock was ticking away, so Myrtle decided to go with her substitutions. She mixed the pimentos, the canned tuna, the wild rice, and the limas. The wild rice was uncooked, but Myrtle thought she remembered that it cooked fine with the juice from the canned veggie. If she added more water to the casserole it might be too soggy. And who wanted a soggy casserole?

Still a little worried about the potential blandness of the casserole, Myrtle added a generous portion of salt to the dish and popped it into the hot oven. She decided not to cover the dish, since time was of the essence and she really needed it cooked sooner rather than later. After her labors, she decided to sit in her living room for a while and read. Miles had gotten her to read On the Beach by Nevil Shute. He promised her that he would enjoy the dystopian tale but so far she had only been annoyed by one of the characters who appeared to be in denial that the apocalypse had taken place. She thought longingly of the Little Men book that she'd borrowed from Miles. Still, she was determined to force her way through On the Beach.

Thirty minutes later she was still annoyed with the book. But an interruption occurred with a light tap at the door. Miles stood on her front porch looking groggy. "Miles! Are you all right? You're not sick again, are you?"