Progressive Dinner Deadly: Myrtle #2

Chapter One

Chapter One

"The first step," said Myrtle to her friend Miles, "is to stage a coup." 

Miles took off his wire rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. "A coup." 

Myrtle beamed as if at a prize student. "That's it. The book club--as we know it--must be abolished."  

"You're saying...now stop me if I've got this wrong...that you and I--the new members of the decades-old book club--will somehow commandeer it away from its current leadership, force it to restructure, and compel the members to read literature we deem worthy instead of beach books." 

"That," said Myrtle, thumping The Complete William Butler Yeats triumphantly, "is exactly what I'm saying."  

Miles looked at his friend. She was really on a roll this time--she'd run her hand through her poofy white hair until it stood up on end like Einstein's. She stood six feet tall, not at all bent or cowed by her considerable years.  

"And you're proposing that we do this how?" 

"It's a simple marketing principle. You're a former businessman, you must understand it. Marketing, you know. Delivering what the people need."  

"Myrtle, I was an engineer, not a salesman." Myrtle shrugged. Miles gave a sigh. "And we're doing this why?" 

Myrtle rolled her eyes. "You weren't listening again. We're doing this because book clubs should celebrate great literature. Literature, sharing a wonderful story, is what brings the world together. Trixie Does Myrtle Beach does not accomplish this goal." 

Miles leaned forward in his chair. "Are you saying the book club actually picked a book called--" 

"No, no. I'm saying that's the kind of tripe you might find on its reading list. And once we've started down that road..." She took a deep breath.  

"The falcon cannot hear the falconer; 

Things fall apart; the Centre cannot hold; 

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." 

Miles glanced over at the Yeats collection. "Got it." He straightened his glasses. "You believe that if we offer the book club serious reading alternatives, they'll follow us in droves. That we'll have taken it over. I'm just not sure it's going to work out that way. It seems a little too easy."  

Myrtle snapped her fingers. "Good point. And I've got a terrific idea." 

Miles groaned. 

"If things don't go well, I need a plan B. I fully anticipate that everything will go according to plan, but if it doesn't, then I'll leave to go to the bathroom. And you'll say, "I think Myrtle has a great idea." 

"And why," asked Miles, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, "would they care what I think?" 

"Half those ninnies have set their cap for you, Miles. You're the new widower on the block, you know. Anything you say will be taken as gospel." 

Miles looked doubtful at the appeal his steel-gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and seventy years held for the Bradley widows. 

"Think of it Miles-you can still drive! You're a hot commodity for aging widows, I promise you. Here's our plan. I'll listen in from the hall and when they've decided it's a good idea, I'll come back in and get it all organized!" Myrtle was practically rubbing her hands together in glee. 

"Don't count your chickens until they hatch," said Miles. "You never know how things could turn out."  

"Nonsense. I predict we'll make a smooth transition to being a club with honest literary discussions."