A Body at Bunco : Myrtle Clover #8

Chapter Twenty

 "Dusty! Have you lost your mind? What's all the ruckus about?" Myrtle brandished her cane at him as his dire imprecations continued.

"Yer gnome! It bit my weed trimmer!" howled Dusty.

"What did you do to my gnome?" demanded Myrtle.

"What did I do?" Dusty scowled at her.

"Yes! Because you're the one with the power tool. The poor gnomes are completely defenseless." She peered closer. "That's my 'gone fishing' gnome! One of my favorites."

Dusty said, "Why's it got a rope hangin' off it? Killed off my trimmer!"

"It's supposed to be a fishing line, Dusty. It's hanging from the little guy's pole. Haven't you ever gone fishing?" asked Myrtle.

"Not with no rope, I ain't."

"Well the manufacturers couldn't very well use fishing line or it wouldn't be durable," said Myrtle.

"It done got wound up in my string trimmer line!" croaked Dusty, glowering at the offending gnome. "Now it won't start up none."

"I'm much more concerned about my damaged property," said Myrtle icily. "The gnome doesn't make sense anymore with the rope missing."

"An' my string trimmer don't make no sense without being able to run!" Dusty threw the equipment on the ground where it hit another gnome.

Myrtle glared at him through narrowed eyes. She was about to debate who was the more injured party in this accident when Puddin loped by her carrying a notebook.

"Puddin? Did we plan for you to be here today?" asked Myrtle, frowning.

"Got bizness with you, Miz Myrtle," said Puddin, sauntering into her house.

Myrtle hurried to follow her. Besides, she was just realizing she was standing out in broad daylight with the hideous tracksuit on and would likely have her fashion transgression discovered soon if she remained.

"Wait," yelled Dusty as Myrtle walked away. "What about my string trimmer? Can't whack no weeds when it's broke!"

"When you figure out how to fix my gnome, I will figure out how to fix your trimmer," said Myrtle.

There was more cussing as Myrtle sailed through the front door and into her house.

Puddin guffawed. "Snazzy jumpsuit you got there, Miz Myrtle."

Myrtle glared at her. "It's a tracksuit, not a jumpsuit. Jumpsuits are for Elvis."

Puddin looked sadly at her. "Miss that Elvis. He sure was pretty. Need to get to Graceland one day."