Progressive Dinner Deadly: Myrtle #2

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Myrtle spent much of the night thinking about Maisy. She called Elaine as early as decently possible the next morning, broke the news that the cat had stolen the tuna, then started right in with some questions. 

"Did Red find out what happened to Maisy? What does Red know about it? How is she feeling? Is she still in the hospital? Does she need someone to bring her a casserole?"  

Elaine shuddered on the other end of the phone. She had a feeling that Maisy, who had just recently undergone horrific gastric distress, would not want a Myrtle Clover casserole. 

"She's still in the hospital, Myrtle. After all, she wasn't in the strongest of conditions even before she got sick. And Red mentioned..." Elaine hesitated, but knew Myrtle would end up pulling it out of her. Red shouldn't give her information about his cases! He knew she couldn't keep a secret from Myrtle. "...he mentioned that Maisy was poisoned. I don't know with what." 

"What?" asked Myrtle with a sinking sensation in her stomach. 

"Which is ridiculous! I mean, like anyone would want to poison poor little Maisy! Did someone put something in her green bean casserole? Really!" 

Myrtle suddenly felt something very large and hard in her throat that made it hard to talk around. Nobody would want to murder Maisy. No one. But Myrtle? Maybe. And it was Myrtle's iced tea that Maisy had been drinking.  

This was something that Elaine didn't need to know. Because this was something that Red didn't need to know. Apparently no one had noticed that it had been Myrtle's drink that Maisy had drunk from. Red was keeping close enough tabs on her as it was. If she wanted to make sure he wasn't going to stick one of those electronic surveillance ankle bracelets on her, she'd better just keep her trap shut.  

There was a light tap on Myrtle's door. She peeped out the window, saw Miles, and said, "Elaine, I've got to run. Miles is here."  

She opened the door. "Come on in, Miles," she said. 

Miles's face looked oddly green. "There's a mangled rabbit on your front porch." 

Myrtle leaned out the door and looked. She shrugged. "Just step over it for now. I'll get the shovel in a little while."  

Miles skirted the small corpse, found a spot on Myrtle's sofa and said, "Myrtle? Why is there a dead rabbit on your front porch?" 

"The cat," said Myrtle. She waved her hand impatiently at Miles's questioning face. "You know, the feral cat. It's just thanking me for feeding it." 

"No good deed goes unpunished," said Miles. He looked intently at Myrtle's living room window. "I'm guessing that's the culprit there?" 

Myrtle craned her head and saw the scrawny, black cat staring at them through the window. "The very one." 

"Nobody's pretty child, is it?" 

Myrtle surprised herself by feeling affronted. "She's had a hard life, Miles. You'd look the same if you poked around garbage cans looking for food." 

"Have you named it?" he asked. "I'm thinking 'Fluffy' won't do." 

"Not unless I'm being ironic. No, I need something tough, steely. Maybe something Russian. Pasha."  

Miles nodded slowly. "Strong, yet feminine. And doesn't Pasha mean 'passion' in Russian? She definitely has a passion for slaughtering and disemboweling small, furry creatures."  

Myrtle was cross. "How do you know so much trivia? How could you possibly know any Russian?" 

"I read," said Miles loftily. He shifted in his seat. "You know, Pasha is making me uncomfortable just glowering at me. Is there something she wants from you?"