Pretty is as Pretty Dies: Myrtle Clover #1

Chapter Ten

Myrtle glared at the bunny crack on her ceiling again. Telling yourself to go to sleep wasn't any good when you weren't used to following orders. Time for her warm milk nightcap. She tossed the covers off and headed for the kitchen.

She poured the milk from the pan into her glass and stepped out on her screen porch. It was surprisingly cool tonight, not like the humid, buggy nights they usually had this time of year. She looked down the wooded hill leading to the lake and the rickety dock. She used to go down to the lake on nights she couldn't sleep and sit on the dock to watch the water and listen to the night animals calling each other and the water lapping up against the sides of the dock. She even had a rocking chair out there just for that purpose, although she hadn't gone down there for a while.

She looked longingly out at the dark water, then picked up her cane and a flashlight. The full moon would light her way down the hill, too. A little milk, a little rocking by the lake and she'd be ready to sleep the rest of the night.

She thought she heard a rustling in the bushes when she stepped out into the yard. Probably one of Erma's pet squirrels she thought. Or a snake. But she'd rather think about the squirrels instead.

The path leading down to Myrtle's dock had, in more active days, been worn into a dirt trail with knobby tree roots intermittently allowing themselves to be stairs. Now, with more infrequent use, the path was getting overgrown. Myrtle brought a flashlight, but the moon provided enough light for her to leave it off. The dock had seen better days, too; it was faded to a gray wood with lots of knotholes. Red wasn't thrilled about her forays down to the dock-since it was a floating dock, it bobbed around a bit. Every once in a while, though, Myrtle liked to sit there and look at the water and feel the breeze off the lake. The weathered rocking chair on the dock was there for that very reason, although Myrtle was sure that if Red realized she was rocking on the dock in the middle of the night, it would be quickly dispatched back up to her screened porch.

Myrtle settled into the old chair and rocked slowly, mulling over the case. What was Althea hiding? She was evasive and vague whenever Myrtle saw her. And Cecil, the stereotypical bad guy. How easy it would be to peg him as the killer, considering all his other undesirable traits. Is that something the real murderer would count on, though, and use to their advantage?

Myrtle heard a noise behind her and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She was about to whirl around when she felt a vicious shove aimed at the middle of the rocking chair back. As the chair thumped onto the dock, Myrtle felt herself fly though the air and into the water. After a second of blind panic, she worked her way out of her heavy bathrobe and kicked through the murky water to clutch a white bumper hanging from the dock. She caught her breath, then pushed her way through to the shore. The water wasn't deep, thanks to the persistent drought for several summers. Dripping wet, she shivered despite the warm night and looked fearfully around for her attacker.

The curved path leading up to her house looked more ominous now with the many pine trees and azalea bushes on its sides offering many places to hide. She plodded up onto the dock, soaking wet and shivering with shock. Picking up her cane from the floor of the dock, she turned to go back up the hill to her house. She heard rustling in the bushes ahead and her heart slammed into her ribcage as a dark shape loomed out of the darkness. She held her cane out like a shotgun and called, "Who's there! Who is there?"

An older man of about 70 years with steel-gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a concerned expression approached her cautiously.

"The pilgrim!" gasped Myrtle with relief. He looked at her with concern.

"Gone for a swim? Miss Myrtle, isn't it?" Wasn't a very good idea, was it? Why don't we just go inside and find a warm drink, dry clothes, and a telephone? Who is in charge of ... uh ... who should I call?"