A Body in the Trunk : Myrtle Clover Book 12

Chapter Three

Myrtle was awake bright and early the next morning. She dressed, drank coffee, did the crossword, tidied up the house, and then looked at the clock. It was only 6:30 a.m. After her conversation with Miles, Myrtle had the feeling that it would be considered too early to pay a visit to Lyle Solomon.

She'd woken up certain that Lyle must be the annoyed neighbor that Clara had alluded to. He was the kind of man who believed that his yard had to be a masterpiece. Myrtle would frequently see him bearing scissors—yes, household scissors, not pruners—and making tiny little adjustments to his already-perfect landscape, one clip at a time. If Myrtle had to guess, she'd surmise that Lyle might even be upset over the condition of her yard.

She snapped her fingers. Her yard. That reminded her. Red's abominable behavior yesterday evening with the late notice had to be punished. She picked up the phone and then hesitated. Still 6:30 a.m. But her yardman, Dusty, owned his own business. Didn't such people get up early to earn their livings? Working the soil and whatnot? Having talked herself into it, Myrtle dialed Dusty's number.

"Somebody die?" howled Dusty into the phone.

"Actually, yes, but that's not what I'm calling about," said Myrtle. "I need you to come by today and drag out the gnomes for me. Red is abhorrent."

"What does his stomach problems got to do with gnomes?" grumbled Dusty. "And why yer buggin' people in the middle of the night?"

"This? This isn't the middle of the night, I can promise you. I'm well-acquainted with the middle of the night and I can assure you that this isn't it. And Red does not have a stomach problem, he has a personality problem. Dusty, I thought you'd be plying your trade by this time of the day—making sure that you finished your day's labor before the heat really rolled in," said Myrtle briskly.

"Miz Myrtle, it's eighty degrees and it's still dark out!"

"You call this dark? The sun is coming up, Dusty. Never mind—clearly, I can't get any sense out of you at this point. Not that I get very much sense from you at any point. When you've finally woken up and are taking on your day, come on over. And bring your Puddin with you; my house is a disaster and she hasn't been by to clean for weeks," said Myrtle.

Puddin was clearly listening in because there was a verbal explosion in the background.

"Her back is thrown," said Dusty, apparently obediently parroting what his wife was telling him.

"I have an excellent remedy for thrown backs. It's called stretching. And, as a matter of fact, I have a few tasks here at the house where stretching is required. See you both soon." And Myrtle hung up.

As usual, talking to Dusty and Puddin put her in a terrible mood. She decided that she'd walk it off. Exercise was good for stress, after all. And who knew? Perhaps Miles had risen early and was ready to have some coffee with her. She could use another cup.

Myrtle was busily mulling over the day ahead as she grabbed her cane and locked the door behind her. The fact that she was so lost in thought could be the reason why Pasha startled her so badly when she rubbed against her.

Realizing it was Pasha, Myrtle bent to rub the cat. "Darling Pasha. You never sleep in, do you? Always so industrious."

Myrtle gave a circumspect glance around to make sure that the industrious Pasha hadn't decided to bestow her with a gift. Sometimes the cat decided to give Myrtle thank-you gifts in the form of dead animals. Fortunately, Myrtle spotted no such love offerings.

She set off down the street. Dusty was wrong—the sun was most certainly up. Although, from the look of things on her street, the sun was the only thing that was up. Myrtle wasn't even worried about passing Erma Sherman's house, knowing that her neighborly nemesis was still snoozing.