Chapter Twelve
An hour later, Miles returned. He gave a cautious tap on the door.
“Come on in!” hollered Myrtle from deep in her house.
Miles opened the door and cautiously sniffed. He relaxed. There was no acrid smell of burning, which was a good sign.
“Everything all right?” he asked as he headed for the kitchen.
He glanced around wordlessly. There was spilled milk, several used mixing bowls and other containers, and an assortment of spoons and forks on the floor and counter. Shredded carrots were orange accents scattered about everywhere. Additionally, there were muddy footprints all over the place.
Myrtle was glowing with perspiration and looked cross. “This soup was a pain. And I kept dropping things. Call Puddin, would you, and ask her to come out here? I don’t have the time or
