Myrtle Clover Mysteries

Chapter 1

“NEED HELP, MIZ MYRTLE?”

As soon as her yardman, Dusty, had asked the question, an irritated look passed across his lean features. Myrtle smiled. Volunteering for more work was usually not in Dusty’s game plan.

“As a matter of fact, I do, thank you.” Myrtle bumped the door to the metal shed open wider with her hip.

Dusty slouched against the frame of the storage shed, a ragtag figure in frayed, grass-stained khakis, and a floppy hat over lanky gray hair. “We ain’t pulling all them gnomes out, are we?”

Myrtle’s collection of yard gnomes was extensive, it was true. And the gnomes were an impressive sight when they were arranged throughout her front yard. The sight of their winsome faces infuriated her son, Red, who lived across the street from his octogenarian mother. Which happened to be the whole point.

“Oh, I think that they all need to make an appearance, Dusty.”

Dusty turned his head and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into a nearby bush. Myrtle wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Red done stepped out of line again?” he asked.

“He certainly has. This time he’s really gone too far, Dusty. I need to make a point. Draw a line in the sand.”

Dusty scuffed a worn leather boot at the red clay that served as soil in Bradley, North Carolina. “No sand here, Miz Myrtle. Besides, can’t you make your point without all them gnomes out? You know I can’t mow when they’re covering your front yard. I’ll have to use the string trimmer and that thing is broke more often than not.”

Dusty’s grudging willingness to trim around the gnomes was the sole reason for his employment. Aside from that willingness, he was lazy, unpredictable, and coarse.

“You just mowed, so we’re in good shape for a week or so.” She grunted as she pulled out a particularly winsome gnome that was inexplicably holding a chainsaw.

“Okay. I done finished fixin’ the broke spigot, by the way.”

Myrtle said, “Wonderful. Now maybe I can actually water the bushes out back. Please make sure you collect all your tools. Last time they were scattered here and yonder. And when you’re all done with the gnomes, be sure to lock the gate to the backyard.”

Dusty gave an affirming grunt and reached in for a gnome wearing sunglasses and holding a saxophone and glumly carted it off to a prime location in the front of Myrtle’s house.

He returned with Myrtle’s son Red in tow. “He’s onto us, Miz Myrtle,” said Dusty with a shrug of a shoulder.

“Keep on going, please, Dusty. Red and I will have a little talk inside over some milk and cookies.”

Red’s face was thunderous and he ran a hand through his red hair (now with a good deal of gray mixed in) until it stood on end. “Mama, what is this gnome invasion in response to? I’ve been so busy and you’ve been so busy that I haven’t made contact with you for days.” Dusty grunted as he carried a scuba diving gnome out of the shed and Red looked at it with distaste. “And I sure don’t need any milk and cookies. I’ve gained several pounds in the last couple of weeks.”

Myrtle thought the weight looked fine on him. Red had inherited her own propensity for height and stood several inches over six feet. As a teen, he’d been thin as a rail. He looked much better with the heft of weight on him.

“Oh, these are low-fat cookies,” said Myrtle with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, they were laden with fat. And sugar. What was the point, otherwise? But sugar helped to sweeten Red’s moods, so it was the perfect tool. Except Red seemed as firmly planted in her yard as a tree. She sighed and instead sat down in an old wrought-iron chair on her patio. Red plopped down across from her.

“You should know exactly why the gnomes are gracing my front yard, Red Clover.” She paused and waited for light bulbs to go off in Red’s head but seeing they weren’t forthcoming she snapped, “Sloan Jones. You told Sloan that I was the one correcting all the Bradley Bugle’s errors and mailing them into the newsroom. Really, Red. Was that necessary?”

Red looked slightly relieved, as if he thought this was something he could easily handle. “I swear, Mama, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just saw the corrected papers lying on Sloan’s desk and absently mentioned that I recognized your handiwork. The red pen is a dead giveaway, you know. Ex-schoolteacher and all that. Besides, what was Sloan going to say? It’s not like he’s going to fire you from the newspaper over something minor like that. He’s petrified of you...has been ever since he was your student.”

“It’s not that he was mad, Red. It’s that he was hurt. Wounded Sloan is difficult to handle. I was in constant and abject terror that he was going to start crying over the betrayal. And now I have a meeting with him in an hour in the newsroom. That’s all I need,” said Myrtle.

“If that’s the only challenging part of your day it’s a blessing, Mama. I had more than that to deal with before breakfast. Such is the life of a small town police chief.” On cue, Red’s phone rang and he heaved a tremendous sigh. “Chief Clover,” he said.

Red listened for a minute and then said, “Miss Mabel, we’ve talked about this a couple of times. I can’t do anything about Miz Tritt’s pine tree. Even if it is dropping needles, pine cones, and sticks all over your property, the tree is on her property.”

Myrtle could hear Mabel’s reedy voice say, “But the sticks and pine cones are trespassing on my property. And she won’t rake or pick them up.”

Red was placating. “I tell you what, Miss Mabel. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to run by for a meeting with the mayor. Just to ease your mind, how about if I run by and take care of those pine cones and sticks for you. Will that help?” He rolled his eyes at Myrtle. “I know it doesn’t help the root cause, but it sure might save you some aggravation. How ‘bout it? Deal? Great. Be there in half a shake of a lamb’s tail.”

He hung up and leveled a serious look at Myrtle. “Now that I got Miss Mabel taken care of, how about if we resolve this issue between us? I’m sorry about telling Sloan that you were the phantom editor. I was out of line.”

“You certainly were,” said Myrtle.

“So can I ask Dusty to start heaving those gnomes back into the shed?” asked Red in a hopeful tone. “I’ll tip him.”

“Absolutely not. It’s completely out of line to give poor Dusty conflicting orders...it will only confuse him. Besides, I’ve missed seeing the gnomes out there. I love it when children make their parents stop the car to look at them. I’m an attraction.”

“You’re a something,” grumbled Red. “All right, I’ve got to get out of here if I’m going to do yardwork before my meeting. I’ll check in with you later.” He gave a winking gnome a dirty look as he hurried off. Myrtle might have to keep all the motion detectors running tonight in case Red planned any gnome vandalism.

Dusty was starting to slow down a little, not that he’d gone at any great pace before. “How many gnomes does it take to make a point?” he asked, putting a hand to his back suggestively.

“You already asked me that earlier,” said Myrtle. “If you won’t do it, then I will. Maybe Puddin can help out, too.”

The mention of his wife’s name appeared to startle Dusty. Unless it was the juxtaposition of “Puddin” and “help”. “She’s not here,” he said. “Besides, her back is thrown.”

“Somebody needs to catch that thrown back of hers,” said Myrtle darkly. “It’s getting more and more out of whack as my dust and clutter builds up.” Myrtle frowned. “You know, I think it’s been at least two weeks since Puddin has come over to help me clean. My dust bunnies will be procreating. Give her a call and see if she can run by.”

Dusty’s brow furrowed, but he obediently fished his phone out of his baggy jeans. “She probably won’t be able to make it until late afternoon,” he warned.

“Fine. Whenever is fine—I simply want her to come by. The situation is getting dire. Just set it up. I have to head downtown,” said Myrtle.

Dusty quickly said, “Want me to drive you there in the truck, Miz Myrtle? It’ll just take a second to get there.”

“No siree! I want you to lug gnomes around. I can lug myself downtown.” Myrtle gave him a stern look and he dolefully continued arranging gnomes on Myrtle’s front lawn as she walked around the house to the sidewalk and down the tree-lined street to the small downtown.

When she reached the newspaper office, she paused for a second to collect her thoughts before walking into the Bradley Bugle. She wished Sloan would be mad at her. It was much worse to cause hurt feelings. Then she frowned. Was it her imagination, or was the office’s wooden front door even more battered than usual?

With a sigh, she pushed the door open and entered the shadowy newsroom. As usual, it smelled of old books and paper. There were stacks of printed photographs, old newspapers, and papers on every surface. In the middle of everything was a heavyset balding man. Bradley Bugle editor Sloan Jones was ordinarily smiling, even though he was cautious around Myrtle. But now his face was as long as she’d ever seen it. Ordinarily he leapt up from his desk in deference to Myrtle’s age and her former position as his English teacher in high school. This time he made a half-hearted effort to rise, before collapsing again in his rolling chair, which squealed in squeaky protest.

“Hi, Miss Myrtle,” said Sloan in a pained voice.

Myrtle pressed her lips together. She was almost positive that Sloan’s mournfulness was put on to make her feel bad. “Look, sorry about how I handled the proofreading thing.” She sat down gingerly in a rolling chair next to Sloan. She didn’t much care for chairs that doubled as fair rides.

“You probably can’t even help it, Miss Myrtle. Being an English teacher for so many years and all,” said Sloan nobly.

His forgiving nature made Myrtle cross. “It’s just that, having been your teacher, Sloan, I hate to see very basic mistakes in the newspaper. There, their, and they’re errors. That sort of nonsense. It reflects poorly on me. I’m about to have to start telling people that Doris Penbrook taught you instead of me. And you know it pains me to lie.”

Sloan hastily jumped in, likely not wanting to receive any more edits in person. “Here’s the thing, Miss Myrtle. The Bugle had to let Tilly Morris go a few weeks ago and you know she was the copyeditor. Since then, I’ve had to take over editing and I’m just not used to doing it. Plus there’s the fact that I have no time at all whatsoever. I’m really having to juggle a lot of stuff.”

Myrtle grudgingly said, “I suppose I could copyedit for you, Sloan. Although that’s not really what I was planning on doing with my free time. If you needed me to. And, naturally, for a fee.” She got up and moved across from Sloan at his desk, her cane propped up against her, prepared to do business.

Sloan said hurriedly, “And you know that I’d love for you to. That paper would be a hundred percent error-free. But the problem, you see, is that The Bugle is going through some hard times. I wouldn’t have the funds to pay you. When I told Tilly that I’d have to cut her pay, she walked right out that door.” He shifted his bulk again and his chair made that high-pitched squeak.

“I might be bored, but I’m not that bored. I couldn’t take on a job like that without compensation and I’m sure that Tilly was unwilling to do so, too. What’s happening to the paper, Sloan?” asked Myrtle.

“I’m losing subscribers left and right, which means that I’m losing advertisers left and right. I have a meeting next week with Roger’s Automotive. You know that’s our biggest advertiser. If we lose them, I don’t know what will become of the paper. They usually place a full-page color ad in every issue. Roger’s Automotive practically pays for the entire production,” said Sloan glumly. “I may have to sell my house and move in with my mother again.”

“What’s at the bottom of it, do you think? Why would longtime subscribers suddenly unsubscribe?”

Sloan said, “I’m sure it has to do with the fact they can find their news on the internet anytime they want to.”

“Yes, but the internet has been around for a while now, Sloan, and you’ve had plenty of readers before. What’s changed? Have you changed the content? Focusing more on stories off the newswire and less local stuff?” asked Myrtle. It was most definitely the content. People had been muttering about Sloan’s changes for months. Half the time now, the paper had the tone of a tabloid instead of a family newspaper in a small town. But she knew if she came right out and told Sloan that, he’d probably not listen.

“I’ve had some bad luck with staff,” admitted Sloan. “My horoscope writer left, I’ve lost Frannie, who did our recipes, to health troubles. I tried to handle the Good Neighbors column myself, but it was such a pain that I gave it up.”

Myrtle shook her head. “You’ve named the three most popular features in the paper, Sloan. If you don’t have those articles, no wonder you’re losing readers.”

Sloan bit his lip as if he very much wanted to disagree, but didn’t want to cross Myrtle. Instead he said in a diplomatic tone, “I don’t know, Miss Myrtle. I’m thinking that maybe it’s more that people are ready for some real news. You know? Maybe they’re tired of hearing about Ginny Peters’s prize-winning zucchini and Becky Trimble’s quilting tips and where the Comptons went on vacation. Maybe they want an in-depth exposé of the new testing over in K-5th grade. Or an in-depth investigative report on whether the oil change place is ripping people off.”

“Are they?” mused Myrtle. “I think that’s where Red takes the police cruiser.”

Sloan’s eyes were reproachful for Myrtle’s going off topic. “I’m wondering if I need to revamp the whole paper and make it a really newsworthy tool for readers.” He threw his hands up in the air and there was a cacophony of chair squeaking. “Who knows? Maybe I need to take it in a completely different direction and have it be a tabloid. Stories like: ‘It’s One A.M. Does Mrs. Smith Know Where Mr. Smith is’?”

Myrtle had never seen Sloan so worked up. Not even when he’d made a thirty on that English test in tenth grade. “I really believe you’re overthinking this, Sloan. Seriously. I haven’t heard a single person say that they didn’t like the paper’s content until recently.”

But Sloan had stopped listening. “Miss Myrtle, I need your help. My understanding is that Luella White knows everything going on in Bradley and is the town’s biggest gossip. That sounds like the perfect combination. Only problem is that I don’t think she wants to work for the paper. Besides, I couldn’t afford to pay her, even if she did want to work for me. What I really need is for someone to go undercover and use Luella as a source. Then we should be able to get all the news that’s fit to print.”

Myrtle wrinkled her nose. “And quite a bit of news that’s not fit to print, too.” She paused and then continued suspiciously, “You said you need my help. You’re not proposing that I go undercover and use Luella White as a source, are you?”

Sloan said meekly, “I sure am, Miss Myrtle. I’d do it myself, except I’d probably stand out if I were trying to hang out with Luella White. I figure you’ll be perfect. You can sort of blend into the background when you need to and listen in on Luella’s gossip. Then we’ll write it in the paper like: a little bird tells us that Teresa Johnson is leaving her job at the ice cream shop to marry tire salesman Roy Burton. Better get your ice cream while you can! The shop will be closing soon. Something like that.”

“If I did that, Sloan, I’d stand out, too. What are you asking me to do? Flip open a notebook and jot down every salacious thing that comes out of her mouth?”

Sloan smiled hopefully.

“That’s not going to work. Besides, where am I going to run into Luella White? She and I hardly run in the same circles,” said Myrtle. Myrtle, truth be told, didn’t run in any circles anymore. “I can’t exactly drop by for a visit and hang out on her sofa.”

“It should be easy-peasy, Miss Myrtle,” said Sloan quickly. “You just cozy up to her at one of her clubs. Since she’s new to town, she’s joined everything. And if there’s one person who has her finger on the pulse of the raging metropolis of Bradley, North Carolina, it’s her.”

“She,” corrected Myrtle. Whatever was to become of the Bradley Bugle with no copyeditor? “And I don’t do clubs.” She tapped the floor with her cane to emphasize her point.

Sloan’s large face fell comically. “Not garden club?”

“I’m on hiatus.”

“Not book club?” asked Sloan rather desperately.

“I haven’t read the last few selections. On purpose,” said Myrtle firmly.

“Altar guild?”

“I’m Presbyterian.”

“Women of the Church, then?” asked Sloan, perspiring a little. “I can’t remember if Luella White is Methodist or Presbyterian.”

“Women of the Church meet at an inconvenient time,” said Myrtle. Right smack in the middle of her favorite soap opera, Tomorrow’s Promise.

The dismay on Sloan’s face made Myrtle relent a little. “Sloan, I’ll keep an eye out for her. I’m sure there’s a better way. I’ll get the Bradley Bugle’s subscribers back—and that’s a promise.”

It was a testament to Myrtle’s iron will and complete self-confidence that Sloan slumped in relief at her words.