Chapter Twelve
The next morning Myrtle scraped her burnt toast over the sink. She slathered it with butter and sat in her sunny kitchen, tapping her pen against the newspaper as she struggled with the crossword. Ordinarily she could knock out the puzzle in minutes and was confident enough to wage her daily attack with an ink pen. Today’s puzzle, however, had a wicked number of Russian geography clues. The red pen she used made the paper look as if it had been in battle, judging from the number of blots and scratched out attempts on the page. Myrtle finally pushed the paper away and stood to get another cup of coffee. She couldn’t get the Parke Stockard murder out of her mind and there apparently wasn’t room enough in her brain for both the murder and the crossword.
What she really wanted
