Pretty is as Pretty Dies

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

A gnome village miraculously mushroomed overnight in Myrtle’s yard while Red slept. Ceramic gnome characters, all engaged in a variety of cute activities, graced her front lawn. Elaine walked past her kitchen window. She blinked. “Oh Lord. Your mom’s called out the gnome patrol, Red. What did you do?”

“What?” Red pushed the curtain aside. He groaned and pressed his hands against his eyes, hoping when he opened them the image of a hundred ceramic gnomes cluttering his mother’s yard across the street would have vanished. He was disappointed.

“Red, what did you do to your mother?” asked Elaine. Displaying her gigantic gnome collection in her front yard was Myrtle’s favorite way of expressing her displeasure with her son. “It must have taken her all night to drag all those things out of the shed. She could have broken her neck!”

Red turned back around to face the narrowed eyes of his wife, lampooning him with visual darts. “Nothing! I didn’t do...” He stopped. “I signed her up for Women of the Church and Altar Guild.”

“I thought you said that was her idea!”

“She’s bored again, Elaine, and you know that means trouble.”

“She’s won’t be all that bad,” demurred Elaine.

“She won’t? Remember when she wrote the blistering editorial to the Charlotte Observer?”

“Which one?” asked Elaine.

“That’s what I mean! She goes off half-c****d on some random topic and gets everybody all stirred up.”

“Well, we don’t live in Charlotte anyway. It’s not like people are snickering at us behind our backs at the Piggly Wiggly.”

“She’s caused plenty of trouble here, too, you know. Remember the uncivil unrest she sparked at Greener Pastures Retirement Home?” demanded Red.

Elaine did. Once when Myrtle visited a friend there, she’d spearheaded a protest against the assigned seating in the dining hall. “At your age you should sit where you please,” she’d sniffed. This spawned hurt feelings from those happy with their seating assignments and indignation from those who wanted to sit where they chose. They had to bring in the Methodist minister to mediate.

Red sighed. “Whenever she has too much time on her hands, she worries over the little things in life.”

Elaine guiltily remembered her hours obsessing on Jack’s sippy cup problem.

“She’ll meddle in other people’s business—organize sit-ins to protest late garbage pick-up...who knows what she might do with a lot of extra time on her hands? She could use that extra time for the community good.” Red rationalized.

“Arranging flowers in the sanctuary?”

Red knew he wouldn’t win this one. Plus, Elaine looked like she was working herself up into a real snit—one that might carry over into their chicken pot pie supper that evening. Or their “American Idol” snuggling-up-time on the sofa together. Or even...

“What do you want me to do?” he pleaded, palms held up in supplication.

“Apologize to your mother. Send those gnomes packing—before people really do snicker at us at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Red picked up the cordless phone, which Elaine quickly pulled from his hand and set back onto the counter. She propelled him to the front door, pushed him out, and went back for a second cup of coffee. She was greeted in the kitchen by their half-asleep French exchange student. Jean-Marc shuffled past the kitchen window, stopped short at the sight of the gnomes, and peered through it again. “Zut alors!” Elaine wordlessly poured him a large cup of coffee.

Red was too late to patch things up with Myrtle that morning. She was already stomping her way to church for the Altar Guild meeting he’d gotten her into. Myrtle’s cane thumped emphatically on the pavement in front of her, the robustness of the sound giving her a sense of satisfaction. The skin that stretched over her big bones were wrinkle-free...just a few fine lines when she smiled and frowned. She was tall and cut an imposing figure in the classroom where she’d reigned supreme for twenty-five years before retiring more years ago than she cared to remember. She smiled smugly at the thought of her gnome army greeting Red this morning. If she’d wanted to get involved with Altar Guild and Women of the Church, she’d have signed up herself.

Altar Guild was synonymous with Parke Stockard, who seemed bent on taking over every church activity she could get involved with. Great. A morning with Parke certainly wouldn’t cure Myrtle’s foul mood. She gave her cane another vicious whack on the sidewalk, then pushed through the heavy wooden doors into the sanctuary, checking her murderous thoughts at the door. Although someone clearly hadn’t checked theirs.

Parke Stockard lay sprawled at the altar, sightless eyes wide open. For once, Myrtle was glad to have her cane to lean on.

“Miss Myrtle! Here to help us out with Altar Guild?” The minister, Nathaniel Gluck, loped into the sanctuary, long arms dangling awkwardly by his sides. He blanched when he spotted the body by the altar, stopping in his tracks. Nathaniel moved forward, then stopped again. His bony hands clutched his throat and he made a choking, gasping sound before getting back in control. “Merciful heavens! Oh...” he wheezed a trembling sigh, “dear. Miss Myrtle, we should leave. Should phone the police. Or an ambulance. My office is just down the hall...” His hands flapped helplessly in the air like a scrawny fledgling trying to fly off.

Myrtle had no intention of being shepherded away. “Don’t worry about me, Nathaniel. I’ll just—um—stay here and make sure the crime scene isn’t tampered with. Parke’s days of needing ambulances are long gone. Just call Red.” Myrtle’s son Red was Bradley’s chief of police. The minister scuttled off to his office.

The crime scene had a film noir feel to it. The pulpit cast creepy shadows over the dead blonde on the floor. Even the blood spatters had an artful feel about them, with Parke’s stray hairs matted down just so. Roses lay scattered on the altar, on Parke, and on the floor, a subtle reminder of the violent act. The only odd thing was—Myrtle squinted in disbelief—Parke’s knit top was on inside-out. How very un-Parkelike.

Her body sprawled dramatically in front of the altar with a broken crystal vase lying in splinters nearby. Myrtle moved closer, wondering what kind of information she could pick up before Red came roaring over in his squad car and hustled her out of there as fast as she could toddle.

Shocked by her daring, Myrtle bent down and placed a hand on Parke’s bare arm. Her body was still warm. The murder had been very recent.. The hush of the sanctuary took on a more sinister feel and the hairs on the back of Myrtle’s neck stood on end.

Parke obviously died from blunt force trauma. But what weapon had the killer used? The altar was a mess and the weapon could be almost any of the heavy objects lying on it or nearby. Had the crystal vase smashed on Parke’s head or on the floor during a struggle? A heavy brass collection plate could easily have been the weapon. Or the huge, brass-footed candlesticks that lay overturned on the altar.

Myrtle leaned closer to investigate blood on the collection plate, and noticed a cell phone nearly obscured by the avalanche of roses. Putting down her cane, she took a tissue from her pocketbook and picked up the phone. “Good Myrtle” argued against tampering with evidence. That was until “Bad Myrtle” pointed out she had a God-given talent for solving puzzles. Crosswords, true, but they could be just as cryptic as murders. She was assisting the police. “Good Myrtle” kept quiet.

Myrtle scrolled through the phone’s menu until she got to the call log. Parke Stockard sure had lots of numbers on her contact list, but Myrtle doubted they were all friends. Recent calls included Althea Hayes, Benton Chambers, and Josh Tucker, her co-worker at the Bradley Bugle. She tried listening to the voicemail messages, but hung up with disappointment when prompted for a password. She eased the phone back where she’d found it and sat down in a pew to wait for Nathaniel. Still looking around, she spotted a large Bible a couple of feet away from her—definitely not a pew Bible, judging from the papers and sticky notes protruding from it. She slid across the wooden pew, opened the book, and saw Kitty Kirk’s name written in loopy, schoolgirl cursive in the front of the Bible.

She snapped the Bible shut when the door opened and sat demurely as Nathaniel entered the sanctuary. “Red’s on his way,” he said. The minister glanced at the body and sighed. Wrinkling his brow, he gingerly stepping up to the altar. “Odd,” he said.

“What is?”

“The flowers. I don’t remember roses in the arrangement this morning.” He frowned. “We have a member with a terrible allergy to roses and Kitty is always so careful to avoid using them.” He seemed about to continue, then stopped short.

“I never dreamed she’d be murdered,” he said in a hushed tone, almost to himself.

“Were you worried something like this might happen?”

He shook his head emphatically. “Nothing like this. I’d have told Red if I thought any harm would come to Parke. But she didn’t have many fans, I’m afraid.”

Myrtle scowled in remembrance. “I’m not surprised.”

“But her heart was in the right place,” he insisted.

“I just remember that Dorothy Parker quote. ‘If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to,’” said Myrtle.

Nathaniel smiled noncommittally and continued an anxious vigil over the body. Discovering the body of the church’s biggest benefactor capped off the worst week he’d ever had at the church. He’d received phone calls all week complaining about the new hymnals that Parke Stockard had donated. Last Sunday’s service featured the hymn “God of Our Fathers.” In an effort at political correctness, the modern hymnal had diplomatically changed the words to “God of the Ages,” much to the apparent displeasure of most of the congregation.

Myrtle sniffed the air suddenly. She hadn’t immediately noticed in the flurry of discovering Parke’s body, but she was certain she smelled cigarette smoke in the sanctuary. She pictured a stubble-jawed, bald tough guy with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his sneering mouth, easily murdering Parke with one hand tied behind his back for good sportsmanship. But the smell was too faint for someone to have been smoking in the room. More likely the killer had been smoking previously and Myrtle smelled the traces of smoke from his clothing. It confirmed that Parke hadn’t been dead for very long.

The wail of a siren, the sound of gravel crunching as a car swiftly pulled into the church parking lot, and a door slamming interrupted their conversation. A minute later, Myrtle’s son, the town of Bradley’s police chief, hurried in with one of his two deputies behind him. The hair that had given Red his nickname was now heavily sprinkled with gray, which he attributed to worrying over his mother, rather than the fact that he was in his late forties. His tough look was enhanced by a jagged scar that snaked down the side of his face. Red liked everyone to assume it came answering the call of duty, but the scar actually involved a homemade bike ramp, a helmetless Red, and some eight-year-old friends egging him on. His green eyes briefly swept over the murder scene, halting at the sight of Myrtle.

“Mama!” His face flushed. “Are you determined to screw up my day? First a return to gnome-land followed by discovering murdered bodies in churches?”

“Well, somebody had to discover the body, Red. At least you know I’m not a suspect.”

Red looked menacing, which wasn’t difficult considering his big-boned six-foot four inch frame. “I’m not so sure I do know that, Mama. Seems like I remember Elaine telling me about your beef with Parke Stockard.”

Myrtle bristled. “Not a beef. A—disagreement.” Her yard gnomes would be camping out for a while.

Red turned to look at the body once again. “I’ve put out a call to the state police. And I need to get both of y’all out of the way and get your statements from you.”

Myrtle slowly moved towards the door, looking around her as she walked.

“Get a move on, Mama.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, Red,” she responded huffily. “I need to get my cane.”

Red looked around, squinting his green eyes. “Well, where is it? It should be in your hand. Or if not, it should be right by the sanctuary door. Right?” He took a deep breath to control his temper, strode over a yard from Parke’s body, and picked up Myrtle’s cane. “Because we don’t interfere with crime scenes, do we?”

“For heaven’s sake. I was just getting close to make sure the poor woman wasn’t still alive and needing an ambulance.”

Red snorted. “I hardly think there was any doubt as to her vitals, or lack of them.” He grabbed her cane from the pew near Kitty’s Bible and herded Myrtle towards the sanctuary door where Nathaniel was still anxiously hovering. His hand tightened on Myrtle’s arm and she looked up to see a figure ducking out of sight through the door.