Pretty is as Pretty Dies

Chapter Two-2

“Hey! Stop—police!” bellowed Red, as he and his deputy moved swiftly towards the exit. A moment later, Althea Hayes appeared, well-dressed in a pale green jacket and flowing green skirt. She put a trembling hand to her mouth when she saw Parke’s body. Althea’s white hair was wound, as always, neatly in the back of her head in what Myrtle supposed was a French twist, kept in place by a tortoiseshell clip. Myrtle was very envious of Althea’s hair: it was thick and well-behaved. Fine and uncooperative in her youth, Myrtle’s hair had become wispily contrary in her old age. She tamed it with monthly perms that only succeeded in running more of her hair off. Despite Althea’s breathless appearance in the sanctuary, only a couple of tendrils had escaped her French twist. Myrtle was sure she must resemble Einstein again by now—she’d run her hand through her hair so many times since discovering Parke’s body.

“Mrs. Hayes,” said Red with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I—,” Althea started, then swallowed hard, looking towards the body in front of the altar. “I’m here for the Women of the Church meeting.”

“That would be over in the dining hall, though, wouldn’t it?”

Nathaniel Gluck stepped in. “Well, it is, but I’m sure Mrs. Hayes was just checking on the floral display, weren’t you? Because you and Kitty Kirk share Altar Guild duties.” He looked searchingly at Althea’s face.

Althea nodded weakly, still looking towards the body.

Red looked at her with a direct gaze. “Mrs. Hayes, did you see or hear anyone when you came into the church?”

Althea shook her head vehemently. She’s hiding something, thought Myrtle.

“Come on now,” said Red briskly, “we need to get away from the crime scene. I need to make a phone call, then I’ll need statements from all of you. It might be better if I get them at the station, since the forensic guys are going to need to check out the church.”

“And find the fingerprints and DNA of everyone in the town,” Myrtle said.

“What the—” Red spluttered as what sounded like a parade of cars and people outside the church. Striding to the stained glass window, he peered through a red panel. Red started uttering a curse, which he hastily changed into “Jiminy Cricket!” as he remembered he was in church. “The whole town of Bradley is out there.”

“Can’t blame anyone but yourself and those sirens,” said Myrtle, carrying herself regally out the church door.

The scene outside resembled a paparazzi free-for-all. There were what looked like all the usual church ladies, some still in housecoats and curlers. Josh Tucker, Bradley Bugle reporter, was taking pictures and sneezing emphatically. In between sneezes and coughs, he juggled his digital camera and made notes. Kitty Kirk, the leader of the church ladies, appeared especially peculiar and her complexion looked almost gray. She stared oddly at the reporter. Myrtle figured it must be because Erma Sherman, Myrtle’s nosy next-door neighbor, had just plowed through the crowd and leeched onto Josh Tucker’s camera arm, gabbing and gazing fatuously into Josh’s nervous eyes. Myrtle guessed he didn’t return Erma’s affection: he was pasty-white and carefully ignoring her while still in the throes of a sneezing fit. Maybe he was allergic to her.

Erma’s braying laugh and large front teeth combined to give her an unfortunate resemblance to a donkey. Her medical afflictions were legion and eagerly shared with others. Whatever her ailments, her eyesight and hearing were excellent, much to the frustration and dismay of Myrtle as she tried to stealthily slip by her. Remembering the cigarette smoke, she edged closer to Josh and Erma and sniffed delicately. She smelled nothing and wandered slowly through the crowd, sniffing as she went, to no avail. Her olfactory mission was cut short when Red’s booming voice cracked like a whip over the crowd. “Everyone will retreat to their cars and return wherever they were before they came here. This is a crime scene.”

This statement prompted a thrilled gasp from some of the church ladies, but with one look at Red, they decided to forgo an inquisition. Reluctantly, they filed back to their cars, the reporter from the Bugle still taking pictures and sneezing with Erma Sherman matching him step for step.

“If you’ll go ahead and get in the cruiser, Mama,” said Red, “we’ll go to the station and I’ll get your statement from you there. Let me talk with Nathaniel for just a minute and I’ll be right with you. The state police is coming over and Detective Lieutenant Perkins will want to talk with you.”

“John Perkins is assigned to the case? Well, at least it’s someone I know.”

Red raised his eyebrows. “That’s right...I’d forgotten. We’d had you over for dinner when he was here on police business? I’m surprised you even remember him.”

She started to answer but Red quickly walked off. Myrtle remembered Detective Lieutenant Perkins well. She’d tried to pump him for information over dinner on a high-profile murder case that was splashed all over the news. He was a nice enough man—except for the fact that he gave away absolutely nothing. He made the Buckingham Palace guards look animated.

Myrtle hoped he wouldn’t prove so stoic this time. Solving the case before Red or the state police would prove a point and get back at Red for his high-handed treatment of her.

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MYRTLE EASED INTO THE front seat of the cruiser to wait for Red. If she got in the backseat, it would be all over town that Myrtle Clover murdered Parke Stockard. Not that Parke hadn’t had it coming.

The trip to the station took only a couple of minutes with Red behind the wheel. Myrtle spotted a group of locals sitting on a wooden bench outside the diner as Red pulled up in front of the old, brick courthouse that housed the police station and city hall. Word traveled fast in Bradley, North Carolina.

“Vultures,” Myrtle spat out.

“Mama, those old guys are always outside Bo’s Diner. Every morning they get their coffee and sit around in their golf caps, shooting the bull and cutting-up. It’s got nothing to do with the murder.”

“They usually don’t have their cackling crones with them.”

“Cackling...? Their wives, you mean? They’re probably just enjoying another relaxing morning of retirement with their husbands.”

Myrtle noticed the old women lean closer and turn up their hearing aids hopefully as she and Red entered the police station. She really couldn’t blame them too much for their interest. Bradley, North Carolina, population 1,500, wasn’t ordinarily a murder magnet. Crime waves had formerly consisted of Bud Dickens and Crockett Scott getting sloshed several nights in a row and loudly warbling Willie Nelson songs in the streets.

Red held open the weather-beaten wooden door for his mother and she walked into the tiny police station, stepping carefully so she wouldn’t lose her footing on the warped pinewood floors that groaned in protest where she trod.

Following standard procedure, Red notified the state police as soon as he’d gotten the call from the minister about the murder. As Red poured her a Coca-Cola, some of the forensics team had already arrived in town and checked in at the station before stopping at the church.

The door opened to a tall, wiry man with a super-short military haircut. Detective Lieutenant Perkins greeted her in his polite, measured way. Myrtle decided to override his reserve with an exuberant hug. Best to knock him off-guard to maybe squeeze some information out of him. He gave an “oof” from the ferocity of her embrace, but appeared to be onto her as he watched her with appraising eyes.

“Mrs. Clover,” he said. He led her into Red’s small office and closed the door. “It’s nice to see you even if the circumstances aren’t as pleasant as last time. Could you go over what led you to the church this morning and what happened when you got there?” He picked up a notebook and pen from Red’s desk.

Myrtle took a deep breath and outlined the day’s events, going into great depth when describing Red’s busybody meddling in her personal life and the horrors of Women of the Church and Altar Guild duty. She described the moment she’d discovered Parke Stockard with melodrama and sound effects, and carefully omitting clues she’d seen there, or her perusal of Parke’s cell phone. Finishing her monologue, she neatly folded her hands in her lap and waited for his reaction. No reaction was forthcoming, though, as Perkins carefully replaced the cap on his ballpoint pen and tapped it gently against the notebook.

“Tell me why you think this might have happened, Mrs. Clover. Why would Parke Stockard, by all accounts a philanthropic benefit to the town of Bradley, have been murdered in the very place she spent so much time and money?”

Myrtle paused. It made no sense to help Perkins with his investigation when she was trying to solve the case herself. He should do his own poking and prodding.

Lieutenant Perkins said, “It would be a tremendous help, Mrs. Clover, if you shared your opinion with me. You obviously have a lot of useful insights which could help point us in the right direction.”

Finally someone who valued her opinions. But that didn’t mean she had to help him out. Besides, she didn’t really know anything. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea, Detective.” Perkins frowned and she hastily added, “Poor Parke.” But it didn’t sound very convincing.

He snapped shut his notebook and stood up. “Thanks, Mrs. Clover. If you think of anything else, be sure to let Red know.” At Myrtle’s grimace, he amended, “Or call me, instead.” He handed her his business card and respectfully waited for her to pull out of the deep office chair, but didn’t belittle her by trying to help. She wondered if Red had smelled the cigarette smoke in the sanctuary. But he’d been so bent out of shape with her for discovering a body that he probably hadn’t noticed anything else.

Judging from Red’s expression as she tottered back into the station lobby, he was still pretty irritated. He offered to drive her back home. At least, that’s what she thought he said. It was hard to hear words coming out from gritted teeth.

They drove off. Myrtle glanced at her watch. “Just in time to catch Tomorrow’s Promise.”

Red gave a short laugh. “Elaine called to check on you a little while ago. I’ll call her back and let her know you’re doing okay after all. Discovering murdered bodies is all in a day’s work—you’ve already moved on to your soap opera.”

“Tomorrow’s Promise has a storyline that’s eerily similar and could provide some interesting perspective, Red. Angelique infuriates everyone on the soap—but she’s bipolar and can’t really help it, bless her heart. Cliff snarls at the camera and plots mischief because Angelique’s ex-husband is his brother and she’s stalking him because he’s dating Cliff’s sister-in-law but just got her pregnant—”

“And this is like Parke’s murder how, exactly?”

“Because Angelique was killed, of course. Why else?”

Red’s fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly as he pulled into Myrtle’s driveway.

“You should see a doctor about that nervous tic, Red. And all your veins are standing out on your forehead, too. Hope it doesn’t mean high blood pressure.” With that final word, Myrtle climbed out of the patrol car and slammed the door shut behind her. Picking her way carefully around the gnomes, she walked to her front door as Red’s car roared off.