Myrtle Clover Mysteries Box Set 1

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three––––––––

“I don’t want to go tonight,” said Myrtle, feeling stubborn.

“Oh come on, Myrtle. It won’t be that bad,” said Miles. “Every one of these folks is a great cook. You know all the people going. It’ll be something fun and different. Besides—you’re hosting the dessert. You’ve got to go.”

“It’ll be tedious and tiring. And I don’t care about food as much as you do. I could just sit at home and wait for the club to get to my house. I’ll sip sherry and read thoughtful books and grieve over my failed plan to transform that pitiful book club into something great.”

“You’re not even a little curious how Jill and Blanche are going to interact with each other at a party? I thought you’d wanted to get to the bottom of their feud.”

Myrtle perked up. “It’s a one-sided feud, that’s the thing. Usually you’ve got two people upset with each other. But Jill seems just as pleased as punch when I bring up Blanche’s name.” She fiddled with the phone cord. “Okay, I’ll be there. But don’t be surprised if I leave early and go back home to wait for the dessert course.”

Myrtle hung up and sighed. She still hadn’t figured out exactly what she was going to do about these desserts she was supposed to cook for the progressive dinner. Myrtle wanted some fresh ideas and those old cookbooks of hers seemed really stale. She checked her watch. Shoot. The Bradley Bugle’s editor, Sloan, had scheduled a meeting with her and she was running behind.

Myrtle’s son Red had, over a year ago, gotten her hired to write a helpful hints column for the newspaper. He’d seemed to find it an appropriate activity for a retired English teacher with rather too much time on her hands. She’d been furious with Red at the time for meddling in her business. But she’d gotten so she liked writing the column, even if the tips that came in were fairly flaky. There were lots of superstitious people and old wives in Bradley, if their tips were anything to judge by.

Myrtle pushed open the old wooden door to the newsroom. The whole room smelled like ink, paper, and musty books. It was dimly lit and every corner was crammed with stacks of papers and photographs. It was, thought Myrtle with satisfaction, a wonderful place.

Sloan, a hefty man with an ever-expanding forehead and a busy demeanor, lifted his head as the door opened. “Miss Myrtle,” he said, standing quickly.

Myrtle wondered if Sloan would ever lose that deferential manner toward her. She’d taught him in middle school and he obviously clearly remembered the tongue-lashings she’d given him and Red both as they’d rolled spitballs, passed notes, and thrown balls of paper around the classroom. Sloan and Red were both in their forties and those days were long gone, but the memory, apparently, lived on. Plus the fact that Myrtle, even in her eighties, could straighten up to an intimidating six feet when she wanted to.

“Thanks for coming over,” said Sloan with one eye—as usual—on the clock. “I’m trying to expand the paper’s readership a little bit. Many people don’t subscribe anymore.”

Myrtle frowned. She thought everybody subscribed to the Bradley Bugle. How else would they know what was going on?

“And your helpful hints column has gotten pretty popular. I know we get more tips in a week than we have space to put in the paper. So I thought you could put the extras on the Bradley Bugle’s blog.”

“What? I didn’t know the Bugle even had a blog.”

“Well, we didn’t until a few days ago. But I’ve been checking into it and it seems like a smart direction to take the paper in. The next generation is almost definitely going to be getting their news online. I can have a mobile version for folks to read it easier on their phones. And the blog will have little extras that we don’t have space for or the money to print in the paper version.”

Myrtle wasn’t sure exactly how to blog. But being an octogenarian blogger was an idea that definitely had legs to it. The idea of conquering technology, at her age, gave her a warm, smug feeling.

“I was even thinking,” said Sloan, warming up to his subject, “that we could run a story on that supper club you’re in.”

“The progressive dinner thing?” asked Myrtle with surprise. “That’s news?”

“It might not be interesting for expensive newsprint news,” explained Sloan. “But it’s perfect for online. You can mention the names of all the people who were there, the food that was served. Take some pictures and upload them. And then all those people will go online to read about themselves. You know how people are in Bradley. So you could play up the angle, butter them all up a little bit. And I’ll have links on the blog site to subscribe to the paper. I think I’ve even got some local advertisers interested.”

Myrtle still wasn’t sold on the news value of the impending supper club that she hadn’t been excited about to begin with. “Wellll. I guess so. I’m still trying to work out what to cook for it. I’m hosting desserts at my house and I want to try something different.”

Sloan brightened. “You know what you could do? Check out the food blogs. There are tons of sites with recipes—and they even do step-by-step pictures on how to cook them. I use them a lot, living by myself. What do I know about cooking?”

Myrtle beamed. “Smart boy. Now that’s a great idea.” She bestowed on him one of her fondest looks, usually reserved for her grandson.

Sloan looked concerned that he might end up the unwilling recipient of a hug. He moved backwards a few steps. “Well good. And thanks for the coverage on the progressive dinner. I think we’re on to something really good.”

After spending an hour studying food blogs, Myrtle was well and truly overwhelmed. She’d visited a couple of blogs before, but she’d had no clue that there were so many of them out there. And they all linked to each other, so when you went to one food blog, you discovered fifteen or twenty others that sounded good. She decided the food blog idea still sounded like a great source for recipes, but it wouldn’t work out on such short notice. Myrtle walked over to the Piggly Wiggly, grabbed a couple of Key Lime pies and two dozen cupcakes and called herself done.

But she was still stuck cooking that side dish for Jill’s part of the dinner, since she’d so shortsightedly volunteered to help out. Luckily, she cooked a mean three bean salad. She charged into the kitchen, full of confidence and good intentions.

Sadly, it did end up slightly overcooked, but that’s because she was writing that darned blog post for Sloan and trying to figure out how to log on. He’d given her an instructions sheet to follow, but it wasn’t as easy as he’d made out. The cheese on top of her casserole had gotten just a little bit singed. It was going to have to do, though—it was time for the dinner to start and she still had to hand off the side to Jill.

Myrtle wrapped the hot dish tightly in aluminum foil, carried it to Jill’s house with her rooster oven mitts, and handed it off to the grateful Jill with relief. “See you in a few minutes, Miss Myrtle. I’m just putting the finishing touches on the baked beans. Y’all are so sweet to bring side dishes. Everybody has been so thoughtful.”

“No problem, sweetie. And everything smells divine. See you in a few.”

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The problem with hosting a supper club was that most of the houses on the street were modest in size. Oh the houses definitely had their strong points; after all, they were on the lake and each one on Myrtle’s side of the street had a dock with a boat. But the houses themselves were older homes, built in the 1950s. Most were your basic three-bedroom, two bathroom ranches. Miles had only two bedrooms and one bathroom. Which, Myrtle thought as she visited with Miles, was absolutely fine. All the space in the world that a bachelor needed. Except when hosting a supper club of thirty people. And especially when you provided them with alcohol, as Miles had so thoughtfully done for the hors d’oeuvres and cocktail leg of their culinary journey.

A booming belly-laugh erupted just feet away from them. Miles looked startled. “What was that?” he breathed.

“Georgia Simpson,” said Myrtle. She frowned. “I wonder what she’s doing here. She’s isn’t a reader. She wouldn’t have even been in book club. And it looks like she’s been drinking. I mean seriously drinking. With effort.”

“Tippy called all the hosts to tell us to add one more person to the guest list. Apparently someone was interested in a supper club, but not a book club. I guess it must have been Georgia.”

“So now we’ve reached a new club low,” growled Myrtle.

The woman threw back her head and laughed her booming laugh again.

“The epitome of genteel Bradley womanhood. Stinking drunk in acquaintances’ houses,” muttered Miles.

“Keep it up, Miles. Don’t think she won’t hit a guy who wears glasses.”

Miles looked somewhat affronted at this attack on his manhood.

Georgia embodied the idea of a tough cookie, from her big hair that never moved even in high winds, to the tattoos covering her arms and legs. Her eyelashes were so heavily encrusted with mascara that her eyes stayed permanently at half-mast, giving her a kind of glowering look. She had plucked out most of her eyebrows, the better to draw in a pair in whatever theme her expression-of-the-day was in. Her hair was black on the bottom with a white-blond layer on the top. She was fond of wearing tee-shirts that sported rude sayings. Myrtle nudged Miles with her foot. “You’re gaping.”

“She looks like a guy I was in Vietnam with,” murmured Miles in wonder as Georgia strutted over to them and grunted a greeting.

“You know what this party needs?” Georgia asked in a grating voice.

Miles stopped gaping and managed a look of polite interest.

“Port-a-johns. You coulda had a couple put into your backyard, you know. Nice place, but one bathroom?”

Miles nodded eagerly in agreement. Myrtle rolled her eyes. “Miles lives by himself, Georgia. Why would he need more than one bathroom?”

But Georgia was already walking away. “Got to find a bathroom.”

Myrtle looked after her, thoughtfully. “That’s the best mood I’ve seen Georgia in for a while. Parties must agree with her.”

“You know this person?” asked Miles. He had an awe-struck note in his voice. “You—the Charles Dickens and William Butler Yeats fan. You know this Georgia creature.”

Myrtle looked at him as though he were addled. “Of course, Miles. I taught her.”

“Taught her!”

“Miles, when you’re as old as I am and taught for as long as I did, you’ve taught everybody in the town between the ages of thirty-five and sixty.”

Jill quickly joined the line behind them, peering around Myrtle at Georgia’s retreating back. This was interesting—Jill actually avoiding someone.

Myrtle hoped Miles didn’t have anything in his medicine cabinet that he wanted to keep private.

“Dear God,” breathed Miles, “there goes the party.”

Myrtle craned her neck to see the front door. The inaptly-named Tiny, his looming figure filling the door frame, looked apprehensively into the room.

“What is he doing here?” wondered Myrtle. “He’s no book club member. Or book club spouse. I’m not actually sure he’s a reader at all.”

“He’s probably looking for a mate,” said Miles. He gloomily took a swig of his cocktail. “Now that he’s single again he’s out on the town looking for a new wife to torment.”

“Was he ever tiny?” mused Myrtle. “I can’t actually remember a time that he was.”

Tiny, by this time, had crammed his bulk into Miles’s living room. He’d managed to squeeze his six foot seven, three hundred pound frame into an uncomfortable-looking, shiny suit. And, somehow, had forgotten his socks.

“Maybe it’s his brain that’s tiny?” murmured Miles.

“I’m surprised at you, Miles. That wasn’t very nice.”

“If he were nice, I wouldn’t have said it.”

“He always seems to smell like gasoline,” mused Myrtle.

“Maybe after he’s finished doing yard work he splashes a little on. Gasoline is just about as expensive as cologne these days, after all.”

They watched as Tiny plowed through to the cocktail table. Miles watched him with glum eyes. “If I were going to have a gatecrasher, why couldn’t it be someone else?”

Proving him right, Tiny immediately launched into an argument with Simon Caulfield and Georgia, who’d returned to the group—“There ain’t nothing wrong with hunting, Simon.”

“Guns are dangerous things,” said Simon in an uptight voice, “I wouldn’t dream of having one in my house. If you’re a parent, which you are, you should be more responsible.”

Tiny looked at Simon blankly at the mention of offspring. Then he recollected, “Oh. Well, he’s eighteen, you know. No bitty guy ... ”

Miles groaned. “This evening is a disaster. I’ve got Tiny Kirk party crashing and starting arguments and I’m not big enough to kick him out. I’ve got Georgia Simpson staggering around in search of portable toilets.” He gestured at Georgia, who had a hand on Tiny’s bulging arm for support. Or amour. Or both. “And who knows,” he spluttered, “what might happen next.”