Death at a Drop-In

Chapter One

Chapter One

“Miles?” asked Myrtle, peering closely at her friend. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Certainly not!” said Miles, flustered. He pushed his rimless glasses higher on his nose.

“Then why are you asking me to go to a drop-in with you, if I’m not your date?” Myrtle was vastly relieved that Miles wasn’t asking her out. She was in her eighties, widowed about forty years. She was pretty sure that she wouldn’t be current on dating protocol.

“I simply don’t want to go to this party by myself,” said Miles with a sigh. He swirled the ice around in his tall glass of iced tea. They had just finished watching Tomorrow’s Promise, a soap opera that Myrtle had somehow gotten him hooked on. Today’s installment had featured a lavish party. He’d been reminded about his own invitation, which he’d put off responding to.

“It’s only a drop-in. You could go in, make sure Cosette sees you there and then leave. Or, simply don’t go at all. Case closed,” said Myrtle. “You’re a grown man. Since you’re in your sixties, you’re very grown up, actually. You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to go.”

Miles traced a finger over the checked tablecloth covering Myrtle’s kitchen table. “I’ve gotten tons of invitations from Cosette to parties and have turned so many of them down that I don’t think I have it in me to turn down another single one.”

“Why haven’t you wanted to go to any of them?”

Miles colored. “Cosette is a terrible flirt. I never know what to make of it. And her husband is always right there while she’s flirting.”

“That goes to show that she means nothing at all by it. It’s tacky, but it’s simply the way she operates. Even Lucas thinks nothing of it.” Myrtle shrugged.

“Maybe so, but it makes me uncomfortable. Not only that, but she invites some of her widowed friends over and it’s obvious she’s trying to match-make.” Miles shifted in his seat.

“That’s because you’re such an impressive specimen,” explained Myrtle, grinning mischievously at him. “You’re a sophisticated guy from Atlanta who’s gracing us with your retirement in tiny Bradley, North Carolina. You’re a former professional—a successful architect....”

“Engineer,” corrected Miles glumly.

“Whatever. The point is that you’re very eligible to the biddies around here. Besides...you can still drive.”

Miles sighed again. “I wish you’d stop bringing that up as a reason for my desirability. It’s quite deflating to my ego.”

“Think what people will say about me,” said Myrtle. “They’ll call me a coyote.”

Miles thought this over. “I’m stumped. What’s a coyote?”

“One of those women who goes out with much younger men. You’re about twenty years younger, you know,” said Myrtle.

“I believe you mean a cougar, not a coyote.” He paused. “So will you go with me?”

“To protect you from the flirting hordes? Oh, I suppose so. I can appear quite threatening, I’m sure. I’m six feet tall and I wield a cane. Besides, I certainly don’t have anything else to do tonight.” Myrtle stared morosely at Miles.

“Thanks.”

“But you owe me one,” said Myrtle. “I don’t like Cosette Whitlow one bit. She’s extremely annoying. Every time she sees Red, she tells him how wonderful the Greener Pastures Retirement Home is and how much her addled mother loves being there. She brags on her toddler grandson as if he’s a genius of some kind. I ordinarily avoid her like the plague.” Her eyes scanned her kitchen cabinets. “Now I have to figure out what to bring to the drop-in. Maybe a dip of some kind.”

Miles hastily said, “You really don’t have to do that, Myrtle. You’re already doing me a favor by coming. I’ll bring a bottle of wine from the both of us and we’ll count ourselves done.”

“I could even bring something hot. I had some delicious stuffed mushrooms at Marybelle Stuart’s house recently,” said Myrtle.

“How about something simple, like a cheese tray?”

Myrtle said, “Anyone would think that you don’t like my cooking, Miles!”

Miles pressed his lips shut as if to force some words back in. He was probably remembering that he needed to be on Myrtle’s good side. “It’s just that I don’t want you to bother, that’s all.” There was a tap at Myrtle’s front door and Miles said, “I’ve got to go, Myrtle. I’ll answer that for you on my way out. See you around six-thirty.”

He looked out the front window. “It’s Red,” he said and opened the door for Myrtle’s son. Red gave Miles a cheerful greeting along with a goodbye as he saw he was leaving. Then Red grinned at his mother, who was walking into the living room to join him. The red hair that had given Red his nickname was turning gray and he was now in his mid-forties. He spent his days policing the small town of Bradley as its chief of police. And he spent his off-hours trying to keep Myrtle in line. He was convinced that when Myrtle was bored, trouble soon followed.

Sure enough, he had plans for her free time. He was carrying knitting needles and a bag of yarn. Myrtle looked at them distastefully. “Where on earth did those things come from, Red?”

He sighed. “From Elaine. She’s planning on bringing more over to you later.”

Myrtle blinked at him. “I don’t believe you. Your wife knows good and well that I’m no knitter.”

“She knows that you know how to knit, though. And she’s got a friend who is teaching her how to knit. Apparently, it’s supposed to be very relaxing,” said Red with a shrug as he plopped down across from his mother in the living room. It must be getting hot outside since beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, despite the fact that he’d only had to walk across the street to get to Myrtle’s. Her small living room, which she preferred to think of as cozy, suddenly seemed cramped.

“Did you come straight here?” asked Myrtle frowning. “If you’re that hot from just walking across the street, then there’s no way I’m going out today.”

Red paused as if weighing his options. He must be tempted to say that it was too hot for Myrtle outside...then he’d know she’d stay in and out of trouble. But he apparently decided to give her the truth. “I didn’t come straight here, no, although it’s plenty hot outside. Work has been busy lately. All kinds of mischief going on.”

Myrtle’s ears perked up. Busy days at the police department could make for interesting listening. “Mischief? What sort of mischief?” Maybe it had something to do with the fascinating saga down the street.

“Old Miz Marlson has been upset about clothes being stolen off her clothesline. She’s been calling me up about every couple of hours to ask if I’ve caught the perpetrators.” On cue, Red’s cell phone rang. He took it off its holster and glumly surveyed it. “Yep. It’s Miz Marlson.”

Red took a deep breath and answered. “Miz Marlson? Yes. I’m working on it right now, that’s right. I’m asking my mother if she’s seen anybody suspicious lurking on the street.” He rolled his eyes at Myrtle. “Mama? Have you seen anybody strange?”

“Erma Sherman is strange,” muttered Myrtle, shuddering at the thought of her detested next-door-neighbor.

Red ignored her and said, “No, Miz Marlson, Mama hasn’t noticed anybody. I’ll keep investigating. We’ll find the guy—don’t you worry. Mmm-hmm.” He hung up and sighed. “I do love small towns. I really do. I should be thanking my lucky stars every day that I’m in Bradley, North Carolina, worrying about stolen clothes and linens and not graffiti, murder, and mayhem.”

Myrtle said, “If Mary Marlson had anything stolen from her, then I’m a monkey’s uncle. She’s probably stuck those clothes away in her closet and has forgotten she’s done it.”

“Oh,” said Red, sounding startled. “Does she have Alzheimer’s? No one bothered to tell me that. That’s exactly the kind of thing I like to know so that I can keep an eye out for them and make sure they’re safe.”

“No. Just plain old absentmindedness. She was the same way when she was a girl,” said Myrtle. “Told me I’d taken her favorite marble. Mary went on and on about it, the crazy thing. Later, I noticed her dress pocket appeared to have a small lump, and there was the marble. You should go visit her and have her check her closet for that stuff.”

Red’s voice was thoughtful now, “All right, Mama. Good idea.”

“Now that I’ve saved you from a fruitless search for Mary Marlson’s cotton dresses, why don’t you give me the real scoop from around town? You’ve got to be able to do better than the Clothesline Capers,” said Myrtle.

“Let’s see,” Red wrinkled his brow. “Not a whole lot, no. Jim Weller cussed out Tony Pearson at the barber shop. Something about mechanical incompetence. Launched himself at Tony and I had to step in. I was there getting a trim.”

“Mechanical incompetence? Is that like medical incompetence?”

“I guess. Tony is a car mechanic and Jim thought Tony did more harm than good under the hood and now Jim has some expensive repairs. I calmed Jim down and helped mediate the dispute.” Red shrugged.

“Being a small town cop isn’t as boring as people think,” said Myrtle.

“You got that right.” Red stretched and stood up. “Time for me to head on out. I’ve still got to deal with Miz Marlson.”

“Can you come back over later in the afternoon and take me to the grocery store?” Myrtle didn’t have a car anymore, although she was very proud that she still had a license. “I’d ordinarily walk there, but I do have a gallon of milk to get this time. And I must pick up something to bring to Cosette Whitlow’s drop-in tonight.” Red frowned at her and she sighed. “Miles is making me go.”

Red said, “Ah, Miles is behind it. I couldn’t imagine you going there on your own. Weren’t you complaining about her the other day—that you keep running into Cosette? I can’t figure out where your path and Cosette’s would ever cross.”

“Everywhere. She’s omnipresent like a malevolent spirit. Apparently, she’s involved in every activity the town of Bradley has to offer. And either I happen to run into her all the time at the library, the post office, the drug store, and the grocery store, or else she’s following me,” said Myrtle.

“Hmm,” said Red.

Myrtle narrowed her eyes. Usually when he said hmm, he was tuning her out. “And she has the audacity to take on a French name in Bradley, North Carolina. I’ll eat my hat if that woman was born a Cosette. I’m thinking she was a Mary Elizabeth or a Darla Leigh or a Peggy Jo.”

Red looked to the heavens in supplication to the gods.

“And she brags on her grandson constantly. Noah. The one who’s Jack’s age.”

Jack was Red and Elaine’s son. “What kinds of things was she saying about Noah?” asked Red curiously.

“Oh, you know. Little Noah can read all the board books in his house. Little Noah can count to a thousand. Little Noah memorized the Pythagorean Theorem. That sort of thing. It’s most vexing. Especially since we know that Jack is much more advanced than Noah is. More advanced than any child in Bradley.”

“Anything else?” asked Red. “You may as well get it all out of your system now.”

“She’s all prickly and pointy. Sharp features, sharp chin, bony elbows and knees. Sharp tongue, too—she’s always fussing at her poor husband. He’s still got quite a limp from his knee surgery, but that doesn’t stop her from running him ragged. Yes, sharp all over. When I look at her, I think ouch.”

Red chuckled. “If you say so, Mama. All right, I’m heading out the door.” His glance fell on the knitting needles and bag of yarn. “Enjoy your knitting.”

Myrtle eyed the bag with distaste. “I certainly won’t. Much as I love Elaine, I’ll be handing over this knitting stuff as soon as I see her. She knows me better than that.”

“Elaine probably thought it was an activity that y’all could do together. Granny knitted, as I recall, and she had you knitting right alongside her,” said Red mildly.

“Many years ago,” said Myrtle with a sigh. She paused. “Knitting makes me feel old. It made me feel old when I was twenty and doing it.”

“It’s supposed to be relaxing,” offered Red.

“It stresses me out.”

“It couldn’t possibly,” said Red stoutly. “Everyone says it’s relaxing.”

“Maybe everyone doesn’t end up with whole rows out of place. Or maybe they don’t end up with really tight stitches.”

“Just think, Mama: knitting will provide you with an excellent cover. Folks will be lulled into a false sense of security. They’ll see an old lady in her eighties innocuously knitting away, and they’ll spill all kinds of secrets. Think of all the undercover snooping you can do. I know you like to snoop.”

“Well, I like to snoop more than I like to knit, that’s for sure.” She paused. “Is Elaine good at knitting?”

Red rolled his eyes and he and his mother shared a look of rare solidarity.

“I suppose you and I will be wearing dreadful knitted hats and scarves this winter,” said Myrtle with a shudder.

“I’m praying for another warm winter,” said Red fervently as he walked out the door.