Death at a Drop-In

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

That afternoon at the grocery store, Myrtle once again ran into Cosette Whitlow. There she was, right in the dairy section, with her stodgy husband Lucas at her beck and call, as usual.

Red had driven her to the store, as promised. He said under his breath, “Here’s Cosette now. Isn’t she the focus of your current fascination?”

“Fascination and repulsion, all at once,” muttered Myrtle. She reached for a bag of dog food.

“Here, I’ll get that,” said Red briskly. “It must weigh twenty pounds, Mama. Wait. You have a cat, not a dog.”

“I’m donating dog food to the Bradley Animal Shelter. I read in the paper that they were running low.”

“Okay. Well, remind me and I’ll take it by while I’m on patrol. We don’t need you lugging twenty pounds of dog food on foot.” He glanced up. “Looks like Cosette is coming over,” he muttered.

“Oh hel-lo, Miss Myrtle! Getting your pantry stocked up?” asked Cosette with a condescending smile on her face and the kind of tone reserved for small children or imbecilic pets.

Myrtle gave her a tight smile in return. “That’s right. And while you’re here, I wanted to let you know that I’m coming to your party tonight. I’m going with Miles.”

“Isn’t that wonderful?” sang out Cosette, giving a broad wink to Red. “I simply love it when our senior citizens still enjoy a love life. It’s so very important, don’t you think, Lucas?”

Lucas quickly nodded, beaming at them.

“Vital, I think,” said Red, nodding and patting his mother on the back. “Helps them live longer, better, more meaningful lives.” His lips twitched as if longing to break into a grin.

“Miles and I are not having a relationship as you well know, Red Clover,” snapped Myrtle.

“That’s something else I admire about your mother,” said Cosette, blinking flirtatiously at Red. “She’s just so plucky! Cute and plucky!”

Myrtle glared at her and Red made a sneezing sound that Myrtle guessed was his attempt at holding back a laugh. It was most annoying when people treated the elderly as if they were children. Myrtle had never been cute. And she preferred capable or courageous to plucky.

Myrtle smiled through gritted teeth. She would try to be patient. “How funny to see you and Lucas here, Cosette. I see you everywhere I go, I think. You must be the busiest woman in Bradley.”

Lucas said shyly, “She is. Excuse my bragging, but Bradley couldn’t do without her. She’s in charge of the Women’s Club, the Bradley Garden Club, the historical society, and volunteers for several committees at church. That doesn’t include all the things she does at the house—Cosette keeps the house meticulously clean, and cooks like a professional chef.” He gazed proudly at his wife.

Cosette simpered in response, “Are you still active around town, Miss Myrtle?”

Myrtle shrugged. “I write a column for the Bradley Bugle. And I do special investigative reports for them sometimes, too.”

Cosette was momentarily distracted as Lucas pulled a bag of chips from a nearby end cap. She said harshly, “Lucas—put that back. You’ve got to lose weight.”

She quickly turned back to Myrtle. “You write stories for the paper? Isn’t that sweet!” beamed Cosette. “I should recruit you for some of the organizations that I’m heading up. You could do some real good in this town, you know.”

Myrtle frowned at her. “I’ve already done plenty of good. And I’ve been in all those clubs, off and on, for about sixty years.” Cosette appeared to be opening her mouth to try and enlist Myrtle again so Myrtle quickly said, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to do.” She hurried toward the milk.

She could still plainly hear Cosette Whitlow talking to Red in a hushed voice. It was amazing the things people would whisper in Myrtle’s presence because they assumed she was going deaf. It was an incorrect and potentially hazardous assumption to make.

Cosette said, “I know your mother is a handful. But I’ve got my own dear mother in Greener Pastures Retirement Home and it has been a real blessing. She’ll simply love it. They have darling activities—themed Bingo nights, variety shows, and sittercise for the wheelchair bound. And now Mother isn’t calling me up all the time and asking me to change her light bulbs. They take care of her there. It’s just a lovely, lovely place for our precious older adults.”

Myrtle’s back stiffened as she listened. The gall of the woman. Why didn’t it surprise her that she’d stuck her mother in a retirement home when she got on her nerves?

“Thanks for the recommendation, Cosette. I’ve been considering Greener Pastures for years. Although I have a feeling that Mama isn’t quite ready to transition there yet,” said Red politely. Myrtle turned to shoot him a murderous look and Red grinned at her.

“You don’t have to wait for it to be her idea. Do you know what I'd do, Red? I'd march straight out to the Greener Pastures Retirement Home right now and I'd beg them to take your Mama."

Red's voice sounded doubtful. "Well... Mama isn't real keen on Greener Pastures. She still likes to putter around in her house and yard an awful lot."

"Putter? Fall down is more likely. I've seen her balance on that cane of hers...very precarious she is too. Believe me, once she gets used to it out there, she'll love it. I volunteer there all the time and it's just a lovely community."

Myrtle was tired of pretending that she couldn’t hear them. “Maybe I’ll go there...once I get old.”

“Well, anytime you change your mind, sweetie,” said Cosette in a louder voice to Myrtle, “you let me know. I can drive you there for the day and my precious Mama can show you around.”

Cosette’s voice dripped with sugar until she abruptly barked at her husband, “Lucas! What’s this nonsense that you’ve put in the cart? Put it back. We don’t need that. What were you thinking?” Her berating of poor Lucas continued as they wheeled their shopping buggy out of sight.

Myrtle hadn’t been particularly creative with the hors d’oeuvre she brought to Cosette’s house. It was merely a spinach and artichoke dip with crackers alongside. She’d seen Miles eye it with suspicion, however, as they walked up Cosette’s driveway. “It’s a basic dip, Miles. It’s not going to leap out to poison you.”

“Won’t it?” asked Miles. “I’ve eaten your cooking before, remember?”

“That’s rude. Besides, you really can’t mess up spinach and artichoke dip,” said Myrtle with a sniff.

“Can’t you?” asked Miles. He didn’t sound at all convinced.

“Now don’t hang all over me at this party,” said Myrtle. “For some reason, Cosette seems to think we’re an item.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” said Miles, rolling his eyes. “That’s all I need.”

Myrtle squinted at Miles to see if he was being ugly and stumbled, catching herself with her cane and nearly dropping the platter she’d been determined to carry herself.

“Here, give me that,” said Miles, removing the platter from her hand. “For heaven’s sake.”

Since they’d carefully devised not to be the first guests on the scene, there were plenty of other people there. Most of the neighbors who lived on their street seemed to be in attendance—including Erma, Myrtle was sorry to note—as well as couples from the church and other organizations. It was a full house.

Miles was still awkwardly clutching both Myrtle’s platter and the bottle of wine that he’d brought. “Here, we should put those things down somewhere,” said Myrtle loudly over the din of conversations and laughter.

“The food seems to be laid out over there,” said Miles, nodding his head over at the dining room where trays of food were visible on the table and sideboard.

Myrtle scanned the crowd. The coast was clear. No annoying Cosette. She might be in the kitchen, getting drinks or more food. “I think there’s room for my spinach and artichoke dip, but let’s put your wine in the kitchen. There isn’t enough room for it in the dining room.” Perhaps she could sneak in and deposit it without Cosette’s cloying comments about precious older adults.

Miles frowned at her. “Not enough room for a small bottle, but enough room for a dip platter?”

But Myrtle was already making room for her hors d’oeuvres, pushing aside a tray of Buffalo wings and dressing. “There.” She wove her way through the crowd of people toward the kitchen and Miles slowly followed her.

The house was a typical three-bedroom ranch, like the other homes on their street. But the inside was quite lavishly decorated. It wasn’t only that the furniture looked both very fine and brand-new, but that the house itself had been renovated. There were parquet floors (what Myrtle could see of the floors, anyway, with so many people there) and crown molding. And, once she finally reached the kitchen, she could see it was filled with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. A lot of money had been poured into this fairly simple house.

As feared, Cosette was in the kitchen, but she appeared to be engaged in an argument with someone on her phone. This provided perfect cover for Myrtle to quickly put down the wine. She had her back toward them, and didn’t see as they entered the room.

Miles immediately started backing away. “Myrtle,” he hissed. “Come on. Let’s put the wine down in the dining room.”

“The least you could do is come over here, Joan,” said Cosette in a shrewish voice that sounded nothing like the saccharine tones that she always bestowed on Myrtle. “I’m your mother and I don’t ask for much.” She paused. “No, I don’t! I brought you up with the finest education, gave you a debut, and made sure you had every advantage, young lady. How have you repaid me? By marrying a plumber and then divorcing him a couple of months before your baby was due. The least, the very least I expect from you, is to make an appearance when I have a soiree.” She abruptly hung up and threw her cell phone across the kitchen.

This time when Miles motioned desperately to her to leave, Myrtle did.

“Did you understand all of that?” asked Miles as they headed back into the noisy dining room. “It sounded like the storyline on one of your soaps.”

“My soap would know better than to run a tired plot like that,” said Myrtle. “And yes, I did understand it. I forget that you’re a relative newcomer to Bradley. Cosette has always thrown lavish parties. She has doted on her daughter ever since she was a baby—buying her the most ridiculously expensive baby clothes, sending her off to private school, throwing a huge sweet-sixteen party for her,” explained Myrtle.

Someone jostled Miles’s arm on their way to the chicken wings and he grimaced. “Where did Cosette get the money for that kind of stuff? It seems like they live in a pretty modest house. Isn’t Lucas an accountant or something?” He put a couple of deviled eggs and some spicy cheese straws on a plate.

Myrtle had already fixed herself some crackers with a pepper jelly and cream cheese spread. She munched for a moment, and then said, “That’s right. I always wondered about the money, but then they’d start living their usual, modest lives again. But lately, Cosette seems like she’s been really spending with a vengeance. Renovations to the house, cruises abroad. I guess the money must be burning a hole in her pocket again. Now she’s giving Joan a guilt trip about not being here.”

“What’s Joan like?” asked Miles. “I don’t think I’ve ever met her.” He made a small plate of mini ham biscuits and he and Myrtle shared them.

“You probably wouldn’t have had the opportunity to. She lives on the other side of Bradley, for one. And she has Noah—Cosette’s grandson. I think whenever she goes anywhere, she’s going to things that other young mothers would go to. She’s nothing at all like her mother. She’s a bit chubby, has mousy-hair, is inordinately fond of workout clothing for someone who clearly doesn’t work out, and wears thick glasses.” She heard the front door and frowned. “Can anyone else fit into this house? I can’t imagine what the fire marshal would say.” She squinted. “Is that Sybil? And Felix. Felix looks rather unhappy.” Sybil spotted them and waved, long brown hair swishing. Everything on her swished, actually—she wore a ruffled peasant dress, as usual, with swinging hoop earrings that were large enough to brush her shoulder.

“Doesn’t Felix always look unhappy?” asked Miles.

“As a matter of fact, he does,” mused Myrtle. “Always looks like he’s suffering from a dire case of indigestion or something.” The dour Felix was scanning the room as if looking for someone. He appeared to have no interest in sticking close to Sybil. He absently straightened his already-straight bow tie.

Myrtle and Miles nibbled poppy seed ham biscuits and watched as Sybil quickly came toward them and put down a plate of vegetables and dip in the dining room. “Hi, Miss Myrtle and Miles!” she sang out loudly. Myrtle had the distinct impression that Sybil might have had more than one glass of wine before coming here. She bestowed an exuberant kiss on Myrtle’s cheek, although she barely knew the woman. “So good to see y’all. What do you think of the new book club selection so far? I love it! I’m almost done reading.” She grinned at them—white teeth showing in a tanned face.

Myrtle wasn’t sure she had it in her to summon up any kind words regarding the book club selection and her mother had always taught her that if she didn’t have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all. It was a rule that she’d found very difficult to abide by (impossible to abide by most of the time), but now she bit her tongue and watched with relief as Miles chimed in to answer the question.

“Penelope’s Problem?” asked Miles.

Myrtle was astounded that he was able to pull up that ridiculous title from the depths of his brain. He must have a Rolodex in his head.

“Was that your book pick?” Miles delicately asked Sybil.

She beamed at him. “It sure was. Aren’t you absolutely loving it?”

Myrtle could tell by the faint color on Miles’ face both that he hadn’t read it and that he was about to fib. “It’s good. Very good. Yes, that Penelope really does have a problem. It’s a problem all right.”

Myrtle toyed with the idea of not rescuing him, but then decided it made her feel too awkward to watch Miles stumble through his fake book review. “I’m sure it’s fine, Sybil, but I always hold out hope that our book club might start reading actual literature. I’m not sure what Penelope’s problem is, but I’m sure it can’t compete with Oliver Twist’s, for instance.”

Sybil looked puzzled. “Is Oliver in book club? I’m trying to learn everybody’s name, since I’m sort of new in town still. I thought Miles was the only man in our club.”

Myrtle realized with dawning horror that Sybil didn’t recognize a Charles Dickens title when she heard one. She started spluttering.

Miles smoothly stepped in, “Anyway, it’s nice to see you here, Sybil. I don’t ever really get a chance to talk to you much in book club.”

Sybil gave him a sly look and giggled. “That’s because you’re fending off all the widows. Poor guy. The only rooster in the hen house.”

“Now you’re embarrassing him, Sybil,” said Myrtle. “Miles always thinks he’s surrounded by book club members because of his expert analysis of each month’s book.” She glanced around them, which was hard to do with the crowd of people. “Speaking of surrounded, what happened to Felix? I thought he came in with you.”

Sybil pouted. “He did come in with me. You’d think he’d try to stay with me, wouldn’t you? As a couple? Most of the couples I know talk to other guests together.”

She turned her head, searching the crowd. “Where did Felix run off to?” she asked in a fretful tone. “Usually he ends up somewhere close to the food.”

Cosette’s husband, Lucas, walked into the dining room looking distracted. He picked up a wine glass and poured himself a large glass of chardonnay. “Lucas,” asked Sybil, “have you seen Felix?”

He started at the question, sloshing his wine so that some spilled out onto his button-down shirt. He dabbed at it, not meeting Sybil’s eyes. “I believe I saw him in the kitchen,” he said.

Myrtle and Miles exchanged a look.

“Thanks,” said Sybil. She started heading toward the kitchen, and then stopped. “You know, I believe I’ll have a glass of wine, myself.” She strode to the sideboard and poured herself a large glass of red wine, and then drank large gulps of it as she walked out of the room.

“I don’t think she needs any more wine,” said Miles, raising his eyebrows.

Lucas drank his chardonnay quickly, and then poured himself another as guests came up to greet him.

“Clearly, you haven’t read Penelope’s Problem,” said Myrtle.

“Of course not. And don’t tell me that you’ve read it. I won’t believe you.”

“I haven’t read it,” said Myrtle, shuddering.

“It’s not that bad. I did start it. Well, I started skimming it. It had some very interesting elements to it, actually. It’s about a woman trying to discover who she really is during her midlife....”

“Oh please. As if we haven’t read that plot before. So she goes to Italy and meets a chef and eats fabulous food and discovers life’s meaning in the Tuscan sunshine.” Myrtle made a raspberry to indicate what she thought of that plotline. She was tiring of the subject. “You know what I’d like, Miles? A glass of water. But I believe I’ll have to go into the kitchen for that, since there are no water pitchers that I can see.”

Miles gave her a weary look. “I may as well give in. You want to see what’s going on between Felix, Cosette, and Sybil. There’s no use in fighting it, I suppose.”

“None at all,” said Myrtle, already heading toward the kitchen.