Chapter Thirteen
Myrtle was still annoyed as she drove to Puddin’s pharmacy. Puddin, on the other hand, was humming to herself.
“Stop that humming, Puddin. It’s so off-key that I can’t even place the song. Completely irritating.”
Puddin, still clutching the passenger side door with one hand, glared at her. “It’s obviously ‘The Darin’ Young Man on the Flyin’ Trapeze.”
“No, it’s obviously horrible and needs to stop,” said Myrtle shortly. Then she gave Puddin a side glance. “And don’t chew your nails.”
Puddin set her chin stubbornly and then clung with both hands to the door as they approached the square downtown.
“There’s Red again. It seems like all he does is eat,” muttered Myrtle as her son wandered out of the police station with a large submarine sandwich in his hand. She gave a
