Edit to Death

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Myrtle gave her a thoughtful look. “If you’ve written domestic noir, I’ll be checking out your book immediately after lunch.”

Miles said in a hesitant voice, “Pearl, I’m just curious. What made you write a memoir? Just that you’d been reading them and decided to try your hand at them? Or was it something else?”

A cloud passed over Pearl’s face. She said, “A very good question. The answer is that secrets are totally destroying our family. Especially my relationship with my sister. I don’t feel as if I can even look her in the eye anymore, and she has no idea. You know what a virtuous woman Nell is. I want to clear the air and prevent any more damage. I felt like a book would be the best way of exposing the secrets because I could include details and explanations. Maybe, in a way, excuses. I’ve titled the book Secrets. I’m ready to put it all out there and let the chips fall where they may.”

Miles cleared his throat. “And your family? What do they think of your doing that?” He had an uneasy look on his face as if he knew what he would think about that, if something like that happened in his family.

Pearl pressed her lips together and then said, “They aren’t real excited over it. But they haven’t thought it through like me. If they had, they’d know that this is the only way for our family to move forward and heal. For justice, in a way. The family had no idea that I was even finished with it.”

“They haven’t kept up with your progress?” asked Myrtle.

Pearl chuckled, but it wasn’t really a happy sound. “Not at all. They just thought that I was planning on writing a book, but that it would never really happen. Or that I’d start out and maybe get a couple of chapters in and then I’d give up on it or get busy or something. No, they were very surprised. I’m not sure what they thought I was doing on my laptop, but they obviously didn’t think I was working on a book. Maybe they thought my clunky dinosaur of a laptop didn’t even have the memory for a book. They have considered the thing as just a paperweight ever since I covered the outside with stickers. You know how much I like decorating things.”

Miles said, “What happened when you told them you were finished?”

“I had the whole family over for supper last night and announced that the book was done and that I was moving on to the next step today—which was having you edit it.” She blushed a little. “At least, I hoped to convince you.”

Myrtle gave her a wry look. “You were apparently pretty confident that you could.”

Pearl watched as Myrtle sifted through the papers some more. She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe you could take a look at it after I’m gone. It makes me feel anxious having an editor read it while I’m right here.”

“I don’t even have my red pen in hand,” said Myrtle, raising her eyebrows. Then she frowned. “Now Pearl, are you going to be really sensitive when I make suggestions and things? Should I be careful with what I tell you?”

“Oh no! No, I want the truth and I want the thing corrected.” She hesitated. “I know I printed it out so it would be easier for you to edit, but is it easier that way? Or should I have just emailed you a copy of it or something?”

“No, this is fine. I was just telling Miles that I edit better on paper,” said Myrtle. “All right. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take me to do it, but I should get an idea twenty or thirty pages into it.”

“That’s perfect. I feel so much better now that it’s in your hands. And I’ll leave you both to your lunch,” said Pearl, standing up.

Myrtle said, “What you’ve brought me is worthy of supper. Miles and I are going out to grab lunch and then tonight I won’t have to cook because of the lovely casserole you brought. It’s the perfect day.”

Pearl smiled at her and then hesitated. “I might check in with you later. Just see what your first impressions are.”

“Of course. I’m not sure how far in I’ll be,” said Myrtle. She was starting to wonder if Pearl was going to be one of those who liked to hover.

“Right. Okay, well, thanks again.”

She left and Myrtle said to Miles, “Let’s head over to Bo’s Diner before any more people come in. Just let me stick this in the fridge.”

They were walking to the front door when Pasha’s face appeared in the front window. “Hungry again,” said Myrtle, shaking her head.

“Can’t she wait until we get back? We won’t be very long if we’re going to come back in time for Tomorrow’s Promise,” said Miles.

“I’ll just open the window in the front and the back one in the kitchen. Thank goodness it hasn’t been buggy outside this year. I’ve had to pop the screens off half my windows to allow Pasha egress,” said Myrtle.

Bo’s Diner was thankfully not as crowded as it usually was. And it was only minutes until they’d received their food.

Miles cast a wary eye on Myrtle’s pimento cheese dog with barbeque sauce. “What does that odd concoction taste like?”

Myrtle took a thoughtful bite. “Actually, it’s delicious. Bacon, tomato, pimento cheese, barbeque sauce, hot dog—what’s not to like?”

Miles shuddered. “It would end up chasing me all night long when I was trying to sleep.”

“Only because you have a very delicate digestive system,” said Myrtle. “You certainly won’t have to worry about your salad chasing you around. That’s a very mild-mannered menu item and the toppings look particularly wimpy today.”

Miles said, “We can’t all have cast-iron stomachs. On other topics, what did you make of Pearl? Didn’t you think that was a sort of weird conversation?”

Myrtle said, “It was weird. First off, I never would have seen Pearl Prentiss Epps writing a memoir of any kind. I mean, she’s sharp as a tack, but I don’t picture her as being introspective enough to write her life story. Secondly, I’d have imagined that any memoir that Pearl wrote would be something about her family tree—the story of her family a couple of generations ago, and then her upbringing.”

Miles nodded. “Like you mentioned—her family had come from nothing, and through hard work had made themselves a good life in Bradley.”

“Precisely. But this seemed like a completely different project. She wasn’t nearly as relaxed as she had made out,” said Myrtle.

Miles thought about this. “She seemed relaxed to me. To me, it just seemed like the whole thing was very orchestrated: bringing the food and the manuscript in the tote bag, etc. She certainly was determined to have you help her out.”

“Determined and ill at ease. Pearl wanted to get a reaction from me right away, remember? And she might have been smiling, but underneath that, she seemed very tense.”

“Did you have a first impression of the memoir?” asked Miles.

Myrtle shrugged. “I only glanced through it to make sure that there weren’t a lot of egregious errors on every page. If there had been, I’d have had to ask for more money and more time.”

“You didn’t ask for any money,” said Miles.

“Yes, but that’s because she’s definitely going to give me something. It won’t be enough for editing an entire book, but it won’t be nothing. I know Pearl—she’ll make it right,” said Myrtle.

Miles said, “At any rate, Red will be pleased. That looked like a huge manuscript. It should keep you busy and out of trouble.”

Myrtle said, “Red has been so busy that he’s not even paying any attention to what I’m doing. Aside from sending people over to harass me.”

Miles raised his eyebrows. “That’s a change. Ordinarily, he’s on top of whatever you’re up to.”

“Oh, Jack’s been especially active. He’s such a brilliant little boy, you know.”

“I know,” said Miles quickly, as if hoping to head off Myrtle from cataloging Jack’s many areas of genius.

“He has a mind like a steel trap,” said Myrtle proudly. “He figured out how to work the locks on the door and Red had to get deadbolts put in so they could keep Jack in the house. Jack would push the stool over to the door, fiddle with the locks, and let himself out. He came over here twice, the little dear.”

“I bet that has kept Red busy,” said Miles.

“And Elaine has been keeping him on his toes, too,” said Myrtle.

“She’s not trying that healthy cooking hobby again, is she?” asked Miles with a shudder. “I like healthy food and what she was preparing even scared me.”

“No, she’s moved on to another hobby. Photography,” said Myrtle.

“Hasn’t she tried photography before?” asked Miles, crinkling his forehead.

“Yes, but she’s trying it again. She felt badly because she had all of this expensive photographic equipment and then abandoned the hobby,” said Myrtle. “Sloan is keeping her busy taking pictures for the newspaper. Sometimes, she takes Jack along with her.”

Miles said, “What kind of photojournalism assignments is Sloan sending her on?”

“I suspect that Sloan is just trying to keep her busy as a favor to Red. Unfortunately, Elaine isn’t the best photographer ever. She took photos at Gemma Cook’s 100th birthday. I suppose a handful were okay,” said Myrtle in an unconvinced voice.

Miles said, “Well, it’s hard to look one’s best when one is turning 100. Perhaps the fault doesn’t lie all on Elaine’s side.”

“It would have helped things if Elaine’s thumb hadn’t appeared in most of the pictures,” said Myrtle.

“Ah.”

Myrtle said, “Anyway, that’s the kind of stuff Sloan is sending her on. So the fact of the matter is that Red has been very busy and Elaine has been very busy. You’ve been rather busy, yourself, experimenting with your phone and whatnot.”

Miles said, “Why do I have the feeling a big statement is about to follow?”

Myrtle said sternly, “Because I haven’t had very many opportunities to get rides from any of you. I have been walking into town so much that I feel as if I’ve been training for a marathon.”

“Do they have walking marathons?” mused Miles.

“That’s why I’ll be talking with Boone Epps about used cars,” said Myrtle in a satisfied voice.

Miles stared at her. “But you haven’t had a car in ages. Not since I’ve moved here.”

“Exactly. I didn’t need one, either. But now I’d like the convenience of being able to hop into a car and drive somewhere without asking someone for a ride. Someone who’s too busy to give me one,” said Myrtle.

Miles said, “Well, if you wanted to get Red’s attention, I’m sure this will be the way to do it. I doubt he wants you driving around.”

“That’s because he’s ageist. I’m the safest driver in Bradley,” said Myrtle.

“Because you drive twenty miles an hour,” said Miles.

“There’s no reason to rush,” sniffed Myrtle.

They finished their meals and spoke to a few people on the way out. Then Miles drove back to Myrtle’s house.

Myrtle unlocked the door and Miles walked over to pick up the remote. “Just in time for the show,” he said.

Myrtle nodded absently. She stared at the table. “Where is Pearl’s manuscript?”

“The manuscript? You put it on the table.” Miles turned on the television and the dramatic theme music for Tomorrow’s Promise blared.

“Mute that thing,” grouched Myrtle.

“The show?” Miles frowned at her. “Wasn’t it the whole reason we didn’t order pie at Bo’s Diner?”

Myrtle glared at him and Miles muted the show.

Myrtle said, “Did you move it?”

“Move what? The manuscript? I didn’t even touch the thing,” said Miles.

Myrtle stood in the living room and slowly turned to see every corner of the small room.

Miles said, “Maybe you wandered into the kitchen with it.” Now he stood up and walked over to Myrtle, staring at the spot on the table where the manuscript should have been.

“Miles, the only time I went into the kitchen, I was putting Pearl’s food into the fridge. I wouldn’t have lugged a seven- or eight-pound manuscript into the kitchen with me,” said Myrtle.

They stared at each other.

“Your windows are all open,” said Miles slowly.

Myrtle frowned. “Do you think that maybe Pearl had second thoughts about having me look at it, after all? That maybe she started considering the impact her memoir might have on her family?”

Miles shook his head. “No way. She was clearly sold on the idea of putting family secrets out there. She even thought that the book would solve problems by forcing them out in the open.”

Myrtle nodded. “Besides, Pearl would just call me and tell me she’d changed her mind. She wouldn’t break into my house and take the thing. Seriously. A seventy-something year-old woman climbing through my windows?”

Miles said, “But she apparently told her family last night that she was taking the manuscript to the next stop on its publication journey—editing.”

Myrtle fumbled for her phone. “I’m calling Pearl.”

She found the number in her contacts, dialed it, and waited. “She’s not answering.”

Miles said in a reasonable voice, “Pearl could just have her ringer turned off. Maybe she’s at a church meeting. Or eating lunch. We can’t leap to the conclusion that something is wrong.”

“I’m leaping,” said Myrtle grimly. “Pearl loves that phone of hers and I’ve never called her when she didn’t pick it right up. She’d even answer a call in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. We’re going straight over to her house this minute. And while we’re there, we’re going to ask her family where that manuscript is.”

A few minutes later, Miles pulled the car up to the curb in front of Pearl’s house. It was a beautiful gray brick house with climbing roses clinging to the walls and a riot of flowers and flowering shrubs in the front yard instead of grass.

Miles said, “I’ve always thought this kind of front garden made a lot of sense. No lawn to mow and it looks pretty most of the year.”

Myrtle said, “Pearl and Hubert are always out here messing with it, though—weeding it, spraying it, deadheading old blossoms. It’s not exactly low-maintenance. Plus, Dusty would flip his lid.”

Dusty was Myrtle’s yardman. He was lazy to the bone and would do anything to avoid mowing her grass. In Dusty’s opinion, it was always either too hot, too wet, or too dry to mow. But his fee was reasonable and never increased. Plus, he would use a weed-trimmer around Myrtle’s gnomes whenever Myrtle was annoyed enough at Red to drag them out into the front yard.

Myrtle walked carefully down Pearl’s cobblestone front walk to the front door, leaning on her cane to ensure that she didn’t stumble. “Treacherous,” she muttered.

She rang the doorbell and then rapped on the front door without waiting for anyone to respond to the bell. Myrtle tapped her foot impatiently.

“Maybe Pearl went out to lunch,” said Miles mildly.

“Without Hubert? His car is out front.”

“Maybe it was a girls’ lunch,” he suggested.

Myrtle just tightened her lips and rapped on the door again.

A second later, Hubert, Pearl’s husband, answered the door. He gazed at Myrtle wordlessly. Hubert was a big fellow with a barrel chest and long out-of-fashion sideburns.

Myrtle and Hubert stared at each other. Myrtle waited for a greeting or at least words of some sort and Hubert seemed to be waiting to try to find any words at all.

Myrtle opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it back shut again as Hubert finally started croaking out some words.

“Dead. She’s dead,” he said, eyes open wide.