Progressive Dinner Deadly

Chapter One “The first step,” said Myrtle to her friend Miles, “is to stage a coup.” Miles took off his wire rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. “A coup.” Myrtle beamed as if at a prize student. “That’s it. The book club—as we know it—must be abolished.” “You’re saying . . . now stop me if I’ve got this wrong . . . that you and I—the new members of the decades-old book club—will somehow commandeer it away from its current leadership, force it to restructure, and compel the members to read literature we deem worthy instead of beach books.” “That,” said Myrtle, thumping The Complete William Butler Yeats triumphantly, “is exactly what I’m saying.” Miles looked at his friend. She was really on a roll this time—she’d run her hand through her poofy white hair until it stood up on end like Einstein’s. She stood six feet tall, not at all bent or cowed by her considerable years. “And you’re proposing that we do this how?” “It’s a simple marketing principle. You’re a former businessman, you must understand it. Marketing, you know. Delivering what the people need.” “Myrtle, I was an engineer, not a salesman.” Myrtle shrugged. Miles gave a sigh. “And we’re doing this why?” Myrtle rolled her eyes. “You weren’t listening again. We’re doing this because book clubs should celebrate great literature. Literature, sharing a wonderful story, is what brings the world together. Trixie Does Myrtle Beach does not accomplish this goal.” Miles leaned forward in his chair. “Are you saying the book club actually picked a book called—” “No, no. I’m saying that’s the kind of tripe you might find on its reading list. And once we’ve started down that road?” She took a deep breath. “The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the Centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” Miles glanced over at the Yeats collection. “Got it.” He straightened his glasses. “You believe that if we offer the book club serious reading alternatives, they’ll follow us in droves. That we’ll have taken it over. I’m just not sure it’s going to work out that way. It seems a little too easy.” Myrtle snapped her fingers. “Good point. And I’ve got a terrific idea.” Miles groaned. “If things don’t go well, I need a plan B. I fully anticipate that everything will go according to plan, but if it doesn’t, then I’ll leave to go to the bathroom. And you’ll say, “I think Myrtle has a great idea.” “And why,” asked Miles, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, “would they care what I think?” “Half those ninnies have set their cap for you, Miles. You’re the new widower on the block, you know. Anything you say will be taken as gospel.” Miles looked doubtful at the appeal his steel-gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and seventy years held for the Bradley widows. “Think of it Miles—you can still drive! You’re a hot commodity for aging widows, I promise you. Here’s our plan. I’ll listen in from the hall and when they’ve decided it’s a good idea, I’ll come back in and get it all organized!” Myrtle was practically rubbing her hands together in glee. “Don’t count your chickens until they hatch,” said Miles. “You never know how things could turn out.” “Nonsense. I predict we’ll make a smooth transition to being a club with honest literary discussions.” “You know,” said Miles, “no one else seems unhappy with the book club. You—a retired English teacher—are the only one needing honest literary discussions.” Myrtle shook her head impatiently. “Only because they don’t know what they’re missing.” “Have you told Red that you’re planning a literary coup?” Myrtle just glowered at him. “You haven’t because you know he’ll think you’re just stirring up trouble again. Remember Red’s motto? ‘Leave well enough alone.’” “That’s because my son is the police chief and wants me to live in stagnant misery so I can’t cause him any trouble. I want to wake up the town of Bradley. Take their blinders off and show them the possibilities! But Red is fixed on keeping me out of his hair. Did you know that he signed me up for some volunteer work this weekend? The cheek.” “I’m assuming that’s why the army of gnomes resides in your front yard?” Myrtle put her extensive collection of ceramic gnomes on display for Red’s viewing displeasure whenever he tried manipulating her. Lately, the gnomes had been on Myrtle’s front lawn more often than not. “That’s exactly why the gnomes are out there. So he’s already well aware that I’m displeased with him. I don’t think he’ll have a problem in the world with some reorganizing on my part.” “I don’t know, Myrtle. I can’t seem to shake this sinking feeling that our reorganization of the book club might have unexpected consequences.” –––––––– MYRTLE SQUINTED AT her rooster wall clock. Where was that blasted Puddin? She was supposed to have been dusting Myrtle’s knickknacks hours ago. A phone call was in order. Myrtle steeled herself. Puddin never answered her calls—it was always her ancient husband, Dusty, Myrtle’s yard man. Always assuming Myrtle was calling for him, he answered her greeting with some variation of, “It’s too hot to mow!” Puddin wasn’t exactly enchanting to talk to, but it beat Dusty howling at her like an old basset hound. Myrtle dialed their number. The phone rang five or six times then, “Hullo?” asked a gruff voice. Myrtle sighed. “Dusty? It’s Mrs. Clover.” There was a great yowl on the other end. “Too wet to mow, Miz Clover!” “For heaven’s sake! It hasn’t rained for days, Dusty. And that little teaspoon of water that trickled down evaporated before it even hit the clay.” “My blades’ll get clogged. It’ll empty smelly grass clods all over your yard, Miz Clover. And I saw them gnomes in your yard when I drove by. Them things is the dickens to cut around.” “Never mind. I wasn’t calling for you, anyway. Your nonsense knocked me off track. May I speak to Puddin? She’s supposed to be cleaning my house now.” Dusty hollered for Puddin and after a few minutes during which Myrtle wondered if she’d been hung up on, Puddin sullenly answered. Myrtle could imagine the dour expression on her face. Before Myrtle could summon up a pleasant-enough voice to find out why Puddin was hanging out with Dusty instead of doing a mediocre job cleaning up Myrtle’s house, Puddin muttered, “Back’s thrown out, Miz Clover.” Myrtle bit her tongue. She did not need to have her “help” quit on her before she’d lined someone else up. But how convenient. Puddin’s back always threw itself out whenever Puddin didn’t want to polish silver, scrub dishes, or work at all. “I haven’t got time for your foolishness, Puddin. Book club is coming over tomorrow. Are you sure you just can’t take an ibuprofen?” Puddin considered this. “Hmm. No. It’s thrown all right.” Apparently the conversation was over because Puddin said, “Have a good club,” and clunk! Myrtle heard a dial tone. Myrtle pushed the receiver onto its base with unusual force. There was nothing to do but call in reinforcements. As irritating as Puddin’s defection was, it was probably for the best. Puddin was just not going to do for this Very Special book club meeting. Puddin, in her current state of unhelpfulness, was entirely inappropriate for a book club cleaning. Extreme times called for extreme measures. Myrtle needed a cleaning A-team. She picked up the phone. Blanche Clark should have a good housekeeping recommendation. Considering Blanche lived in a sprawling chateau, she must have at least one person helping her clean, if not a small army. As she made her call, she noticed a scrawny-looking black cat peering at her through the window. She’d seen the cat before—it was clearly a stray. It ran off, but she swore it had an approving look on its face as she dialed Blanche’s phone number. Jill, reflected Myrtle an hour later, was a top-notch cleaning sensation. It was lucky, thought Myrtle as she watched Jill Caulfield’s energetic cleaning, that she’d been able to get a substitute in such short order. The idea of pushing around dust and mopping her own floor had lost its appeal. But Jill was delighted at the opportunity and was certainly doing a great job. A member of Myrtle’s book club, she seemed to have fallen on hard times. What was even nicer is that she lived right on Myrtle’s street, just around the bend. “Cleaning isn’t so bad,” said Jill as she expertly glossed Myrtle’s end table with lemon oil until it shone. “I’m good at it. It’s a steady job. It’s good exercise.” “And,” she continued as she buffed, “it’s money in the bank.” She briefly stopped her buffing and looked directly at Myrtle. “You know what I mean? Sometimes you just do what you have to do to survive in this world.” “Teaching preschool doesn’t cover your bills, I’m guessing,” said Myrtle, clucking. “Not a bit. It helps, of course. But it’s just not going to be enough for me and Cullen. And Cullen, with his disability and everything . . . ” Here she paused and searched Myrtle’s face for any signs of disbelief. “Well, he just can’t work. And that does make things tough. But I’ll never leave him, Miss Myrtle. Not ever.” “I will never desert Mr. Micawber!” thought Myrtle, although Cullen Caulfield was no Mr. Micawber from Dickens. His disability, well-known by all of Bradley, was his insatiable desire for alcohol. Jill was now finished with the tables and, very sensibly adopting a top to bottom approach to cleaning, was cleaning the floors. Myrtle said, “I’m just delighted you could help me out on such short notice. I’m too old to push around my own dust. I got your number from Blanche Clark. She’d been bragging on you during the last book club meeting, you know—how well you cleaned.” Jill suddenly became very focused on scrubbing a stubborn spot on the floor. “Is that right?” “So,” said Myrtle in a purring voice, “I was surprised to hear you weren’t working for Blanche anymore. She gave me your number,” (somewhat ungraciously), “but said y’all had gone your separate ways.” Actually, Blanche had gotten so mad just talking about Jill that her voice trembled on the phone and she’d spat out Jill’s name like she was trying to rid her mouth of something nasty. It was interesting enough to want to investigate. “Business relationships don’t always work out,” said Jill in a careless voice. “But I’m sure ours will. Need me to come by next week?” Myrtle opened her mouth to say that Puddin would be there next week. But then something . . . could it be the fresh clean pine scent? The gleaming tables? The attentive housekeeper in front of her? . . . changed her mind. “I do believe I will have you over next week.” That darned Puddin never cleaned like this. She didn’t have a passion for cleaning. Myrtle quieted the voice in her head that reminded her that Puddin and Dusty were a package deal—and what was she going to do without a yardman? Even a very bad yardman? “If you’re okay here, Jill, I’m going to pop across the street to Elaine and Red’s house for a little visit.” “I’ll be fine. I saw Elaine the other day, but haven’t seen Red for a while. How’s he doing?” “Oh. He’s keeping the peace,” said Myrtle with a shrug. The annoying thing was Myrtle’s police chief son’s insistence on keeping her peaceful. He interfered. “I’m really going over to get some cuddle time in with my grandson, Jack. He’s got the cutest chubby legs.” She pulled out a handy album to prove it. To her credit, Jill appeared thrilled to coo over grandbaby pictures. In fact, Jill was quite disgustingly perfect in every way. Puddin’s sole redeeming quality was her quirkiness. Everything about Puddin was unknown: would she be in a chatty mood and yak at the kitchen table with you instead of cleaning? Would she have a nicotine fit and spend the entire morning smoking furiously outside? Would she show up for work at all? Jill’s perfection was enough to make Myrtle pine for the wicked Puddin. Almost. Myrtle grabbed her cane from next to the front door and tapped her way down the front walk. There were a few birds perching on the gnomes that scattered, chirping, as she approached. She paused for a moment to survey her handiwork. Lots of little gnome backs were facing her since, of course, they were all arranged to maximize Red’s viewing pleasure . . . and passing motorists’. She chuckled, but the laugh turned into a gasp when a dreaded voice behind her asked nasally, “Fighting with Red again, I see?” It was Erma Sherman, her evil next-door neighbor. Ordinarily, Myrtle carefully checked to make sure the coast was clear before venturing out her front door. Having her house restored to such an immaculate state had clearly made her giddy. As she saw Erma looming over her, arms outstretched for a determined hug, Myrtle reflected how fast one’s mood could plummet. “Just trying to make a subtle point,” said Myrtle. Not that Erma would know the definition of the word subtle. “Red mistakenly thought it would be a good idea to volunteer me for the Kiwanis club pancake breakfast.” Red frequently displayed this shockingly poor judgment. It was an appalling characteristic for a police chief to have. “How will Dusty cut the grass around the gnomes?” asked Erma, looking pointedly at the spires of grass brushing the gnomes’ bellies. “With a weed whacker?”