Chapter Fifteen
Puddin entered Myrtle’s house triumphantly, queen of all she surveyed and not a cleaning implement in sight. “At least I don’t get myself murdered,” she pointed out, proving she’d somehow known that Jill had been cleaning at Myrtle’s. “You can count on me more than that.” She ran her hand along a table top. There was very little dust there, although Myrtle hadn’t done more than a little swipe since Jill last cleaned. “One of those freaky, obsessive-compulsive people, wasn’t she? Got to have everything perfect.” The last was uttered in a voice of snarling superiority.
“I could count on Jill to do a good job,” said Myrtle repressively. “How do you know about obsessive compulsives, anyway?”
“Oprah reruns,” drawled Puddin. At that moment, some odd backfiring noises emanated
