Progressive Dinner Deadly

Chapter One-3

Myrtle listened, fuming, in the hall. “Although her chicken salad is excellent, I know for a fact that she ran low on time and purchased this batch,” Miles said. His voice sounded pained.

Myrtle peeped around the side of the door. The women looked at Miles curiously as there was suddenly a run on the chicken salad sandwiches.

“And while we’re talking about Myrtle,” said Miles, in what was apparently a desperate attempt to wrestle the wayward conversation back on track, “I think she had an excellent idea.”

“I do too,” said Tippy warmly. “It was so clever of her to think up a supper club. She was absolutely right that book club was getting stale.”

Myrtle gritted her teeth.

“I meant her suggestion that the book club start reading some different kinds of books.” Miles tugged at his collar.

“Was that her idea?” Tippy sounded dubious. “Well, her supper club idea is much sounder.”

“Now, if we can only convince her not to cook!” said Erma. She gave a sneering laugh.

Jill Caulfield said, “I’ve got a great recipe for pulled pork for the slow cooker. How about if I cook the main course for our first supper club?”

The room was soon buzzing again with ideas for how the supper club would run, who would provide what, and who would host the various courses. Sullenly, Myrtle came back in and sat down with the others. She drummed her fingers on her copy of The Sound and the Fury as Tippy efficiently organized the details of the supper club. Miles offered to host the hors d’oeuvres and drinks. There was a clamoring over different recipes and whether they should have a theme for each event.

Myrtle replayed the last few minutes in her head. Everything had gone wrong when Erma had piped up. She instinctively seemed to know what to do to mess up Myrtle’s plans.

Myrtle straightened up in her chair. She wouldn’t let it happen. She was going to regain control of this meeting. “Actually,” she said in a booming voice. “I had another idea completely. We could certainly have a parallel club that meets for suppers. But giving up on book club just because the selection has been weak isn’t a good idea.”

Amazingly, Erma stepped in again. “Weak is right,” she agreed. “I never did get what the writer was trying to say with that Bo and the Boy Scout book we did that one time.”

Myrtle said through gritted teeth, “You mean To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“Which you‘d think would be about endangered birds! When I read, I want to be able to understand the point! But there aren’t enough books like Jennifer’s Promise, so we end up reading about Boy Scouts. But food? We all understand food.”

Myrtle stared at Erma’s protruding tummy and figured that some people understood it better than others. She opened her mouth again to explain that To Kill a Mockingbird was real literature and that there were many others where that came from—but then snapped her mouth shut again. Because where would she start with that argument? How could you argue with someone as dense as Erma Sherman? “Mockingbirds are not endangered,” was all she could muster.

Tippy Chambers pushed a strand of blonde hair off her forehead. “I think the point really is,” she said, “that we’ve been doing book club for a long time and we’re ready for a change. A supper club would be fun, and we can even get our husbands involved.” Myrtle opened her mouth to argue and Tippy injected quickly, “Would you be interested in having the desserts at your house, Myrtle? I remember your blackberry cobbler was the best I’d ever had.”

Myrtle puffed up a little in her chair. Miles smiled. Diplomacy was the reason why Tippy was the perfect president of anything. Miles clearly recalled Myrtle’s blackberry cobbler as a soggy, undercooked disaster. But Myrtle was already planning her dessert menu, happily putting the unkind comments about her cooking out of her head.

“Y’all, I’ve got to run,” said Jill Caulfield, picking up her pocketbook. “I’ve got a house to clean. So I’ll host the main course, and we said two weeks from today? I’ll have it all set up.”

When Jill walked out, Tippy said quickly, “I’m a little concerned about Jill having to provide all the food for the main course. I think that’s . . . well, it’s a lot to ask.”

“Why did she offer to provide the main course?” Miles quietly asked Myrtle. “Didn’t you say that Jill just cleaned your house? Providing a barbeque dinner for a house full of people is kind of a pricy proposition, isn’t it?”

Myrtle murmured, “I strongly suspect that Jill likes everyone to feel sorry for her. She piles that misery on herself. You know, the whole ‘Poor Jill’ thing. But she sure does know how to clean a house. I’m going to ditch that Puddin of mine.”

“There will probably be thirty people there, if we include spouses,” Tippy was saying. “Are there three or four people who can volunteer to bring some sides in?”

A few hands went up. At the same time, the front door opened and Jill’s sister Willow came in. The hands drooped and then fell under the censorious eye of Tippy. No one wanted to mention Jill’s financial situation. Especially around Willow, who was sure to blame her brother-in-law for any money problems her sister might face.

Willow’s long, prematurely-gray hair swung around her shoulders. With her hair down, her black tunic over a long, ruffled black skirt, and the amulet around her neck, Willow looked like she’d escaped from a coven.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said in her low, sing-song voice. “Was that Jill I saw pulling out?”

Erma nodded, eyes dancing as she anticipated trouble. “Yes it was. She was off to clean somebody’s house.”

Willow’s face darkened.

Tippy jumped in with a quelling look at Erma. “We’re all hearing wonderful things about Jill’s housekeeping. It seems that she has a wonderful talent for hearth and home.”

Myrtle glanced quickly over at Blanche, who grimaced before her face resumed its usual placid mask.

Willow shook her head and fingered her amulet. “All this work isn’t good for her. She’s got two really draining jobs. She should be reconnecting with her spirit instead of scrubbing people’s bathrooms.”

Erma nodded sympathetically, avoiding Tippy’s quelling glare. “Which she could do if Cullen could go back to work. Such a shame about his disability and all,” said Erma, who sounded hopeful for some disability details, which Willow seemed unwilling to elaborate on. “But don’t worry. Even though Myrtle changed the book club into a supper club, and Jill took the main course, we’re all going to chip in with the sides so Jill can afford to host it.”

Tippy jumped in again in her continuing effort to keep control of the meeting. “Willow. I’d better fill you in. Myrtle suggested we change the book club to a supper club.” Myrtle clenched her teeth. “We’re starting it two weeks from today. Miles will have the hors d’oeuvres and drinks, Jill’s covering the main course, and Myrtle is hosting the dessert.”

Willow thought a moment. “What if I host a soup or salad course? It’ll keep the progressive dinner moving.”

“Great idea,” said Tippy. “That cements our plan for the first progressive dinner. The best part is that y’all all live on the same street; we can easily walk from the appetizers to the salads, to the main course, to the dessert. And maybe even enjoy a little wine along the way!” Tippy gave her tinkling laugh. “And thanks again to Myrtle for her brainstorm. To Myrtle!” she said, raising a glass of sweet tea.

“To Myrtle!” everyone chimed in, holding their tea aloft.

Myrtle was ready to trade in her sweet tea for something a bit stronger.