A Dyeing Shame Part 3

"I heard Kat and the police talking about it. Scissors. Jabbed right into her back, then she was shoved. Dead as a doornail."

"And no real clues to the killer? No evidence or confessions or anything?"

Puddin shook her head. "Everybody wanted to kill her. She was blabbing secrets. But Kat probably killed her." Here the malevolent look again. Puddin didn't like people who were of more than average attractiveness. "For the money."

"Did Tammy have any money? It seems unlikely," said Myrtle.

"Had her own shop, didn't she?" Puddin raised her eyebrows to emphasize her point. "All those customers? Bet she had some money put away."

If she hadn't drunk most of it in the last few weeks.

"And she's tough, that Kat. Looks like a thug. Maybe she learned about killing up in New York," Puddin's eyes were big.

"I think she looks tough, but she's not as tough as she looks. Although I have to admit that with all her bodily embellishments, she bears a startling resemblance to Queequeg."

Puddin squinted at her.

"All right, Puddin, that's enough visiting. Might as well get your cleaning done, if you're here."

Puddin scowled. "Not too much, though. My back is thrown."

Puddin had done a surprisingly thorough job with the cleaning. She might have been so distracted thinking about the case that she accidentally did more cleaning than usual. She was even perspiring quite a bit by the time she left.

"Hot as the hinges in here," Puddin growled as she pushed her way out Myrtle's door.

"Hang on-those are mine!" Myrtle grabbed back her floor cleaner, ammonia, and furniture polish. "You never bring your cleaners, remember? And it's not all that hot in here."

"It is if you're not a hundred years old," said the vengeful Puddin as she kicked through the door.

"I've got years to go before I'm a hundred! Years!" hollered Myrtle behind her.

It pained her to admit that Puddin was right. It was a little on the warm side in her house. She irritably plopped onto her living room sofa and jumped in horror as she glimpsed her mantle. The painting! How had it gotten there? That Puddin! Miles must have paid her to sneak it into the house. Puddin was easily bribed.

Myrtle pushed herself up, grabbed the painting and shoved it under her sofa. Then she stomped off to take a look at her thermostat. Eighty-five degrees.

A call to the air conditioning repairman confirmed that they were backed up and couldn't get to her at least two more days.

It seemed like an excellent time to visit Miles. With a painting in tow.

Miles seemed less than excited to see her. "Actually, Myrtle, I was just about to head off to the gym. Didn't we just talk to each other?"

"Oh, the gym is open for hours. Can't you offer an old lady refuge from the heat?"

"You can't take refuge in your own house?" asked Miles, motioning her inside with a resigned look on his face.

"Unfortunately, my house is what I need refuge from. The air is broken. Naturally it only breaks down during the hottest part of the summer. They can't get to it for days, either. T.S. Eliot obviously never spent a summer in the South if he thought April was the cruelest month."

Miles raised his eyebrows. "It'll be a hundred degrees in your house! You aren't planning to stay there, are you? Or at least I can let you borrow some box fans I've got."

Myrtle carefully hid a smile. "Can't you let me stay with you? In your guest room?"

"Here?" Miles was fl.u.s.tered. "What would Erma Sherman say? She'd tell everyone we were living together! You've got to be joking."

"I am," said Myrtle, grinning. "But I have to say the way you didn't leap to offer me your guest room is discouraging. Never mind. I have my own plans. It's all about making lemonade out of lemons, you know. I'm going to stay with Red and Elaine. Gives me the perfect opportunity to grill Red about the murder."

"Here we go again," said Miles with an exaggerated sigh. "We don't even know it is a murder, Myrtle."

"Actually..." said Myrtle, "we do. Puddin came by today to clean for me. And it wasn't even her day," she added pointedly.

Miles seemed very busy fussing with his gym bag.

"She'd shown up at the Beauty Box to do her regular cleaning there and heard Kat talking to the police. Said Tammy was stabbed with some hair shears. It's murder, all right."

Miles looked a little more interested. "So tell me some of what was going on at your last appointment there. You said Tammy had been causing trouble."

"Unfortunately, it all involves a lot of guessing because Tammy wasn't clearly spelling everything out-just sort of making these wild innuendoes. But she said something about Bootsie Davenport's young man and it fl.u.s.tered Bootsie like crazy."

Miles sat down on the sofa, apparently accepting that the exercising would be put off a little longer. "Bootsie...this is Judge Davenport's wife. The society maven. At least, a society maven for Bradley, North Carolina."

"That's right. And she acted like Tammy was talking about their college-age son, but Tammy made it pretty clear she wasn't. She also said something about Prissy Daniels."

Miles snorted. "What could Tammy possibly have on Prissy Daniels? That she drives two miles over the speed limit? That she doesn't play piano as well as she claims? She's a Sunday school teacher, for heaven's sake."

"And a preschool director," reminded Myrtle. "But that doesn't mean that she doesn't have a secret life." Just the words alone gave Myrtle a thrill. She loved uncovering secrets. Particularly from goody-goodies like Prissy. "Tammy was real vague again, as far as her gossip went. Said something about us not knowing the real Prissy. It sure got a reaction out of Prissy. She must have known something."

"So, Bootsie and Prissy. Anybody else get smeared during their weekly pilgrimage to the Beauty Box? I'm starting to be glad I go to the barber. Bill just cuts my hair. He hums sometimes, but that's it."

"It sounds dead boring to me," said Myrtle with a sniff. "At least the Beauty Box has entertainment included in the price of services. Let's see. Tammy was ugly to Kat because Kat was obviously completely embarra.s.sed by the way her aunt was acting. So she sort of insulted her. And, of course, the brilliant Puddin thought that Kat might have a financial motive."

"That's just naturally the type of angle that Puddin would consider, though. She's in challenging financial circ.u.mstances, after all," said Miles, sounding reproachful.

"Only because her back gets thrown at the thought of work! Much as I hate to admit it, though, Puddin might possibly have something. Kat would get the shop and Tammy probably had a little bit put away somewhere. And she wouldn't have to be bossed around by anybody-money would bring her some independence, which is probably what she wants most. She's had no control over her future and money would give her a little security."

Miles pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose, a reflexive motion when he was thinking. "Wasn't there somebody else who lived there with Tammy, too?"

"Ohhh yes. Dina. She's Tammy's project, back from when Tammy was sober enough to take on projects. She was escaping a bad marriage and Tammy took her in and gave her a job. But she was acting ugly to Dina yesterday, too."

"Maybe Dina got fed up with it?" said Miles. "The final straw kind of thing? Maybe she snapped?"

Myrtle considered this. "Maybe. I hear her husband was abusive, so it could be that Tammy triggered some pent-up anger. I don't know, though-I just can't see it. Although Tammy was threatening to write Dina and Kat out of her will. That could have provided motive enough to kill her-before she could make changes any changes."

Myrtle pushed herself off the sofa. "Okay! You can go to the gym now, Miles. I just wanted to give you the low-down. We've got another case to solve."

"Don't you mean you do?" asked Miles dryly. "As I recall, you like to be in charge of your cases."

"Yes, but sleuths need sidekicks, Miles. Sounding boards. Sherlock had Watson, Poirot had Hastings. And I have you. But sidekicks do their best work in the background, you know. They're the behind the scenes guys." Myrtle watched him carefully for signs of insurrection, but saw nothing in his placid expression. She smiled.

"And now it really is time for me to go to the gym," said Miles, standing up and motioning to Myrtle.

"Of course. But could you give me a gla.s.s of water real quick, Miles? My house was warmer than I realized. I'm feeling pretty dry."

As he slipped into the kitchen, she reached out Miles' front door and grabbed the shopping bag she'd left there. The painting was settled nicely behind an armchair before he got back with the water.

"ARE YOU SURE Mama's air conditioner isn't working?" Red asked. "Why do I feel like this is some mastermind plot to squeeze information about this murder out of me?"

"Well, I couldn't exactly ask your mother for proof." said Elaine. "She told me the air was broken and that the guy wouldn't be able to come out for a couple of days. July isn't the best month to live in an un-air conditioned house in the deep South."

Red rubbed his eyes. "I just hope she won't start being nosy. You know how she is. Always putting herself in the middle of the action."

"She's only trying to stay cool, Red. You should give your mom the benefit of the doubt. Besides, would it really hurt to give her just a couple of minor details about the murder?"

"Elaine, you know I can't do that."

"Would it really matter that much? You could just give her something to think about. Not everything with the case is top secret, is it? You know how she loves to try to puzzle out these mysteries. And she's not the only one. The whole town of Bradley is curious, Red. Think of the throngs in the street."

"Throngs? In Bradley? I haven't seen them, but even if they exist, they're not playing detective-they're just looking for gossip. I saw that gleam in Mama's eye. In that twisted mind of hers, she's clutching a magnifying gla.s.s, smoking a pipe, and wearing a deer-stalker cap."

Elaine said, "She could actually help you out. She's solved cases before."

"Endangering her life in the process."

"She's an old lady, Red, and I think she's slowing down a little. This time she might be a Nero Wolfe and solve the case from home."

"Maybe she'll be a Miss Marple type who sticks her nose in where it doesn't belong."

"Maybe you could just share some minor case trivia with her tonight."

"Maybe I could nip her nosiness in the bud tonight."

Elaine turned and looked meaningfully into his eyes. "Yard gnomes, Red. With red hats. Dozens of them."

Red shuddered. Arguments with his mother were followed by Myrtle dragging out her collection of ceramic garden gnomes and placing them all over her front yard. The coy gnomes (and his neighbors) stared at him accusingly until Myrtle got her way. And she always, always got her way.

"All right. I'll give her some sort of briefing. But I might give her red herrings instead of clues."

Myrtle's doorbell rang and this time she carefully peeped out the door to make sure it wasn't Erma Sherman. She opened it when she saw Red. "What a lovely habit this is starting to be, Red! Two visits in two days."

Red grunted something as he walked in, then stopped. "Wow. It's hot in here."

"Exactly what I told Elaine," said Myrtle primly. Red clearly thought she'd come up with some sort of trumped up excuse to stay with them. She watched as he stomped his way to her back hall. "And the thermostat is set to seventy," she said complacently.

"Well, I can't say I'm shocked. It's about time for something like this to happen. I've said for a long time that this house needs some repairs done. That's another great thing about living in a retirement community, Mama. You don't have to worry about home repairs anymore. If you've got a busted pipe or a bunch of electrical problems, the retirement home folks are the ones who have to foot the bill."

Myrtle deftly ignored the last part. "I don't know what you mean about the house needing work. It's running just fine. The air conditioner probably just needs Freon or something."

"Well, looking around, I already see a bunch of stuff that could be done. These scatter rugs are a menace for one thing. You could break your neck on those. It sounds to me like one of your toilets is running...that's got to be costing you every month." He swung his head around and frowned, looking toward the ceiling. "Where are your smoke detectors? And carbon monoxide detectors?"

"My smoke detector is right there, Red. Over the front door. I only need one. This house is about as big as a breadbox."

Red strode across the living room in a couple of steps. "This?" He pressed a test b.u.t.ton on the smoke detector and there was a spectacular silence in response. Myrtle cursed under her breath. They didn't make batteries like they used to, she was sure of it.

"Now this is alarming, Mama," said Red, putting his hands on his hips.

"No pun intended?" she asked smoothly.

"I'm going to install some smoke detectors for you. You should have one in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, one near your garage. With functioning batteries."

"You don't need to do anything, Red! I'm fully capable of taking care of this myself. And I will-the very next time I go to the store. I had no idea the batteries were dead in that thing. I think having three or four smoke detectors is overkill, but all right."

Red stomped off toward the bedroom, probably looking for more safety infractions. "Got a suitcase packed?" he called.

"Right there inside my bedroom door. And I've got a grocery bag of food to bring over with me."

Red joined her with the suitcase. "Now that's something you don't have to worry about. Elaine and I can afford to feed an extra mouth, you know."

"Just the same, I don't want to be any bother," Myrtle said righteously.

Red seemed to be biting his tongue. He grabbed the bag of food and he and Myrtle walked across the street. Myrtle leaned feebly on her cane. "You just don't know how much I appreciate this, Red, especially considering how you're so busy right now. You don't have a whole lot of time for houseguests, what with a murder on your hands." Would he actually admit that it was murder?

"Well, it will mainly be Elaine who has to deal with you, Mama. I mean, Elaine who'll be making you feel at home. Murders sure don't happen every day in Bradley. You're right about being busy. I'm guessing I won't be at home much while you're visiting." He looked positively determined.

So Puddin was right. It was murder.

Two o'clock in the morning was a rough time of day if you were someone's insomniac houseguest.

You can't sleep. But you can't really get up, and wake the whole house.

For a while Myrtle resigned herself to contemplating the guest room ceiling. If she were at home, she'd get up and be productive-put away the pots and pans she'd put in the sink to soak, fold some clean laundry, pay a couple of bills. Or do a few crossword puzzles. But here she had a feeling she'd just bang into things and wake Jack up. Everybody knows the rule-you don't wake sleeping toddlers. Ever.