Cleaning is Murder Read online

  Miles said, “How did she even know your phone number?”

  Myrtle said, “You’re not paying attention again, Miles. Wanda is a psychic.” She turned back to Puddin. “What did she say to you?”

  Puddin angrily swiped an errant tear off her cheek. “Said I was in danger.”

  “Sounds likely,” agreed Miles. “Those words represent ninety percent of what constitutes conversation from Wanda.”

  Puddin gave him a blank look.

  “Miles means that Wanda frequently warns people they’re in danger. Usually me. But I’m still around, aren’t I? What else did she say?” asked Myrtle.

  “Nothin’. I slammed down the phone,” said Puddin.

  “Avoidance. Your usual strategy for dealing with life’s unpleasantries. Well, I can’t imagine that a two-minute phone conversation with Wanda is responsible for this display of emotion,” said Myrtle.

  She waited while Puddin blew her nose and appeared to be trying to decide how much she wanted to share with Myrtle. Puddin finally spat out, “It’s that Amos Subers.”

  Miles lifted his eyebrows. “I know Amos.”

  “What about Amos? Do you clean for him?” asked Myrtle.

  Puddin said, “Not for long, if he don’t pay me.”

  Myrtle said, “Not pay you? For how long?”

  “For the past month. No money!” Puddin made a wild motion with her hand intended to depict abject destitution.

  Myrtle said, “Hm. Well, that probably means that he only owes you for one cleaning. You’re not exactly consistent with your housekeeping, are you? Amos doesn’t look the sort to put up with any shenanigans, either.”

  Puddin curled her lip. “Ain’t been no shenanigans. I done cleaned for him. He owes me money!”

  Miles cleared his throat as he carefully arranged tiles on the gameboard. “Have you broached the topic in a professional manner?”

  Puddin gave him an uncomprehending stare and then turned to Myrtle for a translation. “How did you ask him for the money, Puddin? Did you screech at him that he owed you? Or did you mail him a bill with a deadline for payment?”

  Puddin’s eyes narrowed. “Told him upfront. Ain’t scared of him!”

  “What did he tell you? Is he planning on paying you?” asked Myrtle.

  “He’s cheap,” said Puddin in disgust. “Said he’d pay me ‘next time.’ When I go in there ‘next time,’ he’s going to be sorry if my money ain’t there!”

  Miles asked, “When is the next time?”

  “After I finish here,” said Puddin. “That’s what’s got me keyed up.” She heaved a deep, unsteady breath.

  Myrtle said, “All right. If you don’t get your money this morning, call me and I’ll go over and argue your case. He can’t continue expecting you to clean without remuneration.”

  Puddin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Don’t like it when you don’t speak English.”

  “You won’t work if he won’t pay,” clarified Myrtle. “Just call me.”

  Puddin glanced around Myrtle’s house. “We done here? Looks clean.”

  “Does it?” asked Myrtle.

  “Looks better than it did before I got here,” said Puddin.

  “That’s a matter of opinion. There was a lot of crashing and breaking going on back there. You apparently have too much on your mind to focus on what you’re doing. Luckily for you, I want to reconstruct my Scrabble game with Miles. You can go ahead and head out,” said Myrtle, sitting down at the card table.

  A few minutes later, Puddin stomped to the front door.

  “And don’t take my cleaning supplies,” said Myrtle.

  “Them is mine,” said Puddin, giving Myrtle a dour look.

  “They certainly aren’t. I’ve taken care to mark my cleaning bottles with a Sharpie pen. See?” Myrtle pointed to the bottles. The cleaning bottles ‘property of Myrtle Clover’ written on them in large lettering.

  Puddin said, “But if I don’t take them to his house, there won’t be nothing there for me to clean with! Mr. Subers don’t buy cleaning supplies. He has this glass bottle of stinky homemade junk.”

  “Making his own cleaning supplies sounds like strikingly good judgment on his part. I should adopt his reasoning and follow his lead,” said Myrtle. “Honestly, Puddin. Go ahead and take the multi-purpose bottle but bring it back the next time you come.”

  Puddin slouched out the door.

  “Good riddance,” said Myrtle. “Now, where were we?”

  Miles said, “You were going to ask Puddin if Dusty could come over here today and pull out gnomes to irritate Red.”

  Myrtle’s eyes grew big and this time she did grab her cane, but only to help her navigate the front porch and walkway. She hurried out and yelled, “Puddin!” but Puddin had driven away.

  Myrtle walked back inside. “Missed her. Pooh.”

  “Why don’t you call her cell phone?” asked Miles.

  “Because half the time she doesn’t pay the bill and it’s out of service. The other half it stays cooped up in her glove compartment with a dead battery,” said Myrtle. “Calling her house phone is usually the only way to reach her, but we know she’s not at home. There has been entirely too much aggravation today. This was intended to be a peaceful morning. I was to start off with a clean house via an energized and focused Puddin.”

  Miles snorted at Myrtle’s fantastical vision.

  “Then you and I would play a competitive game of Scrabble where I would pull off a difficult but well-deserved win,” continued Myrtle.

  Miles pushed his glasses up his nose and said defensively, “I was doomed from the start. My letters were horrible.”

  Myrtle said, “And my son wasn’t supposed to drop by to eat all my food and chastise me for not using my cane. All in all, it’s been a most unsatisfactory day.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can hit the reset button,” said Miles. “You need to cool down. Remember what you said the last time your day got hijacked like this?”

  “That I wanted to open a bottle of sherry?”

  “No, that you needed to find a way to start over your day and get back into a good mood,” said Miles.

  “I said that?” asked Myrtle, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

  “You were quite explicit about it. It was made in the tone of someone who was making a resolution,” said Miles.

  “Are you sure I wasn’t planning a revolution instead of a resolution? That sounds far more likely,” said Myrtle.

  Miles shook his head. “Come on. I’ve got the board set up exactly as it was before.”

  Myrtle sighed. “All right. Let me see how well you’ve managed to resurrect this game.” She sat down at the table and stared at the board. “Miles, this is all wrong.”

  Miles narrowed his eyes. “I meticulously reconstructed the game.”

  “You’re remembering words from the last game we played,” said Myrtle.

  “From two weeks ago? I doubt it,” said Miles coldly.

  “You most certainly are. And you were in a much better position in that game. The words today were actually like this.” And Myrtle proceeded to rearrange tiles until they fit her vision of the game in progress.

  Miles stared at the board. “You’re delusional.”

  “You are,” said Myrtle, but further arguments were cut short by the doorbell ringing.

  “It’s Grand Central Station today,” grumbled Myrtle, heading to the front door.

  “Remember, you’re hitting the reset button on your day,” said Miles.

  She pulled the door open to see a gaunt woman with leathery skin. A shabby yellow top hung on her emaciated frame and she offered Myrtle a smile, revealing a hodgepodge of missing and crooked teeth.

  “Wanda!” said Myrtle, standing back so that the psychic could come inside. “We were just talking about you a few minutes ago.”

  Wanda nodded as if that went without saying. She glanced around the living room and slumped. “She’s already gone,”
she said with a gusty sigh.

  “Puddin? Yes, a few minutes ago,” said Myrtle. “But she mentioned that you called her this morning. I think you shook her up. But she was rattled already, so who knows?” She saw Wanda eyeing the kitchen and said, “Come on in and let’s find you some ... lunch? Brunch? Whatever meal it is.”

  “Hi Wanda,” said Miles.

  Myrtle noted that Miles sounded quite cordial. Perhaps he’d finally gotten over the fact that Wanda was a cousin of his. He continued to feel a good deal of financial responsibility for her, however, and frequently gave her gifts to help her survive. The psychic business was apparently not thriving in Bradley, North Carolina.

  Wanda gave Miles a nod in greeting. “Got something to tell you.”

  Miles looked discomfited. “I’m in danger?” he asked, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual.

  “Nope. Love that houseplant you gave me.” Wanda gave her big grin again.

  “It’s still alive?” Miles looked stunned. The shack that Wanda called home was not designed to allow living things to thrive. Including Wanda.

  Wanda said, “Sure is. Makes me want to grow more stuff.”

  “Don’t you and Dan have a garden already?” asked Myrtle, opening her pantry doors and gazing critically at the food inside.

  Wanda shrugged a bony shoulder. “Fer food. Tomatoes and such. Not fer fun.”

  Miles said, “So you’re thinking about planting flowers and shrubs and things like that?”

  He exchanged a look with Myrtle. It would be humanly impossible to beautify the house Wanda shared with her brother, Crazy Dan. It was totally covered with hubcaps and the hubcaps were for sale. They were, fortunately, slow sellers so the house still retained its protective exterior. The yard, if it could really be called a yard since it doubled as a parking lot, was red clay and not a speck of grass dared to grow there.

  Wanda shrugged again. “Maybe. Or maybe herbs or somethin’.”

  Myrtle snapped her fingers. “You should be my guest at the garden club gala in a week!”

  Miles’s eyes grew wide.

  Wanda drawled, “Gala?” trying out the unfamiliar word on her tongue.

  “Yes. My garden club that I’ve been part of for over fifty years is having a gala this year to raise money for a new town park. I’m supposed to be selling tickets and it would be a relief if I had to sell one fewer. I’ve already made Miles buy one,” said Myrtle.

  Miles’s face offered glum affirmation.

  “There’ll be a special speaker who’ll give a talk to beginners about improving their yards. And there’ll be lots and lots of food. And let me tell you—those ladies pick at their food like birds. We can send you home with the gala’s leftovers and it should feed you and Dan for a week.”

  Wanda considered this for a second and then her eyes crinkled in a smile as she nodded.

  “Good. Then that’s settled.”

  Miles looked at Myrtle. He would likely talk with her later about the odd combination of the garden club gala and the attendance of Wanda the Psychic.

  Myrtle pulled out a can of soup. Red had apparently finished her loaf of bread, but Wanda could eat some canned potato and broccoli soup and have peanut butter crackers. “How is your decluttering project going? You really got rid of a lot of stuff.”

  Wanda shook her head sadly. “Dan brought in a lot of stuff. We’re the same as we ever was.”

  Which meant that you couldn’t see the surfaces of any tables and some of the floor.

  Wanda plopped down in a kitchen chair and a few minutes later Myrtle produced the soup and crackers.

  Miles said, “So you apparently knew something bad about Puddin. With the ... psychic thing.”

  Myrtle rolled her eyes. Miles never sounded so awkward as when he was trying to wrap his head around Wanda’s gifts.

  “Knew somethin’ bad was goin’ to happen to her.” Wanda put her thin face close to the bowl, apparently not wanting to lose a single drop, and quickly and accurately shoveled potato soup in her mouth.

  “Okay,” said Miles. “And so you called her.”

  Myrtle interjected, “And Puddin didn’t want to take the call.”

  Wanda nodded, already halfway finished with the soup.

  “So you came here. Looking for Puddin,” said Miles. “Because you knew she’d be here?”

  “She has the sight, Miles. For heaven’s sake,” said Myrtle impatiently.

  “Was goin’ to be able to see her, too. Left in plenty of time. But the car broke down on the way,” said Wanda. She started in on the crackers.

  This was an entirely likely scenario. Another feature of the property where Wanda lived was the metal graveyard of cars, in various stages of decomposition, around the perimeter. Most of them were on concrete blocks, but from time to time, Crazy Dan would get one of them working for a short period, although never very reliably.

  “We can take you back home,” said Miles. “We’ll walk to my house and I’ll take you back myself.”

  Wanda’s living conditions appalled Miles and seemed to make him guilty that he led such a comfortable life while she struggled. Although her struggles never seemed to make Wanda suffer—she simply accepted them as she did her gift and everything else, straightforwardly.

  “Thanks. But I need to stay here for a little while first,” said Wanda.

  “Of course you may,” said Myrtle immediately. “You may stay here as long as you like.”

  Wanda gave her a smile. “It’s just that Puddin is goin’ to call. Thought I’d stay fer that.”

  Which is when Myrtle’s phone rang.

  Chapter Three

  MYRTLE FROWNED AND picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  There was a screech on the other end and Myrtle pulled the phone away from her ear. The screeching went on for another minute. When there was a pause, she cautiously put the phone back to her ear. “Puddin?” she asked.

  There was more screeching on the other end.

  Myrtle finally shouted into the phone, “Puddin! I can’t understand you.”

  Wanda calmly rose from the kitchen table and carefully pushed her chair underneath the table.

  “Come over!” yelled Puddin.

  “Where?” asked Myrtle. “Are you still at the Subers house?”

  “Yes! An’ he’s dead!” Puddin spat out the last word as if Subers had arranged it as a personal affront to her.

  Myrtle hung up and said, “Miles, can you drive us?”

  Miles sighed. “Are we sure that Puddin knows what she’s talking about? It would be humiliating if we were to discover that Amos Subers is merely taking a well-deserved late-morning nap.”

  “Through all that yelling?” asked Myrtle.

  “Perhaps a mild stroke?” suggested Miles.

  Wanda shook her head. “He’s dead, all right.”

  Miles hurried home to get his car and then drove quickly over to Amos Subers’s house. Myrtle grasped the passenger side door as Miles speedily took a turn. Wanda sat stoically in the back seat.

  “Shouldn’t you call Red?” asked Miles. “In the off-chance that this is an emergency?”

  Myrtle said, “Why on earth would I do that? A dead person hardly constitutes an emergency. A dying person, yes. Besides, Red would just send me back home with that annoying supercilious attitude of his.”

  Miles asked sharply, “You do have your cane with you, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do! I only ditch it when I’m home,” said Myrtle.

  Amos’s home was a stone house on a quiet street that backed up to the lake. He had a heavily landscaped yard with many different trees and bushes. Puddin’s old sedan was parked out front along with Puddin. When she spotted Miles’s car approaching, she jumped out and stumbled over to meet them before they’d managed to get out of the car.

  “Dead! Dead!” Puddin hastily made the sign of the cross and then pointed a shaking finger at the stone house.

  “Puddin, Southern Baptists don’t cross themselves
,” said Myrtle. “And if the poor man is dead, he’s hardly a threat. Why, you’re white as a sheet!”

  “He’s a sneaky dead man!” growled Puddin.

  Myrtle said, “I simply can’t listen to any of this nonsense right now. I’m going in on the off-chance that Mr. Subers requires medical assistance.”

  “What’s she doin’ here?” Puddin’s small eyes peered suspiciously at Wanda as the lanky psychic unfolded herself from the back seat of Miles’s car.

  “She’s here for moral support and perhaps for information. She knew this situation would transpire before it did,” said Myrtle as she strode toward the front door. Her cane thumped emphatically on the driveway as she walked.

  “She’s a witch,” murmured Puddin, backing up as Wanda approached.

  “Gifted,” corrected Myrtle without turning around. “She’s gifted.”

  Miles looked torn between monitoring the Puddin and Wanda situation and following Myrtle. “Do you need me inside, Myrtle?”

  Myrtle turned around at the front door. “It’s up to you.” She carefully removed a tissue from her pocketbook and turned the front door handle.

  Wanda said gruffly to Puddin, “I been tryin’ to tell you, yer in danger.”

  Puddin yelped, put her hands over her ears, and backed farther away.

  “Coming,” said Miles to Myrtle and speedily joined her as they went inside.

  The house was well-lit with lots of large windows. Miles said, “Are you sure that the tissue was necessary? As far as we know, Amos’s death was natural.”

  “Do you trust Puddin to be explicit with the details? She’s not exactly the most reliable witness,” said Myrtle. She glanced around the home. “I didn’t realize that Amos was such a reader.”

  There were books lining most of the walls—both in bookcases and in stacks. Amos had apparently skipped any official cataloging of these books, as they were shoved in the bookcases however they’d fit best.

  Myrtle and Miles walked cautiously into the living room. There was a game show playing on the television set, which lent a spooky background noise to the home.

  Myrtle sniffed. “There’s clear evidence that Puddin was here, all right. The house is a disaster, and the television is on. I bet she thought that Amos wasn’t even at home and she took advantage of the opportunity to watch TV.”