A Body in the Attic Read online

  Miles scowled. “Naturally there’s a lawyer involved in this murder.”

  “I’m guessing you’re speaking of Liam Hudson? Even in a town the size of Bradley, there’s more than one,” said Myrtle.

  “Too many lawyers,” muttered Miles.

  Wanda said, “Reckon it’s Liam.” She suddenly looked tired and turned back to Myrtle. “You been gardenin’ lately?”

  “Not as much as you have, apparently. It’s been rather discouraging. My next-door neighbor, Erma, has callous disregard for the weeds she’s allowing to come traipsing over to my property.”

  Wanda gave her an intent look. “Them weeds is bad.”

  “Indeed, they are.”

  Wanda tilted her head slightly. “Maybe you should do somethin’ about ‘em.”

  Myrtle said, “Well, ordinarily I’d say that would be fighting a losing battle, but I suppose I could give it a try. Especially since you’re the one telling me to.” She paused. “Any other words of wisdom?”

  Miles muttered something about lawyers and weeds under his breath.

  Wanda said, “Elaine’s got a new hobby.”

  Myrtle and Miles both sighed. Elaine’s hobbies never seemed to go very well and sometimes they went very poorly indeed.

  “What is it this time?” asked Myrtle.

  “Bakin’,” said Wanda.

  Myrtle said, “Oh, thank heavens. She can cook.” She frowned. “Hm. Wonder if that’s why Red was looking pudgy earlier today. At any rate, that bodes well for my week of needing to supplement what I have at my house.”

  Wanda nodded and narrowed her eyes. “Be careful.”

  “Of course I will,” said Myrtle briskly.

  Miles rolled his eyes.

  “Well, I think we’ll go ahead and get out of your hair now. I need to speak to Sloan in a bit about my article for the paper. Do you want me to hand him any of your horoscopes?”

  Wanda shook her head. “Ain’t got any yet. Nuthin’s come to me.”

  “That’s all right. You can just call me when you have something. Your phone is still working, isn’t it?” asked Myrtle.

  Myrtle could see Miles glancing around the shack for signs of working electricity. It was never that the phone wasn’t working: it was that it couldn’t be charged when the electricity had been turned off for lack of payment.

  “Yep, we’re in good shape. With that extra money Sloan done give me.”

  “He hasn’t given you anything, Wanda, you’ve earned it. He has so many more subscribers to the paper now that you’re writing for it. The least he could do is share some of that income with the person responsible.” Myrtle stood up and grabbed her cane to make sure she could navigate out of the dim house well. Miles stood up, breathing a sigh of relief.

  They said their goodbyes as Miles quietly pressed some cash into Wanda’s hand. Then they headed to Miles’s car. Crazy Dan was searching for his golf ball in what appeared to be a large patch of poison oak that had somehow managed to grow from the red clay of the soil. Wanda waved to them as they drove away.

  Myrtle gazed thoughtfully out the window as Miles drove toward town. He glanced over at her. “Do you think we found out anything helpful?”

  “Yes, indeed. We found that Wanda is doing better. The house, although cluttered, wasn’t nearly as bad as we’ve seen it in the past.”

  “But besides that. The case.” Miles carefully watched the road as if deer, raccoons, rabbits, and other woodland creatures might leap from the heavy vegetation on the sides of the road at any moment.

  “Well, there’s that lawyer lead. I didn’t know anything about that. I suppose we’ll need to speak with Pansy about him at the book club meeting tomorrow. And apparently, I need to take care of my weed problem for some reason. The thing I’m most excited about, though, is Elaine’s new hobby. This might end up being a wonderful week, after all.”

  The rest of the ride back, Myrtle kept up cheery commentary from the passenger seat. She was glad to see that Miles wasn’t apparently brooding over Darren anymore. Maybe taking an active role in figuring out what happened to him would fix it. After all, he was her sidekick.

  “Want to come inside?” asked Myrtle. “If you’re not restless anymore, we can watch our show.”

  Miles shook his head. “No, thanks. Actually, I feel pretty exhausted. I’m going to eat something, read my book, and crawl in the bed early.”

  “Sounds good. See you tomorrow. Why don’t we get started early-ish? We can bring my casserole over to Orabelle’s house. Maybe Tripp will be there.”

  Miles balked. “Do we want to disturb a grieving sister early in the day with a casserole?” His tone suggested it was a ghastly idea.

  “Disturb? No, we’re helping. That’s what we do in a small town when someone dies . . . we heap food on them. Goodness, Miles, you’d think you’d just moved over from Atlanta yesterday.”

  Miles returned home and Myrtle bustled into her house and straight to the kitchen. She had a feeling that Pasha, the feral cat who’d taken up with her, might be hanging around and wanting a can of food. She opened the kitchen window and sure enough, the black cat bounded inside.

  “Brilliant Pasha,” said Myrtle, crooning to the cat. She carefully checked to make sure the aforementioned brilliant feline wasn’t carrying a living, half-dead, or deceased rodent in her mouth as sometimes happened. Satisfied this wasn’t the case, she opened a can of tuna and dumped it onto a paper plate.

  Pasha gave her an approving look through half-closed eyes and made short work of the tuna as Myrtle picked up the phone to call Sloan Jones, her editor at the local paper. Myrtle wrote a helpful hints column which had originally been Red’s idea to keep her busy. But she also pressured Sloan, a former English student of hers from back in the day, to let her write regular articles for the paper, much to Red’s dismay.

  Sloan had apparently already made it to the pub that was in walking distance of the newspaper office when she called.

  “Miz Myrtle!” he gasped when he heard her voice on the other end of the line. He immediately reverted to being in high school . . . and in trouble for late homework.

  “Hi Sloan,” said Myrtle briskly. She paused. “It’s rather noisy where you are, isn’t it?”

  Sloan apparently quickly stepped outside of the pub and into the quiet street outside. “Um, just a band of people going by.”

  “A band of rather raucous people.”

  “Yes. Yes, they were. But they’re gone now.” Sloan quickly added, “What can I help you with?”

  “It’s more a question of what I can help you with, Sloan. I’m going to write an article for you tonight and wanted to see if you can stick it in the paper tomorrow.”

  Sloan’s voice now sounded anxious. “Miz Myrtle, I just put the paper to bed. It’s all set for printing.”

  Myrtle didn’t say anything, just waited.

  Sloan didn’t like that tactic. “Uh, I suppose I could stick a piece on the back page. I’d just have to reduce one of the ads there a little and make a few other changes.”

  “That would work if it were a helpful hints column. But it decidedly won’t work for a front-page investigative story.”

  “And that’s what you have?” Sloan sounded a bit squeaky.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Did someone die? I must have missed that.”

  Myrtle had found that Sloan frequently got caught up in the most-local of the local stories to the detriment of proper journalism. He paid far too much attention to Maisy Wellborn’s prize-winning tomatoes and far less-attention to what he considered “stressful articles”: the sad state of the bridge stretching over the lake, for instance. And various crime stories of great regional importance.

  “Yes, indeed. Darren Powell died this morning.”

  Sloan sounded relieved, as if finding a workable solution for his problem. “Oh, well, I’m very sorry to hear that. Amazing that I didn’t get that gossip today. I can put an obituary in, no problem.” He paused and the
n fearfully asked, “You did say something about an investigative story, though.”

  “Darren was murdered.”

  Sloan heaved a huge sigh. “Oh, no.” Then he quickly added, “But hey . . . ”

  “Sloan, I don’t want to hear a thing come out of your mouth right now. I know precisely what you’re about to say: ‘Miz Myrtle, Red will have my hide if you cover that story.’”

  Sloan sighed again. Myrtle had the feeling he might be looking longingly at the bar he’d just vacated. “All right. Just . . . don’t get into any trouble, okay? I guess I can print the paper a little later tonight, but I can’t hold it for long.”

  Myrtle said briskly, “I’ll have it all ready for you in thirty minutes, perfectly edited.”

  She hung up and got right to work. Sure enough, thirty minutes later she emailed the article over to Sloan. Then she settled down to relax for a while before turning in.

  Pasha had decided to hang around for a while. She curled up on the sofa in a ball and kept an eye on Myrtle as she finally finished the crossword from that morning. She decided she was under no obligation to wait for Miles to watch the next exciting episode of Tomorrow’s Promise. As expected, it was quite a thrilling installment.

  Perhaps it had been a little too thrilling. Antonia’s poisoner had proven a shock as well as the big reveal over the father of Gretchen’s baby. That, plus the excitement of the day, made it difficult for Myrtle to wind down.

  “Are you sure you want to stay overnight?” asked Myrtle doubtfully as she stared at Pasha.

  Pasha watched her with one eye open.

  “I’ll keep a window open for you in case you want to leave. We don’t usually have sleepovers.”

  Pasha yawned as if to say that a sleepover suited her fine right then.

  “All right then.” Myrtle opened the kitchen window and then got ready for bed.

  Two hours later, she stared up at the crack on her bedroom ceiling that always reminded her of a rabbit. She sighed and got out of bed.

  She was astonished to see Pasha was still there. Pasha, on the other hand, didn’t seem astonished at all to see her as if she’d known Myrtle wasn’t down for the night. They were both nocturnal animals.

  Myrtle pulled a robe and her slippers out of her closet. Pasha jumped quietly down and padded after her.

  “Let’s go for a nice stroll. The night air will do us good.” Myrtle opened the front door and Pasha bounded out as Myrtle followed her.

  Pasha headed for the sidewalk and took a right, looking expectantly behind her.

  “Excellent idea,” murmured Myrtle. “Miles might be up, no matter what he said. We’ll look to see if his lights are on. If he’s up, he might want company. Or, perhaps, to continue playing chess.”

  But when they reached Miles’s house, it seemed rather dim at first glance. Myrtle peered toward the back of the house and finally did see light.

  Chapter Five

  “Now, does that look like a nightlight? Or a regular light?” asked Myrtle, glancing down at the black cat. Pasha padded up the walkway to Miles’s front door, then looked meaningfully behind her at Myrtle.

  Myrtle followed and rang the doorbell.

  Miles answered the door wearing pajamas and a robe and appearing a bit grouchy. He was, however, clearly awake. He held the door open for Myrtle and grunted as Pasha entered behind her.

  “Pasha and I are spending some time together,” said Myrtle by way of explanation. “Since you were up, we thought we’d include you in our little visit.”

  Miles said coldly, “I hadn’t fully committed to being awake yet. I was still mulling over whether I wanted to try to go to sleep again.” He glared at Pasha, as if it were all her fault.

  Myrtle bustled by him toward his kitchen. Pasha’s eyes danced as she looked at Miles and then padded after Myrtle.

  “You wouldn’t fall back asleep again. Trust me, I’m an expert on all things related to insomnia. You’d simply burn through a couple of restless hours tossing and turning. No, it’s far better to go ahead and give up and get up. Maybe you can take a little nap later, after we dispense the casserole.”

  Miles muttered something about “dispensing” that Myrtle didn’t quite catch.

  “Don’t be so cranky, Miles. Here, I’ll make coffee and toast.” She briskly set to making them as Pasha leapt up into a kitchen chair and watched.

  The doorbell rang and they both froze.

  “Who on earth could that be?” Myrtle frowned.

  Miles walked cautiously to the front door to find out. He peeked outside and spun around. “Erma!” he hissed.

  Myrtle made frantic waving motions to indicate Erma should stay safely on the other side of the door. “No! Pretend we’re not here.”

  “She clearly saw you come in.”

  “I’m not ready to deal with Erma yet today, Miles. She’ll give up in a minute.”

  But Erma apparently had no plans of giving up. She knocked. She rang the bell. She called their names. Miles finally, reluctantly, opened the door.

  “There you are!” Erma beamed at them, her large, rodent-like teeth gleaming. “What on earth took you so long to answer the door?”

  Myrtle said in a surly voice, “I turned the fan on because I burned the toast. We couldn’t hear over it.”

  Erma gave her donkey, hee-hawing laugh. “Burned the toast! I believe it. So we’re having a pajama party, are we?” She glanced in delight at Myrtle in her long robe and slippers, Miles in his plaid pajamas and navy-blue robe with matching slippers, and then at her own rather peculiar and wildly-printed pajama set. Erma looked like some sort of ghastly Auntie Mame.

  “There’s something you should know, Erma,” said Myrtle coldly. “We’re not the only two visitors here.”

  Erma’s nose started twitching. Her eyes began watering. She gasped. “That cat’s in here?”

  Myrtle nodded. “She’s the guest of honor here, actually. It was practically Pasha’s idea to come to Miles’s house in the first place. And she never gets to come.”

  Miles, who wasn’t ordinarily Pasha’s greatest fan, gave the cat a grateful look. Erma’s cat allergy was fairly virulent.

  “I never get to come either,” said Erma, still in that gasping voice. “Thought I’d check in for once when I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Here, I’ll give you some things to take home with you.” The emphasis seemed to be on home. Myrtle rooted around in the cabinet and pulled out a chipped mug. She filled it with coffee.

  “Cream, please,” gasped Erma. She sneezed. “And sugar.”

  Myrtle doctored the coffee, grabbed a piece of cold, over-cooked toast and proffered them to Erma.

  Erma took them and wheezed her way back out of the house.

  Myrtle locked the door behind her.

  Miles gave her an admiring look. “Well done.”

  “It was all due to darling Pasha. You should really stop giving her short shrift, Miles. She’s positively brilliant. I’m convinced she knew exactly what she was doing and was protecting us from Erma.”

  Pasha, still at the kitchen table, gave them a knowing look and began contentedly licking her paws.

  “She deserves some sort of treat,” said Miles fervently.

  Myrtle said, “She’s had some tuna at my house, but she’d probably eat more.”

  “I don’t have tuna, but I have canned salmon.”

  And so Pasha commenced to eating a salmon feast.

  Myrtle poured them both some coffee and put the toast on a plate.

  Miles looked at the dark, dry pieces of toast and pulled out butter and jam. They settled at the table.

  “In a way,” said Miles thoughtfully, “I almost feel sorry for Erma.”

  “No one can feel sorry for Erma. It’s utterly impossible.”

  “I do, though. She feels left out. She lives right next door and never gets to participate when we’re having gatherings in the middle of the night,” said Miles.

  Myrtle said, “She does it all to h
erself. If she’d stayed a moment longer, she’d have been regaling us with her latest grotesque health issue. Besides, the fact that she hasn’t participated in our gatherings means she’s sleeping. Can you imagine? I can’t picture falling asleep and then not remembering the next eight hours. That would be a gift. Certainly nothing to feel sorry about.”

  “I suppose.”

  Myrtle decided Miles was looking a bit mopey again. “Tell you what. Why don’t we play chess and talk?”

  “You don’t like playing chess.” Miles looked morosely at his toast, which was apparently not sufficiently improved by the slathered jam.

  “I don’t think I said that. It’s simply not my most favorite, that’s all.”

  Miles pushed his plate away from him and Pasha stared at it with interest. “You’re wanting to talk about the murder.”

  Myrtle took his plate, dumped the toast, and put the plate in the dishwasher. “Let’s put it this way, Miles. If you look at the murder through a lens, it might be a little easier on you. You need some distance. Talking it over from a different perspective will help you out.”

  Miles trudged behind her into the living room and sat in front of the chess board. Pasha followed and leapt into Myrtle’s lap. “What a little love,” crooned Myrtle to the feral cat.

  “She’s had a very good night,” said Miles, a bit more cynically. “Tuna and salmon. It must be a red-letter day for Pasha.”

  Myrtle gestured to the chess board. “I believe it’s your move.”

  Miles frowned. “Is it? I remember it being yours.”

  “I’m feeling generous.”

  Miles studied the board and took Myrtle’s pawn.

  Myrtle glanced over the board and took Miles’s other bishop.

  Miles groaned.

  “I may feel badly for you, Miles, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to win the game.” Myrtle gave him a reproving look.

  Miles said darkly, “Why do I have the feeling you’re much better at chess than you make out?”

  Myrtle ignored this. “How about if you tell me more about Darren? And about his discovery in the attic.”

  Miles was still focused on the chess board, trying to figure out a better next move than his last one had been. “I don’t know anything about that, as you’re aware. You were here with me.”