Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (5 page)

"Mrs. Hayes," said Red with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I-," Althea started, then swallowed hard, looking toward the
body in front of the altar. "I'm here for the United Methodist
Women meeting."

"That would be over in the dining hall, though, wouldn't it?"

Nathaniel Gluck stepped in. "Well, it is, but I'm sure Mrs. Hayes
was just checking on the floral display on the way to the meeting,
weren't you? Because you and Kitty Kirk share Altar Guild duties."
He looked searchingly at Althea's face.

Althea nodded weakly, still looking toward the body.

Red looked at her with a direct gaze. "Mrs. Hayes, did you see
or hear anyone when you came into the church?"

Althea shook her head vehemently. She's hiding something,
thought Myrtle.

"Come on now," said Red briskly, "we need to get away from
the crime scene. I need to make a phone call, then I'll need statements from all of you. It might be better if I get them at the station, since the forensic guys are going to need to check out the
church."

"And find the fingerprints and DNA of everyone in the town,"
Myrtle said.

"What the-" Red spluttered at what sounded like a parade of
cars and people outside the church. Striding to the stained glass
window, he peered through a red panel. Red started uttering a curse,
which he hastily changed into "Jiminy Cricket!" as he remembered
he was in church. "The whole town of Bradley is out there."

"Can't blame anyone but yourself and those sirens," said Myrtle, carrying herself regally out the church door.

The scene outside resembled a paparazzi free-for-all. There
were what looked like all the usual church ladies, some still in
housecoats and curlers. Josh Tucker, Bradley Bugle reporter, was
taking pictures and sneezing emphatically. In between sneezes and
coughs, he juggled his digital camera and made notes. Kitty Kirk,
the leader of the church ladies, appeared especially peculiar, and
her complexion almost gray. She stared oddly at the reporter. Myrtle figured it must be because Erma Sherman, Myrtle's nosy nextdoor neighbor, had just plowed through the crowd and latched
onto Josh Tucker's camera arm, gabbing and gazing fatuously into Josh's nervous eyes. Myrtle guessed he didn't return Erma's affection: he was pasty-white and carefully ignoring her while still in
the throes of a sneezing fit. Maybe he was allergic to her.

Erma's braying laugh and large front teeth combined to give her
an unfortunate resemblance to a donkey. Her medical afflictions
were legion and eagerly shared with others. Whatever her ailments,
her eyesight and hearing were excellent, much to the frustration and
dismay of Myrtle as she tried to stealthily slip by her. Remembering
the cigarette smoke, she edged closer to josh and Erma, and sniffed
delicately. She smelled nothing and wandered slowly through the
crowd, sniffing as she went, to no avail. Her olfactory mission was
cut short when Red's booming voice cracked like a whip over the
crowd. "Everyone will retreat to their cars and return wherever the
hell they were before they came here. This is a crime scene."

This statement prompted a thrilled gasp from some of the
church ladies, but with one look at Red, they decided to forgo an
inquisition. Reluctantly, they filed back to their cars, the reporter
from the Bugle still taking pictures and sneezing with Erma Sherman matching him step for step.

"If you'll go ahead and get in the cruiser, Mama," said Red, "we'll
go to the station and I'll get your statement from you there. Let me
talk with Nathaniel for just a minute and I'll be right with you. The
state police are coming over and Detective Lieutenant Perkins will
want to talk with you."

"John Perkins is assigned to the case? Well, at least it's someone
I know."

Red raised his eyebrows. "That's right ... I'd forgotten. We'd
had you over for dinner when he was here on police business? I'm
surprised you even remember him."

She started to answer, but Red quickly walked off. Myrtle remembered Detective Lieutenant Perkins well. She'd tried to pump
him for information over dinner on a high-profile murder case
that was splashed all over the news. He was a nice enough manexcept for the fact that he gave away absolutely nothing. He made
the Buckingham Palace guards look animated.

Myrtle hoped he wouldn't prove so stoic this time. Solving the
case before Red or the state police would prove a point and get
back at Red for his high-handed treatment of her.

Myrtle eased into the front seat of the cruiser to wait for Red. If she
got in the backseat, it would be all over town that Myrtle Clover
murdered Parke Stockard. Not that Parke hadn't had it coming.

The trip to the station took only a couple of minutes with Red
behind the wheel. Myrtle spotted a group of locals sitting on a
wooden bench outside the diner as Red pulled up in front of the
old brick courthouse that housed the police station and city hall.
Word traveled fast in Bradley, North Carolina.

"Vultures," Myrtle spat out.

"Mama, those old guys are always outside Bo's Diner. Every
morning they get their coffee and sit around in their golf caps, shooting the bull and cutting up. It's got nothing to do with the murder."

"They usually don't have their cackling crones with them."

"Cackling... ? Their wives, you mean? They're probably just enjoying another relaxing morning of retirement with their husbands."

Myrtle noticed the old women lean closer and turn up their
hearing aids hopefully as she and Red entered the police station. She really couldn't blame them too much for their interest. Bradley, North Carolina, population fifteen-hundred, wasn't ordinarily
a murder magnet. Crime waves had formerly consisted of Bud
Dickens and Crockett Scott getting sloshed several nights in a row
and loudly warbling Willie Nelson songs in the streets.

Red held open the weather-beaten wooden door for his mother
and she walked into the tiny police station, stepping carefully so
she wouldn't lose her footing on the warped pinewood floors that
groaned in protest where she trod.

Following standard procedure, Red had notified the state police as soon as he'd gotten the call from the minister about the
murder. As Red poured her a Coca-Cola, some of the forensics
team had already arrived in town and checked in at the station
before stopping at the church.

The door opened to a tall, wiry man with a super-short military
haircut. Detective Lieutenant Perkins greeted her in his polite, measured way. Myrtle decided to override his reserve with an exuberant
hug. Best to knock him off-guard to maybe squeeze some information out of him. He gave an "oof" from the ferocity of her embrace,
but appeared to be onto her as he watched her with appraising eyes.

"Mrs. Clover," he said. He led her into Red's small office and
closed the door. "It's nice to see you, even if the circumstances
aren't as pleasant as last time. Could you go over what led you to
the church this morning and what happened when you got there?"
He picked up a notebook and pen.

Myrtle took a deep breath and outlined the day's events, going
into great depth when describing Red's busybody meddling in her
personal life and the horrors of United Methodist Women and
Altar Guild duty. She described the moment she'd discovered Parke Stockard with melodrama and sound effects, carefully omitting clues she'd seen there, including her perusal of Parke's cell
phone. Finishing her monologue, she neatly folded her hands in
her lap and waited for his reaction. No reaction was forthcoming,
though, as Perkins carefully replaced the cap on his ballpoint pen
and tapped it gently against the notebook.

"Tell me why you think this might have happened, Mrs. Clover.
Why would Parke Stockard, by all accounts a philanthropic benefit
to the town of Bradley, have been murdered in the very place she
spent so much time and money?"

Myrtle paused. It made no sense to help Perkins with his investigation when she was trying to solve the case herself. He should
do his own poking and prodding.

Lieutenant Perkins continued, "It would be a tremendous help,
Mrs. Clover, if you shared your opinion with me. You obviously
have a lot of useful insights which could help point us in the right
direction."

Finally someone who valued her opinions. But that didn't
mean she had to help him out. Besides, she didn't really know anything. "I'm afraid I've no idea, Detective." Perkins frowned and she
hastily added, "Poor Parke." But it didn't sound very convincing.

He snapped shut his notebook and stood up. "Thanks, Mrs.
Clover. If you think of anything else, be sure to let Red know." At
Myrtle's grimace, he amended, "Or call me, instead." He handed
her his business card and respectfully waited for her to pull herself
out of the deep office chair, but didn't belittle her by trying to help.
She wondered if Red had smelled the cigarette smoke in the sanctuary. But he'd been so bent out of shape with her for discovering
a body that he probably hadn't noticed anything else.

Judging from Red's expression as she tottered back into the station lobby, he was still pretty irritated. He offered to drive her back
home. At least, that's what she thought he said. It was hard to hear
words coming out from gritted teeth.

They drove off. Myrtle glanced at her watch. "Just in time to
catch Tomorrow's Promise."

Red gave a short laugh. "Elaine called to check on you a little
while ago. I'll call her back and let her know you're doing okay
after all. Discovering murdered bodies is all in a day's workyou've already moved on to your soap opera."

"Tomorrow's Promise has a storyline that's eerily similar and
could provide some interesting perspective, Red. Angelique infuriates everyone on the soap-but she's bipolar and can't really help it,
bless her heart. Cliff snarls at the camera and plots mischief because
Angelique's ex-husband is his brother and she's stalking him because
he's dating Cliff's sister-in-law but just got her pregnant-"

"And this is like Parke's murder how, exactly?"

"Because Angelique was killed, of course. Why else?"

Red's fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly as he pulled
into Myrtle's driveway.

"You should see a doctor about that nervous tic, Red. And all
your veins are standing out on your forehead, too. Hope it doesn't
mean high blood pressure." With that final word, Myrtle climbed
out of the patrol car and slammed the door shut behind her. Her
head held high, Myrtle marched down her front walkway through
the midst of the gnomes as Red's car roared off.

THE BUCK-TOOTHED, ONE-EARED BUNNY-SHAPED crack on the
ceiling mocked Myrtle's insomnia. Altar Guild had been the final
straw. Myrtle glared at the rabbit. The gall of Red. And all the jokes
he'd been making about farming her out to Greener Pastures Retirement Home. There was no way he was putting her out to pasture. Just because she drove him a little crazy-as if he hadn't contributed to all her gray hairs when he was a teen.

Kicking the covers off, Myrtle pulled herself upright and padded into the kitchen for her obligatory nightcap of warm milk.
There was no point in staying in bed with nothing to do but study
that crack in the ceiling and mull over the way the overhead light
fixture resembled a pug-nosed alien. She sat down at her kitchen
table and schemed to solve the case before Red and Perkins could
uncover the first clue. It couldn't be much of a stretch to go from
crosswords to crime: figuring out clues, making educated guesses,
erasing mistakes, and starting over. It was a cinch.

Myrtle pulled her grocery list toward her and tore off the top
page. She jotted down a list of questions. Why was Althea Hayes in
the sanctuary? Who was the mystery smoker? Did the flower arrangement change have anything to do with the murder? Had Kitty
Kirk's Bible been lying in the pew since last Sunday, or had it been
left there more recently? And ... who wanted to kill Parke Stockard?