Progressive Dinner Deadly

Chapter One-2-1

Myrtle squinted at her rooster wall clock. Where was that blasted Puddin? She was supposed to have been dusting Myrtle’s knickknacks hours ago. A phone call was in order. Myrtle steeled herself. Puddin never answered her calls—it was always her ancient husband, Dusty, Myrtle’s yard man. Always assuming Myrtle was calling for him, he answered her greeting with some variation of, “It’s too hot to mow!” Puddin wasn’t exactly enchanting to talk to, but it beat Dusty howling at her like an old basset hound.

Myrtle dialed their number. The phone rang five or six times then, “Hullo?” asked a gruff voice.

Myrtle sighed. “Dusty? It’s Mrs. Clover.”

There was a great yowl on the other end. “Too wet to mow, Miz Clover!”

“For heaven’s sake! It hasn’t rained for days, Dusty. And that little teaspoon of water that trickled down evaporated before it even hit the clay.”

“My blades’ll get clogged. It’ll empty smelly grass clods all over your yard, Miz Clover. And I saw them gnomes in your yard when I drove by. Them things is the dickens to cut around.”

“Never mind. I wasn’t calling for you, anyway. Your nonsense knocked me off track. May I speak to Puddin? She’s supposed to be cleaning my house now.”

Dusty hollered for Puddin and after a few minutes during which Myrtle wondered if she’d been hung up on, Puddin sullenly answered. Myrtle could imagine the dour expression on her face.

Before Myrtle could summon up a pleasant-enough voice to find out why Puddin was hanging out with Dusty instead of doing a mediocre job cleaning up Myrtle’s house, Puddin muttered, “Back’s thrown out, Miz Clover.”

Myrtle bit her tongue. She did not need to have her “help” quit on her before she’d lined someone else up. But how convenient. Puddin’s back always threw itself out whenever Puddin didn’t want to polish silver, scrub dishes, or work at all.

“I haven’t got time for your foolishness, Puddin. Book club is coming over tomorrow. Are you sure you just can’t take an ibuprofen?”

Puddin considered this. “Hmm. No. It’s thrown, all right.”

Apparently the conversation was over because Puddin said, “Have a good club,” and clunk! Myrtle heard a dial tone.

Myrtle pushed the receiver onto its base with unusual force. There was nothing to do but call in reinforcements. As irritating as Puddin’s defection was, it was probably for the best.

Puddin was just not going to do for this Very Special book club meeting. Puddin, in her current state of unhelpfulness, was entirely inappropriate for a book club cleaning.

Extreme times called for extreme measures. Myrtle needed a cleaning A-team. She picked up the phone. Blanche Clark should have a good housekeeping recommendation. Considering Blanche lived in a sprawling chateau, she must have at least one person helping her clean, if not a small army.

As she made her call, she noticed a scrawny-looking black cat peering at her through the window. She’d seen the cat before—it was clearly a stray. It ran off, but she swore it had an approving look on its face as she dialed Blanche’s phone number.

Jill, reflected Myrtle an hour later, was a top-notch cleaning sensation.

It was lucky, thought Myrtle as she watched Jill Caulfield’s energetic cleaning, that she’d been able to get a substitute in such short order. The idea of pushing around dust and mopping her own floor had lost its appeal. But Jill was delighted at the opportunity and was certainly doing a great job. A member of Myrtle’s book club, she seemed to have fallen on hard times. What was even nicer is that she lived right on Myrtle’s street, just around the bend.

“Cleaning isn’t so bad,” said Jill as she expertly glossed Myrtle’s end table with lemon oil until it shone. “I’m good at it. It’s a steady job. It’s good exercise.”

“And,” she continued as she buffed, “it’s money in the bank.” She briefly stopped her buffing and looked directly at Myrtle. “You know what I mean? Sometimes you just do what you have to do to survive in this world.”

“Teaching preschool doesn’t cover your bills, I’m guessing,” said Myrtle, clucking.

“Not a bit. It helps, of course. But it’s just not going to be enough for me and Cullen. And Cullen, with his disability and everything ... ” Here she paused and searched Myrtle’s face for any signs of disbelief. “Well, he just can’t work. And that does make things tough. But I’ll never leave him, Miss Myrtle. Not ever.”

“I will never desert Mr. Micawber!” thought Myrtle, although Cullen Caulfield was no Mr. Micawber. His disability, well-known by all of Bradley, was his insatiable desire for alcohol.

Jill was now finished with the tables and, very sensibly adopting a top to bottom approach to cleaning, was cleaning the floors.

Myrtle said, “I’m just delighted you could help me out on such short notice. I’m too old to push around my own dust. I got your number from Blanche Clark. She’d been bragging on you during the last book club meeting, you know—how great you cleaned.”

Jill suddenly became very focused on scrubbing a stubborn spot on the floor. “Is that right?”

“So,” said Myrtle in a purring voice, “I was surprised to hear you weren’t working for Blanche anymore. She gave me your number,” (somewhat ungraciously), “but said y’all had gone your separate ways.” Actually, Blanche had gotten so mad just talking about Jill that her voice trembled on the phone and she’d spat out Jill’s name like she was trying to rid her mouth of something nasty. It was interesting enough to want to investigate.

“Business relationships don’t always work out,” said Jill in a careless voice. “But I’m sure ours will. Need me to come by next week?”

Myrtle opened her mouth to say that Puddin would be there next week. But then something ... could it be the fresh clean pine scent? The gleaming tables? The attentive housekeeper in front of her? ... changed her mind. “I do believe I will have you over next week.”

That darned Puddin never cleaned like this. She didn’t have a passion for cleaning. Myrtle quieted the voice in her head that reminded her that Puddin and Dusty were a package deal—and what was she going to do without a yardman? Even a very bad yardman?

“If you’re okay here, Jill, I’m going to pop across the street to Elaine and Red’s house for a little visit.”

“I’ll be fine. I saw Elaine the other day, but haven’t seen Red for a while. How’s he doing?”

“Oh. He’s keeping the peace,” said Myrtle with a shrug. The annoying thing was Myrtle’s police chief son’s insistence on keeping her peaceful. He interfered. “I’m really going over to get some cuddle time in with my grandson, Jack. He’s got the cutest chubby legs ... ” and she pulled out a handy album to prove it.

To her credit, Jill appeared thrilled to coo over grandbaby pictures. In fact, Jill was quite disgustingly perfect in every way. Puddin’s sole redeeming quality was her quirkiness. Everything about Puddin was unknown: would she be in a chatty mood and yak at the kitchen table with you instead of cleaning? Would she have a nicotine fit and spend the entire morning smoking furiously outside? Would she show up for work at all?

Jill’s perfection was enough to make Myrtle pine for the wicked Puddin. Almost.

Myrtle grabbed her cane from next to the front door and tapped her way down the front walk. There were a few birds perching on the gnomes that scattered, chirping, as she approached. She paused for a moment to survey her handiwork. Lots of little gnome backs were facing her since, of course, they were all arranged to maximize Red’s viewing pleasure ... and passing motorists’. She chuckled, but the laugh turned into a gasp when a dreaded voice behind her asked nasally, “Fighting with Red again, I see?”

It was Erma Sherman ... her evil next door neighbor. Ordinarily, Myrtle carefully checked to make sure the coast was clear before venturing out her front door. Having her house restored to such an immaculate state had clearly made her giddy. As she saw Erma looming over her, arms outstretched for a determined hug, Myrtle reflected how fast one’s mood could plummet.

“Just trying to make a subtle point,” said Myrtle. Not that Erma would know the definition of the word subtle. “Red mistakenly thought it would be a good idea to volunteer me for the Kiwanis club pancake breakfast.” Red frequently displayed this shockingly poor judgment. It was an appalling characteristic for a police chief to have.

“How will Dusty cut the grass around the gnomes?” asked Erma, looking pointedly at the spires of grass brushing the gnomes’ bellies. “With a weed whacker?”

As if Dusty would own sophisticated yard equipment like weed whackers. “No, I guess he’ll just cut what he can reach.”

“How long are you planning to feud with Red?” asked Erma, frowning at Myrtle’s grass and at a particularly animated gnome who seemed to be gleefully imbibing a beverage.

“How long are you planning to allow your crabgrass to infest my yard?”

Erma gaped at Myrtle, then erupted with haw-haws of laughter. “Don’t you have that backwards, Myrtle? There’s a whole crop of crabgrass right there that looks like you’ve actually been fertilizing it.”

There was, actually, quite a bare spot there that Erma’s weeds had made inroads with. She’d shoot that Dusty! She’d asked him to aerate and seed.

Myrtle turned toward the street when she heard a gentle toot-toot of a car horn. It was her daughter-in-law Elaine, waving out her minivan window and looking sympathetically at her. There went her whole reason for being outside to begin with. “I’ve got to go in,” she gritted out between her teeth.

“But you were coming out for a reason, Myrtle. Can’t you remember what it is? Let’s see, you were heading out here, without your bag. You weren’t planning on going very far, were you? Let’s retrace your steps.” Erma also displayed sympathy, but it was a more salacious version that would likely be spread all over town: “Did you hear? Myrtle Clover has gone completely gaga! Couldn’t even remember why she’d left the house yesterday!” “Oh, what a shame!”

Myrtle spun around and thumped back up the walkway. “Have a good one, Myrtle. See you at book club tomorrow!” called Erma behind her.

Not if I see you first, thought Myrtle. She slipped quickly into her front door and leaned against it. Next time she’d be more careful when she ventured outside. She listened for the sound of Jill in the kitchen, but didn’t hear anything. No sounds of cleaning at all. Curious, she walked through the kitchen to the back of the house.

When she peered through her bedroom door, she saw the light on in the bathroom. She hadn’t meant Jill to waste any time cleaning in there since it was still pretty clean from the week before. She walked back to the bathroom.

There she saw Jill, face obscured by the medicine cabinet door. There were several bottles of pills on the sink and a couple of other bottles in her hand. Myrtle tiptoed back to the front of the house. Why was Jill rooting around in her medicines? Was she a prescription drug addict? No, Jill was too clear-headed, too detail-oriented with her cleaning. She seemed a lot less befuddled than Puddin did. Maybe she sold prescription drugs on the black market? There had been an article in the newspaper recently about drugs being sold on the internet at rock bottom prices. Could it be yet another way for Jill to make extra money?

Myrtle slipped out the front door and then noisily re-entered. By the time she’d thumped back into the kitchen, Jill was busily cleaning in there. “Elaine wasn’t home, so I’ll have to catch up with her later. Instead, I ran into Erma Sherman,” Myrtle couldn’t repress a shudder. “Otherwise known as the neighbor from hell.”

Jill laughed. “Is she that bad? I’ve always kind of liked her when I’ve seen her at book club, but I don’t have to live next to her. But I noticed she didn’t take care of her yard. I’m such a stickler about the yard, it would drive me nuts to have crabgrass creeping over the border.”

“You must be a good neighbor to have, then,” said Myrtle in a wistful voice. Aside from the possibility she’d sneak in your house and searching through your stuff, of course.

“Oh, I have a lot of fun with the house. The yard is one of my hobbies, I guess.”

When the heck did Jill Caulfield find time for a hobby? Between two jobs, volunteering at church, and trying to keep her husband out of trouble, she must be pretty busy.

“When I think about your yard, Jill, I think about all those Christmas lights you string up every year.” Myrtle was careful to smile. No need to have Jill realize that her Christmas extravaganza didn’t put Myrtle in the holiday spirit. In fact, Jill’s decorations made Myrtle quite Grinchy. How many times had she nearly been mowed down by a creeping car whose occupants were gorging their eyes on neon Santas and twelve foot nutcrackers with ominous grins? On top of that was the music—Holly, Jolly Christmas and some other annoying tunes on a loop blasting from speakers from November fifteenth through January fifth.