Death Pays a Visit

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeMyrtle woke later that morning to the smell of a Southern breakfast. She recognized bacon and sausage, garlic cheese grits, and waffles by their aroma. Myrtle glanced over to the other twin bed and didn’t see Wanda there. Were Miles and Wanda already eating? Was she missing out? She quickly swung her legs out of the bed, pulled her robe on, and hurried to the kitchen.

There she stared in wonder at the sight of Wanda cooking her heart out at Miles’s stove. She spotted fluffy-looking omelets in addition to the other breakfast foods she’d already been able to identify by smell. “Wanda! I didn’t know you could cook.”

Wanda, who’d been so deeply focused on the cooking, jumped before giving Myrtle a reproachful look. “Mama was a cook. She’d bring Dan and me leftovers. She showed me how.”

Myrtle was also stunned to see Pasha, her feral cat, contentedly lying in a kitchen sunbeam next to Wanda’s feet.

Wanda noticed the direction of her gaze and gave a smug smile. “Yer cat likes me.”

“I’m surprised to see her here. Miles will have an absolute stroke. Who knows what kinds of fur she’s leaving all over his house. I left a window cracked for her at home and figured she’d jump inside with the storm and all. Did you—well, I guess you let her in?” asked Myrtle, still feeling a little groggy from the unaccustomed sleep.

Wanda nodded, gently sliding hash browns onto a plate with a slotted spatula. “She was outside. In the storm. I opened the front door to let her in.”

“So, did you hear her out there?” pressed Myrtle.

Wanda just shook her head, looking back at Myrtle. Myrtle gave up with the questioning. It was one of the unexplained things that simply happened around Wanda. “Okay, well, you’re taking the rap when Miles starts fussing,” she said.

“Starts fussing about what?” asked a suspicious voice behind them. They both turned to see Miles entering the kitchen. He’d apparently already showered and was dressed in khaki pants and a crisp blue button-down shirt. Then he caught sight of Pasha and took a step back.

“Now Miles! You know that you and Pasha have an understanding now,” said Myrtle. “Remember? Pasha has become very fond of you. In her way.”

Pasha gave Miles a disdainful look and curled closer to Wanda’s foot.

“Was Pasha outside in that storm?” Now Miles looked a little horrified.

“Looked like a drowned rat when I pulled her in,” grated Wanda.

“I guess she went searching for me when she found I wasn’t at home. Loyal Pasha,” said Myrtle.

Miles said, “And now onto surprise number two. Wanda, I had no idea that you were such a wonderful cook. This breakfast looks absolutely amazing.” He walked closer to the stove and surveyed the food. “Garlic cheese grits? Hash browns? Omelets? Sausage and bacon? It’s a feast. And I, for one, am hungry enough to gobble it all down.”

The food was just as good as it looked and it was gone within no time. Then it was time for the cleaning up, which Myrtle and Miles insisted on doing as Wanda sat awkwardly by until Pasha leaped adoringly into her lap and Wanda’s time was taken up with petting her.

“Okay,” said Myrtle as she and Miles finished the last of the dishes. “The storm has cleared out. So the plan is to drive Wanda back home and then to head over to Greener Pastures. Right? Because it does sound as if it is something of an emergency, if we’re there to stop a murder.”

“To try and stop a murder,” said Wanda cautiously. “The Sight—it usually ain’t wrong. But seems wrong to don’t do nothing.”

Myrtle was proud at herself for overlooking all of Wanda’s double-negatives. Although the retired high school English teacher in her winced at every occurrence.

“Right,” said Miles briskly. “And are you sure you don’t want to come along, Wanda?”

“Nope. Won’t help if I go. But tell my cousin Randy I said hi,” said Wanda.

Myrtle looked down at her robe and slippers. “I should probably head home real quick and change.”

“Might be a good idea,” said Miles dryly. “Otherwise Greener Pastures might think that you’re trying to apply for admittance to their memory care unit.”

Myrtle made a face at him. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Miles stopped her. “Hey, what are your plans for Pasha? I don’t think she needs to stay in here for the duration of our time away. There are no litter boxes here, for one thing.” He gave Pasha an uncomfortable look. There was an uncertain peace still between them.

“Just open your back door and let her out that way. She spends her days hunting chipmunks and won’t want to stay inside. Besides, I think Pasha was just checking on me.” Myrtle opened the front door and walked out.

Unfortunately, at the same point that she was making her foray into Miles’s front yard in her robe and slippers, Erma Sherman was outside getting the Bradley Bugle. Erma was Myrtle’s nemesis and lived between Myrtle and Miles. Erma looked like a donkey, had atrocious breath, talked non-stop about her various disgusting medical issues, and was impossible to escape.

As Erma looked Myrtle up and down, she smiled an unpleasant smile. Which was when Myrtle also remembered something else about Erma—she was a horrible gossip. And Myrtle was now leaving Miles’s house in the early morning hours in her nightgown and robe. Myrtle fumed.

At that very moment, however, Myrtle’s reputation was saved by an unlikely source. Wanda quickly popped outside with her usual uncanny recognition of trouble and called out to Myrtle, “So—it’s a plan, right? Thanks for setting that up with Miles and me.”

Erma’s face fell with disappointment. There was no fascinating bit of gossip at all—merely a boring meeting of some sort that Myrtle had dressed oddly for.

Myrtle called back, “That’s right. Let me get changed real quick and we’ll head out.” She put her nose up in the air and sailed down the sidewalk, as much as someone with a cane can sail, past the dejected Erma and home again.

After they’d dropped Wanda back home, Myrtle and Miles headed off for Greener Pastures.

“Do you know what gets on my nerves about Greener Pastures?” asked Myrtle as they sped along at a fair clip.

“What’s that?” asked Miles. “I thought everything about it got on your nerves. Its very existence.”

“That too, yes. But what’s really getting on my nerves lately is the way they’re trying to rebrand the place as some sort of luxury resort. ‘Greener Pastures Retirement Village’ or some such nonsense. They’re making it sound like we’re heading to Little Switzerland or something.”

Miles said mildly, “It’s their right to try and sell openings. Naturally, they’re going to want to want to make the place sound as appealing as possible.”

“It’s blatant false advertising!” snapped Myrtle. “They should be ashamed. They apparently have new management there, and they’re intent on making the place seem chichi. Greener Pastures has an ad where everyone is in mid-laugh and clutching a wine glass. The ad copy reads, enjoy an afternoon of relaxing classical music with a glass of wine.” Myrtle snorted. “The residents probably need to drink to handle it there. And whoever does their print copy is really terrible at copywriting. Have you seen their ads in the Bradley Bugle?”

“Must have somehow missed it,” said Miles with a sigh.

Myrtle said, “The ads read: Greener Pastures: Don’t follow the herd.”

“Oh, okay. So pastures and herds. Clever.”

Myrtle said, “Not clever. And this one is even worse: Greener Pastures is your pastoral home—bet the farm on it. They keep mentioning the new ‘Villas’ they’re opening. It’s all just a bunch of hooey. And Red keeps trying to sell me on it! Ridiculous. He waxes poetic about the place when it’s actually a complete dump. I told him that if he liked it so much, he should move in.”

Miles coughed. “Red is only in his late forties and in perfect health and mobility—ordinarily. I don’t think he’s their ideal applicant.”

Myrtle was about to argue the point when Miles quickly continued, “So, tell me what our plan is for today. Whom are we allegedly visiting? I’m assuming we’ll be saying we’re at Greener Pastures to visit a resident. That sounds a lot better than saying we’re there looking for a future murder victim that our psychic friend told us about.”

Myrtle said, “I’ve been thinking on it. I know a few people over there, but we need to be careful whom we pick as our target. We need to be visiting someone who won’t find our interest suspicious. Someone who is, perhaps, slightly dotty already and will just be glad to see us and not think twice. I think Ruby Sims will fit the bill nicely.”

“Is she a little dotty?”

“She’ll do. I was over at Greener Pastures in the last couple of weeks to eat Sunday dinner with a friend of mine. Ruby kept calling me by different names during the entire meal. She doesn’t have any local family to act as gatekeepers, so that’s good. She has gobs of children, but they don’t live around here. We’ll say we’re visiting Ruby. Then I guess we’ll look around for people who resemble the woman on Wanda’s drawing. Ask a few questions ... you know ... our usual thing. And then maybe have a word with Wanda’s cousin Randy,” said Myrtle.

They drove on for a few minutes. Miles said thoughtfully, “Family is a funny thing, isn’t it? I was surprised that Wanda had a cousin at Greener Pastures, but then I was surprised that she and I were cousins, too.”

Surprised hadn’t been the word that Myrtle would have used for that discovery.

Miles looked curiously at Myrtle. “And you’ve really got a very young family, haven’t you? Younger than mine and I’m younger than you.”

“How gallant of you to say so, Miles,” growled Myrtle, staring stoically out the window.

“A son in his forties. A toddler grandson,” continued Miles thoughtfully.

“What of it?” asked Myrtle, affecting a disinterested tone.

“Well, nothing, really. I mean, that’s all fine. Nothing wrong with that. I was only wondering since most women from your generation ... uh, our generation ... married and had children fairly young. It just seems like an anomaly and anomalies are...interesting,” said Miles. It appeared that his forehead was starting to dot with perspiration.

“You should know by now that I’m not most people, Miles. I didn’t marry until quite late, as a matter of fact,” said Myrtle stiffly. “I was forty when I married. So I was an older mother, that’s all. A mature mother, I think they call it these days.”

Miles said, “Forty when you married? I always just assumed you married young and then just...put having children off or something.”

“Why on earth would I do that? It wasn’t as if I couldn’t teach and have a child at the same time.” said Myrtle in a cross voice. “No, I simply put off being married. I was picky, okay?”

“Well, that I can certainly imagine,” said Miles. He laughed, “You’re even picky about peanut butter. I’ve never seen such loyalty to a particular peanut butter brand.”

“Peanut butters vary widely,” said Myrtle. “As do people.” She was more than ready to move onto another topic, and fortunately, they were just approaching Greener Pastures. She raised her eyebrows. “This certainly looks different. And I was just here.”

Where Greener Pastures had previously had a sad little sign out front that made it all too easy to drive past the retirement home, it now had a massive and grandiose sign consisting of two brick pillars with ironwork connecting them. Greener Pastures Retirement Village was written in script on the iron.

Miles said, “It certainly doesn’t look like a dump, Myrtle.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she answered with a sniff.

They drove past carefully manicured beds with a variety of blooms. On their left was a newly constructed series of brick buildings with black shutters with Greener Pastures Villas on another iron sign in the front.

“Villas?” asked Miles.

Myrtle heaved a sigh. “I suppose they mean condos. Now they’re trying to evoke Italy. Pathetic.”

Miles pulled into a parking lot and parked the Volvo. They walked toward the front door. “Automatic doors,” said Myrtle. “Hmm. Last time I was here I was battling a wooden door while holding onto my cane at the same time.”

There was a chalkboard sign outside the automatic doors with Today’s Events listed in excruciatingly neat handwriting. Miles studied the sign as Myrtle continued walking toward the doors, her cane thumping on the sidewalk as she went.

“Scrabble, checkers, chess, and a comedic play,” said Miles in a musing voice.

“Come on, Miles!” said Myrtle testily. “Someone might be about to kick the bucket as we dawdle!”

An old woman walked out of the door right at that moment and gave Myrtle a thunderous glare.

Myrtle hissed to Miles, “You know what I mean. We’ve got to figure out who this victim is and stop the crime before it happens.”

“Do we need to sign in?” asked Miles. He gave the front desk an apprehensive look. “I’d hate for us to have to state what our business here is.”

“Nope. The front desk isn’t the type where you sign in—it’s the type where you ask directions. But I think we’ll wander around a little first before we ask for Ruby’s room number. Ruby might be in the dining hall—it’s lunchtime, after all,” said Myrtle.

Myrtle glanced around curiously as they walked down a wide hall with handrails lining either side. “I’d noticed last time that they’d given the place an overhaul. New carpeting. New paint.” She stopped short and put her hands on her hips. “Wonder what they’re up to,” she said suspiciously.

“Improving the place, clearly,” said Miles. “It seems very bright and cheerful to me.”

“Hmm.” Myrtle wasn’t so sure. She frowned. “What’s this mob up ahead?” she asked, gesturing to a group of people in wheelchairs and pushing walkers.

“Looks like a traffic jam,” said Miles. “Is that the entrance to the dining room?”

“Unfortunately.” They approached the group and stood in line behind them. “They need a fast lane here. These folks are poky.”

Miles raised his eyebrows. “Just because you’re so mobile doesn’t mean you should be smug, Myrtle. And people can hear you,” he said in a low voice as some residents turned to give Myrtle reproving looks.

“It’s not their fault they’re poky. But it’s the management’s fault for allowing these traffic jams. The same thing happens outside the health room and the chapel—they block up the halls with their walkers and wheelchairs and other contraptions. They’re all lining up to go through the dining hall door like jockeys in the starting gate,” said Myrtle.

An old woman with Coke-bottle glasses turned and gave Myrtle a baleful look, which Myrtle carefully ignored.

Miles scrutinized the dining hall as they finally entered. Then he smiled. “Reminds me of my old college dining hall,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “Look—there are even little bouquets of fresh flowers on every table.”

Myrtle snorted. “The food will remind you of your old college dining hall, too. The meatloaf is particularly treacherous. It should be avoided at all costs.”

“What are the rules here?” asked Miles, still surveying the room. “Are we allowed to sit wherever we want?”

“Of course we are! I even saw it in their manual one time,” scoffed Myrtle.

“Manual?” Miles looked bemused.

“Manual, welcome guide...whatever the thing is called. Point being, there are no reserved seats at Greener Pastures. It’s supposed to be a bastion of friendly camaraderie. Let’s just put my pocketbook down on one of the tables to hold our spot since I don’t see Ruby in here right now. It can get very busy very quickly.”

They approached one of the round tables covered with jaunty yellow tablecloths.

A thin woman with high cheekbones glared at Myrtle as they approached. “No room!” she said sternly.

“Why, there’s plenty of room!” said Myrtle hotly, feeling suddenly a lot like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

“No room for you,” said the thin woman rudely. She must have realized how she sounded because she tried again, still sounding ungracious, “I mean—these seats are taken.”

“No worries. I wouldn’t have wanted to sit at this table anyway,” said Myrtle, eyes narrowed. She flounced away, glancing around to see if there were another free couple of spots somewhere.

“The nerve,” muttered Myrtle, her feelings a bit stung.

“What about the Greener Pastures owner’s manual forbidding reserved seats?” murmured Miles.

“I’ve half a mind to report her to the retirement home authorities,” said Myrtle. “Here we are, hapless visitors, and we’re rejected and dejected.”

“You can sit here if you like,” a reedy voice piped up behind them. “Or not, if you’d rather not. Either way is fine. No one cares at this table. At least, we don’t care.”

Myrtle turned to see a woman at a large round table. She had perfect posture and was gazing steadily at them. She sat with two other friendly looking ladies wearing brightly colored tops.

“The gallant ladies of the round table, saving me from embarrassment,” said Myrtle with a smile.

Miles gave a small cough behind her.

“Miles is with me,” said Myrtle. “It’ll ruin the hen party—is that okay?”

Apparently, it was more than okay. The ladies all beamed at Miles and quickly moved their chairs to make room. Myrtle sighed. It was obvious why they’d gotten the table. Well, she didn’t mind capitalizing on Miles’s supposed s*x appeal, either. Not if it meant they had a place to eat lunch.

They stood in line, sliding their trays along the metal shelf and pointing out what food they chose to the staff. There were chicken fillets filled with sage and onion, roast pork with applesauce, leek and cheese bake, and a quiche Lorraine. Myrtle remained stoic through the line. She’d made the mistake of having high expectations of the Greener Pastures food before, only to be disappointed.

This time, though, she was pleasantly surprised, although she wasn’t about to let on that she was.

Miles took a cautious bite of his chicken. His eyebrows shot up. “Myrtle, this food isn’t half bad.” He took a second, more enthusiastic bite. “Actually, it’s good. Much better, in fact, than what I made for myself for lunch yesterday.”

“Don’t be hasty. It’s not really fair to judge a hot lunch against a pitiful cheese sandwich or whatever you made for yourself yesterday.”

“It was a salad with vegetables from my own garden,” said Miles rather indignantly.

A lady next to Miles beamed at him, giving a flutter of her eyelashes. “Do you really grow your own vegetables? I really do admire a man for living off the land.”

Myrtle snorted. “Miles lives off the Piggly Wiggly grocery store. And then accents that food with tomatoes grown in his small garden.” This lunch was getting to be irritating, although Miles seemed pleased.

“Have we seen you here before?” asked the lady next to Miles, completely ignoring Myrtle’s presence.

Miles opened his mouth to answer but Myrtle quickly said, “Actually, we’re here to visit a friend of ours who hasn’t apparently made it to the dining room yet. Ruby Sims. I might be on a reconnaissance mission, myself—checking the place out to see if it might make a suitable future home.”

She was surprised at how glibly the words came out, especially since they were complete lies. Miles gave her an admiring look at the smoothness in which she delivered the falsehoods.

The woman sitting next to Myrtle hadn’t yet uttered a word, instead, continued eating her roast pork and studying her intently. She had sharp features that were carefully outlined in various earth-colored makeup. She wasn’t unattractive, just hard looking. She wore clanking jewelry and a turquoise top with well-ironed white linen pants.

“Is something wrong?” asked Myrtle with some irritation. It was no fun to be so blatantly stared at.