Chapter One“Hello, Myrtle,” said Miles calmly opening his front door.
Miles wore his customary plaid pajamas, slippers, and navy-blue bathrobe. His silver hair was neatly combed. Myrtle patted her own poof of gray hair and found that it appeared to be standing on end like Einstein’s. She impatiently smoothed it down.
“Hi, Miles,” said Myrtle. It was three forty-five in the morning, but somehow Miles didn’t seem at all surprised to see her there. But then, Miles frequently seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to Myrtle’s nocturnal visits.
Myrtle, dressed in her oldest and warmest robe, socks, and slippers, and bearing a cane, walked into Miles’s tidy kitchen. It was a bachelor’s kitchen with sensible pull-down shades in the windows, a sturdy wooden table and chairs that seated four,
