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The old rural route highway was a museum of small businesses from the past. There was an ancient motel that still had a sign out front advertising color TVs in the rooms. There was a diner that never seemed to have any customers. There were church billboards scattered along the way that started with the affirming “Jesus Loves You” before becoming rapidly more dire (culminating with “Choose the Bread of Life or You Are Toast!”) And then, finally, there was the hubcap-covered shack where Wanda resided with her brother Crazy Dan. They had a sign, as well: it advertised live bait, boiled peanuts, and fortunes from Wanda.
Miles parked the car in the middle of the red clay, grassless yard. The borders of the property were marked by wheel-less cars atop cement blocks. The curtains fluttered inside the shack.
Myrtle frowned. “Looks like Crazy Dan is home.”
“Wonderful,” said Miles with a groan. “Did you spot him through a window?”
“No, but Wanda never has to look out to know we’re here. She always knows we’re coming.” Myrtle climbed out of the car.
Miles pressed his lips in a thin line. He was never fond of hearing about Wanda’s gifts.
Myrtle rapped on one of the hubcaps on the house with her cane and a wild-looking man opened the door. “It’s you,” he barked as if Myrtle and Miles visited half a dozen times a day.
“Delighted to see you, too, Dan,” said Myrtle, sweeping past him into the dimly-lit home. She was glad to see that in the war between Crazy Dan’s hoarding and Wanda’s cleaning, Wanda currently appeared to have the upper-hand. “Is Wanda home?”
“A-course she is. Knew you wuz comin’ didn’t she?” He picked up a golf club from a cluttered corner and knit his bushy eyebrows as he peered around. “Seen my gawf balls?”
Myrtle shook her head and Miles cleared his throat and reached under the coffee table. That was a feat in itself because the coffee table was partially obscured by some stacks of Dan’s things. “Here’s one.”
Dan beamed at the golf ball and snatched it out of Miles’s hand. “Good. Got to practice my swing.”
Myrtle said sternly, “Before you head out, where is Wanda?”
He scowled at her. “Picking herbs out back. Be right in.” And with that, he popped out of the house with the golf club and ball, looking rather like a sportive oversized troll.
Miles immediately pulled the bottle of hand sanitizer out of the pocket of his khakis and squirted a generous portion into his hands.
“You must go through that stuff like crazy,” said Myrtle.
“I buy it in bulk,” said Miles, replacing the bottle into his pocket.
Wanda hurried in through the back door, looking tired but happy. She had a little plastic pot with an herb in it and proffered it to Myrtle. “Thought you might want to spice up some of yer cookin’.”
Myrtle leaned over and drew in a deep breath. “Basil?”
Wanda beamed at her, revealing missing teeth in the process.
Myrtle took the basil and sat with it in her lap as if it were a precocious infant. “Thank you, Wanda. Garden club will be most impressed that I’m branching out into herbs.”
Miles glanced unhappily around the room for a place to sit. He finally gingerly perched on a rather rickety chair that had seen better days. He absently patted the pocket that held his hand sanitizer as if it comforted him.
Wanda looked at them shrewdly. “Yer wonderin’ about that murder.”
“You know about that?” asked Miles, startled.
“Of course she does, Miles. For heaven’s sake, how are you always surprised at Wanda’s abilities?” Myrtle gave him an exasperated look.
Wanda, however, gave him a sympathetic smile. “Y’all was friends.”
Miles gave a quick swallow. “We were.”
“He’s in a better place,” said Wanda with conviction.
Myrtle had always thought this a rather comfortless platitude with which to offer the grieving. But the way Wanda used it, it sounded as if she knew something they didn’t.
Myrtle said, “Regardless, it wasn’t his time to go.”
“Reckon somebody thought differently,” said Wanda.
“Do you know whom that somebody might be?” asked Myrtle.
Wanda gave her a sad look. “The sight just don’t work that way. Wish it did.”
Myrtle nodded briskly. “I remember. I guess I keep asking because I’d like the answer to be different or I hope things have somehow changed. How about this: do you have any insights about the murder? Any recommendations about anyone we should speak with or what sorts of questions we should ask?”
“Yer in danger,” said Wanda. “Shouldn’t be askin’ questions.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about that. My advanced years make me fearless, Wanda. No one will say ‘what a pity! Myrtle died so very young!’ Besides, I always find a way to get out of my jams.”
Wanda sighed and said, “Reckon you should talk to that lawyer.”
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 then 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.