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Miles seemed gloomy again, though, as they set off down the road. Perhaps more distraction was in order prior to the errand to the Bradley Bugle. Myrtle said, “Let’s drive past Ollie Spearman’s place. Teddy’s former employee.”
“We don’t know he’s a former employee.”
“Curtis says he hasn’t been there for weeks. It certainly seems like a reasonable explanation.”
Miles’s forehead wrinkled. “We’re not going to tell Ollie that Teddy died, are we?” Miles was rather squeamish about making these sorts of notifications. One never knew how someone would react.
“What? No, no. We’re merely going to do a drive-by.”
Miles’s forehead was now even more deeply furrowed. “A drive-by shooting?”
“Mercy! No, Miles. When have we ever done that? We’re not Bonnie and Clyde. For heaven’s sake. I’m simply interested in finding out if Ollie is at home. Maybe he’s been out murdering Teddy.”
Miles said slowly, “I’m not certain that Ollie being out of the house is a sign of guilt. There are many reasons why he might be out. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all. Maybe he’s out getting a greeting card for a special friend.”
Myrtle noted with alarm that Miles appeared to be heading directly for the doldrums again. Had someone won his heart? It was most irritating. She needed her sidekick to be sharp, not mooning over some silly filly.
“He lives just down this street. No, over there. Yes, this turn. Watch out for that squirrel!”
Miles muttered, “The squirrel is on the other side of the street.”
“Squirrels are notoriously capricious. He or she could easily have decided to dive under your tires. Let’s not leave more death in our wakes today.”
Miles carefully drove down Ollie’s street until Myrtle directed him to park across the street from Ollie’s house. It was a pleasant house, with a vibrant yard, despite it being winter.
“Are we surveilling his house now?” asked Miles, looking uncomfortable.
“We’re just admiring it. That’s our story, if he were to come out and see us.”
Miles raised a skeptical eyebrow. “We were so impressed with Ollie Spearman’s February yard that we pulled over to the side of the road to stare at it.”
“Correct. That’s our cover story.” Myrtle studied the driveway. “I don’t see a car.”
“There’s a garage,” pointed out Miles.
Myrtle sniffed. “No one uses their garages for parking cars. They all function as warehouses for the stuff people should give away, but don’t. No, I think Ollie is out and about.”
“I suppose he must be setting up shop in his home? After all, presumably he’s without income right now. It would be helpful for him to create floral arrangements at home.”
Myrtle nodded. “That makes sense. Although he has that hideous pair of muddy boots right there on his front porch. I’d imagine that to be rather off-putting to potential customers.”
Miles appeared to be tiring of the short surveillance. “We’ve seen everything we can see from the road, Myrtle.”
Myrtle beamed at him. “You’re absolutely right. We should get out of the car and knock on his door. That way, we could be completely sure Ollie is really out of the house.”
But Miles was already driving slowly away before Myrtle had the chance to open the car door. “I think that’s enough for right now. Let’s head over to the Bugle.”
Miles delved deep in his thoughts during the short drive. Myrtle supposed he must be upset about Teddy’s death. “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said in what she fondly considered a concerned tone. It might have sounded more curious than concerned.
“What was that?” asked Miles.
“Your friend. The one you’re brooding over right now.” At least, she hoped he was brooding over his fallen chess club friend and not some woman. The last time he’d been involved in a relationship, it created all sorts of complications.
But Miles didn’t appear to recognize the fact that he’d been sad over Teddy. “Ah. That’s right. Yes, I feel bad about that. He was a fine chess player.”
“He was a good player?”
“Well, he beat me at chess quite a few times,” said Miles.
Myrtle wasn’t sure that was indicative of any special talent on Teddy’s end. After all, she’d beaten Miles at chess quite a few times, and she didn’t even know the names of all the pieces.
“What was Teddy like? Curtis didn’t paint the best picture of him. It sounds like he was loud, argumentative, and liked things to go his way.”
Miles considered this. “That’s true, actually. But that’s not all of who Teddy was. He had a good sense of humor. He seemed kind most of the time. And he had a keen head for business. I remember he mentioned wanting to expand the shop into something of a franchise.”
“A franchise? In Bradley?”
Miles said, “No, I think we decided Bradley couldn’t handle more than one florist. He wanted to open Blossom Serenade in nearby towns and have them run by staff.”
“That was very ambitious of him.”
“Yes, it was,” said Miles. “It’s a real pity he’s gone.”
Miles parked the car directly in front of the Bradley Bugle office in downtown Dappled Hills. Myrtle was supposed to be a mere columnist at the Bugle, but was wretchedly unhappy stuck in her role as a helpful hints columnist. Sadly, the helpful hints column was extremely popular, and Sloan, the editor, would likely never let her stop the column. It was bearable, however, as long as she could work as a crime reporter whenever the inevitable murder would happen. You’d never think tiny Bradley, North Carolina would be a hotbed for homicide, but it seemed as if bodies dropped all the time there.
Myrtle had taught Sloan English, as well. She’d taught for so long since the death of her husband that she’d taught everyone in Bradley of a certain age. Sloan had never recovered from being her student and would jump half a mile whenever she entered the door. It was most entertaining.
Sure enough, as soon as Myrtle and Miles walked into the Bugle office, Sloan nearly fell out of his swivel chair. “Miss Myrtle!” he exclaimed. He stood awkwardly, and the look on his face made it appear he’d just been asked to recite Hamlet’s soliloquy when he hadn’t memorized it.
The Bradley Bugle’s office was a defiant relic of a bygone era. The place had a pungent aroma. A cocktail of ink, paper, and what could only be described as “essence of forgotten sandwich.”
“Sloan,” said Myrtle briskly. “There’s been a change of plan.”
Sloan looked confused. Myrtle wondered if he’d perhaps been dozing in his swivel chair before she’d walked in. He didn’t seem to follow her train of thought. “Change of plan? You mean for the helpful hints column? If you’re ready to run it, I can still get it into tomorrow’s paper.”
“No, no not the column. Remember the story on Teddy Hartfield?”
Sloan’s frown deepened. “Oh, yeah. You were going to do a profile on him for Valentine’s Day. Whatever happened to that piece?” He hastily added, “I mean, not that it’s any trouble, of course.” He was likely thinking he’d forgotten his homework in Myrtle’s class enough that he could afford to be expansive when Myrtle forgot to turn in an article.
“Well, I decided to turn it into a different type of story. More of a human-interest story of a florist on his busiest day of the year. But now the article is undergoing a third iteration.”
Sloan said slowly, “What’s that?” He was looking uncomfortable, as if he knew what Myrtle was about to say.
“Teddy Hartfield was murdered. Miles and I found him just a little while ago.”
Sloan looked over at Miles with pleading eyes, as if hoping Myrtle wasn’t telling the truth. Miles gave him a solemn nod of confirmation in return.
Sloan sank back down in his chair, which squealed from the sudden weight. “Oh no. That’s terrible news.”
“Did you know Teddy?” asked Miles.
“Nope. But I know this means Miss Myrtle wants to run a crime story.” Perspiration started dotting Sloan’s large forehead. He turned on a nearby oscillating fan, despite the coolness of the February day.
“Of course I want to run a crime story,” said Myrtle acerbically. “A crime has occurred. Our readers deserve to know what’s happened. Perhaps they’re also interested in why there seem to be constant attacks on local florists.”
Sloan shook his head. “I wouldn’t bring up that angle. You know how upset Red gets. He’s trying to provide law and order to the citizens of Bradley, and he’s doing a pretty good job. Making it seem like there’s a serial killer targeting florists won’t make him happy.”
“Fine. There’s no connection between those two cases anyway, since Lillian Johnson’s murderer is behind bars. But I thought it might make a catchy headline.” Myrtle was pleased Sloan appeared to accept that she was writing the story. They usually went through a ridiculous and time-consuming process where he argued Red didn’t want her reporting on local crime. Then Myrtle had to remind him she did a marvelous job, and that she was the best one to report on the crime since she’d been at the scene.
“So I’ll get the story to you shortly, Sloan. That way you can juggle things around so it can be on the front page.”
Sloan nodded morosely. “Okay.” He paused. “You know Red doesn’t want you reporting on this stuff, right?”
“I’m aware, yes. Now that you’ve duly warned me, I’ll head back home so I can get cracking on the article.” Myrtle strode to the door.
Sloan said, “Oh, one second. I did want to tell you something, Miss Myrtle. I know you’ve been aggravated for a while about the copyediting in the newspaper.”
“There’s copyediting going on? That’s a surprise.”
Sloan continued, “I thought it would find somebody to take care of the problem for me.”
“Are you certain it’s someone qualified? Someone who is actually acquainted with the King’s English?”
Sloan seemed baffled by the sudden reference to the monarchy. “Um, yeah. I mean, yes. It’s someone who understands English. You’ll remember her. Imogen Winthrop.”
Myrtle made a face as if she’d suddenly tasted a piece of very sour candy.
“Remember?” persisted Sloan. “She taught with you. High school English.”
“Yes, yes, I remember Imogen Winthrop. For heaven’s sake, I have full access to my cognitive abilities. I was simply surprised, that’s all.”
Sloan looked worried now. “You don’t think she’s a good pick?”
Myrtle didn’t, but not for reasons related to Imogen’s copyediting skills. It had more to do with the fact she simply didn’t like the prissy woman. When Myrtle retired, it had been with a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to endure Imogen Winthrop any longer. And here it sounded as if she’d be a colleague of hers. She pressed her lips together in irritation.
“No, I suppose she’s all right,” said Myrtle. It was hardly a ringing endorsement. “The only problem with Imogen is that she’s a complete Luddite.”
Sloan wasn’t sure what to make of that term, either. “Luddite, Miss M?”
“Yes, Sloan. A technophobe, in today’s parlance. Meaning, Imogen doesn’t use computers.”
Sloan gave a relieved laugh. Perhaps he’d imagined that being a Luddite was some sort of heinous medical issue. Maybe a contagious one. “Oh, I see. No, we already talked about that. I’m making space for Miz Winthrop in the newsroom. She won’t have to have anything emailed over to her.”
“Wonderful,” muttered Myrtle.