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“Curtis is dead?” Myrtle and Miles exchanged a glance. Myrtle continued, “I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened? Was it some sort of medical emergency? Heart attack? Isn’t it awfully early to be on a job site?”
Hank nodded. “Too early, for sure. And from what the cops were saying, it sure sounds like murder, Miss M. I can’t hardly believe it. Curtis was a great guy.”
“You didn’t happen to see poor Curtis there, did you? Or were you kept back by the police.”
Hank said, “The cops hadn’t set up their perimeter then, and I didn’t know it was a crime scene. I could see him sprawled out on the foundation. Foundation’s just half-finished. A framing hammer was beside him. Looked like somebody had hit him upside the head with it.”
Myrtle shook her head. “Horrors. I don’t know what a framing hammer is. Is it like a regular hammer?”
“Yes ma’am, but a bit heavier. Carpenters use them.” He sighed. “I really liked Curtis, too. Can’t believe this happened to him.”
“Has anything seemed off with Curtis lately? Has he seemed worried? Has something been on his mind, do you think?” asked Myrtle.
Hank started off saying no, then stopped and thought for a few moments. “You know, I was going to say no, but he hasn’t exactly been himself lately. Curtis has been real absent-minded, and that wasn’t like him. He was making mistakes on the site. I was starting to get worried he was going to be fired.”
“What kinds of mistakes?” asked Miles.
“Miles was a developer,” said Myrtle, shrugging.
“An engineer,” Miles said through gritted teeth.
Hank said, “Well sir, they were big mistakes and small ones. On the smaller side, he’d cut lumber too short. Wasted our materials. He forgot to put on his safety gear and set up safety barriers. I chalked that stuff up to Curtis being tired. He’s a dad, you know, and dads don’t get a lot of sleep sometimes.”
“But then there was a bigger mistake?” asked Myrtle.
“Yep. Curtis ignored the blueprints and deviated from the architectural plans. Created all kinds of chaos and errors. I’ve never seen him do something like that before,” said Hank.
“Any idea what was on his mind?”
Hank shook his head. “I sat down to talk with him about it after the blueprint thing happened. But he didn’t tell me what was on his mind. Just that he hadn’t been concentrating enough.” Hank paused. “He did say he was about to come into a windfall, though.”
“A windfall?” chorused Myrtle and Miles.
“That’s right. Didn’t say what it was. I reckoned he was coming into some family money or something. And that maybe he was planning what to do with it and that was what was making him so distracted.” Hank shrugged helplessly. “But now this has happened. Makes you wonder, don’t it? Doesn’t it?” He quickly corrected himself, looking over at his old English teacher.
“It does,” said Myrtle, gazing toward the police cars.
Hank looked at his watch. “Reckon I should head back home and get ready to come back on the job.”
“Not on this job, surely. It’s a crime scene.”
Hank nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got another job I’m juggling, too. Those folks are going to get me helping out a day early.”
“Hank, one other thing. Do you know how the police were aware of Curtis’s death? Was there someone else who reported it?”
“I talked to one of Red’s deputies for a minute. He said a neighbor heard somebody yelling over here and called the cops.” Hank shook his head. “It’s an awful thing, ain’t . . . isn’t it? Good seeing you, Miss M. Nice meeting you, sir.” With that, Hank headed to a white pickup truck.
Miles said, “He seems like a nice guy.”
“Nicer than Curtis, for sure. I get the feeling that Curtis must have been doing some blackmailing.”
Miles slowly started driving back the way they’d come in. “The mention of the windfall, I’m guessing?”
“Right. And the fact Curtis lived directly next to the floral shop. He’d have been able to see someone there who wasn’t supposed to be there. If there had been anything suspicious, he could have tried to capitalize on it.”
Miles said, “You think that’s why Curtis was at a deserted construction site before daybreak? He was meeting someone for a payoff?”
“I don’t think he was there to work,” said Myrtle tartly. “He wouldn’t have even been able to see what he was doing.” She frowned. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
Myrtle was displeased by this. “But we were hungry. I had no food at my house, remember? We were heading for the diner.”
“But then fate intervened. I wonder if maybe we should just go to my house and have cheese on saltine crackers.”
“Miles, what on earth is going on with you?” demanded Myrtle. “You’ve been behaving so oddly lately. Now you’re talking about fate.”
“Wanda always talks about fate and people eat it up,” noted Miles.
“Yes, but she’s a psychic.” Myrtle paused. “This all has to do with Maeve, doesn’t it?”
Miles looked stoically out the windshield. “What makes you think that?”
“Our aforementioned psychic friend. Plus, I did a bit of research, which indicated her death took place on Valentine’s Day. And this happens to be a milestone year, doesn’t it?”
Miles sighed, looking tired. “Yes, it is.” He glanced quickly across at her. “You’re not upset about Stanley? Or at least missing him?”
“My husband Stanley? He died over four decades ago, Miles. It’s ancient history. I think about him from time to time, of course.” In fact, Myrtle rarely thought about Stanley. It was all a lifetime ago and seemed very fuzzy and ethereal.
“I suppose I think about Maeve more frequently.” Miles tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Isn’t that rather maudlin, though? Aren’t you dwelling on something that makes you unhappy?”
Miles shook his head. “Maeve never made me unhappy.”
“Yes, but her absence clearly is.”
Miles pulled into Myrtle’s driveway. “I probably just need some time alone to think.” His voice was slightly cool. Myrtle clearly hadn’t understood the way he’d hoped she would.
Myrtle sighed as she walked back up her driveway, giving Miles a wave. Apparently, he wasn’t inviting her in for cheese and saltine crackers after all. She’d hoped Miles was rid of the mopes. Maybe he’d shake it off soon. In the meantime, she had an item of business she needed to attend to.
Myrtle called Sloan to inform him about the new story she needed to write. “I’m sending over the story on poor Curtis Walsh’s demise now,” said Myrtle.
Sloan sounded alarmed. “Curtis Walsh? What happened?”
“What often seems to happen in Bradley. He was murdered.” Myrtle paused. “It’s a big story, of course. Is Imogen onboard to copyedit?”
Myrtle knew her story wouldn’t need to be copyedited at all. It was completely free of errors. But she wanted to know if her previous efforts to dissuade Imogen had been successful. Had Imogen quit her position as copyeditor?
To her dismay, Sloan said, “Yes ma’am, she’s on it. Miz Winthrop does a great job.” He quickly realized his mistake, stammering, “Not as great as you do, of course. But you’ve already got enough on your plate.”
Myrtle was quite displeased to hear her endeavor had been in vain. Perhaps she should try again to point out Imogen’s deficiencies to Sloan. “You’re not having any issues with her outdated grammar rules? I’d imagined they might conflict with modern journalism style guides.”
This was news to Sloan. “Outdated rules? In what way?”
“Oh, I’m sure it will all be just fine. It just might make the Bugle sound a bit stilted. Charmingly archaic.”
Sloan apparently didn’t like the idea of the newspaper sounding antiquated. “Hm. Okay. How outdated are we talking?”
“Just minor things, really. Imogen will never split an infinitive. She’ll insist on ‘whom’ in objective cases. There will be absolutely no conjunctions at the start of a sentence. And, naturally, she’ll insist on ‘shall’ for first-person future tense.”
There was silence on the other side of the line. “O-kay,” said Sloan slowly.
“My only concern is that the paper might seem stuffy and out of touch with modern readers. It could mean the newspaper’s content is less engaging.” Myrtle was quite pleased with her word choice. ‘Engagement’ was Sloan’s favorite buzzword.
“Engagement,” muttered Sloan under his breath.
Not wanting to oversell things, Myrtle said, “Anyway, I’m sure the paper will be well edited. Now I really must go. Things to do, people to see.”
“Bye, Miss Myrtle.”
With any luck, Sloan would now have food for thought.
––––––––
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Myrtle was calling Wanda. She told her about Miles, about his rather irritating devotion to Maeve, and about his plan to have alone time to think.
“Reckon he jest needs time,” said Wanda. “Want me to drive ya to see Ollie?”
“How did you know I was going to talk with Ollie? Never mind . . . psychic. Speaking of being a psychic, I was wondering how things were going with your wealthy patron. Clarissa?”
“Cassandra,” drawled Wanda.
“That’s right. How are things going with her?”
“Okay, I guess. But I don’t always tell her nice stuff. I think she wants nice stuff.”
Myrtle said, “Don’t we all? What are the kinds of things Cassandra wants insight on? She’s British, isn’t she?”
“Lady Cassandra,” said Wanda, her voice wry.
“Ah. Yes.”
Wanda said, “She wants to know should she invest in a tech startup. If she should call her sister, who she ain’t seen fer years. What her dreams mean. If she’ll find true love.”
“Will she? Find true love?”
Wanda said sadly, “Don’t look like it.” She paused. “Want me to drive over now?”
It would take a while for Wanda to reach Myrtle, based on her low rate of speed and the distance she must cover. Myrtle agreed she should set out as soon as possible. “I’ll pay for your gas,” said Myrtle.
Wanda said, “Yew ain’t gotta do that. Yew don’t git paid fer weeks.”
“Yes, but that’s really fine.”
“And you ain’t got any food in th’ house.”
“Well, that’s true,” admitted Myrtle. “I suppose I should contribute gas money when my retirement pay shows up in my account.”
“Only if yew think about it. Be there in a jiffy.”