Murder on the Ballot, Myrtle Clover #17

Chapter One

"Are you done with the comics?" asked Miles as Myrtle frowned ferociously at the first section of the newspaper.

"Hmm?"

"The comics. I need something to wake me up a little," said Miles. He looked at the clock on Myrtle's wall and groaned. "It's not fair that I'm drowsy now. I couldn't have been drowsy at four a.m.?"

Myrtle said, "Well, the pancakes you made probably didn't help, although they were very good."

"I thought carbs were supposed to give us energy."

"I think it's supposed to be the kind of temporary energy that we crash from, later on," said Myrtle. She tossed the newspaper down with a disgusted sigh.

"I guess you're done with that section of the paper, at any rate," said Miles.

Myrtle said, "I think what I'm done with is the complete and total foolishness that's evident on our town council. They can't really seem to get anything accomplished and it's most vexing. They squabble constantly."

"Perhaps you should run for office," said Miles mildly as Myrtle thrust the comics section at him.

Myrtle paused, staring at him. "Why not?"

Miles glanced up from reading Peanuts, wrinkling his forehead in confusion. "What?"

"Oh, pay attention, Miles! You just offered me a very valuable suggestion you know." Pasha, Myrtle's feral cat, jumped up on her lap and Myrtle rubbed her. She crooned, "What a good girl, Pasha. See, Pasha thinks it's a good idea, too. You have these moments of brilliance, you know."

Miles was still trying to work out exactly what his brilliant moment had been. He remembered asking for the comics section. He'd made pancakes. There'd been some talk about carbs. Then he remembered.

"You aren't serious, Myrtle."

"Why not? Why shouldn't I run for office?"

Miles said, "It will probably make your blood pressure rise to unacceptable levels."

"My blood pressure is always ninety over sixty," said Myrtle proudly.

Miles gaped at her. "Isn't that very low?"

"Admirably low."

"Not too low? Don't you see dots and fuzzy things if you stand up too quickly?"

Myrtle said, "Not one bit. I'm not on any medication whatsoever for it, unlike my son. Red, as you know, has a terrible blood pressure problem."

Myrtle said the last bit rather smugly. Red was her son, in his late forties. He was police chief of the small town of Bradley, North Carolina, where they lived. Miles strongly suspected, however, that it wasn't the job that made Red have a blood pressure problem, but his octogenarian mother and her capers.

This belief was once again supported when Myrtle said gleefully, "Think how exasperated Red will be over it."

"Is there even an open seat on the council?" asked Miles.

"There sure is. Damian Cooper dropped dead at dinner just last month, remember? They'll be having to replace him on the council." Myrtle's tone, when speaking of Damian Cooper, was rather too cheerful.

Miles said slowly, "But the council is a lot of work, isn't it? They seem to have tons of meetings and you hate meetings. They make public appearances and cut ribbons and are frequently smiling toothy grins. It all sounds like all the things you dislike rolled up into a single entity. Plus, those people really irritate you."