Pretty is as Pretty Dies: Myrtle Clover #1

Chapter Six

 In danger. The psychic's eerie prediction—more like a pronouncement—bothered Myrtle during the long drive back. Wanda had seemed genuinely shaken and had refused to take her money, which hadn't endeared her to Crazy Dan. But the woman couldn't actually be clairvoyant. It was more likely that she was completely off her rocker. Who wouldn't be, living with Crazy Dan?

Myrtle did remember to put some gas into Erma's tank, in case she wondered why going to the doctor would put such a dent in her tank. She pulled into a station and scrounged a couple of dollars from her pocketbook. Then she saw how far two dollars would go and nearly keeled over from the sticker shock. Five years without a car and the price of gas had skyrocketed. She dug out more money.

Myrtle pulled cautiously up into Erma's driveway, hoping to limit the interaction with her. No problems there. Erma apparently had no desire to catch any stomach or intestinal bugs.

"Hope you feel better, Myrtle," she said briskly, spraying the car keys with an industrial-sized can of Lysol when Myrtle handed them to her. The last Myrtle saw of her, she was lost in an anti-bacterial cloud as she sprayed down the entire interior of her car.

Myrtle spent several hours that night studying the ceiling crack. The entire encounter put a very bad taste in Myrtle's mouth. The next morning, she walked downtown to Bo's Diner for one of their pimento cheese slaw dog and chili fries plates. Nothing was very worrisome when you had a greasy plate of food in front of you.

Bo's Diner in downtown Bradley was the place to go for lunch and had been for forty years, when Bo's father owned it. Plus, it had the best sweet tea in the South. A bell jangled when she opened the door and Bo looked up from behind the counter and greeted her. The diner had frayed vinyl booths around Formica-topped tables. A sign on the wall stated: "If You Can't Say it in Front of Granny, Don't Say it Here!" There was nothing new about the place, but everything was kept immaculately clean.

Myrtle slid into a high-backed vinyl booth and a waitress with "Tanya" on her nametag approached with an order pad. Myrtle winced. Tanya was fond of treating her like a particularly slow toddler. "Hey there, sweetheart! Was your little tummy rumbling for something yummy? Glad you came in to visit ole Tanya, sweetie. What can I get for your rumbly tummy?"

Soppy condescension was a big reason Myrtle hated being old. She'd never have tolerated that kind of disrespect all those years in her classroom. She bet itsy bitsy Tanya wouldn't be smiling when her tip was reduced. Or when Myrtle solved the murder everybody in town was talking about.

Myrtle's favorite waitress noticed Myrtle's disgusted expression and quickly intervened. Shelia wasn't sure if she was saving Myrtle from Tanya's sugary sweetness, or Tanya from a blistering reply.

"Hey, Tanya. It's time for your break, isn't it? I'll take your tables."

Tanya's mouth opened and she closed it back up again. "Already? Well, I could use a smoke. See you later, lovey," she said to Myrtle with a smile. Myrtle bared her teeth in return.

"My hero," said Myrtle. Shelia's grin brightened her still-pretty middle-aged face.

"Don't mention it. It's slow now, anyway. Tanya was due for a break. Although it's a little early for it." And Shelia smiled again.

Ten minutes later, a greasy plate heaped with chili fries and the hot dog arrived at the table and Shelia plopped down in the booth across from Myrtle. "If you've got a second to chat, I'll get off my feet for a minute."

Myrtle looked as innocuously gossip-craven as she could. "Now that you're here, you can give me a little insider gossip. No, don't give me that innocent look. You know you've got your finger on the town pulse. Got any ideas about who killed Parke Stockard?"