Pretty is as Pretty Dies: Myrtle Clover #1

Chapter Fourteen

Myrtle decided that what she needed, really needed, was to host a small dinner party. No, "dinner party" was too extreme. She just needed an excuse to have Red over for dinner and an opportunity to extract information from him. Getting some forensic information would be especially useful. Or even some direction for suspects. Red did love to talk, but usually kept his trap shut when it came to his job. Supper might loosen him up. Besides, she wanted him to properly meet Miles—especially since Red and Elaine lived right across the street from him. She clucked. It was a shame how neighbors didn't meet new neighbors anymore. She would fix that little situation, she decided, benevolently. By the time she picked up the phone to call Elaine, she'd completely convinced herself of her altruistic intentions and nearly forgotten her scheme.

Elaine seemed doubtful at the invitation. "Tonight? What about Jack?"

"Can't Monsieur Marvelous take care of him for just a couple of hours? Jean-Marc? Jack will be sleeping anyway, won't he?"

Elaine had another problem. Myrtle's horrible cooking was legendary to everyone—except Myrtle. How Red had survived, eating her food, for as long as he had was a mystery to her. "That just sounds like a lot of work for you, Myrtle. Can I bring a dish with me?"

"Like some dinner rolls?"

"Or . . . how about a roast?"

"A roast?!"

"Well, I was going to make one for our supper tonight, anyway. I've actually already started on it. Can't I—?"

"No, no, no! Goodness Elaine, you'd think you were never invited to someone's house for supper before. The idea is that you're the guest. Bring a bottle of wine or something, but the main course is my job. You have enough going on right now, anyway—time to take it easy and relax. Make your roast another night."

"All right," said Elaine gloomily. Well, she could always tell Red that she'd tried.

"Let's make it a European-style dinner."

Elaine sighed. This was code for "late."

"Maybe 8:00? I'll call Miles."

"So your Pilgrim is pretty nice, hmm?"

"None of that, Elaine. And don't be making little smirky faces at us. We're strictly platonic. I'll see you tonight." She rang off and Elaine was left holding the receiver and wondering how her day had so quickly gotten hijacked.

Miles sounded much more pleased. "That's nice of you, Myrtle. I'd love to come and talk to Red and meet Elaine. The last time I saw Red wasn't exactly conducive to conversation."

"You mean right in the middle of your rescue of a dripping-wet old lady?" Myrtle chuckled. "Should be easier to talk to him this time. Of course, he's a little funny over dinner sometimes. A big man like that you'd think would be able to put away some food. I don't know how he survives—he always picks at his food whenever we're together."

"Probably trying to keep trim for his job."

"Anything you can't eat, Miles? You a vegetarian or anything like that? Allergies?"

"No, I'll eat it all. Just a human garbage disposal."

With those words, Miles Bradford sealed his fate for dinner that night.

Myrtle then called her housekeeper, Puddin. She always had great misgivings when calling Puddin. For one thing, Puddin's husband, Dusty, usually answered the phone. Dusty was Myrtle's yard man and as soon as he heard her voice he'd bellow, "It's too hot to mow!" Then he'd hand the phone over to Puddin who'd decide if she felt like cleaning or not. Puddin's bad back could get thrown out at any time. It was especially contrary when silver needed polishing, toilets scrubbed, or knickknacks dusted.