Cruising for Murder: Myrtle Clover #10

Chapter One

"Okay, I'll watch the house for you while you're away. But I won't watch that witch-cat!"

Myrtle Clover took a steadying breath. She reminded herself exactly why she needed her housekeeper, Puddin's, help. Myrtle was going on an Alaskan cruise with her son, his family and her friend, Miles. This meant someone needed to take care of her house-water the tomatoes, feed her cat, mow her grass. Despite Puddin's complete and utter incompetence, Myrtle must retain her patience and ensure that both Puddin and her husband, Dusty, were onboard.

"Okay then, really all I need you for is to water the tomatoes. But the cat must be taken care of. If you want to outsource that to Dusty, that's your own business," said Myrtle.

Puddin raised her eyebrows. "But your house needs cleanin' while you're gone, too."

Myrtle glanced around her living room, allegedly under the tender loving care of Puddin. Dust bunnies had formed rival gangs and threatened to hijack her home while she was gone, turning it into their own personal warren. Every bit of silver she had in the house looked like brass. The wooden furniture was dull from lack of polish. The rug had black cat hair threaded through it.

"If you say so. If you actually clean today, it will probably keep just fine until I get back," stressed Myrtle. Because cleaning was never a given when her housekeeper came by.

Puddin, always fond of making herself seem important, said, "I'm going to be very busy, you know. While you're gone. Mr. Miles is having me watch his house, too."

Myrtle narrowed her eyes at Puddin. "Is that so? When I return, I don't want to find out that Mr. Miles's house looks immaculate and mine looks like a victim of the Dust Bowl. You always throw more effort into Mr. Miles's house than mine. It's a peculiar gender bias of yours."

Puddin squinted at her as she usually did when she didn't quite follow Myrtle's line of thought, and changed the subject, another favorite tactic. "Why are you going somewhere cold? You're going to a cold place, right?"

"Alaska? Well, at this time of the year it's probably still pretty chilly, yes," said Myrtle.

"Because the Fourth of July is coming up. And if it was me, I'd be thinking about a cruise somewhere else. I'm thinking the Bahamas. I'm imagining myself in a bathing suit on a beach with a drink with one of them umbrellas in it," said Puddin. "Watching fireworks."

Dumpy, doughy, pale Puddin in a bathing suit didn't bear thinking of. Nor did the fact that Puddin didn't apparently realize that the Bahamas might not celebrate the Fourth of July. Myrtle abruptly asked, "Where is Dusty? I wanted to leave him with some last-minute instructions, too."

Puddin shrugged. "He's around. Probably messing with the mower. Always puttin' oil in the thing."

As if on cue, Dusty, wearing frayed khakis and a grass-stained checkered button-down shirt, pushed open the front door. "Too hot to mow," he muttered to himself as he opened Myrtle's refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of lemonade. He poured himself a generous glass and, when Puddin, gave a loud, suggestive cough, poured her one too, bringing it to her in the living room where she plopped down on Myrtle's sofa.