Chapter Two

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 I should put the finishing touches on my packing after I take Wanda home," Miles said.

Myrtle was sure that whatever Miles was doing with his packing was basically just shifting things from one side of the suitcase to the other. Miles was so particular and so neat that she knew that the items in his suitcase were color-coded, organized into zipper bags, and were something of a work of art.

Myrtle, on the other hand, felt confident that she at least had everything packed that she needed. Instead of looking at her packed bags one more time before tomorrow, she grabbed her cane for the walk downtown to the Bradley Bugle office to see her editor, Sloan.

Her mind wasn't on anything but Sloan. This is why, when she hurriedly yanked open her front door, she gaped at the one person she most didn't want to see there. Erma. Wanda had warned her, hadn't she?

Erma Sherman, Myrtle's next door nightmare of a neighbor, grinned at her with that horrid grin. "Where you headed in such a hurry?" asked Erma nosily.

"Business!" said Myrtle. "Got to go. Running late."

"Where? Downtown?" asked Erma. She gave her braying, donkey's laugh. "Must be downtown. You couldn't walk much farther than that, could you? Not being old and whatnot."

Myrtle was quite certain she could walk much farther than downtown, but she wasn't about to debate the point with Erma. Arguing with Erma, she'd learned from past experience, was completely futile in every way.

"You're right about me heading downtown, at any rate. See you later, Erma." And she went thumping off with her cane with great determination.

"Wait! Wait! I'll drive you there. Got to go there myself," said Erma.

Myrtle feared that Erma wanted an audience to listen to her usual recitation of whatever blight she was currently inflicted with. Her illnesses tended to be both repugnant and graphically recounted. Myrtle repressed a shudder. "No thank you. I need the exercise."

"Me too! I need exercise, too!" said Erma in a desperate tone.

This was true. Erma did need exercise. What's more, Myrtle could tell when she'd lost. Wanda had been right—she should have watched out as she left home. Now she was stuck. "All right then. You can walk with me," grated Myrtle behind her clenched teeth.

As she'd guessed, Erma was dying for someone to talk to. Her long-suffering immune system had just successfully battled a bizarre virus with many disturbing side effects, deftly described in some depth by Erma.

Myrtle grimly forged forward. She decided that the best way to combat Erma's assault was by launching one of her own. She settled on a different boorish tactic—talking about one's vacation.

Erma was saying, "The rash, you see, was unbearably itchy and—"

Myrtle broke in, "Did you know that I'm leaving for a cruise?" Of course Erma didn't. Miles and Myrtle would have been the people who told her of it, and they were the ones avoiding her at all costs.

Erma gaped at her. "A cruise? You?" She burst into braying laughter.

"That's right," said Myrtle, bristling now and forgetting her mission to bore the bore. "What of it? What's so funny about that?"

"Only that you never go anywhere! And you don't spend any money. In fact, I don't believe you have any money." Erma peered at Myrtle, seeming at last to sense some hostility. "Come on, Myrtle, don't be mad. You know that's true. What kind of cruise is it? Did you win it?"

"I did not win it," said Myrtle coldly. "And if I don't spend a lot of money, that's because I like to save it for special occasions. Like this one. I'm going on an Alaskan cruise, as a matter of fact."

Cruising for Murder: Myrtle Clover #10Where stories live. Discover now