A Dyeing Shame Part 8

"He just started caring about it a few months ago. And I saw something interesting there yesterday." Puddin's grin showed a broken tooth. "He had company there!"

"What kind of company?"

"Kat was there!" said Puddin in triumph.

"Overnight?"

"Naw," said Puddin, waving her hand in dismissive fas.h.i.+on. "But during the day."

This wasn't the news Myrtle was hoping to be able to get from Puddin. Particularly since she'd already known this news. And, actually, since she was instrumental in causing this news to even exist."

Puddin must have realized that her gossip wasn't impressing Myrtle. "Something else I know," she added quickly. "Heard it from another cleaner who I know. She knows someone who knows someone..."

"Puddin!" said Myrtle in a threatening tone.

"...who cleans for Miz Bootsie," finished Puddin triumphantly as if proud of her close connections. "She says that Miz Bootsie has secrets."

This was not good enough information to justify an intrusive visit from Puddin. "I've got secrets, myself. Plenty of stuff that I don't want anybody to know. Like what's in my medicine cabinets, how much I weigh, what my shoe size is, since my feet aren't exactly dainty-"

Puddin was shaking her head scornfully. "This is a better secret. Miz Bootsie has a boyfriend. That's what they say," she said defensively, as if she couldn't quite believe it herself.

Interesting. Maybe Tammy had been on to something, after all. She'd have to see what she could get out of Bootsie's cleaner, when it was time for her to visit Elaine's house.

By the time Myrtle had finally shooed Puddin out of the house, it was nearly lunchtime. Looking out the window, it appeared that the repairmen were still milling around and that the air conditioner hadn't been fixed. Myrtle was feeling like some fried food and Bo's Diner was just the place. It helped that the diner was owned by Tammy's ex and was a mecca for local gossip and news.

A bell rang as she opened the door to the diner. Myrtle breathed in the smell of fried vegetables appreciatively. The decor at the diner hadn't changed since Bo took it over from his father twenty years ago. Its dark wood-paneled walls, green Formica-topped tables and lunch counter and the scrubbed-clean linoleum floors had an un-touristy feel that pleased the locals. An old c.o.ke promotional sign proclaimed "Breakfast served anytime" and "If you can't say it to Granny, please don't say it in here."

Myrtle glanced around the small restaurant and saw Bootsie sitting with Judge Davenport at a table in the back. They fell into the category of old married couples with nothing to say to each other. They'd talked every possible conversation and weren't creative enough people to develop new lines of discussion.

Conveniently, there were no empty tables. With a wobbly gait, Myrtle approached the Davenport' booth. She asked in a feeble voice, "Could I share a table with y'all? I'd try the lunch counter stools, but. . ." Myrtle shrugged helplessly.

Judge Beauregard Davenport rose hastily to his feet and Bootsie urged, "Sit with us, sweetie."

Myrtle winced at the familiarity. She preferred old-school deferential treatment with lots of ma'ams thrown in for good measure. She gritted her teeth and managed a grimaced smile in return as she slid onto the vinyl booth next to Bootsie.

Beauregard said, "Glad you could sit with us, Miss Myrtle. We wouldn't want you hoistin' yourself up at the lunch counter stool. How're you doing? Bootsie, did you know Miss Myrtle taught me eleventh grade English?"

Bootsie seemed stunned that her elderly husband had ever been in eleventh grade. Myrtle said, "I wasn't much older than my students that year. One of my very first years on the job." Small talk followed along the themes of Beauregard's youthful indiscretions and Bootsie appeared relieved at her escape from a silent lunch.

Myrtle's order was quickly taken and served, despite the crowd. When asked her view on Greener Pastures, Myrtle happily offered her opinion on retirement homes in general ("It's fun living with your peers in college, but depressing when your peers are geriatric-") before detailing the specific iniquities committed by Greener Pastures' cafeteria staff. Myrtle a.s.sured them the meatloaf, fried okra, black-eyed peas, and bread pudding at Bo's Diner were far superior to food at Greener Pastures. Gesturing emphatically with her fork, Myrtle shared her theory that the food woes at Greener Pastures were symptomatic of larger problems at the facility.

Bootsie frowned, revealing tiny little wrinkles. "Mama never mentioned the food being that bad. Should we have lunch with her Sunday after church?" she asked her husband.

"I wouldn't go Sunday," said Myrtle with a knowledgeable air. "They serve the finest food of the week then because that's the day everyone visits." She leaned forward confidentially. "They'll have chicken. They should call it rubber chicken because they'll stretch that sucker all the way through the week. Chicken salad. Chicken tacos. Fried chicken. Chicken surprise." Myrtle shook her head. "Go Friday night. That'll be an eye-opener."

Judge Davenport pulled at his s.h.i.+rt collar a little bit. He probably didn't fancy removing his mother-in-law from the reasonably priced Greener Pastures and depositing her in The Belk Home for the Aged, at much steeper costs. Myrtle had a feeling he'd be changing the subject very quickly. He looked like he was wracking his brain for better conversation topics.

"Hear anything from Red about how Tammy Smith's case is going?" he asked.

Bootsie rolled her eyes. "Tammy again! I'm tired of that subject, darling," she implored him. "Her death was actually the best thing that could have happened to the Beauty Box. With Kat in charge, it'll be so much cuter. And have real beauticians." She said the last sentence pointedly as Dina wandered into the diner with fuzzy pink curlers in her hair before realizing her mistake with horror as people stared at her and darting out the door again.

"I only want to know how Red's getting on," he protested.

Myrtle interrupted the argument, not wanting to let the chance pa.s.s, "I think the investigation is going pretty well. He said they had some new leads. He wouldn't tell me what they were, though."

Judge Davenport sc.r.a.ped up the last bit of macaroni and cheese off his plate. "Did they find anyone with a grudge against Tammy Smith?"

Something resembling a snort came from his ladylike wife. Myrtle answered, "Everybody she came in regular contact with had a grudge against her." Myrtle dipped her head closer to her Blue Plate special and surrept.i.tiously watched Bootsie through her eyelashes. "Tammy knew a lot of secrets and her drinking made her a loudmouth." With an innocent look, she sat back up and asked, "Don't you agree, Bootsie?"

Bootsie turned pale, then flushed. "I suppose, Miss Myrtle," she replied slowly. She squinted shrewdly at Myrtle. Bootsie wouldn't want to give up the easy life she had with her husband. Could she kill someone though? She probably could, given the right circ.u.mstances. If she felt like her back was against the wall.

"And poor Connor Walker and his broken heart," said Myrtle, shaking her head sorrowfully.

She didn't really get the reaction she was hoping for. Bootsie and her husband merely looked surprised at the change of subject. Bootsie answered, "Were they all that close, Miss Myrtle? I had the impression that things were cooling off between them."

Maybe Connor wasn't the young man in Bootsie's life, after all. Bootsie resumed her bored moue until her cell phone loudly announced its presence and she eagerly grabbed it from her designer purse. Judge Davenport finished his lunch, and said with automatic endearment to his wife, when she'd wrapped up her conversation, "Sweetheart, are you ready to head out? Miss Myrtle, it was a pleasure."

Bootsie rose and picked up her pocketbook. "Yes, it was. And thanks for giving me the heads-up on the Home, honey. We'll be sure to go over and check on Mama."

Myrtle smiled as the suddenly glum Beauregard Davenport followed his wife from the diner. His wallet would soon be a lot lighter. Myrtle doubted Bootsie would be impressed by the Friday night supper offerings at Greener Pastures.

The diner was at its lunchtime busiest and Bo Smith, the owner of the diner, came out of the kitchen to help check on tables. When he reached Myrtle's, he leaned his large frame over and spoke deferentially. "Everything okay, Miss Myrtle?"

She studied his open face and wondered again why Tammy had been so mean to him. He wasn't handsome like Connor, but tall and bulky with a belly sneaking over his beltline. His nose wasn't perfectly straight and his hairline had receded into a memory. But he was hardworking, loyal, and sweet. Much as Tammy had wanted to play victim, Myrtle was certain Bo wouldn't have laid a finger on her.

"Everything's delicious as usual, Bo. But I should be asking you if everything's okay. Tammy's death must have come as a shock to you."

To Myrtle's discomfort, Bo's eyes welled with tears. "Aw, Miss Myrtle," he said, rubbing a beefy scrubbed-raw hand over his face. "Things are awful, just awful." Despite the bustle around him, he was eager to talk and pulled out a chair to sit with her. "She was so full of life! It don't seem right she's dead." He sniffed loudly.

"My friends tell me Tammy wouldn't have shed any tears over me. I know she told stories about me around town." He gave Myrtle an imploring look. "I never laid a finger on her. I cherished every hair on her little head. She just didn't want anybody to think she was a loser, even at marriage. She liked being the strong one. I know that was the reason she said all those things. I let her tell people I was the bad guy if it helped her save face." He stared blankly out the window. "Then she started going with Mrs. Walker's son, Connor."

"That must have been hard on you."

"It sure was. But not as hard as the news that Tammy died."

Myrtle tiptoed delicately around the alibi. "You didn't happen to see or hear anything the night of her murder? The diner isn't too far away from the salon."

"No, I sure didn't. That was our late night for being open and we were short staffed. It was past midnight by the time I left here and the police told me that Tammy was already gone then." He fished around in his pocket for a tissue.

That was the solid alibi that Perkins had alluded to. And she'd learned more about the time of death, too. "I didn't even realize that y'all were open that late. Whatever you're doing with the diner has really made it successful, though. It's always packed in here."

Bo gazed with blind eyes around the restaurant. "The reason I worked so hard after the divorce is because I was trying to forget about Tammy. Slaving days was the only way I could sleep nights."

"'I worked like a horse and I ate like a hog and I slept like a dead man,'" quoted Myrtle understandingly.

Bo's kind face creased with wrinkles of concern. He studied Myrtle as if worried he was witnessing the first signs of dementia. She rea.s.sured, "Kipling."

The name didn't seem to register with him. Myrtle moved on, "Do you think that Connor could have murdered Tammy? I hear they had quite an argument the night she died."

Bo shook his head. "But it wouldn't have been easy to get rid of Tammy. She'd have been furious at being dumped. Maybe she'd have fought about it, especially if she'd been drinking. He could've pushed her a little to shut her up." He sighed. "She was a lot smaller than you'd have thought. No bigger than a minute. Maybe he just shoved her and she fell down those stairs."

Myrtle felt it was kinder not to mention the scissors embedded in Tammy's back. And Tammy wasn't little. Maybe she was just little compared to Bo.

One of Bo's waitresses punched him on the shoulder as she went by. "Bo! We need some help with this crowd. The orders in the kitchen are getting backed up, too."

Bo sighed and stood up. "Gotta run, Miss Myrtle. But it was nice talking to you, ma'am." He gave a shy smile.

"Nice talking to you, too, Bo. Tell your mother hi for me. I haven't seen her in ages."

She was about to go pay at the front desk when she saw Kat walk through the door and look around for a table. Since there were still none available, Myrtle gestured for her to sit next to her. Kat grinned, her pink hair glinting in the sun beaming through the window. "Perfect timing, huh?"

Myrtle noticed from the corner of her eye that Connor Walker walked in through the diner door. Once again she motioned to share the table. As he sauntered over, she said to Kat, "Yes, dear, I think it is." As soon as Connor reached the table and pulled out a chair, Myrtle glanced at her watch and dithered, "Is that really the time? I've got to run. Delicious lunch! I do recommend the Blue Plate special today." Connor stood back up respectfully, handed Myrtle her cane, and watched as she paid at the front counter. The hymn replayed in her head again. Saint Myrtle. It had a nice ring to it.

Connor sat back down and looked across the table at a sardonically smiling Kat. "Maybe she's trying to make up for nearly killing us with that ca.s.serole," said Kat.

Connor answered sheepishly, "I guess she's matchmaking. She's as bad as my mother." He would have to pay Miss Myrtle back for all her helpfulness. "What'll we order?"

MYRTLE, STIFF FROM sitting so long in the diner, walked slowly back to Red's house. Old age's peculiarities, infirmities, and indignities never ceased to amaze her. She was relieved when Elaine pulled up next to her in the minivan. "Going my way?" she called to Myrtle out the window.

"Sweetie, I'll go anywhere you're going, if I can ride there."

"Jump in. I'm headed back home, but your ride might not be as restful as you thought." As Myrtle gingerly climbed into the van, she heard a high-pitched yell emitting from her grandson's mouth. Elaine rolled her eyes. "He needs a nap."

"Do you have more errands to run? I'm going to put my feet up for a little while. If you take us home, I'll put him down and watch my soaps while you shop. Might as well take advantage of my being here. It looks like my air is going to be fixed later today."

"Thanks, Myrtle. Errands take twice as long with getting Jack in and out of the car seat. Jack never wants to get in the car seat, then he never wants to be taken out again! If you're watching Tomorrow's Promise, hit 'record' for me, would you? I'll catch it later." She pulled a bunch of coupons out of a kitchen drawer, grabbed the grocery circular, and hurried out the door.

Myrtle glanced at the clock. She eased onto the sofa, shook off her shoes, and put her feet on the coffee table. She found the record b.u.t.ton on the remote and pushed it.

Soaps were a guilty pleasure. The writing was frequently horrid, the acting worse. But there was just something about them that drew her in. Babies born mere episodes ago might now be precocious toddlers to fit the needs of the scriptwriters.

She clucked at the television. Sally, married to the obnoxious bully Stone, finally left him, embarking on a similarly dependent relations.h.i.+p with obsessively jealous Wesley. Myrtle shook her head. The show's writers obviously thought their audience gullible enough to believe these plots.

The doorbell rang. Myrtle scowled at the buzz, hoping it hadn't awakened Jack. An angry roar indicated it had. Myrtle cursed at her cane, propped unhelpfully across the room, and tried pulling up with the aid of the coffee table. Her efforts took a long time and the doorbell rang again. Gritting her teeth, she finally stood up, wobbling to the front door and opening it in time to prevent Dina Peters from pus.h.i.+ng the doorbell for a third time.

Dina stared miserably at the breathless Myrtle. She absently pushed her large, pink gla.s.ses to the top of her small nose. "Miss Myrtle, I'm so sorry. I wondered if the doorbell worked at all. You know how sometimes you just ring and ring a bell and no one comes? I wondered, "Should I ring the bell again? Should I knock? Is knocking worse than ringing?"

Dina's tremulous voice warbled on while Myrtle panted and motioned her in. When she'd finally gotten her breath back she beamed at Dina as if she were delighted to see her. "Dina, dear! No worries. You're not putting me out one bit. I'm not sure why I sat on Red's ridiculous sofa when I know I have trouble getting off of it. I must remember to keep that cane nearby. Now, let's see. Coca-Colas for both of us, right? And ginger snaps from the pantry." Myrtle grimaced as Jack grew more insistent.

Dina offered, "I'll follow the hollering and get him, Miss Myrtle." She disappeared to the back of the house, but by the time Myrtle was returning with snacks and drinks, she was quickly returning with a suspicious Jack, who held Dina's finger with one hand and clutched Dirty Doggy with the other. Jack let go of both when he saw the food, grabbing the cookies and disappearing back to his room to eat his treasure.

"I haven't seen Tomorrow's Promise for so long," Dina breathed, settling down on the sofa next to Myrtle. "Did Tristan and Pamela get married yet?"

Myrtle sniffed. "Married? Sweetheart, they were married, had four kids and divorced."

Dina was shocked. "In three weeks?"

"You know how fast things go on soaps."

"Did Timothy break away from that satanic cult?"

Myrtle caught her up on the twisted lives of the major characters. Stone pounded on Sally's door, demanding that she return to his abuse and dump the equally abusive Wesley.

At the commercial, Myrtle turned her attention back to Dina and blinked to see her face flushed with fury. "He can't treat Sally that way," she fumed. "Too bad Sally doesn't have a friend like Tammy. Tammy saved me from my ex and really supported me. She'd been abused by Bo."

"Tammy wasn't abused, Dina. Bo's a good and decent man."

"No, Miss Myrtle. He's wicked." She sniffed. "Actually, that's the reason why I'm here. I'm giving the money Tammy left me to the battered women's shelter. I'm visiting my neighbors to raise money. I was planning on asking Elaine for donations, but I'll hit you up since you're here."

Dina spoke with a pa.s.sionate zeal that Myrtle had formerly only heard when she defended Tammy.

"You must be so pleased, dear, to have a bequest from Tammy. I know she mentioned it that day in the Beauty Box-of course, though, that was one of Tammy's bad days."

There was an angry flash in Dina's eyes that she quickly hid. "I knew Tammy had set something aside for me, but I had no idea it was as much as it was." Dina's jaw set stubbornly. "She was a very generous person, you know."

Myrtle nodded. "Well, and you are too, helping out the shelter. Let me pull out my pocketbook and write you a check." Jack had wandered back in and was captivated by a fiery argument on the screen. Myrtle fumbled with the remote until Sesame Street came obligingly on.

Dina gave her an earnest smile. "Thanks for the check, Miss Myrtle. Donated items for the shelter would be great, too, if you or Elaine could pick up some extra tubes of toothpaste while you're at the store or give us your old paperback books, clothes-things like that." Myrtle promised to round up some contributions from the considerable clutter at her home and drop them off at the Beauty Box for Dina to take to the shelter.

Dina kept talking happily while Myrtle made out her check. Dina wasn't so bad. Oh, she was a little annoying with her preachy voice and she certainly didn't make the most of her appearance. But at least she'd finally hit on something that gave her a feeling of self-worth. And she hadn't had to go through a man or a bullying friend to get it.

Actually, Dina might make a decent match for Bo, come to think of it. It was time to Do More Good. "Have you tried the diner yet, Dina?" Seeing Dina's confusion, Myrtle added, "I bet if you asked Bo nicely, he'd let you put a big jar on the counter with a sign asking for spare change for the shelter."

Dina looked horrified. "I couldn't have anything to do with that man. Tammy told terrible stories about him." She absently picked up Jack's Dirty Doggy and gave it a squeeze, as if to get a little rea.s.surance from the stuffed doll. Jack quietly said, "Mine," under his breath, as if practicing for the moment when he'd have to get his friend back from the crazy visitor.

Stories was right. "Bo isn't as bad as you thought and the diner is the most popular place in town. You'd raise a bundle for the new shelter."

Reluctantly, Dina agreed. "Well, I don't know. I guess I could. For the sake of the shelter, of course." Dina thanked Myrtle and headed out the door. Jack yelled, "Mine!" and Myrtle realized that Dina had absconded with Dirty Doggy. After rescuing the stuffed animal from its kidnapper, Myrtle sat back down-in the armchair this time-and caught the rest of Tomorrow's Promise while Jack miraculously snoozed on the quilt, a death-grip on Dirty Doggy.

Myrtle must have dozed off, too, because she jumped violently at the shrill ring of the phone. Cursing and hoping that Jack was a sound sleeper, she heaved herself out of the armchair and fumbled for the cordless phone.

It was Sloan Jones from the newspaper. He was a former student of hers, much as she hated to admit it. The rag he edited wasn't a glowing testament to her abilities as an English teacher. And she'd never in her wildest nightmares pictured Sloan in an English-related job as he stumbled through 10th grade English in her cla.s.sroom. Nevertheless, everyone in town read the Bradley Bugle and it bore the hallmark of a successful newspaper: it was filled with local and regional advertisers. Red had arranged for his mother to have a column for the paper-he'd been trying to keep her busy, as usual. Recently, Sloan had treated her more as an investigative reporter, considering her closeness to Red...and, actually, to murder in general. It was the story she planned for his paper that provided her the most legitimate excuse for getting involved with the case.

"Mrs. Clover," Sloan said in his carefully respectful voice, "I was wondering what you might know about this murder at the hair salon." Myrtle smiled. Sloan always sounded like he was worried Myrtle was going to put him in afterschool detention. "Do you get your hair done there? Or maybe Red has talked about the case a little? I've got nothing, so I thought I'd check in with you." He patted his balding head ruefully. "And I don't have to get my hair cut too often."

"Now Sloan, you weren't going to cut me out of the story, were you? Because I don't want to just be one of your sources-I want to write the whole article."

"Of course, Mrs. Clover! No, I wouldn't cut you out of a story, you know that. I just didn't know if you wanted the story. Or if you even knew anything about it. Because you might get your hair done at the Cut-Ups, for all I know."

"No, I've gone to the Beauty Box for years and years. I do have some very good information, I just need to get a little more before I write the story."

"Are you about to crack the case?" Sloan sounded suddenly very cheerful. The paper had sold extra copies when Myrtle had her investigative story after the last Bradley murder. The article had even made it on the AP wire.

"Welllll....just between you and me? Yes. But don't go telling anybody or you're going to blow it." Because Red would find out and shut her down pretty quickly. "But you could help me out, you know. Maybe you could share some of your thoughts about some of the suspects in the case."

Sloan sounded surprised. "Sure. I'm not sure how helpful I'll be, though. I don't think I even get around town as much as you do...I follow the same patterns every day."

One of those patterns, though, involved drinking after work. "I thought maybe you'd have some insights for me on Tammy, that's all. Like I said, she's done my hair for years, but I thought you might have seen a different side to her than I did."