A Body at Bunco E-Book

Elizabeth Spann Craig

• Herausgeber: Elizabeth Spann Craig
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Playing Bunco may be fun…but murder proves a game-changer. Octogenarian sleuth Myrtle Clover has never heard of the dice game Bunco. Regardless, she steps in as her daughter-in-law’s sub and reluctantly puts her game face on. Bunco turns out to be child’s play. But when a body is discovered, Myrtle realizes another game is afoot. Before long, she’s playing cat and mouse with the killer. Can she track down the murderer before the game is up? Or, with the killer playing hard to get, will it end up being “no dice?”

Leseprobe

A Body at Bunco

A Myrtle Clover Cozy Mystery

Elizabeth Spann Craig

Published by Elizabeth Spann Craig, 2015.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

A BODY AT BUNCO

First edition. April 1, 2015.

Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Spann Craig.

ISBN: 978-0996259903

Written by Elizabeth Spann Craig.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About the Author:

This and That

Other Works by Elizabeth:

 

For my readers. Thank you. 

Chapter One

“NEED HELP, MIZ MYRTLE?”

As soon as her yardman, Dusty, had asked the question, an irritated look passed across his lean features. Myrtle smiled. Volunteering for more work was usually not in Dusty’s game plan.

“As a matter of fact, I do, thank you.” Myrtle bumped the door to the metal shed open wider with her hip.

Dusty slouched against the frame of the storage shed, a ragtag figure in frayed, grass-stained khakis, and a floppy hat over lanky gray hair. “We ain’t pulling all them gnomes out, are we?”

Myrtle’s collection of yard gnomes was extensive, it was true. And the gnomes were an impressive sight when they were arranged throughout her front yard. The sight of their winsome faces infuriated her son, Red, who lived across the street from his octogenarian mother. Which happened to be the whole point.

“Oh, I think that they all need to make an appearance, Dusty.”

Dusty turned his head and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into a nearby bush. Myrtle wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Red done stepped out of line again?” he asked.

“He certainly has. This time he’s really gone too far, Dusty. I need to make a point. Draw a line in the sand.”

Dusty scuffed a worn leather boot at the red clay that served as soil in Bradley, North Carolina. “No sand here, Miz Myrtle. Besides, can’t you make your point without all them gnomes out? You know I can’t mow when they’re covering your front yard. I’ll have to use the string trimmer and that thing is broke more often than not.”

Dusty’s grudging willingness to trim around the gnomes was the sole reason for his employment. Aside from that willingness, he was lazy, unpredictable, and coarse.

“You just mowed, so we’re in good shape for a week or so.” She grunted as she pulled out a particularly winsome gnome that was inexplicably holding a chainsaw.

“Okay. I done finished fixin’ the broke spigot, by the way.”

Myrtle said, “Wonderful. Now maybe I can actually water the bushes out back. Please make sure you collect all your tools. Last time they were scattered here and yonder. And when you’re all done with the gnomes, be sure to lock the gate to the backyard.”

Dusty gave an affirming grunt and reached in for a gnome wearing sunglasses and holding a saxophone and glumly carted it off to a prime location in the front of Myrtle’s house.

He returned with Myrtle’s son Red in tow. “He’s onto us, Miz Myrtle,” said Dusty with a shrug of a shoulder.

“Keep on going, please, Dusty. Red and I will have a little talk inside over some milk and cookies.”

Red’s face was thunderous and he ran a hand through his red hair (now with a good deal of gray mixed in) until it stood on end. “Mama, what is this gnome invasion in response to? I’ve been so busy and you’ve been so busy that I haven’t made contact with you for days.” Dusty grunted as he carried a scuba diving gnome out of the shed and Red looked at it with distaste. “And I sure don’t need any milk and cookies. I’ve gained several pounds in the last couple of weeks.”

Myrtle thought the weight looked fine on him. Red had inherited her own propensity for height and stood several inches over six feet. As a teen, he’d been thin as a rail. He looked much better with the heft of weight on him.

“Oh, these are low-fat cookies,” said Myrtle with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, they were laden with fat. And sugar. What was the point, otherwise? But sugar helped to sweeten Red’s moods, so it was the perfect tool. Except Red seemed as firmly planted in her yard as a tree. She sighed and instead sat down in an old wrought-iron chair on her patio. Red plopped down across from her.

“You should know exactly why the gnomes are gracing my front yard, Red Clover.” She paused and waited for light bulbs to go off in Red’s head but seeing they weren’t forthcoming she snapped, “Sloan Jones. You told Sloan that I was the one correcting all the Bradley Bugle’s errors and mailing them into the newsroom. Really, Red. Was that necessary?”

Red looked slightly relieved, as if he thought this was something he could easily handle. “I swear, Mama, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just saw the corrected papers lying on Sloan’s desk and absently mentioned that I recognized your handiwork. The red pen is a dead giveaway, you know. Ex-schoolteacher and all that. Besides, what was Sloan going to say? It’s not like he’s going to fire you from the newspaper over something minor like that. He’s petrified of you...has been ever since he was your student.”

“It’s not that he was mad, Red. It’s that he was hurt. Wounded Sloan is difficult to handle. I was in constant and abject terror that he was going to start crying over the betrayal. And now I have a meeting with him in an hour in the newsroom. That’s all I need,” said Myrtle.

“If that’s the only challenging part of your day it’s a blessing, Mama. I had more than that to deal with before breakfast. Such is the life of a small town police chief.” On cue, Red’s phone rang and he heaved a tremendous sigh. “Chief Clover,” he said.

Red listened for a minute and then said, “Miss Mabel, we’ve talked about this a couple of times. I can’t do anything about Miz Tritt’s pine tree. Even if it is dropping needles, pine cones, and sticks all over your property, the tree is on her property.”

Myrtle could hear Mabel’s reedy voice say, “But the sticks and pine cones are trespassing on my property. And she won’t rake or pick them up.”

Red was placating. “I tell you what, Miss Mabel. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to run by for a meeting with the mayor. Just to ease your mind, how about if I run by and take care of those pine cones and sticks for you. Will that help?” He rolled his eyes at Myrtle. “I know it doesn’t help the root cause, but it sure might save you some aggravation. How ‘bout it? Deal? Great. Be there in half a shake of a lamb’s tail.”

He hung up and leveled a serious look at Myrtle. “Now that I got Miss Mabel taken care of, how about if we resolve this issue between us? I’m sorry about telling Sloan that you were the phantom editor. I was out of line.”

“You certainly were,” said Myrtle.

“So can I ask Dusty to start heaving those gnomes back into the shed?” asked Red in a hopeful tone. “I’ll tip him.”

“Absolutely not. It’s completely out of line to give poor Dusty conflicting orders...it will only confuse him. Besides, I’ve missed seeing the gnomes out there. I love it when children make their parents stop the car to look at them. I’m an attraction.”

“You’re a something,” grumbled Red. “All right, I’ve got to get out of here if I’m going to do yardwork before my meeting. I’ll check in with you later.” He gave a winking gnome a dirty look as he hurried off. Myrtle might have to keep all the motion detectors running tonight in case Red planned any gnome vandalism.

Dusty was starting to slow down a little, not that he’d gone at any great pace before. “How many gnomes does it take to make a point?” he asked, putting a hand to his back suggestively.

“You already asked me that earlier,” said Myrtle. “If you won’t do it, then I will. Maybe Puddin can help out, too.”

The mention of his wife’s name appeared to startle Dusty. Unless it was the juxtaposition of “Puddin” and “help”. “She’s not here,” he said. “Besides, her back is thrown.”

“Somebody needs to catch that thrown back of hers,” said Myrtle darkly. “It’s getting more and more out of whack as my dust and clutter builds up.” Myrtle frowned. “You know, I think it’s been at least two weeks since Puddin has come over to help me clean. My dust bunnies will be procreating. Give her a call and see if she can run by.”

Dusty’s brow furrowed, but he obediently fished his phone out of his baggy jeans. “She probably won’t be able to make it until late afternoon,” he warned.

“Fine. Whenever is fine—I simply want her to come by. The situation is getting dire. Just set it up. I have to head downtown,” said Myrtle.

Dusty quickly said, “Want me to drive you there in the truck, Miz Myrtle? It’ll just take a second to get there.”

“No siree! I want you to lug gnomes around. I can lug myself downtown.” Myrtle gave him a stern look and he dolefully continued arranging gnomes on Myrtle’s front lawn as she walked around the house to the sidewalk and down the tree-lined street to the small downtown.

When she reached the newspaper office, she paused for a second to collect her thoughts before walking into the Bradley Bugle. She wished Sloan would be mad at her. It was much worse to cause hurt feelings. Then she frowned. Was it her imagination, or was the office’s wooden front door even more battered than usual?

With a sigh, she pushed the door open and entered the shadowy newsroom. As usual, it smelled of old books and paper. There were stacks of printed photographs, old newspapers, and papers on every surface. In the middle of everything was a heavyset balding man. Bradley Bugle editor Sloan Jones was ordinarily smiling, even though he was cautious around Myrtle. But now his face was as long as she’d ever seen it. Ordinarily he leapt up from his desk in deference to Myrtle’s age and her former position as his English teacher in high school. This time he made a half-hearted effort to rise, before collapsing again in his rolling chair, which squealed in squeaky protest.

“Hi, Miss Myrtle,” said Sloan in a pained voice.

Myrtle pressed her lips together. She was almost positive that Sloan’s mournfulness was put on to make her feel bad. “Look, sorry about how I handled the proofreading thing.” She sat down gingerly in a rolling chair next to Sloan. She didn’t much care for chairs that doubled as fair rides.

“You probably can’t even help it, Miss Myrtle. Being an English teacher for so many years and all,” said Sloan nobly.

His forgiving nature made Myrtle cross. “It’s just that, having been your teacher, Sloan, I hate to see very basic mistakes in the newspaper. There, their, and they’re errors. That sort of nonsense. It reflects poorly on me. I’m about to have to start telling people that Doris Penbrook taught you instead of me. And you know it pains me to lie.”

Sloan hastily jumped in, likely not wanting to receive any more edits in person. “Here’s the thing, Miss Myrtle. The Bugle had to let Tilly Morris go a few weeks ago and you know she was the copyeditor. Since then, I’ve had to take over editing and I’m just not used to doing it. Plus there’s the fact that I have no time at all whatsoever. I’m really having to juggle a lot of stuff.”

Myrtle grudgingly said, “I suppose I could copyedit for you, Sloan. Although that’s not really what I was planning on doing with my free time. If you needed me to. And, naturally, for a fee.” She got up and moved across from Sloan at his desk, her cane propped up against her, prepared to do business.

Sloan said hurriedly, “And you know that I’d love for you to. That paper would be a hundred percent error-free. But the problem, you see, is that The Bugle is going through some hard times. I wouldn’t have the funds to pay you. When I told Tilly that I’d have to cut her pay, she walked right out that door.” He shifted his bulk again and his chair made that high-pitched squeak.

“I might be bored, but I’m not that bored. I couldn’t take on a job like that without compensation and I’m sure that Tilly was unwilling to do so, too. What’s happening to the paper, Sloan?” asked Myrtle.

“I’m losing subscribers left and right, which means that I’m losing advertisers left and right. I have a meeting next week with Roger’s Automotive. You know that’s our biggest advertiser. If we lose them, I don’t know what will become of the paper. They usually place a full-page color ad in every issue. Roger’s Automotive practically pays for the entire production,” said Sloan glumly. “I may have to sell my house and move in with my mother again.”

“What’s at the bottom of it, do you think? Why would longtime subscribers suddenly unsubscribe?”

Sloan said, “I’m sure it has to do with the fact they can find their news on the internet anytime they want to.”

“Yes, but the internet has been around for a while now, Sloan, and you’ve had plenty of readers before. What’s changed? Have you changed the content? Focusing more on stories off the newswire and less local stuff?” asked Myrtle. It was most definitely the content. People had been muttering about Sloan’s changes for months. Half the time now, the paper had the tone of a tabloid instead of a family newspaper in a small town. But she knew if she came right out and told Sloan that, he’d probably not listen.

“I’ve had some bad luck with staff,” admitted Sloan. “My horoscope writer left, I’ve lost Frannie, who did our recipes, to health troubles. I tried to handle the Good Neighbors column myself, but it was such a pain that I gave it up.”

Myrtle shook her head. “You’ve named the three most popular features in the paper, Sloan. If you don’t have those articles, no wonder you’re losing readers.”

Sloan bit his lip as if he very much wanted to disagree, but didn’t want to cross Myrtle. Instead he said in a diplomatic tone, “I don’t know, Miss Myrtle. I’m thinking that maybe it’s more that people are ready for some real news. You know? Maybe they’re tired of hearing about Ginny Peters’s prize-winning zucchini and Becky Trimble’s quilting tips and where the Comptons went on vacation. Maybe they want an in-depth exposé of the new testing over in K-5th grade. Or an in-depth investigative report on whether the oil change place is ripping people off.”

“Are they?” mused Myrtle. “I think that’s where Red takes the police cruiser.”

Sloan’s eyes were reproachful for Myrtle’s going off topic. “I’m wondering if I need to revamp the whole paper and make it a really newsworthy tool for readers.” He threw his hands up in the air and there was a cacophony of chair squeaking. “Who knows? Maybe I need to take it in a completely different direction and have it be a tabloid. Stories like: ‘It’s One A.M. Does Mrs. Smith Know Where Mr. Smith is’?”

Myrtle had never seen Sloan so worked up. Not even when he’d made a thirty on that English test in tenth grade. “I really believe you’re overthinking this, Sloan. Seriously. I haven’t heard a single person say that they didn’t like the paper’s content until recently.”

But Sloan had stopped listening. “Miss Myrtle, I need your help. My understanding is that Luella White knows everything going on in Bradley and is the town’s biggest gossip. That sounds like the perfect combination. Only problem is that I don’t think she wants to work for the paper. Besides, I couldn’t afford to pay her, even if she did want to work for me. What I really need is for someone to go undercover and use Luella as a source. Then we should be able to get all the news that’s fit to print.”

Myrtle wrinkled her nose. “And quite a bit of news that’s not fit to print, too.” She paused and then continued suspiciously, “You said you need my help. You’re not proposing that I go undercover and use Luella White as a source, are you?”

Sloan said meekly, “I sure am, Miss Myrtle. I’d do it myself, except I’d probably stand out if I were trying to hang out with Luella White. I figure you’ll be perfect. You can sort of blend into the background when you need to and listen in on Luella’s gossip. Then we’ll write it in the paper like: a little bird tells us that Teresa Johnson is leaving her job at the ice cream shop to marry tire salesman Roy Burton. Better get your ice cream while you can! The shop will be closing soon. Something like that.”

“If I did that, Sloan, I’d stand out, too. What are you asking me to do? Flip open a notebook and jot down every salacious thing that comes out of her mouth?”

Sloan smiled hopefully.

“That’s not going to work. Besides, where am I going to run into Luella White? She and I hardly run in the same circles,” said Myrtle. Myrtle, truth be told, didn’t run in any circles anymore. “I can’t exactly drop by for a visit and hang out on her sofa.”

“It should be easy-peasy, Miss Myrtle,” said Sloan quickly. “You just cozy up to her at one of her clubs. Since she’s new to town, she’s joined everything. And if there’s one person who has her finger on the pulse of the raging metropolis of Bradley, North Carolina, it’s her.”

“She,” corrected Myrtle. Whatever was to become of the Bradley Bugle with no copyeditor? “And I don’t do clubs.” She tapped the floor with her cane to emphasize her point.

Sloan’s large face fell comically. “Not garden club?”

“I’m on hiatus.”

“Not book club?” asked Sloan rather desperately.

“I haven’t read the last few selections. On purpose,” said Myrtle firmly.

“Altar guild?”

“I’m Presbyterian.”

“Women of the Church, then?” asked Sloan, perspiring a little. “I can’t remember if Luella White is Methodist or Presbyterian.”

“Women of the Church meet at an inconvenient time,” said Myrtle. Right smack in the middle of her favorite soap opera, Tomorrow’s Promise.

The dismay on Sloan’s face made Myrtle relent a little. “Sloan, I’ll keep an eye out for her. I’m sure there’s a better way. I’ll get the Bradley Bugle’s subscribers back—and that’s a promise.”

It was a testament to Myrtle’s iron will and complete self-confidence that Sloan slumped in relief at her words.

Chapter Two

BACK AT HOME, MYRTLE realized it seemed unlikely that she would simply happen to run into Luella White. As she’d told Sloan, they didn’t run in the same circles and Myrtle didn’t want to start running in Luella’s.

She was pulling out pasta sauce, olive oil, and noodles for an early supper when there was a frantic pounding on her front door.

Myrtle cautiously peeked out front, saw her daughter-in-law Elaine holding toddler son Jack, and opened the door. “Mercy, Elaine! Whatever’s the matter?”

Something was quite obviously the matter. Elaine’s eyes were wild. Upon closer inspection, Myrtle saw that one contributing factor to the wildness was the fact she had half her eye makeup on and half off.

“I’m hosting Bunco tonight, Myrtle. And all our plumbing is backing up! There’s water all over the floors. It’s coming out of all the sinks, tubs, toilets. We had to shut off the main valve. The toilet was making a percolating noise like a coffeepot. It’s a disaster.”

Jack reached out to Myrtle, clearly ready to escape from his distraught mother and Myrtle absently pulled the nearly-three year old into her arms before quickly giving his chubby cheek a kiss and setting him down. He’d gotten far too heavy for her. Jack immediately launched into a babbling monologue about trucks and Myrtle nodded, listening to him carefully for a few moments, asking him about the color and type of the trucks. Finally he decided to pretend to be a truck and Myrtle had a chance to talk to her daughter-in-law again. “Elaine, what on earth is Bunco? The plumbing I understand.”

“It’s a game—a dice game. And there are a group of women who play the game once a month at alternating houses,” said Elaine.

“Sort of like a bridge club?” Myrtle was trying to follow along, but Elaine was speaking so quickly and seemed so panicky that it was hard.

So it’s my turn to host and we’re having a plumbing crisis.” Elaine blinked hard and Myrtle was suddenly very concerned Elaine might cry. Myrtle didn’t handle tears well unless the crying person in question were a compatriot of toddler Jack.

Myrtle saw Red leave his house and head in their direction. “Okay, well, here’s Red. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems, Elaine.”

But apparently it was. Red’s freckled face was grim as he said, “I’ve called the plumber. It’s got to be a main sewer line clog for all the sinks and toilets and tubs to be backed up the way they are. This is going to be a major repair job.”

“What could have caused it?” asked Elaine.

“Probably something like a tree’s roots growing into the line. We’ve sure got lots of old trees. And it’s been pretty dry lately. It could be that a tree was sending roots farther down looking for moisture,” said Red as he absently picked up Jack. He then gave Jack a thoughtful look. “Unless Jack here put something in the toilet that backed up the main line.”

Jack beamed at him.

“At any rate,” said Myrtle. “It sounds as if you’re not going to be having company over tonight—is that right?”

Red looked startled. “Oh no. That’s right—you were hosting Bunco tonight, weren’t you, Elaine? There’s no way we can have those ladies over tonight. Not without restrooms.”

“It’s all right,” said Myrtle. “I’m going to host the party. The game. Whatever. Bonkers. I guess we’ll need food, right?”

Elaine quickly jumped in. “I’ve actually got all the food prepared, Myrtle. Well, everything but the hot stuff. I’ve got veggie dips and some other hors d’oeuvres. So you don’t have to fix a thing.”

“But no hot foods? I can make something hot to serve, you know. It’s no trouble.”

Red and Elaine darted uneasy looks at each other.

“Really, Myrtle, it’s not necessary. There’s no need to cook anything,” said Elaine.

“I’ll run across the street and get the food that Elaine’s prepared,” said Red. “You’ll see that there’s plenty of it, Mama.”

Myrtle gave a tight smile. “Anybody would think you were trying to keep me from cooking.”

“Of course not!” said Elaine, flushing revealingly. “It’s only that we don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“I’ve already said it was no trouble.” Myrtle was starting to get annoyed.

Red had set Jack down and was turning around and striding down her walkway to retrieve the food from his house when he stopped. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like you’ve got an angel in disguise pulling up in front of your house, Mama.”

Myrtle stepped out on her front porch and squinted. Then she made a face. “That’s no angel. That’s Puddin. And it’s about time, too.”

Elaine smiled in relief, either from the change of subject, or Puddin’s arrival, or both. “That’s good. So now you won’t feel like you have to clean up.”

Myrtle snorted. “That remains to be seen. You know the level of nonsense I have to deal with from Puddin.”

Sure enough, Puddin was moseying up to the front walk, as slow as you please, with a sour expression. Elaine seemed to be trying to keep a straight face. “Hi Puddin,” she said to the dumpy, pale housekeeper. “How are you? I haven’t seen you around for a while.”

Puddin narrowed her eyes as if trying to figure out if that were a knock at her lackadaisical cleaning schedule. Apparently deciding otherwise, she said slowly, “I ain’t been doin’ too great, truth be told. Been poorly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Puddin. Are you better now?” asked Elaine kindly.

Myrtle rolled her eyes heavenward. Puddin didn’t need any encouragement to discuss her real or imaginary health issues. It was for this reason that Myrtle didn’t see a flash of black sneak around the backs of Puddin and Elaine and into her house.

“Nope,” said Puddin succinctly. She slowly moved into the house.

“Where are your cleaning supplies, Puddin?” snapped Myrtle.

“Supplies?” asked Puddin, half turning around. Her round eyes were perfectly guileless, but Myrtle knew better.

“Yes. Glass cleaner. Floor cleaner. Spray polish. Paper towels. The tools of your trade, for heaven’s sake!” She was on the verge of losing her religion over Puddin. Next time, she was going to hide her bleach and ammonia, there was simply no other way around it.

“I done run out, Miz Myrtle. That last cleanin’ at your house done finished off my supplies.” Puddin conveniently disappeared inside before Myrtle could point out that the cleaning supplies Puddin had depleted during her last visit were originally from Myrtle’s cabinet...before Puddin had gone home with them.

“Good luck with all that,” said Elaine in a low voice. She picked Jack up and swayed back and forth with him as she frowned at Myrtle. “Are you sure this is okay? I could call everybody and just cancel.”

Red was walking toward them with a couple of brown grocery bags of food. Elaine called out to him, “Did you get the alcohol?”

“That’s going to take a separate trip. Or two,” he said pointedly. He swept past them with the bags and muttered to Myrtle, “This is a heavy-drinking group of game-playing ladies.”

“I have sherry,” said Myrtle to his retreating back.

“Oh, this event will require a lot more than a half-empty bottle of sherry, Mama,” said Red. “Fortunately, they all live close enough to walk home. I think.”

Elaine gave Myrtle an apologetic wince. “I’ll be here to help you out tonight. I think Red can handle the plumber and Jack. It should be a really easy night. We just pull the food out, set out the drinks, and we’re ready to go.” She bounced Jack absently and moved to the side as Red walked by to get the alcohol.

“Don’t we need tables?” asked Myrtle.

Elaine stared at her blankly.

“You know...tables. If we’re playing games. Don’t we need tables?” asked Myrtle. Elaine must really be frazzled because she was staring at her as if she were speaking in tongues.

“Oh! Goodness. Yes, card tables would be good. I’ve got everything else—the dice, the tally sheets, pencils. And five dollars. I think I have five dollars,” mused Elaine. “I wasn’t planning on it since I was originally going to be the hostess and the hostess doesn’t pay in.”

Myrtle felt as though new revelations about the evening were happening at every turn. “Five dollars?  What is this...gambling?”

“Well, the winners get a little prize. It’s all small bills, you know. Just for fun. The money goes to whoever has the most Buncos, wins, and losses.” Elaine reached over and gave Myrtle a reassuring hug...or, rather, to let Jack give her a hug, since Elaine was still holding him. “You’re frowning, Myrtle. It’s all so easy! So easy. I’ll ask Red to carry over some card tables.” She peered thoughtfully into Myrtle’s living room. “And maybe we should ask him to move your furniture around a wee bit. Just to make sure there’s enough room.”

Myrtle nodded. “We could fit a lot more people in if the furniture were all against the wall.” Myrtle frowned. “Elaine, I’ve never played Bonkers. You don’t need me to play, do you? Just to host.”

“No, no. I need you to play. There is some kind of weird virus going around and we’ve got people calling in sick all over the place,” said Elaine, making a face. “And, technically, not that it matters, but it’s called Bunco.”

“I guess I’ll need to learn the rules real quick,” said Myrtle.

Red overheard this part as he returned with what looked like a staggering amount of alcohol. He let out a peal of laughter. “No, you won’t. You know how to play bridge don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And you play a mean game of chess,” continued Red.

“I’ve been told so,” said Myrtle.

“Then you won’t have a problem in the world with Bunco, believe me, Mama. It’s just throwing dice,” said Red, shifting the bags to make them more comfortable.

“Like Yahtzee?”

“Not nearly as academic as Yahtzee. Nowhere near as academic as Yahtzee, actually. Really, this game just serves as an excuse for a bunch of nice ladies to get together and drink wine and eat junk food. That’s about it.”

Elaine made a face at Red and he winked at her as he continued inside to set down the grocery bags of wine. “It’s the truth. Although I know y’all have a lot of fun.”

Jack squirmed in Elaine’s arms and she set him gently down. He walked toward the gnomes, looking back at Myrtle for permission.

“Of course you may play with the gnomes, Jack,” said Myrtle, beaming at the small boy. “Can you find your favorite out there? The one with the little yellow bird on his shoulder? I don’t know where Mr. Dusty put all of them.”

Red sauntered back out to the front porch and muttered, “At least somebody likes those things.”

“Jack isn’t the gnomes’ only fan,” said Myrtle in a complacent tone. “You should spend some time looking out the window. You’d see all sorts of people driving slowly by the house. Like I said before, I’m a tourist attraction.”

“Oh boy,” said Red glumly.

Elaine smiled as Jack gave a happy cry at finding his favorite gnome and instantly climbing on him. “What did you name the gnome?” asked Elaine.

“Ernie,” said Myrtle. “He just looked like an Ernie.”

Red snorted. “All right, that’s my cue to leave.” But when they heard a sudden piercing yell and the sound of glass shattering in Myrtle’s house, Red immediately charged inside.

Myrtle was close behind him. A streak of black fur flew past them both.

They ran to the kitchen where Puddin was loudly fussing to the empty room. “Witch cat! Trying to clean and that witch cat jumped out at me.”

The kitchen that Puddin was purportedly cleaning was an utter disaster. There was a large, broken bottle of olive oil on the floor alongside a large broken bottle of pasta sauce that had not only spilled all over the floor, but had also splattered up on the cabinets and floorboards.

“Puddin!” gasped Myrtle.

Puddin’s small, piggy eyes were blazing with fury. “That cat jumped out and scared the living daylights out of me!”

Red sighed. “So you had to fling the two messiest things in the kitchen at the floor in reaction to it?”

Myrtle groaned. “I’d been planning to make myself spaghetti for supper. This stuff will take you forever to clean up.”

“Isn’t my fault!” snapped Puddin defensively. She glared spitefully at the mess on the floor.

“I didn’t even know Pasha was inside,” said Myrtle. “I know you’re not her number one fan. She must have sneaked by me when I was on the porch.” Pasha was a black cat that had taken up with Myrtle, and Puddin attributed all manner of wickedness to the feral creature. Pasha had an unerring ability to find the people who didn’t like her and mess with their heads a bit. It was a trait Myrtle admired and rather envied. “You probably startled her, Puddin. She wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I wasn’t expectin’ to see her!”

“I’d better find Pasha,” said Myrtle. “She might have gone off to hide, as scared as she was. I don’t want to lose her again.”

Puddin called after her, “What about the floor? What about the fact that my back is thrown?”

Red followed Myrtle. He said in a low voice, “Puddin is real riled up this time, Mama. And I know you don’t want to lose her as a cleaner.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’d love to lose her as a housekeeper. But the fact is that there isn’t another cleaning lady anywhere around who has an opening on her schedule. Or who has a husband who does really cheap yard work.” Myrtle stomped to the front door, putting her cane down with more force than usual. “And she riles me up. What am I going to do with a disaster in the kitchen and the rest of the house a mess and a Bonko thing to host? I’ll have to cook something warm to serve, too.”

“It’s Bunco,” said Red. “And I’m sure Elaine will be happy to help Puddin out this one time, seeing as how you’re doing her a favor and everything.” He paused, significantly. “You know a place where you’d never have to clean again? Or do a lick of yardwork?”

Myrtle raised an eyebrow. “Where is this nirvana? Oh wait. Since it’s you telling me about it, it must be at Greener Pastures Retirement Home. No thanks. I’ll pass.”

They’d reached the front door and they paused, staring into the yard. “What do you know?” said Red with a laugh.

“Would you look at that,” said Myrtle, smiling.

Pasha, the feral cat who passionately disliked nearly everyone but Myrtle, was sitting curled up in Jack’s lap as Jack sat perched against Ernie the bird-loving gnome.

“Why don’t I ever have a camera on me at the important moments?” muttered Myrtle.

“You do, Mama. Remember? Your phone has a camera,” said Red in the automatic manner of someone who has pointed something out repeatedly in the past. He pulled out his own phone and snapped a photo of the scene. “I’ll email it to you.”

“Pasha made a friend,” she said.

Elaine was sitting on the front porch step. She said, “The cat came tearing out of the house as if chased by monsters or something.”

“Or something,” said Myrtle. “Puddin can be pretty monstrous sometimes.”

“She skidded to a stop when she spotted Jack and curled up right on him as if the two of them had been lifelong friends.” They watched as Pasha leaned her head back for Jack to rub her neck. Surprisingly, the little boy very gently petted the black cat. Elaine continued, “What happened in there? Is Puddin okay? That was a lot of yelling.”

“Oh, chaos and nonsense as usual. Pasha jumped out and scared Puddin. Puddin threw an olive oil bottle and an unopened jar of pasta sauce on the floor in reaction. So now there is a huge mess in the kitchen where there was already a pretty decent sized mess to start out with. Puddin is acting as if she’s going on strike so who knows if she’ll even clean up the spill. And that still doesn’t help me with the rest of the housework that needs to be done,” said Myrtle.

Red, apparently feeling as if he might be recruited, quickly said, “Sorry, but I’ve got to get back to the house and clean up our own mess from the backed-up plumbing. And deal with the plumber and Jack, too.”

Elaine said, “Myrtle, I’ll help you out. Your house is never as messy as you think it is. I can dust and clean off the counters and run the vacuum. It’ll look great. This is going to be a really fun evening.”

Even though Elaine was fairly speedy at cleaning the house, Myrtle felt the time crunch. Puddin was taking forever to clean up the spills. And Myrtle still needed to cook something. Finally, even Elaine admitted she needed to get back home to change clothes, even though the vacuuming was one main chore that hadn’t yet been completed.

Fortunately, as Elaine was walking out, there was a tap on Myrtle’s door. Peering out, she saw Miles on her front porch with his level gaze behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He was clutching a plate of brownies.