Free A Body in the Backyard by Elizabeth Spann Craig Page A

yes. I’m going to cut the cheese into cubes and put it on a big plate. And the gelatin I’ll put in a big bowl and people can help themselves,” said Myrtle.
    Red cleared his throat and stared into the grocery cart at the offending items. “Mama, have you gone to any funeral receptions lately?  I don’t think I’ve seen much cheese and gelatin at the ones I’ve been to.”
    “Cut to the chase, Red. What are you saying?  That I don’t need to buy this stuff?”
    “Or maybe that you should get some different things. Won’t the church be sending food over to Miles?  Usually the church ladies always show up with ham biscuits, deviled eggs, potato salad, peach cobbler—stuff like that,” said Red.
    “I can make deviled eggs,” said Myrtle, feeling stubborn. Why was everyone always in such a tizzy when she mentioned she was having a reception?  She strongly suspected it was age-discrimination, a frequent suspicion of hers considering her relentless inching toward ninety. Ninety-year-olds didn’t get the proper respect. Octogenarians still commanded their share of power.
    “Sure you can,” said Red, rolling his eyes. “But why even bother when you’ll be receiving food from the church, anyway?  You’re helping out enough just hosting everyone in your house.”
    It could be that she wanted to bother simply because everyone seemed so dead-set against her doing it. “I’m already at the store, Red.  I’ve heard your advice and I won’t make quite as much food as I planned to make, but I can’t just hold a reception and wait for the food to show up. I’ve also got to make sure there’s something to drink there.”
    “Well, do me a favor and keep it alcohol-free. After breaking that drunken brawl up last week, all I want is to make sure the town of Bradley is drinking lemonade,” said Red.
    “I was only planning on serving non-alcoholic drinks,” said Myrtle primly. “But I think you’ve lost your mind if you think that people are going to fight at a funeral reception.”
     
    The next morning, Myrtle picked up the phone and dialed Miles. His very sleepy voice answered after six or seven rings.
    “Are you sleeping?” asked Myrtle with great surprise.
    “Not any longer,” said Miles in a cold voice.
    “I figured you’d have been up for hours,” said Myrtle, feeling a slight pang of remorse. Still, crime fighting didn’t stop for the clock and she had investigating to do early.
    Miles gave only a grumpy-sounding snort in response.
    “The reason I’m calling is that I need to drive out to see Wanda this morning. Red said she’d been lurking around our street before the murder and I want to find out what she was doing. So, I need to either borrow your car or hitch a ride with you out to her place,” said Myrtle.
    Miles heaved a long-suffering type of sigh. “This is the psychic out on the old highway, heading out of town?  The one who lives with her insane brother?”
    “Crazy like a fox, if you ask me. Yes, he’s called Crazy Dan,” said Myrtle.
    “Can’t you ask someone else for a ride,” asked Miles in annoyance. “You’ve gotten rides from others before. Like Erma.”
    Myrtle said with dignity, “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. As you well know, I’ve been avoiding Erma like the plague for some time. Deliberately seeking out her company would mean that I’d had a small stroke. Besides, the last time I saw her—from a distance—she was babbling incoherently about having a clue…that you were the murderer.”
    Miles groaned. “Typical. And I suppose she’ll blab whatever nonsense she’s got fixed in her head to everyone in town. There goes my reputation. Miles Bradford—murderer.”
    “Not necessarily. No one listens to Erma Sherman anyway. For their own self-protection. Otherwise, their heads would explode with all her disgusting medical reports on her various revolting conditions. Besides, knowing the old hens in this town, the thought of you being some sort