Free Death at a Drop-In by Elizabeth Spann Craig

on his lunch.
    She said, “Sloan, it’s Myrtle.”
    Sloan’s voice became more alert, as it always did whenever Myrtle addressed him.  Myrtle had been his English teacher many years ago and he’d never managed to put the experience behind him.  He’d had a terrible time remembering to turn in his homework that year, and never could recite that soliloquy from Hamlet to her satisfaction.  He’d passed the class by the skin of his teeth and she’d been relieved to be done with him.  She’d been pretty appalled when he’d ended up as editor and publisher of the town’s newspaper, especially considering his background in English.  Red had persuaded Sloan to give Myrtle a weekly helpful hints column for the paper—mostly to keep Myrtle out of trouble.  Sloan had let Myrtle write investigative stories for the Bugle a few times, too. 
    “Miss Myrtle,” he said, “how are you doing?  I was just thinking that I needed to get in touch with you about your column this week.  How’s it coming along?  You know that there’ll practically be a riot in the streets if we miss including your helpful hints this week.”
    “I’m sure they’ll live,” said Myrtle dryly.  “Actually, I was thinking about doing a bigger story this time.  The Whitlow murder.  I’m assuming you’re already working on a story about it, but I’d like to take it over.  I’m going to find out who’s behind Cosette Whitlow’s murder.”
    Sloan sounded like he might be experiencing some stomach upset.  “The Whitlow murder?  Miss Myrtle, you must have better things to do than to get involved with that story.”
    “Better things to do?  What?  Play bingo at the community center?  Watch the last episode of my soap another time? What better things to do could I possibly have?” asked Myrtle.
    “Well, you know, your helpful hints column is getting so popular that I thought we might want to run it more than once a week.  People are really eating that stuff up.”
    Myrtle’s voice became sharper.  “Sloan, are you trying to get me out of the newsroom?  Because I’d much rather be poking my nose into the Whitlow murder than telling people how to get tomato sauce stains out of their clothes.”
    Sloan meekly said, “You see, Miss Myrtle, I have this new intern.  She’s from Atlanta and is trying to get bylines and clips so that she’ll have something for her portfolio when she interviews with the Atlanta paper.”
    Myrtle frowned.  “So she’s getting the top stories: and what are you getting?”
    She could picture Sloan blushing on the other end of the wire—that red, splotchy flush that went all the way up to the top of his ever-expanding forehead.  “Miss Myrtle, it’s not like that.  Kim is right out of college…she’s just a kid.  You see—I don’t have to pay her anything since she’s an intern.  Plus, she’s really sharp.”
    “You barely pay me anything.  And I’m really sharp, too.  Besides, I’m the one who discovered Cosette Whitlow’s body.  And my son is the town’s police chief.  It sounds like I’m the one who should be writing the story—not some kid from Atlanta who doesn’t even know these people.”
    Sloan sounded apologetic.  “I’d undo it if I could, Miss Myrtle, but she’s already reporting the story.  Seems kind of harsh just to take her right off it, especially since we had a deal.  I didn’t know you were the one who discovered the body.  I’ll get Kim to interview you straightaway.”
    “Don’t bother.   No comment.  I’ll write my own story and then you can choose the story you’d rather run at the end of the case.”
    “I’m sorry, Miss Myrtle,” said Sloan regretfully.  He was sure he’d be paying for this at some point in the future.
    “I know you are.  See you soon, Sloan.”
    “Wait! Miss Myrtle, what about the helpful hints column?  Is it ready?” pleaded Sloan. 
    She certainly didn’t have any time to research a bunch of helpful hints