Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) Read Online Free

into. Myrtle's cane thumped
emphatically on the pavement in front of her, the robustness of
the sound giving her a sense of satisfaction. The skin that stretched
over her big bones was wrinkle-free ... just a few fine lines when
she smiled and frowned. She was tall and cut an imposing figure in
the classroom where she'd reined supreme for twenty-five years
before retiring more years ago than she cared to remember. She
smiled smugly at the thought of her gnome army greeting Red this
morning. If she'd wanted to get involved with United Methodist
Women, she'd have signed up herself.
    United Methodist Women was synonymous with Parke Stockard, who seemed bent on taking over every church activity she could get involved with. Great. A morning with Parke certainly wouldn't
cure Myrtle's foul mood. She gave her cane another vicious whack
on the sidewalk, then pushed through the heavy wooden doors into
the sanctuary, checking her murderous thoughts at the door. Although someone clearly hadn't checked theirs.

    Parke Stockard lay sprawled at the altar, sightless eyes wide
open. For once, Myrtle was glad to have her cane to lean on.
    "Miss Myrtle! Here to help us out with United Methodist
Women?" The minister, Nathaniel Gluck, loped into the sanctuary,
long arms dangling awkwardly by his sides. He blanched when he
spotted the body by the altar, stopping in his tracks. Nathaniel
moved forward, then stopped again. His bony hands clutched his
throat and he made a choking, gasping sound before getting back in
control. "Merciful heavens! Oh..." He wheezed a trembling sigh.
"Dear. Miss Myrtle, we should leave. Should phone the police. Or an
ambulance. My office is just down the hall..." His hands flapped
helplessly in the air like a scrawny fledgling trying to fly off.
    Myrtle had no intention of being shepherded away. "Don't worry
about me, Nathaniel. I'll just-um-stay here and make sure the
crime scene isn't tampered with. Parke's days of needing ambulances
are long gone. Just call Red." It was occasionally handy having a son
who was chief of police. The minister scuttled off to his office.
    The crime scene had a film noir feel to it. The pulpit cast creepy
shadows over the dead blonde on the floor. Even the blood spatters
had an artful feel about them, with Parke's stray hairs matted down
just so. Roses lay scattered on the altar, on Parke, and on the floor,
a subtle reminder of the violent act. The only odd thing wasMyrtle squinted in disbelief-Parke's knit shirt was on inside-out.
How very un-Parkelike.

    Her body sprawled dramatically in front of the altar with a broken crystal vase lying in splinters nearby. Myrtle moved closer, wondering what kind of information she could pick up before Red came
roaring over in his squad car and hustled her out of there as fast as
she could toddle.
    Shocked by her daring, Myrtle bent down and placed a hand
on Parke's bare arm. Her body was still warm. The murder had
been very recent. The hush of the sanctuary took on a more sinister feel and the hairs on the back of Myrtle's neck stood on end.
    Parke obviously died from blunt force trauma. But what weapon
had the killer used? The altar was a mess and the weapon could be
almost any of the heavy objects lying on it or nearby. Had the crystal
vase smashed on Parke's head or on the floor during a struggle? A
heavy brass collection plate could easily have been the weapon. Or
the huge, brass-footed candlesticks that lay overturned on the altar.
    Myrtle leaned closer to investigate blood on the collection
plate, and noticed a cell phone nearly obscured by the avalanche of
roses. Putting down her cane, she took a tissue from her pocketbook and picked up the phone. "Good Myrtle" argued against
tampering with evidence. That was until "Bad Myrtle" pointed out
she had a God-given talent for solving puzzles. Crosswords, true,
but they could be just as cryptic as murders. She was assisting the
police. "Good Myrtle" shut