Soup...Er...Myrtle!: A Myrtle Crumb Mystery (Myrtle Crumb Mystery Series) by Gayle Trent
Authors: Gayle Trent
Ads: Link
Soup…
Er…
Myrtle!
by
Gayle Trent
Grace
Abraham Publishing
Washington Cooper, Inc.
13335 Holbrook Street, Suite 10
Bristol, VA 24202
Copyright © 2014 by Gayle Trent
All rights reserved, including the right
of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. All the
events, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.
Other Books in the Myrtle Crumb Series:
Between a Clutch
and a Hard Place
When Good Bras Go
Bad
Claus of Death
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Chapter One
It was just before nine o’clock on a
Wednesday night. Me and Matlock, my chocolate lab, had just got comfortable on
the bed so we could watch one of those “Thin Man” movies on television. I told
him he was just like their little dog Asta, except he was bigger and braver.
And I said I was kinda like Myrna Loy only a tad taller and still living. And
our Sheriff Cooper Norville (my beau) didn’t have much at all in common with
William Powell. Coop was taller, broader, and a lot better looking.
Anyway, I’d just got through setting
the stage so to speak for Matlock, and we were ready to settle in and watch our
movie when Bettie Easton called. Ain’t that always how it goes? You have your
mind set on doing something, and somebody interrupts you before you even get
started.
I wouldn’t have answered the phone
if I hadn’t been worried it was my daughter Faye. I mean, what if she or my
precious grandbaby (who’s a teenager now, so don’t you dare tell her I called
her a baby) needed me for something? Or, even if they didn’t, if Faye’d call
over here this late and I didn’t answer, she’d be worried and would probably
get in her car and come over here afraid I’d fell and broke my hip and couldn’t
get up. And if she hadn’t heard from me in a day or two, she might even think
I’d died and that Matlock had commenced to eating on me. Not that he
would—except as a last resort. I mean, I’ve read about stuff like that
happening…but it might just be one of them urban legend things.
Anyhow, back to Bettie. When I
answered the phone, she started talking like we were characters right out of Gone
With the Wind so I knew she wanted something.
“Good evening, Ms. Myrtle. I hope I
didn’t disturb your respite.”
See what I mean? Who says stuff like respite these days?
“Well, I am getting ready to
watch a movie,” I said. “Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no, hon. There’s nothing wrong.
In fact, I hope we can help to make something right.”
I didn’t have an answer to that, so
I kept my mouth shut and waited for Bettie to make her point.
“You see, I want our little ol’
community to think highly of the M.E.L.O.N.S.,” she said.
The M.E.L.O.N.S. is a group Bettie
came up with. The letters stand for Mature Elegant Ladies Open to Nice
Suggestions. The first time she told me about it, I said it made us sound like
old hookers. But Bettie said I was silly and that the M.E.L.O.N.S. are only
open to nice suggestions. I still think it makes us sound like
prostitutes, but we have parties and eat good, so I stick with it.
“So how do we go about making
M.E.L.O.N.S. the shining stars of Backwater?” I asked.
“Well, at Bible study this
evening—we missed you, by the way—Doris Phillips was saying that they could
really use some help down at the food bank and soup kitchen, “ Bettie said. “I
said I’d rally the M.E.L.O.N.S. to each help out a couple days a week. So…what
do you say?”
What I didn’t say was that I
didn’t appreciate her little dig about my not going to Bible study. It was
freezing cold, snow flurrying, and I didn’t want to get out in it.
Er…
Myrtle!
by
Gayle Trent
Grace
Abraham Publishing
Washington Cooper, Inc.
13335 Holbrook Street, Suite 10
Bristol, VA 24202
Copyright © 2014 by Gayle Trent
All rights reserved, including the right
of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. All the
events, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.
Other Books in the Myrtle Crumb Series:
Between a Clutch
and a Hard Place
When Good Bras Go
Bad
Claus of Death
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Chapter One
It was just before nine o’clock on a
Wednesday night. Me and Matlock, my chocolate lab, had just got comfortable on
the bed so we could watch one of those “Thin Man” movies on television. I told
him he was just like their little dog Asta, except he was bigger and braver.
And I said I was kinda like Myrna Loy only a tad taller and still living. And
our Sheriff Cooper Norville (my beau) didn’t have much at all in common with
William Powell. Coop was taller, broader, and a lot better looking.
Anyway, I’d just got through setting
the stage so to speak for Matlock, and we were ready to settle in and watch our
movie when Bettie Easton called. Ain’t that always how it goes? You have your
mind set on doing something, and somebody interrupts you before you even get
started.
I wouldn’t have answered the phone
if I hadn’t been worried it was my daughter Faye. I mean, what if she or my
precious grandbaby (who’s a teenager now, so don’t you dare tell her I called
her a baby) needed me for something? Or, even if they didn’t, if Faye’d call
over here this late and I didn’t answer, she’d be worried and would probably
get in her car and come over here afraid I’d fell and broke my hip and couldn’t
get up. And if she hadn’t heard from me in a day or two, she might even think
I’d died and that Matlock had commenced to eating on me. Not that he
would—except as a last resort. I mean, I’ve read about stuff like that
happening…but it might just be one of them urban legend things.
Anyhow, back to Bettie. When I
answered the phone, she started talking like we were characters right out of Gone
With the Wind so I knew she wanted something.
“Good evening, Ms. Myrtle. I hope I
didn’t disturb your respite.”
See what I mean? Who says stuff like respite these days?
“Well, I am getting ready to
watch a movie,” I said. “Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no, hon. There’s nothing wrong.
In fact, I hope we can help to make something right.”
I didn’t have an answer to that, so
I kept my mouth shut and waited for Bettie to make her point.
“You see, I want our little ol’
community to think highly of the M.E.L.O.N.S.,” she said.
The M.E.L.O.N.S. is a group Bettie
came up with. The letters stand for Mature Elegant Ladies Open to Nice
Suggestions. The first time she told me about it, I said it made us sound like
old hookers. But Bettie said I was silly and that the M.E.L.O.N.S. are only
open to nice suggestions. I still think it makes us sound like
prostitutes, but we have parties and eat good, so I stick with it.
“So how do we go about making
M.E.L.O.N.S. the shining stars of Backwater?” I asked.
“Well, at Bible study this
evening—we missed you, by the way—Doris Phillips was saying that they could
really use some help down at the food bank and soup kitchen, “ Bettie said. “I
said I’d rally the M.E.L.O.N.S. to each help out a couple days a week. So…what
do you say?”
What I didn’t say was that I
didn’t appreciate her little dig about my not going to Bible study. It was
freezing cold, snow flurrying, and I didn’t want to get out in it.
Similar Books
