An Old-Fashioned Murder (13 page)

“Thanks,” Daisy responded, “but I think I'll just call back later.”

“Better make it tomorrow,” Janice advised. “Or better yet, Monday. It doesn't look to me like this snow is going to let up any time soon, and nobody can do anything until it stops. Even then, we're going to have to be plowed out first. Lordy, it could take forever. I hope the vending machine isn't running low.”

Daisy said that she hoped so too, thanked Janice again, and set down the phone. Then she walked to the front door and pulled it open. She was greeted by a squall of snow. The gray wall of pale flurries against the dark sky that she had seen when Bud Foster first arrived was gone. Now there was only snow. Layers upon layers of it, moving up and down, left and right. It looked like a flock of white ibis in flight, continually shifting direction.

Aunt Emily turned toward the hall and open door in surprise. “Is Sheriff Lowell coming already, Ducky? That sure was quick!”

She didn't answer. She simply stared—at nothing. There was nothing visible through the blowing snow. No objects. No shadows. No horizon. Without the clock on the mantel, Daisy wouldn't have been able to even guess the hour. It was neither the black of night nor the light of day. They had been replaced by a curtain of opaque nothingness. And there was nothing to be heard. Only the wind as it howled, lonely like a wolf, but with the deep roar of a freight train and the merciless ferocity of an angry god.

“I assume he was in the neighborhood?” Aunt Emily went on. “I hope it won't be too difficult for him to get up the driveway.”

“No,” Daisy replied without thought. She didn't move from the entry. The icy sharpness of the air brought the blood to her cheeks. It felt good, clearing her head and refreshing her body.

“I hope not,” Aunt Emily said again, “because the sooner he gets here, the sooner—”

Daisy drew a deep glacial breath, then she closed the front door and proceeded to recite the relevant portions of her conversation with Janice to the group in the parlor. She received a mixed reaction. Kenneth was doubtful that the storm could really be causing so much trouble. Lillian announced her intention of returning to bed. Edna advocated for an early breakfast with a strong pot of tea. May seconded the proposal. Parker's gaze drifted wistfully toward the liquor cart. And Sarah mumbled something in relation to a hot bath.

Drew and Bud were the only ones to focus on Henry Brent.

“If it's going to be a day or two before anyone official can get here,” Drew said, rising from the settee and looking from Daisy to Aunt Emily, “then we should come up with a way to cover him better.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Bud drew a square in the air with his calloused hands like he was cordoning off a crime scene. “Restrict access.”

“I was referring more to blocking the view.” Drew motioned surreptitiously toward May, who was leaning against Edna and still quite pallid.

“Indeed,” Aunt Emily murmured, squinting once more at the tartan blanket. “Seeing him there … The constant reminder…”

Daisy watched Georgia slip silently from the parlor to the dining room and then disappear into the kitchen. It gave her an idea. With swift steps, she headed toward the nook. Aunt Emily followed her.

“I wish it wouldn't have happened, Ducky,” Aunt Emily said in a low tone.

“Of course not. None of us do.”

She shook her head. “Not just Henry. The party. The party started it all.”

“Of course it didn't,” Daisy rejoined, only half listening. She was looking at the French doors that separated the parlor from the dining room. Although the upper panels were made of glass, the bottom portion was solid wood. With the lights turned off in the dining room and the doors closed, Henry Brent and the secretary would no longer be visible from the parlor. The guests couldn't go into the dining room anymore, but that was all right. They could eat in the kitchen, or their bedrooms, or picnic-style in the parlor.

Not waiting for confirmation, Daisy flipped the switch in the dining room. She began to shut the door on the left. Aunt Emily, quick to understand the plan, took the door on the right.

“I told you yesterday that it was a bad omen for the weekend,” Aunt Emily reminded her.

“Oh, Aunt Emily…”

Together they latched the French doors, concealing the nook and the body.

“And bad things always happen in threes,” Aunt Emily said.

 

CHAPTER

12

Aunt Emily may have been a wise old owl, but she also tended to be a superstitious one. Daisy shrugged off her ominous remark as a fatigued and strained rambling. It was a sign that Aunt Emily needed a hot bath and a strong pot of tea just the same as Sarah Lunt and the Fowler sisters. Daisy encouraged her to go upstairs, promising to talk to Georgia about the eating arrangements and to find some accommodation for Bud Foster. Aunt Emily complied, and the rest of the group slowly followed. They were all still in their nightclothes, and they were gradually realizing that it was no longer the night.

If things did happen in threes—good or bad—in Daisy's case, it was two more telephone calls. She had just finished getting dressed herself when Brenda rang. She was at home and worried about getting to the bakery. Daisy told her not to try. Given the conditions, there would be no customers that day. And she certainly shouldn't come to the inn. She would never make it through. Being a nervous driver to begin with, Brenda sounded greatly relieved at not having to brave the storm. She said that she would settle in with Blot—her beloved portly cat—and try out some new recipes. Daisy hung up the phone with a smile. By the end of the weekend, Blot would be even more portly.

That settled one issue, at least. Bud could take Brenda's room. Talking to Brenda reminded Daisy that she hadn't yet checked on Beulah. She figured that now was as good of a time as any. Her mama was still sleeping, Georgia was in the process of organizing breakfast, and it was no longer too early for a wake-up call if Beulah had settled somewhere comfortable with Wade Watson Howard III.

Daisy dialed and waited.

“Hello, darlin'.”

For the second time that morning, Daisy glanced down at the screen, thinking that she had pressed the wrong buttons. She hadn't.

“Darlin'?”

“Rick?”

He laughed. “Now admit it. You missed me yesterday at the party, didn't you?”

“What are you doing with Beulah's phone, Rick?” Daisy said, surprise temporarily trumping annoyance.

“She left it on the table.”

“On the table?” Daisy frowned. “Where is she?”

“Where are you?” Rick countered.

“At the inn. You?”

“The General.”

“Oh.” Daisy understood now. The General was where Beulah had arranged to meet Wade. Apparently Rick had been a Friday-night customer as well. “Did Beulah get stuck there?”

“We all did,” he told her. “Can't get out of the parking lot. Aside from being buried, it's got that incline up to the road. The snow's turned it into a mini-mountain of ice.”

“It must be really bad,” Daisy said, and she meant it. Rick and his trusty rusty pickup were not timid when it came to traversing tough terrain. He—together with his brother, Bobby—lived further in the backwoods than Sasquatch.

“How is it at the inn?” he asked. “Your mama okay? And Aunt Emily?”

Her frown faded. For all Rick's faults, he was always sweet toward her family. “We're snowed in, too. Mama's got a nasty cold and cough, but I think—or at least, hope—she's on the mend. As to Aunt Emily, well, she's…”

Daisy hesitated. Should she tell Rick that Aunt Emily, along with everybody else at the inn, was shaken up by what had happened to Henry Brent? He'd want details, and she didn't feel like recounting the whole awful scene, especially when she was also going to have to do it with Beulah.

“Did you meet Wade?” she said instead. Rick was usually a pretty savvy judge of character, and she was curious to know what his impression of Beulah's date had been.

“You eventually meet everybody when you're trapped in a bar overnight with them, darlin'.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“He's all right.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. Rick was never very chatty on the phone, but that was laconic even for him.

“You're so helpful,” she remarked dryly.

Rick chuckled. “Wade seems like a decent enough chap. Is that better?”

She gave a little grunt.

“But I am sorry,” he drawled, “that you didn't come along with them. Then
we
could have spent the night together.”

Even through the phone, Rick's serpent tongue had an undeniable magnetic quality. Over the years, Daisy had seen countless women's knees grow weak at his hypnotic hiss. But she knew how to break the spell.

“It would have been just like old times,” she drawled back at him. “When I used to have to pick you and Matt up at the General after the two of you had gotten so drunk that you couldn't even walk out the door.”

Rick growled at her in warning.

“Why do you have my phone? Give it to me!” An instant later, Beulah's voice replaced Rick's. “Daisy?”

“Yup.”

Beulah snorted. “I knew he was talking to you. I could see it on his face. He's got that predator expression, like he's stalking you in the jungle—” She interrupted herself. “Are you going to sit right next to me and listen to our entire conversation, Rick?”

“I was thinking about it,” he said, loudly enough for Daisy to hear.

“Well, don't! It's none of your business what we talk about. And you can stop grinning at me like that. Daisy isn't interested in you. She's got Drew, and he's—”

This time Daisy interrupted her. She had to. Rick had a talent for getting under Beulah's skin. Their spats could go on for ages if not promptly nipped in the bud. “Beulah, I've got news. It's important.”

“News?” Her voice rose excitedly. “Is it about you and Drew?”

She could tell that Beulah was dropping Drew's name just to pique Rick, and ordinarily Daisy would have been amused, but her mind was on Henry Brent.

“Have you finally decided to get serious with Drew—” Beulah cooed.

“Henry died,” Daisy said.

Beulah went mute. Daisy could picture her sitting at one of the rickety, beer-stained tables, her hazel eyes bulging in disbelief.

“I hate telling you this way,” she apologized, “but I thought you should know.”

“He died?” Beulah echoed in a whisper. “But he seemed so—so healthy and in such good spirits yesterday.”

“Who seemed healthy and in good spirits? Who died?” Rick demanded. When Beulah didn't immediately answer, he reclaimed the phone. “Who died, Daisy?”

“Henry Brent.”

“His ol' ticker finally gave out, eh?”

“No. It was—Put the phone on speaker, Rick, so Beulah can hear, too.” She waited for the telltale click, then continued, “It was an accident. One of the new pieces of furniture, a secretary, fell on him in the dining room when we were asleep.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Are you sure?” Rick said.

“Of course I'm sure,” Daisy responded with irritation. “I saw him lying on the floor. I touched him. The man was no longer alive.”

“That's not what I meant. Are you sure it was an accident?”

The question startled her. Why would Rick ask that? Why would he even think it? It reminded her of Bud Foster's similar remark and how adamant he had been about them contacting the police.

“I called the sheriff's office,” she told Rick.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing. I talked to Janice. Sheriff Lowell is stuck at his house. And nobody else can get anywhere with the storm.”

There was another pause.

“You said that it happened when you were asleep. Was everyone asleep?” Rick inquired.

“I don't know. I assume so. It was the middle of the night, dark and quiet, with everyone in their rooms…”

It was Daisy's turn to pause, as it occurred to her that it hadn't actually been quiet. On the contrary, there had been quite a few noises. The rumbles and the crash, presumably from Henry Brent fussing with the secretary, and it tumbling over. The door hinges squeaking, followed by the footsteps in the hall and on the stairs. Then the garbled voices, which Daisy was still uncertain about. And finally the pounding on the front door, courtesy of Bud.

“I don't know,” she repeated slowly, this time with a furrowed brow. “I really have no idea who was asleep or in their rooms.”

“Where was Lillian?” Beulah remarked tartly.

“Lillian!” Daisy exclaimed in surprise.

“She's the first person that I'd suspect of anything bad,” Beulah said. “She couldn't stand Henry, especially when he and Parker would team up against her.”

“That's true, except Lillian was the first person to find him in the dining room. She screamed like a banshee.”

“It could have been a fake scream.”

“Well, yes, theoretically, but be serious now, Beulah. I know you're mad at what she said yesterday. Lillian can be a royal pain in the—”

“She's worse than an army of fire ants crawling into your bikini!”

Beulah must have made a face to match, because Rick gave a hoot of laughter.

Daisy smiled, too—it was such an apt description of Lillian—then she said again, more earnestly, “Be serious now, Beulah. You can't honestly think Henry's death was anything other than an accident. You saw how the secretary wobbled.”

“It was tippy,” Beulah acknowledged, “but not so tippy for it to fall over all by itself, especially in the middle of the night when no one was around to witness it. It's awfully coincidental—and convenient. My money is still on Lillian's helping hand. Or maybe Georgia's!”