An Old-Fashioned Murder (15 page)

He continued patting. “I can't seem to find any at the moment…”

She swallowed a chuckle, waiting to see how long the faux search would last.

“Maybe in here…” Bud fumbled with his trench coat.

A folded newspaper, accompanied by a mass of crumpled tissues, fell from the coat onto the floor. The tissues looked used and wet, and Daisy—ever the waitress—promptly reached for the little wicker wastebasket in the corner by the bath.

Bud mumbled a halfhearted apology while she collected the unappetizingly soggy wad. Daisy gingerly lifted the damp newspaper with two fingers to avoid staining her entire hand with ink. It was a small local paper. The sports section was turned up, with an article about the new baseball coach at the community college in Rocky Mount.

“Do you want to keep it?” she asked Bud.

“No.” His back was turned toward her. He had given up searching for the elusive business card and informational pamphlet, and had moved on to brushing off his coat and hanging it in the armoire.

Setting the paper in the wastebasket, Daisy noticed that a photograph accompanied the baseball article. Although not in color, it was large enough for her to see the age, build, and general appearance of the new coach. He was about thirty years old, tall and fit, trim and tidy. According to the caption, his name was Bud Foster.

Startled, she looked up at the man standing in front of the armoire. He was twenty years older, thirty pounds heavier, unkempt and unshaven—clearly not the same Bud Foster. What a strange coincidence. And then it occurred to Daisy that maybe it wasn't a coincidence. Maybe it wasn't only his story that stunk. It was Bud himself, because he wasn't actually Bud Foster. That was just a name he had seen in the newspaper. A name that he had assumed somewhere between the door of his car and the door of the inn.

Daisy's mouth opened, ready to accuse the man of being a liar and demand an immediate explanation for his deception. But a second later, she shut it again as Rick's warning echoed in her head. She needed to be careful. She had already pressed Bud—or whatever his real name was—hard enough for one day, or at least for that morning. She didn't know how he might react if she confronted him with the truth.

Reluctantly, Daisy returned the wastebasket—with the newspaper—to its corner. She wanted to take the paper along as evidence to show Aunt Emily and the others, but she worried that it would be too obvious and put Bud on guard. It would be better if he believed that his secret remained safe, even if only temporarily.

“I'll leave you to get settled,” Daisy said, forcing herself to be polite and composed.

Still busy at the armoire, he grunted a word of thanks.

“The key is in the lock,” she added, before slipping as quickly as she could out of the room and away from Bud Foster.

 

CHAPTER

14

“He said he had appointments and his business was door-to-door sales?” Aunt Emily asked Daisy.

“That's right,” she answered. They were sitting in her mama's room as Lucy finished a late breakfast, Daisy on the foot of the bed and Aunt Emily in the yellow painted rocker across from her.

“What utter rot!” Aunt Emily exclaimed. “It's either door to door
or
appointments. It can't be both.”

“I think the more important point,” Daisy's mama interjected, gazing contemplatively at a last bite of toast, “is his name. Could it be a coincidence?”

“No, it could not, Lucy. Absolutely not!”

That was as agitated as Daisy had seen Aunt Emily in some time, but she wasn't surprised, and she didn't blame her in the least. Aunt Emily had been circumspect toward Bud Foster from the moment she saw him standing in the doorway of the inn. She had been reluctant to shake his hand and invite him into her home in the middle of the night, and her misgivings had been proven correct. Now she had someone that she didn't know, didn't trust, and who was in all likelihood a fraud occupying one of her rooms.

“I agree. It's too…” Lucy wiped the crumbs from her fingers, then set the napkin on the tray at her side. “… too improbable. If everything else were going for him, I might be more inclined to believe it. But there's his peculiar arrival, and him having the newspaper in his coat as though he had just read it and picked up the name, and you both said that he didn't seem quite right from the outset.”

Aunt Emily sniffed defensively. “I only let him in because of the weather.”

“Of course.” Lucy nodded. “It would have been uncharitable not to.”

Her approbation seemed to soothe Aunt Emily, who nodded back at her.

“So what do we do with him now?” Daisy asked.

“I'll tell you what I'd like to do,” Aunt Emily responded, more cheerfully. “I'd like to give the man a good punt in the rear. It would teach him a lesson.”

Lucy chuckled. “That it might, but it still wouldn't solve the problem.”

“Well, something has to be done,” Aunt Emily went on. “We can't allow a potentially crazed criminal to run willy-nilly around the place.”

“Rick doesn't think that he's a criminal,” Daisy said.

“Rick?” her mama and Aunt Emily echoed in astonishment. They exchanged a glance.

“Yes, Rick,” Daisy returned dryly. “And there's no need for that look. We haven't been whispering sweet nothings. I called Beulah earlier to check on her and tell her about Henry—”

“Beulah's with Rick?” Aunt Emily's blue eyes bulged like a trout's.

“She's not
with
Rick. She's with Wade, her date. They got stuck at the General last night, and Rick happened to be there, too.”

“Oh, I'm very glad to hear it.” Lucy sighed in relief. “I always worry when Beulah goes on those blind dates all alone. And now with the storm, she can't leave if there's a problem. It's a comfort to know that Rick is watching out for her.”

“Watching out for her?” Daisy gave a dubious snort. “It's more likely that Rick and Beulah will throttle each other if they're trapped together too long.”

“Nevertheless,” her mama said, “I feel better with Rick there. We don't know Wade. We know Rick.”

“That's true. We know Rick is a philandering, carousing—”

“What did Rick say about Bud?” Aunt Emily cut her off impatiently.

“I told Rick that Bud was the first one to suggest calling the sheriff,” Daisy explained. “He said if Bud did that, then he can't be running from the law.” She added with a wry smile, “And if anybody knows about running from the law, it's Rick.”

“But Rick doesn't know Bud?” Aunt Emily asked.

“No. Not from his name, at least.”

“Except it's not his real name,” Aunt Emily reminded her.

“I doubt there's much chance of us finding out his real name,” Lucy remarked.

Aunt Emily clucked her tongue. “It's too bad Rick isn't here.”

Daisy's gaze narrowed at her.

“Now, Ducky, don't get cross with me. You know I'm fond of Drew. I didn't mean that I wish Rick were here instead of him. It would just be helpful to have Rick's opinion on Bud. He has a knack for seeing through people.”

Although Daisy didn't admit it aloud, she knew that Aunt Emily was correct. It was precisely why she had asked Rick about his impression of Wade.

“You shouldn't sell yourself short, Emily,” Lucy said kindly. “You're a mighty good judge of folks yourself.”

She blushed at the praise. “That's what comes from being a tough old biddy. But Rick is much better at gauging the more,” Aunt Emily clucked her tongue again, “unsavory types.”

“That's what comes from being an unsavory type,” Daisy muttered.

Her mama and Aunt Emily exchanged another glance, which further ruffled her feathers.

“Well, Rick isn't here, and he can't get here,” she snapped, “so we'll have to figure out Bud by ourselves.”

There was a loud thump overhead, and all three of them looked up. The noise had come from Bud's room. Perhaps he had thrown down his duffle bag again.

“I think,” Lucy mused, her eyes still raised toward the ceiling, “that you were right before, honey. The question isn't his name, but what do we do with him now?”

“Chuck him out,” Aunt Emily promptly proposed, and she made a motion of drop-kicking the man.

Daisy had to laugh, because she could well imagine her booting him straight through the front door just like a football. “When he wanted a different room, I told him that it was either the Joseph E. Johnston or one of the rocking chairs on the porch.”

Rocking in her own chair, Aunt Emily nodded approvingly, but Lucy shook her head.

“We can't put him out on the porch,” she scolded them. “Not in the freezing temperatures and with all the snow.”

As if to prove her point, the wind howled fiercely against the side of the inn and rattled the bedroom windows. With a shiver and a cough, Lucy pulled up the patchwork quilt, which had been folded back while she ate.

“I suppose it would be uncharitable,” Aunt Emily agreed after a moment, although she looked disappointed by the lack of drop-kicking. She turned to Daisy. “Why did he want a different room?”

“I don't know, but he's definitely got some reason beyond the usual nonsense of objecting to the color of the wallpaper or not fancying the view that nitpicking guests like to use, especially when it comes time to pay the bill. I'm sure there's more to it. He wanted to know who was on what floor, and he even asked for Henry's room.”

“Henry's room?” Her mama frowned.

“I said he couldn't have it because Sheriff Lowell hadn't been in it yet.”

“That was quick thinking, Ducky,” Aunt Emily complimented her.

Lucy frowned harder. “But Henry's room? It seems suspicious, doesn't it?”

“It does,” Aunt Emily stopped rocking, “except Bud—or whatever his name actually is—couldn't have done dear Henry in. He wasn't in the inn when it happened.”

“Done him in!” Daisy exclaimed.

It was Aunt Emily's turn to frown. “I'm afraid there's a good chance of it, Ducky. Don't tell me you haven't considered it yourself.”

Daisy looked hastily at her mama, worried what effect the shock of Aunt Emily's words could have on her fragile health, but she didn't appear at all startled by the idea that Henry Brent's death might not have been an accident. On the contrary, Daisy had the distinct impression that she and Aunt Emily had discussed the possibility previously. It was Aunt Emily—and not herself—who had first told her mama about the tragic event downstairs.

“Could there be something in Henry's room?” her mama remarked thoughtfully.

“But if there is,” Aunt Emily started rocking again, “how would Bud know about it? From the way he looked at the body and talked about the need for an investigation, he didn't seem to know Henry at all. Unless…” She hesitated.

“Unless he knows someone else here,” Lucy continued for her. “And that was why he asked Daisy who was on what floor—”

“So he could slip into their room and speak to them privately,” Aunt Emily concluded, “unnoticed by the rest of us.”

There was a short pause. Daisy couldn't help being a little amused. Listening to her mama and Aunt Emily finish each other's sentences was a bit like following along with one of the Fowler sisters' conversations. But she was also more than a little concerned, because what they were saying had a strong ring of truth to it. Bud could indeed know a person at the inn. In his questions to her, it had felt as though he was trying to locate the room of someone—surreptitiously.

“I wonder who he could know.” Lucy turned to her daughter. “Didn't you mention something last night about Georgia recognizing or being surprised to see someone?”

Daisy nodded. “She was surprised enough to drop that tray of glasses. And afterward, she was staring hard at somebody. But it couldn't have been Bud. He wasn't here yet.”

Suddenly Aunt Emily burst out with a cackle. “Maybe Bud knows Lillian! Maybe he's come to the inn for a tryst with her!”

“Oh, Emily, please,” Lucy groaned. “Lillian and a romantic rendezvous? I've only just finished my breakfast.”

She went right on cackling. “Can you imagine how delicious the scandal would be? Lillian's always getting on her high horse and complaining about the supposed improprieties of others.”

Half suppressing a smile, Lucy replied, “What about poor Parker?”

“Pish, pish.” Aunt Emily waved a nonchalant hand. “After the initial shock wore off, Parker would be as happy as a raccoon with a jar of peanut butter. Getting untethered from his sourpuss wife would be the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“I wouldn't mind it either,” Daisy added, more earnestly than the others. “If Lillian and Parker were officially on the rocks, then she would have to stop trying to make me feel guilty about Matt.”

“You don't have a speck to feel guilty about, Ducky!”

“Nothing at all, honey,” her mama concurred.

Daisy shrugged. “It doesn't matter, regardless, because I think we can be pretty confident that Bud is not having a dalliance with Lillian.”

“He's here for something, though,” Aunt Emily countered. “And it darn well isn't selling insurance. If that man is in the business of life insurance, then I'm a monkey's uncle.”

Lucy laughed. “You would be an excellent organ grinder, Emily—”

She was interrupted by another loud thump from above.

“What on earth is he doing up there?” Aunt Emily cried.

Remembering Rick's caution about people overhearing, Daisy hushed her. “We should be careful what we say. The walls—and the ceiling—are thin.”

“Too thin for comfort, on occasion.” Her mama spoke in a low tone. “Last night I heard the Lunts talking about buying the inn again.”