An Old-Fashioned Murder (27 page)

Bud joined her as she looked outside. “It's an attractive spot,” he observed. “And very isolated. I can understand why the Lunts are so eager to buy it.”

Daisy turned to him in surprise. His description of the inn wasn't what startled her. In that regard, he was correct. The property was attractive and in a rural sense, isolated. But his reference to the Lunts reminded her of their continued and aggressive interest in purchasing the place, and most notably, of Kenneth's appalling remark—
Murder always lowers the asking price
. It had put the couple at the top of the suspect list.

With a large, patronizing smile of chipped and yellowed teeth, Bud said, “You haven't figured it out, have you?”

She frowned at him. Figured what out? Did he know who the murderer was? A thick lump swelled in her throat as a sudden sickening realization hit her. Bud wasn't the killer, but that didn't mean he couldn't be in league with the killer. She and her mama and Aunt Emily had all agreed that two people could have been working together. What about three? Bud Foster and the Lunts.

“Are you…” Daisy's gaze narrowed warily, and her fingers tightened around the handle of the hatchet. “Are you working with the Lunts?”

“I'm not
working
with them. I'm
following
them.” Bud smiled once more. “I'm a private investigator, sweetheart.”

 

CHAPTER

25

Parker let out a whistle of astonishment. Daisy, on the other hand, was less amazed and more annoyed. Bud Foster's patronizing smile was beginning to irritate her, and she was also irritated with herself. Bud was right. She hadn't figured it out, but she felt that she should have. No doubt Rick—particularly with his knack for seeing through rough and unsavory types—would have discerned that the man was a private investigator within five minutes of meeting him.

It seemed so patently obvious now. The fake name; not sharing any personal details; his ability to disappear into the background; the quick and watchful eye. And it made perfect sense why he had been the first one to think that Henry Brent's death wasn't an accident and also why he was the first one to suggest contacting the sheriff. In his line of work, Bud surely had plenty of experience with criminals, probably even murderers.

“Door-to-door life insurance sales,” Daisy muttered.

Bud responded with a hearty laugh. “That was a good one, wasn't it? I knew you'd caught me when you asked for a business card and informational pamphlet up in my room. I thought that you might chuck me out right then and there, except you got distracted by that newspaper. Now I understand why. You realized the name wasn't right.”

Daisy was about to ask him what his real name was, but she stopped herself with a shrug. Under the circumstances, what the man chose to call himself didn't much matter.

“Fascinating,” Parker said, almost reverently. He was staring at Bud with an enthralled expression, like a small child mesmerized by a firefighter in all his gear.

Bud turned to him. “So I suppose I should go back to explaining the boot prints?”

Parker didn't answer. He was apparently so riveted by the man's profession—or at least some fanciful version of it in his mind—that he seemed to have forgotten about the troublesome boot prints.

“As I told you earlier,” Bud turned back to Daisy, “they're my prints. I circled once around the porch before going to the front door. I knew the Lunts were staying here. I'd had my eye on them for a few days already. But I wanted to take a look around the place first. In my business, I've learned that it's always a good idea to know the layout and potential exits in advance.”

“And did you see anything?” Daisy questioned him, with some impatience.

He shook his head. “I know what you're thinking. I've thought it, too. I was probably walking around just as the old man was getting killed. But I'm sorry to say that I didn't see anybody. It was all dark—inside and out. By that time, the storm was starting to hit full steam. The windows were frosted, and as far as I can remember, the draperies were closed in the parlor and this bedroom.”

Although disappointed, Daisy nodded. Even if the draperies had been wide open and every light inside blazing, it would have been difficult to get a clear view through the howling wind and blowing snow.

“I should thank you,” Bud went on, “for letting me in to begin with. It would have been an awfully cold couple of days and nights stuck in the car.”

“You didn't actually drive into a ditch?” she remarked dubiously.

“No, but I was honestly stranded. The roads were already so bad at that point, I couldn't go anywhere else, whether I wanted to or not. My only option was to come here—or be buried alive, so to speak. I can understand why your sheriff is having such a hard time getting through, even now.”

Daisy nodded again. That explained why his story had always seemed slightly off, but not entirely off. Bud had indeed been staying in his car, and with the bad weather, he had realized that it was going to be extremely unpleasant—if he didn't freeze to death in the interim—so he had taken the chance of coming to the inn, even with the Lunts there.

“But the Lunts don't know who you are, or that you're following them?” she asked him.

Bud grinned. “They don't have a clue.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm positive. Obviously they couldn't make a break for it with the conditions outside, but even so, if they had the remotest inkling that I was on their trail, they would have shut up tighter than a pair of clams. And they haven't been careful at all. They keep talking about wanting to buy this place.”

“You've heard them, too?” Daisy said in surprise, thinking once more of what her mama had overheard, particularly from Kenneth.

“How else would I know about their plans?” Bud replied. “Granted, I've had to do a lot of sneaking around to listen to them. It would have been so much easier if you had put me on their floor, like I originally asked. Even down here,” he gestured at the room they were standing in, “would have been better. Those stairs, especially around the third-floor landing, are ridiculously creaky.”

Daisy almost smiled. The stairs were ridiculously creaky, but that wasn't what pleased her. She had finally learned why Bud had been so keen to know exactly who was on which floor. It was for optimal spying. He had wanted to switch rooms to get closer to the Lunts.

“Why are you investigating them?” Parker said eagerly, leaning against the edge of the pecan desk.

Bud pulled out the chair from the desk and sat down on it. Daisy, in turn, took a seat on the bed. This time there was no shotgun under the mattress.

“I don't have to investigate them,” Bud told Parker. “I already know what they did. I was hired to find them, and that's what I've done.”

“What did they do?” Parker immediately prodded. “I assume they're from Charlotte, like you?”

“They are. Well, one of the outlying suburbs, if you want me to be precise.”

Parker waited with rapt attention for him to continue. Daisy was curious, as well, but she was also a bit apprehensive. Private investigators were employed for a great variety of things, some of which could be really bad.

As though he could sense her concern, Bud clucked his tongue and said, “It's nothing too horrifying. Kenneth and Sarah were directors on the board of a church. It happens to be one of those megachurches, with thousands upon thousands of members, so there's gobs of money pouring in. The Lunts decided to take some of it out. Unauthorized, of course.”

“No kidding!” Parker exclaimed. “How much money are we talking about?”

“I don't have an exact figure. The church doesn't either yet. They're in the process of doing a full accounting. But they told me that it appears to be somewhere between half a million and a million dollars. It may turn out to be more in the end.”

Once again, Parker let out a whistle of astonishment. And once again, Daisy was less amazed and more agitated. Beulah had been spot on when she said that something wasn't right with the Lunts. Something really wasn't right. They were a pair of embezzlers—and from a house of worship. That may not have made it worse from a legal standpoint, but it somehow seemed worse to Daisy. Like the Lunts' moral compass wasn't just tilted, it was completely broken.

“So I was sent after them,” Bud went on. “Follow the church's money, before it could vanish into a puff of smoke. At first I thought I might have difficulty figuring out the Lunts' plan. In my experience with these sort of cases, when they try to run—especially a couple—they often end up fighting, splitting up and splitting the money, and generally making a gigantic mess out of the whole thing. But not this time. Not with Kenneth and Sarah. They decided what they wanted, and they made it clear from day one.”

Daisy's eyes widened as she suddenly realized what he meant. “That's why they want to buy the inn!”

“Exactly. They need a place to park the cash, at least until it all cools down. And there's no question that they chose wisely. As I said before,” Bud motioned toward the window, “it's an attractive and isolated spot. One of the best ways to tuck away money is to purchase a quiet property where no one will take much notice of you. Plus, the inn's got plenty of acreage and built-in value to make a later sale relatively easy when the Lunts want—or need—to liquidate again.”

“No wonder they've been so adamant about buying it,” Daisy mused, more to herself than the others. “But they were telling the truth—to a degree, at any rate—when they said that they were house-hunting in the area.”

“Sarah, too?” Parker asked.

Both Daisy and Bud looked at him.

“The embezzlement,” he said. “Sarah was part of it? It wasn't just Kenneth?”

“She was definitely part of it,” Bud answered. “Sarah was the board treasurer. Kenneth was only a run-of-the-mill member. From all accounts, she played a greater role in the theft than he did.”

“But,” Parker frowned, “she seems so nice.”

Bud chuckled. “You fell for the shy and timid act, didn't you?”

Parker frowned harder.

“It's understandable,” Bud said, with a shrug. “Sarah does have that air of helplessness about her. She's so small and vulnerable-looking, particularly when she's hiding behind the hulking husband. That's her strength, really. You don't see her coming.”

For a moment, Parker opened his mouth as though he was about to try to defend the woman, but then he closed it again. His cheeks were tinged with embarrassment.

“I fell for it in the beginning, too,” Daisy told him, hoping to make him feel less foolish. “But Beulah—always being so cynical like she is—saw through it and warned me that Sarah might be exaggerating the mousiness, at least somewhat. I was never sure either way. Until now, of course. What always made me wonder was how skittish she seemed. I didn't think that was fake.”

“That's because it isn't fake,” Bud responded. “She is skittish. You'd be skittish, too, if you had stolen a pile of money from your church and were worried about getting caught and spending the next decade of your life in prison.”

Daisy couldn't disagree with that, but there was something that still didn't make sense to her. “What about all that bread weirdness?” she asked. “At supper, Sarah couldn't decide whether she should take a dinner roll or not, until Kenneth told her to keep the basket moving. And then again yesterday afternoon with the crackers in the parlor. It seemed like Sarah wanted them, but Kenneth didn't approve. So if she's not under his thumb—which she obviously isn't—then what's going on?”

“It's an allergy,” Bud said.

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Sarah Lunt is allergic to gluten. And not just a little allergic, apparently.
Seriously
allergic. The church told me. They gave me a whole file on her. On both of them. Sarah really likes bread, but she can't eat it unless she's absolutely sure of the ingredients. Otherwise she gets ill. And I don't mean an upset stomach or bad headache. I mean critically, go-to-the-hospital-immediately kind of ill. That's why Kenneth always stops her when she gets tempted. He knows that they can't take the chance of having to find a doctor or fill a prescription. It would make them too easy to trace.”

There was a long minute of silence as both Daisy and Parker processed the information that Bud had given them. Parker looked disheartened and flat, as though all the wind had gone out of his sails. Daisy felt sorry for him. He was always so cheerful and kind—joking with Henry Brent, helping to soothe May Fowler, listening to Lillian's endless nagging and complaints with the patience of a saint. Parker saw the good in people before any of the bad. And now there was too much bad. The revelation about Sarah and the embezzlement—on top of the two murders—had left him drained and dispirited. Daisy sympathized, but she also realized that this was not the time to be maudlin. The important point at the moment wasn't that Sarah and Kenneth were criminals. What really mattered was, how serious criminals were they?

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “The Lunts are thieves and liars. The question is, are they also murderers?”

Parker stared at her.

“I've considered that possibility myself,” Bud replied, “and I'll be honest with you. I don't know, but my best guess is no.”

“Would it change your opinion if I told you that Kenneth had been overheard saying to Sarah that murder always lowers the asking price?”

Bud deliberated for a few seconds before answering, “I would still say no. I can't be certain, of course. I'm only speculating. But it doesn't fit. Kenneth and Sarah both think they're clever. Except they're not, actually. If they were, they would have made it much more difficult for me to follow them. For instance, they would have gone further than one state. They also wouldn't have been so candid about house-hunting in the area. They wouldn't have stayed at the place they were interested in buying, no matter how badly they wanted it. And they would have avoided every other guest—not to mention a weekend party—like the plague.”