An Old-Fashioned Murder (3 page)

“From your mouth to God's ear, Ducky.”

“I should bring her some tea.” Daisy checked her watch. “She was napping earlier, but she's probably awake by now.”

“Tea!” Henry Brent exclaimed in protest. “Tea won't do your mama a lick of good. What she needs is a hot toddy. ‘In damp or wet,' my meemaw always said. And for flus and colds, an extra shot in the cup. Rum and rye are good, but corn whiskey is best.”

Daisy couldn't help thinking that if his meemaw were still on this earth, she and Aunt Emily would have gotten along swimmingly. Aunt Emily equated moonshine with medicine, too. Scientifically proven or not, she was convinced that her gooseberry brandy had the miraculous ability to cure a wide assortment of ailments.

A throat cleared gruffly next to them. The delivery chap was back from the truck with the second candle stand.

“So,” he asked a bit sharply, “where do you want it?”

With an equally sharp clack in reply, Henry Brent directed him to the opposite end of the room, next to the well-stocked liquor cart. It was not one of the spots that Aunt Emily had originally selected, but Daisy knew when she saw it that she would be in full agreement. With the top tipped up, the candle stand was just the right height and offered just the right amount of space to serve as an overflow for an extra stack of cocktail napkins, another ice bucket, and an additional decanter or two.

As Henry Brent shifted his—and the delivery chap's—attention to the unwieldy longcase clock that was next on the list, Daisy felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

It was Drew. She started to turn, but was stopped by his arms wrapping around her from behind.

“I sure am glad to see you.” Pulling her toward him, Drew's face sunk into her hair. “You smell nice—cinnamon and vanilla.”

“I should.” Daisy smiled. “I work in a bakery, after all.”

“Mmm.” His breath was warm on her cheek.

Closing her eyes, she relaxed against him.

“I bet you taste nice, too.” Drew's lips traveled down her neck.

It felt good—really good. She pressed into his body.

“I don't suppose,” the lips worked back up along her jaw, “that we could disappear for a little while—”

A stern
tsk-tsk
interrupted the enticing proposition. “I did not expect this sort of behavior from you, Daisy McGovern. What in heaven's name would your mama say if she saw you making such a public spectacle?”

“She'd say,” a voice, followed by a jovial laugh, answered, “that they ought to go somewhere and get a room.”

“Parker!”

“Oh, wait.” The laugh became an uproarious cackle. “They already are somewhere with rooms. They're at an inn!”

Daisy's first thought was a combination of regret and annoyance at having her pleasant interlude with Drew brought to such an abrupt end. Her second thought went to Aunt Emily's earlier remark about bad omens for the weekend.

The stern
tsk-tsk
repeated itself. “My goodness, Daisy. If Matt were here—”

That was enough to elevate Daisy's annoyance to anger. Detaching herself from Drew, she spun around on her heel. “Well, he's not here, Lillian. He hasn't been here for a very long time, as you well know.”

Lillian Barker responded with a characteristically sour lemon face.

“She has a point, Lill—”

The sour lemon face turned immediately to her still-chortling husband, Parker, effectively silencing him.

Not wanting to blow the matter out of proportion, Daisy took a deep breath. Lillian Barker hadn't always been such a sour lemon, or at least not quite so sour. She did by nature have the rather disagreeable tendency to be both pessimistic and exceedingly critical. To her, the glass was habitually half empty. Decent civilization was continually on the brink of collapse. And everything was much better in the good old days, even though the woman was barely fifty, so the good old days weren't all that far back.

While Lillian's personality could never have been considered really warm, there was a time when Daisy would have called her a friend. They had occasionally spent an afternoon together shopping in Lynchburg or sharing a plate of barbecue at the local diner where Daisy had been a waitress before its conversion to the bakery. Lillian was Matt's paternal aunt, and when her brother—Matt's daddy—had died unexpectedly in a propane tank explosion along with Daisy's daddy a few years back, it had hit her just as hard as everybody else. She had slowly started to come to terms with the shock and the grief the same as Daisy and her mama, but then Matt had decided to run off shortly thereafter. The sudden departure of her beloved nephew was more than Lillian could bear, and instead of gradually healing, she had grown progressively bitter.

Unlike Aunt Emily and the rest of their mutual acquaintances, Lillian didn't want Daisy to move on. On the contrary, she believed that Daisy should spend the remainder of her life in solemn and solitary contemplation, patiently waiting for Matt's return. It didn't seem to occur to her that there was not the slightest indication that he would ever return. At first, Daisy had been sympathetic, thinking that Lillian was simply trying to turn back the clock to happier times. But as the weeks and months and years rolled by, and Lillian became increasingly strident in her views, Daisy found it tougher to swallow. After working so hard to come to grips with her loss and inch her way forward, she didn't appreciate Lillian insisting that she stay permanently sad and alone.

In a more densely populated area, it might have been easier to avoid the Barkers. Not so in rural Pittsylvania County, where Lillian and Parker were not only in-laws but also neighbors. Thankfully their farmhouse was a good mile up the road from the inn, which meant that they weren't strolling by too often, especially not in winter.

“We were anxious to see the renovations,” Parker announced amiably, clearly making an effort to offset his wife.

Although he was the same age as Lillian, Parker had the entirely opposite disposition. He loved to joke and laugh, had a cheerful round face, and possessed an even rounder body, remarkably resembling a cantaloupe. In contrast, Lillian was a stiff and chewy string bean—topped with a sour lemon face.

“Good of you to come, Dog. Good of you to come!” Henry Brent turned momentarily away from the tricky maneuvering of the longcase clock to shake Parker's hand.

“His name is Parker,” Lillian snapped.

“Parker ‘Dog' Barker,” Henry Brent responded with a woof, not the least bit deterred by her imperious attitude.

Lillian's lemon mouth puckered.

“Now, my dear,” Parker said, his soothing tone barely concealing a chuckle. “You know Henry's called me that since I was a wee shaver. Everyone has—”

“Well, you're not a wee shaver anymore,” she retorted brusquely.

“No, he certainly isn't,” Henry Brent concurred, gesturing toward Parker's cantaloupe belly.

The two men laughed heartily, and Lillian's pucker tightened.

“Uh, excuse me,” one of the delivery chaps interjected, as he struggled to maintain his hold on the base of the clock.

“It ain't gettin' any lighter,” the other delivery chap added peevishly.

Seeing the latter's fingers dig into the clock's intricately carved hood, Henry Brent jumped in alarm and redirected his focus to the furniture. Always helpful—and smart enough after so many years of marriage to recognize an easy avenue of escape—Parker inquired whether he could be of any assistance and promptly waddled off with the group, leaving his wife glaring after them.

“How's everything coming?” Aunt Emily said, appearing at Daisy's side. “I could hear the laughter all the way in the kitchen, so it must be good…”

Her words trailed away as she met Daisy's grim gaze.

“I can't believe that you invited the Barkers,” Daisy muttered.

“The Barkers?” Aunt Emily echoed in surprise. “No, I didn't. Of course I wouldn't. Not when—” Noticing Lillian, who was still glaring at her husband and Henry Brent, she broke off abruptly. “Oh, Lord help us.”

Daisy couldn't have said it any better herself.

An instant later, Aunt Emily assumed the serene expression of the consummate hostess. “Lillian, such a pleasure!”

Turning to her, Lillian offered a polite and mildly warm smile. “Hello, Emily. Thank you for having us.”

“And Parker? Is he…” Aunt Emily spotted him tripping over the delivery chaps and the clock. “Helping Henry with the furniture, I see.”

“I assume the Robinsons told you that we were coming in their stead?” Lillian asked.

“Ah, the Robinsons.” A sudden light of understanding shone in Aunt Emily's eyes. “They did telephone this morning to let me know about their last-minute change in plans.” She looked at Daisy. “You remember the Robinsons' daughter—the one in Savannah—who's expecting?”

Daisy nodded.

“Well, apparently she went into labor early, so they had to dash off lickety-split to be with her.”

“I like the Robinsons,” Daisy replied wistfully, making an involuntary mental comparison.

“So do I, Ducky. So do I.”

“I happened to be driving by their house when they were packing up the car,” Lillian explained. “And they told me how sorry they were about having to miss your little get-together this weekend. When I said I hadn't heard of it, they mentioned how tight you were for space. Then it occurred to me that with them not coming, you'd have a room free. Parker really was anxious to see the renovations, and Daisy and I haven't had a good chance lately to sit down for a serious chat—”

Daisy swallowed a groan.

“—so Parker and I decided to take the Robinsons' place,” Lillian concluded. “I hope that's all right.” Her brisk tone made it more of a pronouncement than a query.

“Of course,” Aunt Emily responded lightly. “The more, the merrier. You're always welcome.”

“Now that's settled, I should have Parker bring in our bags.” Lillian glanced around in search of her husband. “Sooner rather than later. I think the weather is about to turn.”

And as she said it, the sky obediently darkened, and the parlor fell into gloom.

 

CHAPTER

3

“Those nice boys did such a good job of bringing in the furniture—” May began.

“—and setting it all up,” Edna agreed.

“The candle stand with the mahogany inlay looks lovely—” May continued.

“—although the oak bookcase is very handsome, too,” Edna added.

Drew leaned against the scuffed leather smoking chair in which Daisy was sitting. It was her favorite seat in the parlor, and she claimed it whenever she could. Somehow the chair had managed to weather the flood, and as a result, Daisy felt an odd sense of solidarity with it. A pair of scrappy survivors.

“Do the two of them always—” Drew began.

“—finish each other's sentences?” Daisy cut him off, with a smile. “Oh, yes. It can drive you a little crazy at first, but they're both so awfully sweet that you just get used to it after a while.”

“You drove me a little crazy at first,” he said, smiling back at her.

“And you got used to it?”

“No, now you drive me a lot crazy.”

Daisy laughed. “Believe it or not, you aren't the only person to have told me that.”

“Oh, I believe it.” Drew settled himself on the wide arm of the chair. “So which is Edna, and which is May?”

“Edna is the one wearing the navy skirt and has the curls. May is in the taupe skirt and has the bangs.”

He studied the two women. “I can't decide if they look alike or not.”

“It's the white hair with the matching sweater sets and pearls,” Daisy told him. “It's misleading. Once you get to know them better, you'll see the differences.”

Edna Fowler was the elder sister by a year, had a cleft chin, a slightly stockier build, and tended to be the sentence finisher. She was also the more business-minded of the pair, organizing the inventory for the antiques shop and negotiating the prices. May, on the other hand, was the artist in the family. She dealt primarily with the pottery and the paintings and would occasionally wax poetic about ethereal sunrises and the beauty of morning dew. It didn't seem to bother her that she frequently didn't get beyond the first half of a sentence. Her double dimples merely smiled as she started a new one.

Although Daisy didn't know exactly how old the sisters were, her best guess was somewhere in their late fifties or early sixties. They were a bit tricky with age. Their hair had not a tinge of color left in it, and they could be doting and grandmotherly, but they also operated the store full-time with no outside help, and they did it with a good deal of spunk.

“Now tell us honestly—” May began.

“—what do you think?” Edna concluded.

Aunt Emily's gaze traveled slowly around the parlor, first to the barrister bookcase next to the mantel, then to the two tip-top candle stands in their respective corners, and finally to the longcase clock in between the windows.

“It's all wonderful!” she proclaimed at last, beaming. “I couldn't possibly pick a favorite piece.”

“Everything looks good,” Henry Brent agreed. “Nothing broken or banged about too badly in the delivery.”

“It almost makes me glad that we had the flood,” Aunt Emily said, as she hugged each sister in turn. “Such beautiful new—well, old—furniture to enjoy.”

“We're so happy—”

“—that you're so happy.”

“But there's still more to be happy about!” Henry Brent gave an excited double clack. “There's a surprise, isn't there, Ducky?”

The group turned expectantly toward Daisy.

“A surprise?” Lillian echoed from the edge of the parlor. Parker had just collected their bags from the car, and she was in the process of directing him upstairs. “Oh, Daisy! Is it Matt? Is Matt the surprise?”