An Old-Fashioned Murder (12 page)

“Come sit down,” Edna said to her sister, although not before chiding Lillian with a stern shake of her head.

Drew helped Edna guide May to the nearest settee, and as he passed Lillian, he muttered, “Instead of griping, fix it.”

Lillian glowered at him.

“I'll fix it,” Daisy said, not wanting to turn the sad arm into a circus. And before anyone could respond, she came around and pulled the blanket over the offending appendage.

“Thank you, Ducky,” Aunt Emily said gratefully.

But Daisy didn't hear her. She was too busy thinking about the arm that she had just covered. It was Henry Brent's right arm. The palm of the hand was open and empty. And that was what troubled her. Because the last time she had looked at Henry Brent's right palm—before the blanket and before the eulogizing—it had been closed and holding something.

 

CHAPTER

11

It had looked like a piece of paper. Not a scrap torn from something else, but bigger and with straight edges. Daisy thought it had been folded in the shape of a letter, although she couldn't remember the color. White or cream, maybe a light yellow. She had only noticed it for a second. It had been a consoling sign to her that Henry Brent hadn't struggled under the secretary, because if he had, he presumably wouldn't have kept his palm closed, holding whatever it was that he had been holding. Except he wasn't holding it anymore.

She could be mistaken, of course. Daisy had enough experience with death to know that the shock and grief of it could easily play with one's senses. But she was pretty sure that the paper had been there. So why wasn't it there now? The most obvious answer was that it had fallen out of Henry Brent's hand. Her eyes took a quick survey of the surrounding floor. No paper—or anything else. It could be under the blanket.

Leaning down, Daisy slid her fingers along the edge of the tartan. She had to be subtle about it. She couldn't just lift up the blanket for all to see. May, who was being bolstered on the settee by Edna and Drew, couldn't handle another view of the body. Daisy felt around carefully, pretending to tuck in the corners of the blanket with great diligence. Henry Brent's right shoulder, then his elbow, and finally his hand. She flinched slightly when she touched his skin. It was like waxy plastic. With some reluctance, she checked his palm. It was definitely open, and there was definitely nothing in it. There was also nothing around it, at least not that she could find.

The stiffness of his skin made her glad that she hadn't tried to close his mouth earlier. It also made her realize that it was unlikely for Henry Brent's palm to have opened up all by itself and whatever had been in it to just drop out. That left only one other option—somebody had taken the paper from his hand. But why? And for that matter, why had Henry Brent been holding it in the middle of the night, in the nook between the dining room and the parlor, while looking at an antique secretary?

It could have been anything. A bill from the electric company, a note confirming a doctor's visit, even a grocery list. And it could have been anyone who had taken it. That was obvious enough. They had all crowded around the body to pay their respects. They had all helped with the blanket. Straightening back up, Daisy looked about expectantly. One of them should be holding it. One of them should have it in their hand. But none of them did.

“I don't like to interrupt—” Bud Foster said.

Every head turned toward him. He had at long last moved from the entrance hall to the parlor, although he remained distinctly separate from the rest of the group. It was the first time he had spoken since May interrupted the story of his arrival.

“—but shouldn't someone call the police?” he went on.

“Call the police?” Parker echoed.

Bud nodded.

“Why would we do that?” Lillian asked with considerable disdain.

The question seemed to surprise Bud, and he answered by gesturing at the shrouded figure.

“What's the use of calling?” Kenneth said. “The man's stone cold dead.”

“No one—” May began tearfully.

“—can do anything for him now,” Edna concluded, adding a weary exhalation.

“All the same,” Bud responded, “there needs to be an investigation.”

“An investigation?” Parker echoed as he had before.

“What on earth needs to be investigated?” Lillian snapped.

“He was plainly crushed,” Sarah squeaked, her thin frame quivering.

Kenneth's nostrils flared at Bud. “You're upsetting my wife.”

In Daisy's opinion, Sarah looked more chilled from her lack of clothing than upset by Bud Foster.

“I don't mean to upset anyone…” Bud hesitated, as though he couldn't quite decide how to continue.

“Just so you know,” Daisy said to him after a moment, “we don't have the police around here. We have a sheriff.”

She deliberately kept her tone light, as though it wasn't really an important distinction, merely one of law enforcement nomenclature. But in truth, there was something important about it. By mentioning the police, Bud had shown that he wasn't from the area. In Pittsylvania County, Virginia—like many counties in the country—there was no police. There was a sheriff. Except Daisy wasn't sure whether Bud's error helped to prove or disprove his lost-and-stranded-motorist story.

Aunt Emily gave her a shrewd sideways glance. Evidently she had noticed Bud's faulty word choice, as well.

“Police or sheriff,” Bud retorted with some impatience, “they have to be contacted, regardless.”

“He's right,” Drew said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Daisy saw Georgia shrink back against the wall.

Parker turned to Drew. “You think so?”

“I do.”

Lillian wrinkled her nose. “I don't see why.”

“I don't, either,” May whispered, blinking from one person to the next. She seemed confused by the entire discussion.

“But is it right to bother the sheriff?” Edna's cleft chin jutted out as she spoke. “Especially in this frightful weather. There must be so many accidents and other problems that need his attention.”

“Well, this was no acc—” Bud began brusquely.

Drew cut him off before he could finish. “It doesn't matter how many other problems there are,” he said, addressing the group as a whole. “The sheriff needs to be notified. It wouldn't be bothering him. It's his job. There's been a death, after all.”

“Yes,” Parker remarked thoughtfully. “I can see your point. It should be reported.”

May went on blinking. Edna gurgled and nodded, apparently seeing the point also. Lillian harrumphed.

Daisy looked at Drew. He looked back at her with meaning and shook his head ever so slightly. He realized what Bud was going to say, the same as she did. Only, he didn't want everybody else to realize it, too. Unlike the rest of them, Bud didn't think what had happened to Henry Brent was an accident.

Bud was wrong. Of course it was an accident. It was obviously an accident. The secretary had been tippy. They had all noticed it and talked about it. They had even seen the piece wobble. Henry Brent had pushed it, or tried to adjust it, or was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the behemoth secretary had fallen on him and killed him. Terribly sad, but simple enough. Everyone thought so. Everyone had been shocked and horrified at the accident. No one supposed it to be anything but an accident. Except Bud Foster.

Except Bud didn't know that the secretary had been tippy. He also didn't know Henry Brent. The man had been ninety-four years old. He had been witty, generous, and extremely amiable. No one wanted to kill him. And that was what it boiled down to—killing him. Because if it wasn't an accident, then it was murder. The idea was so startling to Daisy that she had difficulty wrapping her mind around it.
Murder
Henry Brent?

“I'll make the call,” Kenneth volunteered.

“I think that would be wise,” Sarah concurred.

“Why you?” Lillian countered. “You don't even know the sheriff.”

“No, but I—” Kenneth started to say.

“Parker could do it better than you,” Lillian informed him crisply.

“Now, my dear,” Parker protested. “This is Emily's house. She's the one who—”

“Daisy should do it,” Drew interjected.

They all turned toward him.

“Daisy,” he repeated with such decisiveness that nobody argued, “should call the sheriff's office.”

The group looked at her. Daisy, in turn, looked at Aunt Emily. She was squinting at the tartan blanket.

“Yes, yes. By all means,” Aunt Emily responded absently, her thoughts clearly not on the conversation at hand. “You talk to the sheriff, Ducky.”

Daisy didn't mind talking to Sheriff Lowell. He was smart and efficient, and her dealings with him in the past had been amicable. But she was curious why Drew insisted on her being the one to make the call. Her eyes went to him, and he once more looked back at her with meaning. He definitely had some reason. Maybe it was because he knew that she would handle the matter without making a great fuss, unlike Lillian and some of the others. A quick call and a quick appearance by Sheriff Lowell would be good all around. Drew and Edna were still propping up May on the settee, and by this point, everybody had an equally gray and worn appearance. Depressing as it was, May and Edna were right. No one could do anything for Henry Brent now. There was no purpose in dragging out the necessary formalities.

The clock on the marble mantel chimed six. It was early, but at least it was morning. Even though Sheriff Lowell wouldn't in all likelihood be in his office yet, she could leave a message for him. As Daisy headed toward the phone in the entrance hall, she glanced at the glass panel above the front door. There was no sign of dawn, and the yellow glow from the porch lights had disappeared in the swirling snow. Wind rattled the door.

She shivered, although she wasn't cold. This wasn't how the weekend was supposed to go. It was meant to have been a party. She had planned on peacefully sleeping in that morning, not calling the sheriff's office to report a dead body—dear Henry Brent's body—lying squashed on the floor.

With a cheerless sigh, Daisy picked up the inn's phone from the hall table and dialed. While it rang, she tried to figure out what she should say and how much to explain. Better to make it short and fast, she decided, like ripping off a bandage. She could go into all the unpleasant details when Sheriff Lowell arrived.

To her surprise, the phone kept on ringing and ringing, which was odd. Somebody was always at the office, all hours of the day and night. They had to be. It was the sheriff's department. Daisy wondered if maybe she had misdialed. She checked the screen. The number was correct. Finally, there was a click and a friendly—albeit drowsy—female greeting.

“Pittsylvania County. George Lowell, Sheriff. Janice, here.”

“Hey, Janice. This is Daisy McGovern. Over at the Tosh Inn. I know it's a bit early, but I wanted to leave a message for the sheriff.”

Janice yawned. “Sure can, luv. Only, he won't get it today.”

“Oh.” Daisy was disappointed. “I thought he usually came in on Saturday mornings.”

“Sure does, luv.” Another yawn. “Only not today.”

She hesitated. Should she ask which deputy was on duty that day, or would it be better to wait and call Sheriff Lowell later at his home? He knew her and Aunt Emily well enough, so it wouldn't be too great of an imposition.

“It isn't an emergency, is it?” Janice inquired.

“No. Not exactly. But—”

“Good, because you won't get nobody.”

Daisy frowned. “I won't?”

“Nobody,” Janice repeated. “Can't get here. Can't get there.”

“What? Why not?”

“The storm, luv. Haven't you looked outside? We've got a monstrous blizzard going on. It's been going on all night. Trees toppled. Roads covered. Bridges blocked. Sheriff Lowell can't make it down the mountain from his house. I talked to him just a little while ago. And Deputy Johnson's truck slid off into a ravine. Nobody can get anywhere. It's a real mess.”

“I didn't know it was that bad,” Daisy said frankly.

“It is,” Janice confirmed, clucking her tongue. “I can't get out, neither. Been here since yesterday afternoon. I was supposed to go off my shift at two this morning, but the car wouldn't start. It's buried now anyways, and no one can make it in to replace me. So I'm stuck camping on the sofa in the coffee room until things clear up. I was having a nap when you rang. That's why it took me an age to answer. Who knows how long I'll end up having to stay here! At least the power hasn't gone yet, thank heavens.”

Although Janice couldn't see it, Daisy nodded earnestly in agreement. She hadn't thought of it before, because she didn't realize how severe the weather was, but under such nasty conditions, they were very lucky to still have power at the inn. The wiring was old and unstable, and the electricity often went out from nothing more than an ordinary summer thunderstorm. Having no power wasn't much of a problem when there was only Aunt Emily, Beulah, and her mama to consider. But having the inn jammed full of hungry, anxious, trapped guests was another thing entirely.

It suddenly occurred to Daisy that Beulah hadn't made it back to the inn. Either her date with Wade Watson Howard III had gone really well, or she was having trouble with the storm, too. Daisy made a mental note that she needed to call Beulah to make sure everything was all right. She also had to check on her mama and tell her about Henry Brent.

“Do you still want to leave a message, luv?” Janice asked her.

Did she still want to leave a message? There didn't seem to be much sense in it. Not if no one could get to the inn. It truly wasn't an emergency, and Edna had made a good point earlier: there probably were some serious accidents and other problems out there that should take priority. Awful as it sounded, Henry Brent wasn't going anywhere.