An Old-Fashioned Murder (17 page)

“Did you hear anyone talking?” she asked Lillian.

It was Lillian's turn to blink at her. “I heard you—and Emily—at the door with that man Bud.”

“No, before that. Before the pounding on the door.”

“Well, Henry and Drew were talking to each other in the parlor when the rest of us were going to bed.” Suddenly Lillian's eyes stretched wide. “That could be why Drew was pretending! He already knew what had happened to Henry with the secretary, and he didn't want us to know that he knew. So he snuck back upstairs, making it seem like we were all discovering Henry together.”

Daisy frowned. If Drew had known about Henry Brent, he would have immediately called an ambulance, not snuck upstairs.

“I told you I don't trust the boy,” Lillian said disdainfully. “And you shouldn't either. How well do you know him anyway?”

The frown deepened as her resentment began to rise.

“With all of this shady behavior,” Lillian continued, “it makes me wonder if maybe that secretary tipping over like it did was no accident.”

“Are you accusing Drew of—”

“I'm not accusing anyone of anything. But if the shoe should happen to fit…” Lillian gave her a smug look. “Now Matt, on the other hand…”

Oddly enough, the mention of her estranged husband calmed Daisy down. It reminded her that Lillian was intentionally goading her in support of Matt. As she proceeded to rattle off his innumerable merits—nearly all of which were imaginary—Daisy reflected on what she had said a moment earlier. Lillian certainly wasn't the first person to suppose that the accident might not actually have been an accident. She also wasn't the first one to point the finger at somebody. Beulah had accused her, Georgia, and Sarah Lunt all in the span of five minutes. But Lillian was the first to base the idea on something that could be considered tangible, or at least semi-tangible. The shadow.

Someone could have gone downstairs after Drew had retired for the evening, leaving Henry Brent alone in the parlor. That would explain the footsteps that she had heard in the hall and on the steps and the door hinges squeaking. It would also explain why Drew had been in his nightclothes, while Henry Brent had never gone to bed. Henry and the person could have argued. That would account for the garbled voices. And the person could have pushed the secretary over on top of him. But why? Why would he—or she—want to kill Henry Brent?

Daisy felt a growing sense of urgency. She shouldn't be wasting time squabbling with Lillian over Matt. She should be looking in Henry Brent's room. And she needed to find Drew. She had to ask him if he had seen the shadow, or anything else.

Mumbling a vague apology to Lillian about having to check on something, she started to hurry away. Lillian's sharp voice called after her.

“If you're checking on Drew, you better find him soon, Daisy. You don't know what he could be getting up to.”

And to Daisy's considerable chagrin, Lillian was proven correct not long thereafter when she discovered Drew standing on the third-floor landing, with Georgia whispering in his ear.

 

CHAPTER

16

It didn't look romantic. It did, however, look clandestine. Georgia was leaning into Drew, her voice low and her gaze shifting about apprehensively, like some undercover agent about to pass along crucial state secrets. Drew was paying close attention to her, nodding and responding with short questions or one-word answers. They hadn't noticed Daisy in return, so she retreated silently into the second-floor hall. She stood just far enough back that they couldn't easily see her, but she could still watch them.

Straining her ears, she caught a few snippets from Georgia.
He shouldn't … I had … You can't …
Without more, they weren't very useful. Her tone was anxious and also somewhat belligerent, although Daisy had the impression that the belligerence was directed more toward the subject matter of the conversation than Drew. It also reminded her why eavesdropping wasn't good. You heard bits and pieces of things, and you weren't sure exactly what they were, but you tended to jump to conclusions anyway.

The chief conclusion Daisy drew was that her mama was right. There was definitely more to Georgia than met the eye, and she was clearly secretive. It made her wonder if Beulah was right, as well. Had she been too quick to trust Georgia? After all, they knew so little about her. And she had been exhibiting some strange behavior. There was a lot of furtive peering around corners, and staring hard at people, and shrinking against walls at the mention of the sheriff being called. Except Daisy couldn't fault her too much for watching folks while hiding, because that was precisely what she was doing herself at the moment.

Georgia's voice rose slightly from the landing. “In the kitchen—”

At that remark, Daisy recalled another odd incident, when Georgia had been gazing so intently at Aunt Emily's shotgun on the chimney. She had tried to ask her about it, but Georgia had talked instead of tea bags and sticky fingers, after which she had gone skipping into the cellar in search of potatoes.

A door opened on the third floor. Immediately quieting, Georgia and Drew turned toward it. Lillian was still downstairs, probably refilling her goblet with a second installment of sherry. According to her, Parker was with Edna and May in one of their rooms. So it had to be Bud coming from his room. Daisy wasted no time in taking advantage of the opportunity. With Georgia and Drew focused on him, she had a chance of slipping away unnoticed. She wasn't eager to see Bud again so soon, and she really didn't want Drew and Georgia to find her skulking in the hall.

With fleet feet and averted eyes, Daisy hurried down the steps. Almost unconsciously, she succeeded in avoiding the creaky spots. It wasn't until a floorboard in the entryway groaned beneath her that she stopped. That was when it occurred to her that if the shadow she had seen in the night at the edge of the kitchen had gone up the stairs when her back was turned, then it had done so in true phantom fashion without making any noise.

Who could have managed that? It had to be someone familiar enough with the inn to know where—and where not—to step. That included herself, Aunt Emily, her mama, and Beulah. There was also Georgia. Georgia had been up and down those stairs hundreds of times over the past few weeks. By now, she must have learned which spots creaked and which didn't. Which meant that she could be the shadow.

Daisy tried to remember in what order Georgia had appeared in relation to Drew, Lillian, and the rest of the group when they had trooped down the steps, but she couldn't. Then there was the all-important question of why. Why would Georgia be creeping about in the dark, and why on earth would she kill Henry Brent by pushing a secretary on top of him? She hadn't even known the man. Unless, of course, she had. He could have been the person that startled her and at whom she had been staring.

Taken as a whole, it seemed rather far-fetched to Daisy. Beulah, no doubt, would have told her that she was being too trusting again. There was another possibility, however. The shadow could have simply gotten lucky. The steps didn't always creak, and even if they did, Daisy might not have heard them over Bud's pounding on the door, especially if the creaks happened to be soft. A smaller person usually made smaller creaks, and the smallest person at the inn was Sarah Lunt.

The problem with Sarah being the shadow—aside from her not knowing or having a reason to kill Henry Brent, either—was that her husband was a light sleeper. He would have noticed her getting out of bed and wandering around the inn for an extended period of time. Unless, of course, he had been aware that she was going to commit murder, and he didn't mind or was supportive of it. But that seemed pretty far-fetched, as well.

The most troubling part for Daisy was that she couldn't come up with a motive as to why anybody would want to harm Henry. Lillian was the only one who had disliked him, and she had seen the shadow, too. Unless, of course, she hadn't actually. She could have made it up. Someone who didn't scruple to kill a man could certainly also lie about it in an attempt to frame someone else for the deed. Lillian had been awfully fast in pointing the finger at Drew, although Daisy didn't know if that was just because he wasn't Matt, or if she was seriously trying to blame him.

As Daisy walked slowly down the hall, her lips curled into a morbid smile. She was shifting the guilt among Lillian, Georgia, and Sarah Lunt, exactly the same three people that she had chastised Beulah for accusing earlier that morning. She felt somewhat comforted by the fact that she didn't really think it had been any of them. Except it had to have been somebody. Unless, of course, it was an accident, after all. But the chance of that decreased significantly in her mind the moment she entered the kitchen.

Lunch was nearly ready. Pots were steaming on the stove; serving dishes were lined up, waiting to be filled; and the lovely smell of fresh, warm bread was wafting from the oven. It was all set for the finishing touches, only there was no one in the kitchen to make them. Georgia was upstairs. Aunt Emily was somewhere else, apparently. And the guests were probably getting hungry. But Daisy wasn't concerned with them. She wasn't thinking about the people that weren't there. She was thinking about what else wasn't there. The mottled throw rug lay as usual at the edge of the hearth. Next to it stood the wrought-iron log holder stacked half full. Then came the old stone fireplace with its worn wooden pegs. The pegs, however, were empty. Aunt Emily's Remington was gone.

Daisy's eyes went immediately to the wall behind the log holder. Unlike the gun, the needlepoint bag was still hanging from its hook. It looked full, and she hastily checked it to be sure. Although she had no way of knowing if every last shell was there, the raggedy bag seemed to contain as many shell boxes as it had the day before. That was some relief, at least. The Remington was never kept loaded, so whoever had it didn't have any shells. Theoretically, they could have brought their own, but that didn't seem too likely. Most people didn't carry around shotgun shells without the accompanying shotgun.

Her gaze returned to the chimney. Who would take the gun? The one person that she could rule out with complete certainty was Aunt Emily. She would never move the Remington without also moving its shells. Georgia, on the other hand, ranked high on the list. Except her staring at the shotgun didn't necessarily equal her taking the shotgun. And from an opportunity standpoint, it could have been anyone at the inn. With proper timing, anyone could have walked into the kitchen, picked up the gun from the pegs, and walked right back out again, entirely unnoticed. It was only by chance that Daisy had even noticed the gun was gone now.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would have merely shrugged at the missing Remington. But these were far from ordinary circumstances, considering that Henry Brent was lying dead in the adjacent room, a man using a false name was presently on the third floor, and half the inn was acting peculiar. The disappearance of the shotgun confirmed the worst to her. For Daisy, it could have only one of two interpretations: the person who took the gun wanted to use it, or the person wanted to keep someone else from using it. Either way, it meant that there was little chance of anything having been an accident, and there was a great chance that more trouble was coming.

“There you are!” a voice suddenly exclaimed.

Whirling around in surprise, Daisy found Drew standing behind her.

“I've been searching all over for you. Sometimes this place can seem too darn big, especially when I can't find you.” With a warm smile, Drew took hold of her hand and pulled her toward him.

She resisted, and he immediately loosened his grip.

“What is it?” he said, the smile fading. “What's wrong?”

For a moment, Daisy hesitated. Lillian's allegations lingered in her brain, along with the clandestine meeting that she had witnessed on the landing.

“Nothing's wrong.” Shaking off her doubts, she took a step forward. “You spooked me. That's all.”

Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her close.

“You had me worried there for a minute,” Drew murmured in her ear. “I thought something might really be the matter.”

Daisy hesitated again, this time debating which subject to broach first. The sound of footsteps on the stairs made the decision for her.

“Quick!” she exclaimed in a low tone. “We have to leave before they come!”

Although he appeared somewhat startled, Drew didn't argue with her. He followed Daisy as she moved swiftly out of the kitchen and into the dining room. With the French doors closed and the chandelier turned off, the room was dusky, but there was enough gray light from the windows to see the bulky combination of the secretary, blanket, and body on the floor at the far end. Daisy paused and gazed at it somberly. In all likelihood, somebody had killed Henry Brent, and now that someone might be in possession of a shotgun.

“What are we doing?” Drew asked her. “I thought lunch was supposed to be buffet-style in the sunroom. Parker and I set up a couple of folding tables and carried some chairs in there earlier. It's a bit chilly, but Emily thought it would be better than making a mess on the furniture in the parlor.”

Daisy only half heard him. She was still focused on the missing gun.

“I should have taken the shells,” she mused aloud. “They could go back for them.”

“Go back for them? What shells?”

“You remember the Remington that Aunt Emily keeps on the chimney in the kitchen?” Daisy didn't wait for his answer. “Well, it's gone. Somebody took it. But the shells are kept in a separate bag, and the bag is still there.”

Drew took a long, slow breath as he considered what she had said. “When?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. Sometime between yesterday afternoon and a few minutes ago when I came into the kitchen.”