An Old-Fashioned Murder (18 page)

“Do you have any idea who it was?”

Although she shook her head again, she replied, “Georgia is a possibility.”

He frowned doubtfully.

Daisy frowned back at him. “What exactly is going on with you and her anyway? I saw you two talking together earlier, on the third-floor landing. You looked pretty cozy.”

“That wasn't cozy,” Drew corrected her. “This is cozy.”

Putting his hand firmly under her chin, he lifted her mouth to his. It was a hard, strong kiss, and Daisy kissed him back.

Drew grinned when they came up for air. “It's a good thing Lillian didn't see that one. She would have passed out from the shock.”

“Maybe she could still sense it,” Daisy returned, with a laugh. “And she spontaneously combusted in the sunroom.”

“It wouldn't be quite so chilly then!”

They were about to kiss again, but Daisy heard pots and bowls clanging in the kitchen. Lunch was being served.

“I hope you're not hungry,” she whispered to Drew.

Taking his hand, she led him through the archway on the other side of the dining room into a short, narrow hall. At the end of the hall stood a closed door. It was the Jubal Early—Henry Brent's room.

Drew looked at the door, then at her. “Why do I have the feeling that we haven't come here for more smooching?”

Daisy sighed. “Aunt Emily thinks we should take a look around Henry's room.”

He grunted. “Poor man. Going along merrily until he comes to this place and stumbles into something that he shouldn't have.”

“So you believe it was murder, too!”

Drew glanced quickly behind them. “Not here,” he told her.

Nodding, Daisy reached for the doorknob. Although the hall and dining room were both empty, and everybody was probably in the sunroom eating, it was best not to take the chance that someone would hear them. “Let's go in,” she said.

As expected, the Jubal Early was unlocked. Like the dining room, it was dark except for the gray light filtering in through the windows. The tall, thick draperies cast murky shadows onto the walls. They reminded Daisy of what she had wanted to ask Drew.

“Last night,” she began, closing the door softly behind them, “did you see anything after you left the parlor?”

“See anything? Like what?”

“Like a shadow. A shadow that could have been a person.”

Daisy switched on the little lamp that stood on the nightstand. Drew was squinting at her, his brow furrowed.

“When I came downstairs because of that pounding on the front door,” she explained to him, “there was a shadow at the edge of the kitchen. I didn't think much of it at the time, until Lillian told me that she saw a shadow, too—on the steps, shortly afterward—and she thinks it was a person. She thinks it might have been the person that tipped over the secretary.”

Drew let out a low whistle.

“She also thinks,” Daisy added, a tad sheepishly, “that it might have been you.”

He responded with an aggrieved snort. “She would.”

“That part is rubbish, of course. Lillian's just being Lillian. But if she did see a shadow, and I saw the same shadow, then there could be something in it. So I was wondering if you noticed anything. You were the last one—excluding whoever pushed the secretary—to see Henry alive.”

With his brow still furrowed, Drew walked over to the pecan desk in the corner, pulled out the accompanying straight-backed chair, and sat down on it. He was thoughtful.

“There was one thing,” he remarked slowly, “but it wasn't a shadow. After I left Henry and came up to my room, I thought I heard a door open. It was only about a minute later, maybe less, even. Somebody went into the hall.”

“It was a door and the hall on the second floor?” Daisy asked him.

Drew looked at her questioningly.

“There were a lot of footsteps and door hinges squeaking last night,” she said. “And with half of 'em, I couldn't tell if they were going up or down, second floor or third. But it might be significant, even if we don't know why right now.”

He nodded. “It was the second floor. I'm sure of that. Although I'm not sure where they went afterward.”

“So it could mean nothing. They could have just turned around and gone back into their room.”

“It's possible. Except…” Drew paused. “There was something else. I was getting into bed when I heard these two voices.”

Daisy's eyes focused on him with keen interest. The garbled voices. They were definitely significant. “Downstairs? Were they arguing?”

“As a matter of fact, I think they were. I remember thinking how strange it was, partially because it was the middle of the night, and also because one of the voices belonged to Henry. He wasn't really a quarrelsome sort.”

“No, he wasn't,” she agreed. “He was too jolly. But more importantly, who did the other voice belong to?”

“That's where it gets muddled.” Drew shook his head at himself. “I was falling asleep, so it became less and less clear, like it was slipping into a dream. I know I heard it, and I know at the time I thought I could identify it, but I can't remember who it was now.”

“Well, you need to try,” Daisy replied grimly. “Because unless I'm very much mistaken, that voice was the murderer's.”

 

CHAPTER

17

The lamp on the nightstand in Henry Brent's room flickered. Daisy went to the window and drew back the draperies as far as they would go. Ordinarily the Jubal Early had a nice view of the side lawn. In one corner, the parking lot and a portion of Beulah's salon were also usually visible. But not today. The lawn was lost in a swirling mass of snow, lashed and scoured by the raging wind. The salon and parking lot had vanished behind a frozen veil. It looked like a bleak and desolate landscape, one where nothing could exist, but Daisy knew that somewhere beneath the towering, shifting drifts there were camellia borders, the old potting shed, and the Fowler sisters' hatchback.

“At least we still have power,” she said.

“As long as it lasts,” Drew returned, doubt in his tone.

The words were barely out of his mouth when a violent gust battered the panes of glass, causing the whole room to shudder. The lamp flickered again.

“Before the lights do go out,” he continued, “what exactly did Emily want us to look for in here?”

“I don't know. I don't think she knows. Something that would make Bud interested in the room.”

The doubt moved to Drew's eyes. “If Bud believed there was something of real value or importance here, I don't think he would have asked you for the room. He would have simply come in and taken whatever it was at the first available opportunity. Granted, I've only just met the man, but he seems plenty smart to me.”

He was right. Daisy herself had told Rick and Beulah that Bud wasn't a fool. If he was sly enough to use a false name, then he was also sly enough to sneak into Henry Brent's room. Except that left the question of why he had wanted to switch rooms. If it wasn't for some
thing
, then it had to be for some
one
.

“Have you noticed anything,” she asked Drew, “that would make you think Bud might know somebody at the inn?”

“Now that you mention it,” he replied after a moment's reflection, “he was looking at all of us very carefully in the parlor when he first arrived, like he was trying to identify someone, although it's hard to say for certain.”

“But if he knows someone, why the fake name and story?”

Drew shrugged. “I have no idea. It could be that we're reading too much into it. Maybe he just enjoys playing make-believe, like some people do at hotels and on cruise ships. They pretend that they're a completely different person for no reason at all.”

“Then what about him asking to change rooms?”

He shrugged again. “Maybe the man hates heights and was hoping to be on the ground floor.”

That still didn't explain to Daisy why Bud had wanted to know precisely who was on which floor, but it was useless to belabor the matter further when Drew had no better answers than she did.

Stepping back from the window, her eyes circled around the room, searching for a clue of any sort. There was the pecan desk where Drew was sitting. On it stood a pair of bronze elephant bookends, an accompanying row of tomes for perusal by the guests, and a large, old-fashioned leather blotter. It reminded her of the piece of paper in Henry Brent's hand. Had he written it on the blotter? There was no other paper on the desk, nor any writing instruments. Perhaps the paper belonged to someone else. That could be why it had so mysteriously disappeared from his palm. Its owner had reclaimed it.

One door of the armoire was open. Henry Brent's overnight bag sat on the bottom shelf, neat and buckled closed. The bed was similarly tidy and untouched. Its pillows were fluffed. The blanket was straight and smooth, except the bottom edge had come untucked.

Daisy looked at Drew. “When you left Henry in the parlor last night, do you know if he was planning on going to bed?”

“I assume he was, although he didn't actually say it.”

“I've been wondering about that,” she mused, “almost from the very beginning when I noticed that he wasn't in his nightclothes. If the shadow that I saw and the voice that you heard belonged to the person that killed him, was Henry sitting there waiting for them—knowing they were coming, but not knowing what they were going to do? Or was the person waiting for you to leave and then surprised Henry as he was heading from the parlor to his room?”

“He wasn't heading to his room,” Drew told her. “At least not right away. He was going to the kitchen. He said he needed to get something.”

“Probably a glass of water after all that gooseberry brandy. The stuff is potent.” Daisy gave a sad little chuckle. “Too bad he didn't get the Remington instead,
with
the shells. That would have changed things.”

“That's not the only way things could have been changed. I should have paid more attention,” Drew reproached himself.

She shook her head sympathetically. “I don't think paying more attention would have helped much, under the circumstances.”

“It might have,” he countered. “Something was bothering Henry.”

“Bothering him? What do you mean?”

“He was worried. There was something weighing on his mind last evening. Looking back on it, that's probably why he decided to stay up when everybody else headed off to bed. He wanted to think—and talk—things over.”

“He did seem interested in sharing a drink and a story,” Daisy agreed.

Drew nodded. “And I should have listened better.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. That's the problem. It was all just the usual sort of trivial late-night chitchat. Except something was troubling him. I'm convinced of it. At the time, I didn't want to pry, and frankly, my mind was on you. But I should have asked him about it.” Drew's face was grave and regretful. “It's my fault.”

“No, it's not,” she responded gently. “It's not your fault any more than it is Aunt Emily's or May Fowler's. There's only one person to blame in all of this—the person that pushed the secretary on top of him.”

For a long minute, they were both quiet. Daisy watched the lamp on the nightstand as it flickered repeatedly, like it was sending out Morse code. Finally she sunk down on the bed with a sigh.

“I guess there's not much point in continuing to look around—Ouch!” Feeling something hard and jagged beneath her, she immediately stood back up.

Drew rose from his chair. “What is it?”

“I don't know.” Daisy frowned at the bed. “I don't see anything, but…”

She put her hands on the spot where she had been sitting and pressed down. Her behind hadn't deceived her. Although it wasn't outwardly visible, there was definitely something more than sheets and a mattress beneath the blanket. It was bulky and rigid.

Daisy stepped to the end of the bed where she had noticed earlier that the bottom edge of the blanket had come untucked. Reaching beneath it, she felt around for a moment and promptly discovered that it wasn't loose by accident. Someone had lifted the blanket—and the mattress—intentionally for use as a hiding place.

An instant later, with minimal effort, she pulled out a double-barreled 20-gauge. It was Aunt Emily's missing Remington.

“Well, hell,” Drew muttered.

Her thoughts exactly. Daisy turned over the gun in her hands. Its signs of age aside, it looked fully functional. No one appeared to have tampered with it. She popped open the breech. There were no shells. The shotgun wasn't loaded. It was in the same condition as it had been on the pegs on the chimney.

“It must have been Henry, don't you think?” Drew said.

Daisy nodded, having not the least doubt. “Of course it was him. He's the only one who would put a shotgun under his mattress. It's a terrible hiding place, considering that anybody could find it just by sitting on the bed, like I did. And nobody but Henry would have used his room. It's too risky to keep slipping in and out of here, because each time you have to go through the dining room and kitchen, where everyone can see you.”

Drew nodded back at her. “I guess that explains what he was talking about when he said he needed to get something from there. Apparently it wasn't a glass of water, after all.” Suddenly his eyes widened and his voice rose at a disturbing realization. “But why did he leave the shells? For God's sake, they could have saved his life!”

Slowly, Daisy sat back down on the bed. She stared at the gun in her lap, trying to make sense of it.

“Henry was as sharp as a tack,” she said, talking almost as much to the Remington as she was to Drew. “He may have had a good funny bone, but his actions—when it really mattered—were always logical. So if he didn't take the shells, then he wasn't planning on using the gun. Which means that he took the gun to keep someone else from using it. And he must have done it quickly, hence the poor hiding place.”