An Old-Fashioned Murder (2 page)

Daisy frowned at her.

“You're more than welcome,” Aunt Emily repeated, ignoring Daisy's displeasure. “However, you will have to move your truck for the furniture to arrive.”

Although she could feel Rick looking at her, this time Daisy refused to meet his gaze. Her eyes went to the thick gray clouds that were gathering on the horizon, inching their way toward the weak winter sun.

Rick watched her for a moment longer, then he said, “You know how much I enjoy your parties, Aunt Emily. They're always chock-full of surprises. But I'm afraid I can't stay.” He motioned toward the sky. “There's a storm coming. By the looks of it, it could be a big one. I have to check on a few things. Batten down some hatches, just in case.”

Daisy breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. To her chagrin, Aunt Emily proceeded to leave the invitation open.

“Well, you know where we are, Rick, if you change your mind.”

“I might just do that,” he replied. And with a parting nod, he turned toward his truck. When he reached it, he paused for a minute and glanced back at the inn. Finding Daisy still standing on the porch, Rick cocked his head at her, and his lips twitched with a hint of a grin. Then he jumped in and drove away.

As he disappeared down the road, Aunt Emily clucked her tongue. “I hope you know what you're doing with that one, Ducky.”

Daisy's brow furrowed.

Aunt Emily gave a sudden shout of excitement and pointed. “Look, it's them! They're finally here!”

A new vehicle had pulled into the driveway, a small delivery truck. A tiny white hatchback preceded it, and a big black pickup traveled after it. They were all driving slowly and close together, like three odd-size geese waddling awkwardly in a row.

“It's no wonder that they're late,” Daisy said, chuckling. “They probably left the shop well over an hour ago, but with the Fowler sisters in the lead, they never got faster than a crawl, even on the highway.”

For the last thirty years—which was three years longer than Daisy had been alive—Edna and May Fowler had owned a little antiques shop in a nearly invisible dot on the map called Motley. It was Aunt Emily's favorite antiques shop not only in Pittsylvania County but also in all of southwestern Virginia, which was quite an accomplishment. Aunt Emily went crazy for old folk art, so she made a point of visiting every store, shack, and tumbledown shed in the area that sold anything remotely resembling an antique, no matter how broken or rusted.

“Go check the parlor for me, please, Ducky,” Aunt Emily directed eagerly. “We have to make sure there's nothing in their way when they bring in the furniture. Quickly now!”

Daisy was tempted to respond that there was no need to hurry. Based on the current snail's pace at which the procession of vehicles was moving up the driveway, it would take a while before they reached the parking lot, stopped and organized themselves, and began unloading. But she didn't want to dampen Aunt Emily's enthusiasm, so she headed dutifully inside and surveyed the room.

The edges of the floral-patterned Persian carpets were all flat. No stray magazines or throw pillows were lying on the ground. The path to the empty spot between the two casement windows was clear, earmarked for the new longcase clock. Likewise, the path to the empty spot next to the marble mantel was also clear. The barrister bookcase was slated to go there. There were additionally two tip-top candle stands on the delivery list. Aunt Emily was constantly changing her mind about where she wanted them, but they were comparatively small and easy to move, so it didn't really matter where they were initially placed.

“Looks good!” Daisy reported. “No curled rug corners or odd bits on the floor for anybody to trip over.”

“Who does that black pickup driving behind the delivery truck belong to?” Aunt Emily asked from the entrance hall.

“Drew,” she answered.

Aunt Emily appeared instantly in the parlor. This time when Daisy met her blue eyes there was no anxiety in them. With the arrival of the furniture, it had been replaced by their usual shrewdness.

“He's very prompt,” Aunt Emily remarked.

It was meant as a compliment. Aunt Emily didn't approve of folks being fashionably late. On the contrary, she firmly believed that it was only good manners to be punctual, particularly for events that she hosted.

“He certainly must be keen to see
someone,
” Aunt Emily continued, with a sly smile. “Otherwise he wouldn't be the first guest for the party. The first official guest,” she amended, no doubt thinking of Rick.

“Drew's not the first guest,” Daisy corrected her matter-of-factly. “The Fowler sisters were invited, too, and their car is in front of the others.”

“True,” Aunt Emily conceded. “But Edna and May don't ogle your behind every time you saunter out of the room, Ducky.”

Daisy's cheeks went a bit pink.

The sly smile grew. “Just so you know, I put Drew in the Stonewall Jackson room for the weekend. Not that I expect him to actually spend the night there.”

“Oh, Aunt Emily—”

“You've been dating the man since last fall, more or less,” Aunt Emily cut her off briskly, “so there's no need to get all bashful about it. You're a married woman, not a child.”

That was precisely the problem, in Daisy's mind. She was still a married woman, and it bothered her. Only, she couldn't seem to get around to doing anything about it. Matt McGovern was gone. There was no question about that. He had driven off one morning nearly five years ago and never come home again. The man had been an ardent gambler, a far too heavy drinker, and his choice in friends—Rick Balsam included—hadn't helped the situation any. But even with all that, he was still her husband, and Daisy was by nature loyal.

Drew Alcott, a bat conservationist whom she had met in the nearby mountains just prior to the inn calamity, had been remarkably understanding. When Daisy had told him about her estranged husband, Drew had called Matt several choice names and then let the subject drop, which had been just fine with her. They were both very busy. Drew traveled a lot for his job, and Daisy struggled on a daily basis to keep her little bakery, Sweetie Pies, afloat. That had kept their relationship on the lighter side. But Daisy realized that the time was slowly coming when she would have to make some sort of a decision about which direction she wanted to head in with him. Eventually she was either going to have to fish or cut bait, so to speak. She figured that the party—their first overnight weekend together—was the perfect opportunity to better test the water.

Aunt Emily's tone softened. “I just want you to be happy, Ducky. Your mama does, too. Sometimes we worry that you're waiting for—”

A loud crash from the direction of the kitchen interrupted her.

“Oh, for criminy sake!” Aunt Emily's raspberry lips tightened in irritation. “Georgia?” she called.

“Sorry,” came a plaintive voice in reply.

“That girl is going to be the death of me,” Aunt Emily groused. “Or at least the death of all my dishes.”

Although Daisy nodded in sympathy, at the same time she said a silent word of thanks. Georgia's clumsiness had saved her from having to participate further in a conversation that she really preferred to avoid. It had nothing to do with bashfulness. Rather, Daisy found it so difficult to explain her continually varying and conflicting feelings regarding her marriage and the men in her life to herself that she couldn't possibly begin to explain them to anyone else, not even dear and well-meaning Aunt Emily.

“I better see what it was this time.” Aunt Emily sighed. “Hopefully not any more of the stemware. She broke two goblets yesterday alone.” She lowered her voice discreetly. “I'm starting to wonder if hiring her was such a good idea.”

“Georgia's a hard worker,” Daisy said.

“She's also a hard dropper.”

Daisy couldn't refute that.

“I fear it may be a bad omen for the weekend,” Aunt Emily mused mournfully.

“Nonsense!” Daisy exclaimed. “It's going to be a perfectly lovely weekend.”

Aunt Emily sighed again.

In an effort to bolster her sagging spirits, Daisy added, “While you're in the kitchen, I'll go check on the furniture. They must be about ready to bring it in. I'm sure that it will look great when it's all in its proper place.”

With a mumble of gratitude and another grumble about her stemware, Aunt Emily headed down the hall. Daisy, in turn, headed toward the front door.

Stepping onto the porch, she looked over at the parking lot. The crawling convoy had finally reached its destination. Two suitably burly chaps were arranging a pair of dollies and climbing into the back of the delivery truck. The Fowler sisters appeared to be helping someone out of the rear seat of their hatchback. And Drew was waving at her while pulling an overnight bag from the bed of his pickup. Just as Daisy was about to wave back, a cold gust of wind hit her. Rick was right. A storm was coming.

 

CHAPTER

2

“Careful with those legs, young man! That's not a bunch of last season's kindling you're holding. It's two-hundred-year-old rosewood.”

The burly delivery chap with the tip-top candle stand in his hands looked slightly askance at Henry Brent but said nothing.

“Set it down there in the corner. That's the right spot. Gentle, now. Gentle! Pretend it's a nice full crate of beer. You wouldn't want to break a bottle, would you?”

When the candle stand with its delicate cabriole legs was safely on the ground next to the potted dwarf Meyer lemon tree, Henry Brent heaved a great sigh of relief. Then he promptly instructed the delivery chap on how best to proceed with the second candle stand, which was still waiting in the truck.

“Should I go with him?” he mused aloud, half to himself and half to Daisy. “Check that he's carrying it properly?”

“I'm sure that he'll do it all right,” Daisy answered, smiling. “It's very kind of you to help with the delivery, but you really shouldn't go outside again, Mr. Brent. The air is getting awfully chilly.”

He acquiesced with a nod. “When one starts getting up in years, Ducky, one does have to be more cautious about these things.”

More cautious or not, at ninety-four, Henry Brent was still plenty spry. If everyone could have retained their faculties as well as he had, no one would have ever feared aging. He was well read, frequently droll, and all-around impossible not to like, except perhaps by delivery chaps who had been chastised for their rough handling of antiques.

Aunt Emily called him the dapper clacker, which fit the man perfectly. Henry Brent had proudly spent his life being dapper, and today was no exception. He wore a burgundy-striped seersucker suit, followed by scuffed white buck wingtips. His matching burgundy and white polka dot clip-on bow tie gave him the appearance of Clarence Darrow—albeit a slightly more Southern version—confidently marching up the courthouse steps for the start of a new and important trial.

“It's a rotten thing,” Henry Brent's dentures clacked, hence the second part of Aunt Emily's affectionate appellation, “always having to consider the weather before poking your head an inch outdoors. It's like being a durn rabbit checking for a coyote skulking at the edge of your hole. But I'm afraid that at my age even the smallest sniffle can easily turn into pneumonia.”

Daisy nodded back at him. “When we saw the forecast, we were worried that you might not come.”

“Edna and May thought the same thing, so they decided to bring me with them. I couldn't very well say no, especially not with the surprise I have planned.”

“A surprise? What surprise?”

The dapper clacker chortled and clacked with glee. “If I told you that, Ducky, then it wouldn't be a surprise no more.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn't.” Daisy chuckled at his gusto. “But I know that Aunt Emily will be thrilled to see you.”

Henry Brent looked around the parlor. “Where is the grande dame?”

“She'll be here in a minute. She's in the kitchen with Georgia.”

“Georgia?” He frowned. “I don't recall a Georgia. Don't tell me the ol' noodle is beginning to go at last?”

“The ol' noodle is just fine. Georgia's new,” Daisy explained. “She showed up at the inn one day a couple of weeks ago, looking for a job and a place to stay. Aunt Emily felt sorry for her, so she hired her to help with the cleaning and cooking and such.” She added silently,
And now the grande dame is feeling rather sorry for herself.

“Has she got kin in these parts?”

“I'm not sure, but I don't believe so. She hasn't mentioned any, and as far as I know, nobody's ever called or come by asking for her.” Daisy glanced at the Fowler sisters, who were debating vigorously between themselves and the other delivery chap whether it was too warm next to the mantel for the barrister bookcase. Edna and May were both excellent gossips, and Daisy dropped her voice accordingly. “I think Georgia's pretty down on her luck, but she doesn't like to talk about it.”

“Well, that's certainly understandable,” Henry Brent said. “Nobody wants to share bad stories about themselves, especially not when life's taken a turn for the worse. But it's good of Emily to give her a chance.”

Daisy didn't tell him that the chance might not last much longer if Georgia couldn't stop dropping things, particularly the stemware.

“She's always had a kind heart. Speaking of kind hearts,” he looked around the parlor again, “where is your lovely mama?”

“Upstairs in bed, I'm sorry to report.”

Henry Brent responded with a concerned double clack. “Oh, dear. Nothing too serious, I hope?”

She shook her head. “It's just a bad cold, but the doctor gave her strict instructions to stay in her room. No exceptions allowed. Her lungs are already so weak from all of her other problems, and he's worried about her cough. It's been getting steadily worse over the last few days. We don't want it to become bronchitis.”