An Old-Fashioned Murder (28 page)

“So you think the murders were too clever for them?” Daisy said.

“If not too clever, at least too…” He searched for the right word. “
Determined
. Crushing the old man that way. Pushing the other fellow down the cellar steps in the middle of the night. It may seem baffling, like it's not at all rational. But make no mistake, there's a reason behind it. And I don't believe that it's got anything to do with purchasing this—or any other—property. It's something much more personal.”

Her brow furrowed. “But what could it be? And if not the Lunts, then who?”

“As to the reason, I have no idea. As to the person, your guess is as good as mine. Although,” Bud's brow furrowed back at her, “I wouldn't count out that maid, or cook, or whatever she is, who keeps scampering about the place.”

“You mean Georgia!” Parker exclaimed. “But she's so—”

“So sweet? So young? So pretty?” Bud supplied, with a smile. “Let me tell you,
sweet
and
young
and
pretty
never stopped anyone from being a cold-blooded killer.”

“But…,” Parker protested once more, although he didn't finish the sentence.

“Well, this has been entertaining and enlightening.” Bud rose from his chair. “Now I need to get back to the parlor.”

Daisy rose also. “Maybe you should stay here.”

Bud turned to her questioningly.

“We left the parlor with all that commotion about the footprints and everybody suspecting you,” she explained. “If we go back and look like it's been straightened out and everything is hunky-dory, then the real murderer is going to get nervous and wonder if we might be on to them. That could be dangerous. Wouldn't it be better if you stayed in this room, and Parker and I went out and acted as though you actually were the culprit, pretending to have you locked up, just waiting for the sheriff to arrive?”

“It probably would be better,” Bud agreed, “except I'm not doing it. I'm not staying in here when the Lunts are out there.”

“But they aren't going anywhere,” Daisy responded, shaking her head. “Especially not before the roads are clear. You said yourself that they don't have a clue who you are or that you're following them.”

“The roads will be clear—or clear enough—soon,” Bud countered. “The snow is melting. Not fast, I'll grant you, but it's still melting.” He gestured toward the slowly shrinking drift outside the window. “I'm not taking the chance that Kenneth and Sarah somehow get spooked and take off when my back is turned. I've been promised a bonus for finding them quickly and before they've disposed of the money. A
big
bonus. And I have no intention of losing it, no matter what the situation. I'm sorry about the two deaths. Truly I am. But I'm keeping close to the Lunts, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

Daisy sighed. She knew that even if she argued until she was blue in the face, there was no possibility of changing Bud's mind. Then she had an idea.

“Fine,” she acquiesced. “You go back to the parlor. But could we at least make it look like there's still some suspicion surrounding you? That way the real murderer isn't automatically sent into a panic.”

“Fine,” Bud echoed. “What do you suggest?”

She hesitated. Her idea had been to give Parker the hatchet, so that it appeared as though he was keeping a sharp—and defensive—eye on Bud. Except Daisy wasn't eager to relinquish custody. The hatchet had grown rather comforting in her hand.

“Parker,” she said at last, sighing once more because she could think of no other option, “you take the hatchet and go to the parlor with him. But don't sit on the settee next to Lillian. Sit across the tea table from Bud. Make it seem like you don't trust him and that you're watching him. With any luck, that will relax the killer instead of setting off alarm bells.”

“What if Emily—or someone else—wants to know what's going on?” Parker asked her, his tone unsteady.

“Try to avoid saying anything. If Aunt Emily presses you privately, tell her that I'll explain it all later.”

“Later?” Now Parker also looked unsteady. “Where are you going to be?”

“I'll be in the parlor soon,” Daisy promised. “First I have to make a call.”

Bud raised an eyebrow, although he didn't comment. He started to walk toward the door. Parker was about to follow, but Daisy stopped him.

“Don't let go of this,” she said, dropping her voice to a cautionary whisper as she held out the hatchet. “Don't give it to
anyone
.”

Parker nodded, and with some lingering reluctance, Daisy released the hatchet into his hand. She hoped that she hadn't just made a very grave mistake.

 

CHAPTER

26

It wasn't that she didn't trust Parker, but Daisy would have felt better with the hatchet still in her possession. Unfortunately, she didn't have much choice. Her comfort at the moment was less important than the killer's comfort. And she needed them to feel confident and at ease, believing that their secret of being a murderer remained safe and that no one suspected them. That way they would hopefully stay calm and not attempt to murder anybody else, at least until Sheriff Lowell arrived.

Daisy's own confidence, however, was limited. She had doubts about how clearly Parker was thinking. He had almost strangled Bud because of a few boot prints on the porch, and then he had been defensive of both Sarah and Georgia, even though he barely knew either one. Daisy worried that his nerves were too on edge and that he might somehow be talked into giving up the hatchet. She really didn't want it falling into the wrong hands.

Trying to suppress her apprehension, she watched Bud lead the way through the kitchen and into the main hall, as Parker followed at a close pace. Daisy was tempted to trail after them and listen to the conversation as they entered the parlor, but she returned instead to the archway at the edge of the dining room. It was the most secure spot for her to talk on the phone without going back outside or heading upstairs. No one could sneak up behind her, whether simply to eavesdrop or for a more sinister purpose.

Her phone showed numerous missed calls and several waiting messages. They were all from Beulah, or more accurately, Beulah's phone. But Daisy didn't play the messages. The battery on her phone was starting to get low, and with the power out, she couldn't recharge it, so she had to be careful with what she had left. It wasn't difficult for her to guess that Rick and Beulah were concerned. She had hung up on them rather abruptly, just after they had heard the screeching and shouting that turned out to be Aunt Emily and the rest of the group trying to keep Parker from choking Bud.

Daisy needed to tell them that she—and the others—were all right. But if she was being honest, it wasn't only for Rick and Beulah's benefit that she wanted to call them. She was looking for information, too. The roadhouse where they were stuck was located on Highway 40. Highway 40 was also the main road to get to the inn. The sheriff—along with everybody else—would have to go that way to reach them, so Daisy was eager to find out the road's condition. If it was now passable, then she wouldn't have to wait much longer for help.

Rick picked up the instant that she dialed. He began by scolding her for not answering her phone or calling back sooner. Rather than irritating her, the rebuke made Daisy smile, partially because it was nice to be worried about, and also because there was something tremendously uplifting about his voice. It was like hearing freedom. She had been at the inn since Friday afternoon, and it was now Sunday. That was only three days, less than seventy-two hours. Except it felt closer to a month. Daisy had experienced cabin fever before from nasty weather or a miserable flu. But this was different and much worse. The walls seemed to be closing in around her. The whole place felt as though it were shrinking down into a doll's house. And she was imprisoned inside it, with all the windows closed and every door locked. Rick was like a crack in the bricks that let in a sudden draft of fresh air.

“It's coming along great, Daisy,” Beulah hollered in the background. “Wade is the best snow shoveler you ever saw. They've almost got a truck clear.”

“And the road?” she asked. “How does Highway Forty look?”

“Not too bad,” Rick answered. “One lane is drivable, sort of.”

“Oh, good—” Daisy began, encouraged.

“Are you two talking about the road?” Beulah said, still in the background. “It's a slushy, mushy, slippery mess. I just saw a car go by heading east, and it was skidding all over the place. If it doesn't hit a pole first, it'll end up in the gully on the next hill for sure.”

“Oh, not good,” Daisy corrected herself with a sigh.

“Don't fret, darlin',” Rick drawled. “It's just slow driving, not impossible. You should know by now that I can make it through just about anything if it means—”

He was interrupted on his end by a pair of muffled voices. Daisy couldn't understand them. Something about tires or wheel wells.

“Take the keys,” Rick said in response. There was a jangling sound, like he was pulling a key ring from his pocket and tossing it to someone. “See if she'll start, and try it that way.”

There was more muffled talking, then Rick returned to her.

“That was Bobby,” he explained. “They're having some issues with the truck.”

“If he needs your help, you can call me back,” Daisy suggested, “or give the phone to Beu—”

“You've been drinking too much of Aunt Emily's gooseberry brandy if you seriously think that I'm hanging up on you,” Rick cut her off. “Bobby can handle it, and I could use a break anyway. I only came inside when you called. Before that, I spent the last hour cracking through the ice on the incline from the parking lot up to the road. My fingers aren't fully functional anymore. They have to thaw out.”

“He's commandeered my phone, Daisy,” Beulah shouted in protest. “And he won't give it back.”

“The battery on mine died,” Rick replied, unapologetically. “I don't carry around a charger, and no one else has one either. Not much of a surprise, considering that we all only came here for a beer.”

“The battery on my phone is getting weak, too,” Daisy told him. “But I can't charge it because the power is still out.”

“Then we'll talk fast,” Rick said. “What's happening there? What was all that commotion earlier?”

In as few words as possible, she gave him an account of Parker accusing and nearly strangling Bud, Bud revealing himself to be a private investigator in pursuit of the Lunts, and Kenneth and Sarah having embezzled a small fortune from their church, which was why they wanted to buy the inn. Beulah kept throwing out questions in the background, but Rick refused to share the phone and only repeated the bare minimum to her. At first, Beulah was vocally annoyed, but when she learned that she had been right to be suspicious of the Lunts, she pronounced herself vindicated and cheerfully declared that she was going outside to check on Wade and Bobby, and would return with a progress report.

“Where are the Lunts now?” Rick asked Daisy.

“In the parlor,” she answered, “with Bud and Aunt Emily and the rest of the group.”

“And you think that's safe?”

“I gave Parker a hatchet from the woodpile.”

“You gave a
hatchet
to
Parker
?” Rick reproached her. “The man has a better chance of accidentally lopping off his own arm than he does protecting you or Aunt Emily.”

“That may be true, but we were short on options,” Daisy argued. “And Parker won't actually have to use the hatchet. It's more of a prop than anything else.”

Rick responded with a dissatisfied snort. “Assuming the Lunts don't just take it from him.”

“They have no reason to try to take it. They don't know that Bud is following them, or that any of us are aware of the embezzlement. Besides, Bud doesn't think Kenneth and Sarah are the murderers.”

“Who does he suspect?”

“He isn't sure. But,” Daisy hesitated, her own doubts coming into play, “he said that he wouldn't count out Georgia.”

Rick was momentarily silent.

“I'm having a hard time believing it,” Daisy said, musing half to him and half to herself. “I've never thought that it could be her. Georgia had not the slightest connection to Henry Brent, and she seemed to like Drew an awful lot. Maybe a bit too much, even, if you know what I mean.”

“You think she and Drew were fooling around?”

“No, of course not. At most, Georgia might have had a schoolgirl crush on him. It's understandable. Drew was a really good guy…” She sighed.

There was a brief pause, then Rick said quietly, “Daisy, I am sorry about what happened to him.”

“Thank you.” She took a deep breath and went on. “At any rate, Georgia trusted Drew. He listened to her. I don't think she's had many people in her life do that.”

“Okay, so then why does Bud—”

He was stopped by Beulah. As promised, she had returned with an update from the boys outside.

“Good news,” she announced in a loud voice. “They've got the truck started, and it's out of the snow.”

Daisy gave a little exclamation of joy.

“Bad news,” Beulah continued. “It's now stuck in a giant mud rut.”

Rick gave a not-so-little exclamation of exasperation.

“But Wade, being wonderful,” Beulah gushed, “thought to dig through the snow and scoop up some of the gravel from the parking lot to spread beneath the tires to help with the traction.”

“Cardboard will work better,” Rick told her.

“That's what Wade said, too, except they don't have any.”

“Check under the bar, Beulah. There's got to be some boxes for all the bottles this place gets delivered.”