An Old-Fashioned Murder (29 page)

Beulah apparently did as she was instructed, because Rick returned to the phone and remarked in an amused tone, “She's got it bad for this guy, Daisy.”

“How do you know?” Daisy asked in surprise. Rick and Beulah dueled; they were not confidants.

“She didn't bite off my head or give me the look of death for telling her to do something.”

Daisy smiled. “You're right. She doesn't usually let you get away with that.”

“Found some!” Beulah called.

“Take the ones that can be ripped into squares or long strips,” Rick called back.

“Got 'em! I'm sure Wade will be able to use these. He's so good with his hands.”

Daisy had to laugh. “You aren't kidding, Rick. I haven't heard Beulah that complimentary about one of her dates … uh … ever.”

“She's also skipping around the room and humming to herself.”

“Don't worry, Daisy,” Beulah shouted. “Wade will get the truck free, and then we'll be there in a jiffy.”

“No!” Daisy exclaimed. “You can't let her come to the inn, Rick! Not before Sheriff Lowell gets here.”

“She's made up her mind,” he replied. “And I agree with her. You can't spend another night there without help. But don't panic. Beulah isn't going alone.”

“How on earth does that help?” Daisy retorted. “Wade being here might even make it worse! If Beulah suddenly appears in the parlor with a strange man standing at her side, the killer could get nervous about who he is and go after the two of them next!”

“Not Wade,” Rick corrected her calmly. “Me.
I'll
be with Beulah. It's my truck that they're clearing. I'm the one who's driving her to the inn.”

Startled, Daisy's mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again. “Oh, Rick, that's so risky. I wish you wouldn't.”

“Why, darlin', you sound like you're concerned about my well-being.”

Although she wanted to deny it—particularly because of the distinct note of laughter in his voice—she didn't. If Beulah was determined to come to the inn, then Daisy knew that she couldn't stop her. Her heart warmed at Beulah's support, but she also feared for her safety. Rick volunteering to come along was a great relief. With him there, the inn wouldn't seem nearly so dangerous.

“Good. Then it's all settled,” he said. “You just sit tight. As soon as we can get out of here, Beulah and I will be there.”

“I—” Daisy faltered. “I'm awfully grateful—”

Rick promptly switched the subject. “You told me a minute ago that Bud suspected Georgia. Why does he suspect her?”

“He didn't say exactly, other than that she scampers around a lot. But it's probably because of the hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Georgia isn't with the rest of the group,” Daisy explained. “She keeps disappearing. I don't know where, except that it's inside the inn, because she also keeps resurfacing.”

Rick chuckled. “I bet she's using our old spot. You remember?”

“Of course. I couldn't possibly forget it.”

For many years—all long past now—the uppermost floor of the inn had been a favorite haunt for her, Beulah, Rick, Matt, and sundry other neighborhood children, although neither Daisy nor Beulah was living there then. Having little use for it herself beyond seasonal storage, Aunt Emily had allowed them free rein of the monstrous attic. With its tiny, cobwebby windows and dark, mysterious corners, it was the perfect place to whisper secrets, share tall tales, search through old trunks that were like gleaming treasure troves to their youthful imaginations, and when they reached their teens, sneak a clandestine kiss or two. It was where Daisy had first fallen under Matt's spell.

Shaking away the memories, she returned to the present. “Georgia could be up there. It's easy enough to get in and out, especially since her room is on the third floor, right next to the attic steps.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Rick said.

“Just a little while ago, actually. I had gone into the dining room and caught a glimpse of her darting around the kitchen.”

“What was she doing—getting food?”

Daisy's brow furrowed. “It's funny that you should ask, because I wondered the same thing. I didn't see her eating or drinking, but it looked like she was digging through the tea bags.”

“Huh?”

“I know it's odd. We all think so. We've all talked about it. Drew and my mama and Aunt Emily—”

“Hold up a second,” Rick interjected. “I'm not following you. What have you all talked about?”

“Georgia and her…” Daisy paused. “
Fixation.
That's probably the best way to put it. Her fixation on my mama's tea. Georgia set aside my mama's tea bags so that we wouldn't run out with all the people staying here. At first I thought she was just being conscientious, but then she kept mentioning the tea to Drew, over and over again, every time she spoke to him. She wouldn't stop going on about it.”

“Is the tea special somehow?”

“Not in the least. That's what makes the whole thing so peculiar. It's regular old tea, nothing exotic or expensive, even. But apparently it's really important to Georgia. Drew said that whenever he tried to find out if she knew anything about what happened to Henry, all she wanted to talk about was the tea.”

Rick was thoughtful. “Where exactly is the tea?” he asked after a moment.

“It used to be in a tin on the counter, but Georgia was worried about what she called ‘sticky fingers' from some of the guests, and she moved it to a spot that she considered safer. You know how Aunt Emily has all those goofy cookie jars that she keeps getting as gifts lined up on one of the shelves above the sink? Well, that's where Georgia put the tea bags. She hid them in the Rhett Butler cookie jar.”

Again Rick was thoughtful. “You said that Georgia was at the cookie jar when you saw her a little while ago?”

“Yes, except I'm pretty sure that she wasn't making tea, so I don't really know what she was doing there. But,” Daisy added, “I did think earlier that all the stuff with her and the tea could be a nervous tick. Maybe it crops up when…”

She let the sentence trail away, unfinished, as she remembered that Drew had believed there was more to it than a nervous tick, primarily because Georgia had looked at him so intently while she talked about the tea. It occurred to Daisy that Georgia had also looked at someone in the dining room and the parlor with great intensity, and then talked to her about the tea. That struck her as a rather strange coincidence. It seemed stranger still when she recalled that Georgia had confided to Drew some explanation as to why she had been staring at the person in the dining room and the parlor, after which she had once again talked about the tea.

Why always the tea? What was so darn important about her mama's tea bags? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Yet they seemed to come up in every one of Georgia's conversations, with almost clockwork regularity. And then suddenly Daisy realized that she had been looking at it all wrong. It wasn't about the tea. The tea bags themselves didn't matter one bit. They were a clue. Georgia had meant them as a clue.

“Sweet heaven,” Daisy exhaled. “I've been blind. The entire time she's been giving us—giving Drew, really—a clue.”

“And I think,” Rick said, having unraveled it, too, “you should look in that cookie jar.”

 

CHAPTER

27

Daisy didn't hesitate. She didn't think about anyone seeing or overhearing her if she left the relative safety of the archway. She also didn't consider whether she should first try to track down Georgia or consult Aunt Emily. With a singular purpose, Daisy headed through the dining room, straight into the kitchen, past the stone fireplace, and halted in front of the old farm double sink. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up to the long shelf—in between the grinning pink hippopotamus and the slightly lewd dancing girl—and lifted down the Clark Gable as Rhett Butler cookie jar that contained her mama's tea bags.

She didn't know quite what she expected to find in the jar, aside from the tea bags, of course. It was, after all, just a cookie jar. That limited the possibilities considerably, both as to size and weight. But there had to be something inside. She was sure of it. Georgia had spent so much time and energy pointing them in the direction of the tea—and thereby the jar—that it couldn't all be for naught.

“Here goes,” Daisy said, half to herself and half to Rick.

Holding her breath, she picked up Clark's ceramic head. Her eager gaze went to the contents of his cutaway.

“Well?” Rick asked.

Daisy didn't answer. She was too busy squinting inside the jar.

“So what's in there?” Rick pressed her impatiently.

“A…” She reached down and retrieved the object that was nestled into the bed of tea bags. “A candlestick.”

“What?”

“A candlestick,” she repeated. “A short, round, silver candlestick.”

Rick was momentarily silent, no doubt from surprise. Daisy turned the candlestick over in her palm. When she saw the bottom, she was surprised, as well. She had to blink twice to make sure that her eyes weren't deceiving her.

“It's got Lillian's name written underneath,” she said.

“Lillian?” Rick echoed. “Why would Lillian's candlestick be in a cookie jar? How would it even be at the inn?”

“It's not Lillian's candlestick,” Daisy corrected him. “It's Aunt Emily's.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive. It's one of a pair. Aunt Emily's had them for as long as I can remember, although they're usually on the mantel in the parlor.”

“Then how did Lillian's name get on it?”

“That's a good question.” Daisy took a closer look at the inscription. It was handwritten, and not very neatly. She rubbed it with her finger. Lillian's name smeared beneath her thumb. She smiled. “I think Georgia wrote it.”

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

“Because it's written in crayon. Midnight blue crayon, if I recall my colors correctly. The kind, incidentally, that we used to have with all the toys up in the—”

“Attic,” Rick finished for her. He sounded like he was smiling, too.

“Of course that raises another question,” Daisy continued.

“Why would Georgia put Lillian's name on Aunt Emily's candlestick?”

“And why would she lead us to the cookie jar to find it?”

“Daisy,” Rick's tone grew grave, “it's not evidence, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The candlestick wasn't used as a weapon, was it? Georgia isn't trying to tell you that Lillian is the one who—”

“No.” Daisy stopped him. “It wasn't Lillian with the candlestick. Henry was crushed. And poor Drew was pushed. The candlestick had nothing to do with either death.”

“Yes, but were there any signs of…” Rick paused, obviously reluctant to conclude the sentence.

“No,” she answered again, following his line of thought. “It didn't look like they were hit first. And even if they were, it couldn't have been with this candlestick. It's barely two inches tall and only weighs a couple of ounces. That may be enough to squash an unlucky spider, but otherwise, it's not much of a weapon. Plus, there's no damage done to it. Crayon aside, the candlestick is in perfect condition.”

“And its mate? You said there was a pair. Is the other one still in the parlor?”

“I assume so. Aunt Emily kept them on the mantel next to the little clock.”

Daisy tried to picture the room from when she was last in it. Parker had been choking Bud in the leather smoking chair. Needing a distraction to stop him, she had thrown one of the bottles from the liquor cart into the hearth. Had there been a candlestick on the mantel above the hearth? No, the clock had stood alone. And as she thought about it, she realized that neither candlestick had been on the mantel all weekend. She hadn't seen them since Friday when the party first started. Someone had taken them. One was now in her hand, courtesy of Georgia and the cookie jar. Did that mean—courtesy of Georgia's crayon—the other was in Lillian's possession? Had Lillian stolen one of Aunt Emily's candlesticks?

“Sticky fingers!” Daisy exclaimed, suddenly putting it together.

“I thought that was in relation to the tea,” Rick said.

“It was. But it was also the candlesticks, or at least one candlestick,” Daisy amended as she explained. “Georgia kept going on about pilfering guests taking things that didn't belong to them. I knew there had to be more to it than a few tea bags. She was so worked up. Now I finally understand why. Earlier, she had dropped a tray of glasses in the dining room and then stared at somebody hard afterward. Drew told me that it was because Georgia had seen something she wished she hadn't.”

“And you think it was Lillian stealing a candlestick?”

“I do. It fits. Everyone was crowding forward from the parlor as Henry unveiled the secretary he was giving to Aunt Emily. Lillian could have easily grabbed one of the candlesticks from the mantel without any of us noticing. We were all turned toward the dining room, except for Georgia. She had come in from the kitchen with the glasses and was facing the parlor. She would have seen Lillian pocket it.”

“But why didn't Georgia say anything?”

“She was scared. I know from Drew that she was worried about telling me and Aunt Emily something because she didn't want to lose her job and have to leave the inn. She thought that she was going to get wrongly accused. And I can believe it. You know how spiteful Lillian can be. She wouldn't hesitate to blame someone else, especially someone like Georgia, who's young and quiet and new. It's only natural for Georgia to assume that we would take Lillian's word over hers.”