An Old-Fashioned Murder (5 page)

May drew a white lace handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and pressed it between her palms. “Such a shame—” she began.

It was Aunt Emily and not her sister who interrupted her.

“No,” Aunt Emily said. “I couldn't possibly sell.”

Kenneth's mouth twitched in evident surprise. “Of course you can.”

“No.” This time Aunt Emily included a resolute nod. “I can't sell the inn.”

The twitch repeated itself. “If it's a matter of money…”

“Money?” Aunt Emily gave a little chuckle. “If I spent my days worrying about money—or rather, my lack of it—I would have been in the ground twenty years ago.”

That answer clearly did not please Kenneth Lunt, because his whole body visibly stiffened.

“I'm so glad that you like the house.” Aunt Emily used her most soothing tone—the patient nursery maid placating a disappointed toddler blended with the savvy business owner flattering a valuable client. “And we very much enjoy having you here, but the inn isn't for sale.”

“Why not?” Kenneth retorted.

The words were spoken so sharply that both Edna and May shifted uncomfortably on their settee.

It's the timing,” Aunt Emily told him. “The timing simply doesn't work.”

Daisy found it an odd thing for her to say. She didn't see how timing played any part in it. This wasn't a case of Aunt Emily at long last reaching retirement age and deciding to move to a vacation spot at the sunny seaside or downsizing to be nearer to the grandchildren. Either she wanted to remain in the house where she had been born and spent her entire life, or she didn't.

“Then maybe we need to fix the timing,” Kenneth growled.

Sarah placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I don't think—”

“Do you want the place or not?” he cut her off.

“Yes, but—”

“Then we're getting it!”

“Now see here.” Parker straightened up in his seat. “There's no need to start shouting. If Emily doesn't want to sell, then she doesn't have to sell.”

Kenneth turned to him with a narrow gaze.

Parker shifted uncomfortably on the settee, just as Edna and May had done a few moments earlier. “It's supposed to be a jolly party,” he muttered.

“Jolly indeed,” Daisy agreed under her breath. So far there had been a lot more bickering and bad omens than merriment.

“Drinks!” Aunt Emily proclaimed. “Drinks for everyone!”

There was an audible sigh of relief from Edna and May, and Parker instantly brightened at the idea.

Aunt Emily looked at Daisy. “Ducky—”

“Right.” She nodded. “I'm on it.”

After so many years of being the local diner waitress, Daisy was frequently called upon to act as the barmaid of the inn. There were plenty of occasions when she grumbled about it, but today she was happy to try to break the growing tension in the room. A nip all around might be just the ticket.

Rising from her chair, she headed toward the liquor cart. Her first thought as she picked up one of the crystal decanters was that she didn't have enough glasses. Aunt Emily preempted her.

“Georgia,” she called toward the kitchen. “Could you bring some extra glasses into the parlor, please?”

Daisy smiled. “You're awfully daring.”

Aunt Emily spread her hands ruefully. “I figure that it's a question of odds. How many more could she really break today?”

“You don't actually want me to answer that, do you?”

There was a flurry of activity at the front door—loud thumping and bumping accompanied by one or two profane grunts.

“Dang, this thing is heavy.”

“You ain't kiddin'.”

“Watch the corner. Watch the corner!” Henry Brent interjected in warning.

“I am watchin' the corner!”

“Better watch that you don't drop the dang thing on our feet!”

The group in the parlor collectively turned toward the entrance hall as the pair of burly delivery chaps—assisted by Drew and directed by Henry Brent—inched their way into the inn. The three younger men struggled with a large rectangular object that was covered by a cotton sheet.

“Oh, it's a furniture surprise!” Aunt Emily exclaimed. “Henry, you shouldn't have!”

“I thought the boys had gone,” Edna said, glancing around the room at the new furniture. “I thought it had all been delivered.”

“There's something extra,” May told her. “Henry was just waiting for the right moment to bring it inside.”

Edna looked perplexed.

“Henry wanted a gift for Emily,” May explained. “He came by the shop yesterday when you were at the salon getting your hair done. He found the perfect piece in the back room, and the boys added it to the truck this morning.”

“They did? I didn't notice that. Which piece in the back room?”

“You'll see in a minute. It wouldn't be fair for me to give it away now.”

“No previews!” Henry Brent hollered, as both Aunt Emily and Edna started, curious, toward the hall. “You'll have to wait until we've got it set up.”

Aunt Emily slowed but didn't stop. “Where are you putting it?” she asked excitedly.

“In the nook off the dining room,” he answered. “It's the best spot.”

“But then you should come through the parlor. It's much easier this way.”

“And then you'd peek!”

“She's trying to peek now,” Lillian informed him. “Edna, too.”

“Tattler,” Edna said, sticking out her tongue at Lillian.

Lillian gasped. “Parker! Did you see what she did?”

“By golly,” Parker chortled, “I believe this party is beginning to pick up.”

“Just wait until we get a little liquor in everybody,” Daisy murmured.

“Start with my wife, would you?” he murmured back at her.

“My pleasure.” Daisy took one of the etched crystal tumblers that matched the decanter already in her hand and filled it with a generous two-finger pour. “Here's your drink, Lillian. You don't like ice, if I recall correctly?”

In fact, Daisy recalled quite clearly—as she did automatically with all food and drink preferences after having served countless plates, mugs, and bowls to friends and strangers alike—that Lillian didn't have a preference one way or the other regarding ice. But she figured that no ice equalled a stronger beverage, which in turn would hopefully equal a little less potent Lillian.

“Thank you, Daisy.” Accepting the proffered glass, Lillian took a small sip. She must have liked the sample, because she promptly followed it with a hearty gulp.

Daisy and Parker exchanged a discreet smile.

“What's the drink for today?” May asked. “It's Thursday—no, Friday—so that would make it—”

“—rye,” Edna answered.

“Oh, I like rye.” May carefully smoothed her handkerchief and returned it to her skirt pocket. “But I thought Saturday was—”

“—bourbon,” Edna said.

“Saturday is bourbon?” Parker leaned toward the sisters with interest. “Well, that's certainly something to look forward to tomorrow. Although I'm awfully fond of rye, too.”

“Rye on Friday and bourbon on Saturday?” Kenneth squinted at them. “What is that—some sort of nutty local superstition?”

Parker tittered. “Hear that, Emily? You're a superstitious nut.”

“No doubt about it,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I don't think there's a person in the county who'd disagree.”

And as if to prove the point, Aunt Emily danced a little jig while bending and stretching in every direction in an effort to catch a better glimpse of her furniture surprise as it moved down the hallway under its protective sheet.

“You're going to hurt yourself,” Daisy said. “Or make the boys lose their hold because they're laughing so hard, which might end up hurting one of them—and that includes Drew. Just be patient a moment and have a seat. I'll pour you a drink.”

Daisy started dropping cubes from the ice bucket into a tumbler, but Aunt Emily was far too energized to sit down.

“Georgia,” she called again, “we're going to need those glasses!”

“Ice?” Daisy asked Kenneth Lunt.

He was still squinting. “What exactly are my options?”

“Ice or no ice. Rye or no rye.” Daisy smiled as she added, “Or any other drink that you want, but then you'll have to wait a minute while I hunt down the right bottle in another room. Aunt Emily is a bit like the Royal Navy. They have a different toast every day, and she serves a different liquor every day.”

Kenneth's mouth sagged open with all the grace of a gasping bass. Daisy had to smother a laugh. The man was obviously not the type to be often at a loss for words, but Aunt Emily's peculiar eccentricities had the impressive ability to render even the most self-assured person speechless on occasion.

Sarah took a small shuffling step forward. “I wouldn't mind trying the rye,” she squeaked. “Unless it's terribly strong,” she amended hastily.

“I'll add a little water,” Daisy told her, as she proceeded to fill and serve the remaining empty tumblers.

“Georgia!” Aunt Emily's tone rose impatiently.

Georgia neither responded nor appeared with the requested glasses.

“What can that girl possibly be—” Aunt Emily began, but she was distracted an instant later by the arrival of her furniture surprise in the dining room.

“That's the spot,” Henry Brent said to Drew and the delivery chaps, pointing at their final destination. “Over there, next to the doors. In the nook.”

The parlor and dining room were separated by a set of beautiful antique French doors. Each door had eight panels of glass that were placed in pairs starting at the top of the door and reaching to within a foot of the bottom. The final foot was solid wood, which had been painted an almost yellow ivory with a lovely depiction of pea-green English ivy vines that appeared to be crawling upward. The nook was immediately adjacent to the doors on the dining room side. It was a relatively narrow recess that fit a buffet perfectly, although there was nothing there now, because after the flood, Aunt Emily had decided to move the china cabinet to the opposite end of the room.

“Right up against the wall,” Henry Brent instructed the three men. “As close as you can get to the molding.”

They heaved and hauled and pushed.

“Be mindful of the floor!” he cautioned them as they labored, clacking his dentures anxiously. “It'll scratch if you drag instead of lift.”

There was some low grumbling and an exasperated glance from one of the delivery chaps, but they didn't argue as they had before. They looked simply too tired.

While the mysterious object was being painstakingly positioned, Aunt Emily, Edna, and Lillian all took turns guessing its identity. Far too tall for a sideboard, observed Aunt Emily. Not nearly wide enough for the old farm cupboard that had been in the back room of the shop, remarked Edna. Much heavier than a decorative credenza, commented Lillian.

Finally the piece was in its assigned place. The group in the parlor flocked forward eagerly for the unveiling. Daisy pushed back the French doors as far as they would go to give everybody enough space. And with a double clack of supreme satisfaction, Henry Brent reached for the sheet.

In the same moment that he pulled it off, Georgia appeared in the dining room through the kitchen doorway, carrying a silver serving tray loaded with glasses. She took one look at the crowd standing before her, and the tray crashed to the ground.

 

CHAPTER

5

Everybody's head immediately snapped from the unveiling in the nook to the shattered glasses on the dining room floor. Everybody's except for Daisy's. Her eyes were on Georgia. Unlike all the others, Georgia wasn't looking at the mess that she had made or even at the new piece of furniture. She was still looking at the group. More accurately, she was staring at the group. And if Daisy wasn't much mistaken, Georgia seemed to be staring at one person in particular.

Who that person was, Daisy couldn't tell. She was standing slightly behind and to the side of the group—closest still to the parlor—so her view was partially blocked. She could see Georgia's pixie cut of strawberry blond hair, the thick sprinkling of sunny freckles across her cheeks and nose, and most significant, her wide gray eyes that were focused unblinkingly on some person in front of her. Daisy took a quick survey. No one was staring back, or at least no one appeared to be staring back. They were all standing and looking awkward, as though nobody quite knew what to say or do.

The stolid hostess broke the silence first.

“Georgia,” Aunt Emily said calmly, showing not the slightest anger or even agitation over the loss of yet more glasses, perhaps because these were inexpensive water glasses instead of her heirloom crystal stemware, “please get the broom and dustpan from the closet. We need to make sure that every last shard is cleaned up. We don't want anyone to cut themselves.”

There was a brief moment of hesitation, then in one ungainly movement, Georgia dropped her head, wheeled around, and lurched through the kitchen doorway.

“So that's Georgia,” Henry Brent said, nodding first at Daisy and then at Aunt Emily. “Good of you to take her on, Emily.”

Aunt Emily responded by clucking her tongue, after which she also wheeled around, albeit in a much more graceful manner than Georgia. Instead of heading toward the kitchen, however, her attention returned to the nook and her furniture surprise.

“Oh, Henry.” Aunt Emily sighed. “It's spectacular.”

It wasn't necessary to be an antiques connoisseur to understand her admiration. Henry Brent's gift was a stunning tiger maple Chippendale secretary with a slant-front desk. The lower portion of the piece consisted of four graduated drawers set on bracket feet. The upper portion contained a carved bookcase covered by two paneled doors. The finish was markedly old, with a warm, almost glowing gold tone. The brass pulls were old, too.