An Old-Fashioned Murder Page 2

“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.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ear, Ducky.”

  “I should bring her some tea.” Daisy checked her watch. “She was napping earlier, but she’s probably awake by now.”

  “Tea!” Henry Brent exclaimed in protest. “Tea won’t do your mama a lick of good. What she needs is a hot toddy. ‘In damp or wet,’ my meemaw always said. And for flus and colds, an extra shot in the cup. Rum and rye are good, but corn whiskey is best.”

  Daisy couldn’t help thinking that if his meemaw were still on this earth, she and Aunt Emily would have gotten along swimmingly. Aunt Emily equated moonshine with medicine, too. Scientifically proven or not, she was convinced that her gooseberry brandy had the miraculous ability to cure a wide assortment of ailments.

  A throat cleared gruffly next to them. The delivery chap was back from the truck with the second candle stand.

  “So,” he asked a bit sharply, “where do you want it?
”

  With an equally sharp clack in reply, Henry Brent directed him to the opposite end of the room, next to the well-stocked liquor cart. It was not one of the spots that Aunt Emily had originally selected, but Daisy knew when she saw it that she would be in full agreement. With the top tipped up, the candle stand was just the right height and offered just the right amount of space to serve as an overflow for an extra stack of cocktail napkins, another ice bucket, and an additional decanter or two.

  As Henry Brent shifted his—and the delivery chap’s—attention to the unwieldy longcase clock that was next on the list, Daisy felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey there, beautiful.”

  It was Drew. She started to turn, but was stopped by his arms wrapping around her from behind.

  “I sure am glad to see you.” Pulling her toward him, Drew’s face sunk into her hair. “You smell nice—cinnamon and vanilla.”

  “I should.” Daisy smiled. “I work in a bakery, after all.”

  “Mmm.” His breath was warm on her cheek.

  Closing her eyes, she relaxed against him.

  “I bet you taste nice, too.” Drew’s lips traveled down her neck.

  It felt good—really good. She pressed into his body.

  “I don’t suppose,” the lips worked back up along her jaw, “that we could disappear for a little while—”

  A stern tsk-tsk interrupted the enticing proposition. “I did not expect this sort of behavior from you, Daisy McGovern. What in heaven’s name would your mama say if she saw you making such a public spectacle?”

  “She’d say,” a voice, followed by a jovial laugh, answered, “that they ought to go somewhere and get a room.”

  “Parker!”

  “Oh, wait.” The laugh became an uproarious cackle. “They already are somewhere with rooms. They’re at an inn!”

  Daisy’s first thought was a combination of regret and annoyance at having her pleasant interlude with Drew brought to such an abrupt end. Her second thought went to Aunt Emily’s earlier remark about bad omens for the weekend.

  The stern tsk-tsk repeated itself. “My goodness, Daisy. If Matt were here—”

  That was enough to elevate Daisy’s annoyance to anger. Detaching herself from Drew, she spun around on her heel. “Well, he’s not here, Lillian. He hasn’t been here for a very long time, as you well know.”

  Lillian Barker responded with a characteristically sour lemon face.

  “She has a point, Lill—”

  The sour lemon face turned immediately to her still-chortling husband, Parker, effectively silencing him.

  Not wanting to blow the matter out of proportion, Daisy took a deep breath. Lillian Barker hadn’t always been such a sour lemon, or at least not quite so sour. She did by nature have the rather disagreeable tendency to be both pessimistic and exceedingly critical. To her, the glass was habitually half empty. Decent civilization was continually on the brink of collapse. And everything was much better in the good old days, even though the woman was barely fifty, so the good old days weren’t all that far back.

  While Lillian’s personality could never have been considered really warm, there was a time when Daisy would have called her a friend. They had occasionally spent an afternoon together shopping in Lynchburg or sharing a plate of barbecue at the local diner where Daisy had been a waitress before its conversion to the bakery. Lillian was Matt’s paternal aunt, and when her brother—Matt’s daddy—had died unexpectedly in a propane tank explosion along with Daisy’s daddy a few years back, it had hit her just as hard as everybody else. She had slowly started to come to terms with the shock and the grief the same as Daisy and her mama, but then Matt had decided to run off shortly thereafter. The sudden departure of her beloved nephew was more than Lillian could bear, and instead of gradually healing, she had grown progressively bitter.

  Unlike Aunt Emily and the rest of their mutual acquaintances, Lillian didn’t want Daisy to move on. On the contrary, she believed that Daisy should spend the remainder of her life in solemn and solitary contemplation, patiently waiting for Matt’s return. It didn’t seem to occur to her that there was not the slightest indication that he would ever return. At first, Daisy had been sympathetic, thinking that Lillian was simply trying to turn back the clock to happier times. But as the weeks and months and years rolled by, and Lillian became increasingly strident in her views, Daisy found it tougher to swallow. After working so hard to come to grips with her loss and inch her way forward, she didn’t appreciate Lillian insisting that she stay permanently sad and alone.

  In a more densely populated area, it might have been easier to avoid the Barkers. Not so in rural Pittsylvania County, where Lillian and Parker were not only in-laws but also neighbors. Thankfully their farmhouse was a good mile up the road from the inn, which meant that they weren’t strolling by too often, especially not in winter.

  “We were anxious to see the renovations,” Parker announced amiably, clearly making an effort to offset his wife.

  Although he was the same age as Lillian, Parker had the entirely opposite disposition. He loved to joke and laugh, had a cheerful round face, and possessed an even rounder body, remarkably resembling a cantaloupe. In contrast, Lillian was a stiff and chewy string bean—topped with a sour lemon face.

  “Good of you to come, Dog. Good of you to come!” Henry Brent turned momentarily away from the tricky maneuvering of the longcase clock to shake Parker’s hand.

  “His name is Parker,” Lillian snapped.

  “Parker ‘Dog’ Barker,” Henry Brent responded with a woof, not the least bit deterred by her imperious attitude.

  Lillian’s lemon mouth puckered.

  “Now, my dear,” Parker said, his soothing tone barely concealing a chuckle. “You know Henry’s called me that since I was a wee shaver. Everyone has—”

  “Well, you’re not a wee shaver anymore,” she retorted brusquely.

  “No, he certainly isn’t,” Henry Brent concurred, gesturing toward Parker’s cantaloupe belly.

  The two men laughed heartily, and Lillian’s pucker tightened.

  “Uh, excuse me,” one of the delivery chaps interjected, as he struggled to maintain his hold on the base of the clock.

  “It ain’t gettin’ any lighter,” the other delivery chap added peevishly.

  Seeing the latter’s fingers dig into the clock’s intricately carved hood, Henry Brent jumped in alarm and redirected his focus to the furniture. Always helpful—and smart enough after so many years of marriage to recognize an easy avenue of escape—Parker inquired whether he could be of any assistance and promptly waddled off with the group, leaving his wife glaring after them.

  “How’s everything coming?” Aunt Emily said, appearing at Daisy’s side. “I could hear the laughter all the way in the kitchen, so it must be good…”

  Her words trailed away as she met Daisy’s grim gaze.

  “I can’t believe that you invited the Barkers,” Daisy muttered.

  “The Barkers?” Aunt Emily echoed in surprise. “No, I didn’t. Of course I wouldn’t. Not when—” Noticing Lillian, who was still glaring at her husband and Henry Brent, she broke off abruptly. “Oh, Lord help us.”

  Daisy couldn’t have said it any better herself.

  An instant later, Aunt Emily assumed the serene expression of the consummate hostess. “Lillian, such a pleasure!”

  Turning to her, Lillian offered a polite and mildly warm smile. “Hello, Emily. Thank you for having us.”

  “And Parker? Is he…” Aunt Emily spotted him tripping over the delivery chaps and the clock. “Helping Henry with the furniture, I see.”

  “I assume the Robinsons told you that we were coming in their stead?” Lillian asked.

  “Ah, the Robinsons.” A sudden light of understanding shone in Aunt Emily’s eyes. “They did telephone this morning to let me know about their last-minute change in plans.” She looked at Daisy. “You remember the Robinsons’ daughter—the one in Savannah—who’s expecti
ng?”

  Daisy nodded.

  “Well, apparently she went into labor early, so they had to dash off lickety-split to be with her.”

  “I like the Robinsons,” Daisy replied wistfully, making an involuntary mental comparison.

  “So do I, Ducky. So do I.”

  “I happened to be driving by their house when they were packing up the car,” Lillian explained. “And they told me how sorry they were about having to miss your little get-together this weekend. When I said I hadn’t heard of it, they mentioned how tight you were for space. Then it occurred to me that with them not coming, you’d have a room free. Parker really was anxious to see the renovations, and Daisy and I haven’t had a good chance lately to sit down for a serious chat—”

  Daisy swallowed a groan.

  “—so Parker and I decided to take the Robinsons’ place,” Lillian concluded. “I hope that’s all right.” Her brisk tone made it more of a pronouncement than a query.

  “Of course,” Aunt Emily responded lightly. “The more, the merrier. You’re always welcome.”

  “Now that’s settled, I should have Parker bring in our bags.” Lillian glanced around in search of her husband. “Sooner rather than later. I think the weather is about to turn.”

  And as she said it, the sky obediently darkened, and the parlor fell into gloom.

  CHAPTER

  3

  “Those nice boys did such a good job of bringing in the furniture—” May began.

  “—and setting it all up,” Edna agreed.

  “The candle stand with the mahogany inlay looks lovely—” May continued.

  “—although the oak bookcase is very handsome, too,” Edna added.

  Drew leaned against the scuffed leather smoking chair in which Daisy was sitting. It was her favorite seat in the parlor, and she claimed it whenever she could. Somehow the chair had managed to weather the flood, and as a result, Daisy felt an odd sense of solidarity with it. A pair of scrappy survivors.

  “Do the two of them always—” Drew began.

  “—finish each other’s sentences?” Daisy cut him off, with a smile. “Oh, yes. It can drive you a little crazy at first, but they’re both so awfully sweet that you just get used to it after a while.”