An Old-Fashioned Murder (20 page)

“With a cape and a horse added to his striped suit and polka dot bow tie,” Georgia remarked, “Mr. Brent would have been just as dandy in the cavalry as Jeb Stuart.”

Every neck in the room swiveled toward her in surprise. Without any notice, Georgia had crept into the parlor as stealthy as a panther and was now standing next to Daisy, holding a platter of well-organized cheese and crackers.

There was a brief silence, then May said, “Are you a member of the Daughters, dear?”

“Naw.” Georgia shook her head. “But my best friend's meemaw is. She used to show us old pictures of Mr. Stuart. He seemed awfully fond of having a flashy uniform and being in parades.”

Aunt Emily chuckled. “I've seen those pictures, too. I've also read that he liked wearing a big yellow sash and having an ostrich plume in his hat. They say he cut such a dashing figure leading the cavalcade at reviews that the ladies would swoon by the dozens.”

“He was a decorated hero,” Edna admonished her sternly. “And a
general
,” she corrected Georgia.

“No question about that,” Aunt Emily concurred, immediately growing serious, although she cast a quick wink at Daisy as if to say—
When it comes to Confederate generals, don't mess with the president-elect
.

At the moment, Daisy was far more interested in Georgia than in Edna's affinity for Confederate military men. Georgia apparently had a best friend, and that best friend had a meemaw. It was the most that Daisy had learned about her kith and kin over the entire past month.

“Where does your friend's meemaw live?” Edna asked Georgia.

While Edna naturally wanted to find out if the aforementioned meemaw's chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy was near her own chapter, Daisy was also curious to hear the response, albeit for a different reason. She still didn't know where exactly Georgia had been raised.

Georgia, however, didn't oblige them with an answer. She squinted at the floor for several seconds, then gave an abrupt start, as though suddenly remembering that she had left the kettle boiling on the stove. Depositing the cheese and cracker platter unceremoniously in Daisy's arms, she whirled around and scurried out of the room, not uttering another syllable.

“Goodness!” May said.

“Skittish little thing,” Parker observed sympathetically.

Edna's brow furrowed. “Too many people, perhaps.”

“Maybe she's cold,” Sarah Lunt suggested, shivering once more.

Daisy and Drew exchanged a glance. Drew promptly rose from his seat and left the parlor, as well.

Kenneth watched him go with evident distaste. “He sure does spend a lot of time worrying about other women.”

Lillian sniffed and mumbled something under her breath about Matt. Daisy ignored both of them. She understood what Drew was doing, and she was in full accord. It was an excellent opportunity to get Georgia alone and press her on whether she knew anything in connection to what had happened to Henry Brent.

As individual conversations replaced the collective discussion, Daisy adjusted the platter in her hands and walked over to the liquor cart under the pretense of procuring some serving napkins.

“Drew told me about the Remington,” Aunt Emily said, barely above a whisper. “That was smart of you to leave it with your mama, Ducky.”

“It's the safest place I could come up with on short notice.”

Aunt Emily nodded. “Henry must have known something was wrong. He never would have taken the gun otherwise.”

Daisy nodded back at her. “Drew and I think Georgia might know something also. He's gone to talk to her, or at least try to talk to her.”

“I can't figure it out. Poor Henry. Why would somebody want to…” Aunt Emily didn't finish the sentence. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“Not a lick,” she agreed. “But don't forget that whoever did it is here with us right now. So we have to be careful.”

Following her own counsel, Daisy feigned a hearty laugh in relation to nothing and pecked Aunt Emily on the cheek, not wanting to raise suspicion by speaking with her too earnestly for too long. Then she began a circle around the parlor, offering the cheese and crackers with her usual waitress gusto.

Bud Foster was her first stop. Up until that point, he hadn't spoken one word. From the way his arms were folded tightly across his chest and his knees just as stiffly crossed, he gave the impression of not being at all interested in socializing with or getting to know any of the other guests. But Daisy wasn't fooled by his detached demeanor. She could see that Bud was paying close attention to everything that transpired. His gaze was quick and watchful. If it hadn't been for the fake name and fishy story, she might have supposed that he was the law. Except he was too rough, even for being undercover. Daisy didn't know who or why, but she was certain that Bud was focused on someone in the room.

Lillian and Parker came next. Lillian was not a happy camper. She kept glowering at Parker, who was leaning toward the other settee, conversing with Edna and May. The trio was smiling and chattering merrily, obviously trying to make the best out of a less than ideal situation. When Daisy offered the platter to Lillian, she glared at it like she wanted to hurl it—along with her husband—into the entrance hall. Parker and the Fowler sisters, on the other hand, thanked Daisy profusely and stocked up on the cheese as though they were expecting an imminent shortage of all comestibles.

Kenneth Lunt took a polite serving of the snacks. His wife, however, seemed stumped. Sarah gaped at the platter Daisy held before her as if it contained a live octopus waving at her, and she couldn't decide whether she should shake the creature's tentacle in greeting or run away screaming. It reminded Daisy of the similar breadbasket episodes at dinner.

“She doesn't want any,” Kenneth said after a moment.

Daisy started to move away, but she turned back when she saw Sarah blink longingly at the retreating crackers. “They're tasty,” she encouraged her, pushing the platter a little closer.

Sarah's hand lifted toward it.

“No.” Kenneth's voice was low and firm.

The hand retreated.

“If you're hungry, then you should eat,” Drew advised, reappearing in the parlor.

“Keep out of it!” Kenneth snarled in fury.

The room instantly grew quiet. Everyone looked startled, including Daisy. Did Sarah want the dinner rolls and crackers, but her husband for some inexplicable reason didn't approve? Daisy remembered that Beulah had thought Sarah's mousiness and hesitancy were exaggerated, so maybe there was more to it. Either way, Sarah's hand remained down, which Daisy could only interpret as her having made a final decision against the snacks.

“Well, I'll leave them here,” Daisy said, setting the platter and remaining napkins on the nearest tea table, “if anybody changes their mind or wants a second helping.”

After an awkward minute, the group resumed chatting. When they did, Drew cleared his throat softly. Daisy took it as a hint that he had information for her, but she needed a way for them to exit the parlor. She turned to Aunt Emily.

“I'm going to start bringing up those lanterns from the cellar, just in case.”

Aunt Emily's shrewd blue eyes understood. “Good plan, Ducky.”

“I'll help,” Drew volunteered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Parker rose to offer his assistance, but Aunt Emily swiftly intercepted him with an urgent question about the selection of cocktails before dinner. Meanwhile, Daisy and Drew hastened into the hallway.

“Any luck with Georgia?” she asked him, the instant they were out of earshot.

Drew shook his head in disappointment. “I tried, but she wouldn't say a thing about Henry. All she wanted to talk about was your mama's tea.”

“
Again?
”

He sighed. “I can't explain it.”

Daisy was thoughtful. “Maybe it's a nervous tick, like May and that handkerchief of hers. Georgia isn't really focused on my mama or her tea. It's just something that comes out of her mouth when she gets anxious.”

“You could be right. Although it did seem awfully important to her. She was looking at me so intently, and she kept going on about it.”

It was Daisy's turn to shake her head. “Then I can't explain it, either. But I'm pretty sure that my mama's had more than enough tea today. I suppose I can always check again after we get some of those lanterns.”

No sooner had she said it then the lights gave one final flicker, and the inn went dark.

 

CHAPTER

19

There was a collective cry of surprise from the parlor. Although everyone had been aware that the inn could lose power, it was still startling when it happened. It seemed as though the afternoon had vanished in a flash and the night suddenly collapsed on top of them. The heavy storm clouds with their cascades of snow had sunk low in the sky, almost touching the earth, leaving only a few weak streaks of daylight to sneak through the windows.

“Ducky?” Aunt Emily called.

“I'm in the hall with Drew,” she answered. “We're on our way to the cellar. We'll bring everybody a lantern as soon as we can.”

“We'll stay here,” Aunt Emily told her, “and light some candles in the meantime.”

Parker could be heard soothing May. Lillian was complaining that she would no doubt get stuck with the smallest, most ineffectual candle. And Kenneth let out a string of profanities as he banged his knee against some table or other while retrieving the box of matches that Aunt Emily told him were on the mantel.

“Follow me,” Daisy said, taking Drew's hand to guide him. “And watch out for the Windsor bench on the left side. It's sturdy enough to break a toe.”

She had walked that way so many times with the lights off before dawn for her early morning shifts at the diner and the bakery that Daisy didn't have any trouble maneuvering through the hall or the tight double turn into the kitchen. Because of its big bay windows, the kitchen was slightly brighter. She almost expected to find Georgia there—either making the all-important tea for her mama or huddled on the throw rug next to the hearth—but the room was empty.

The door to the cellar was on the far side of the chimney. Daisy went over to it and gave the glass knob a firm tug. The wood stuck in the frame for a moment, then the door creaked open. A blast of cold air shot up through the opening.

“Chilly.” Drew peered into the cellar. “And dark.”

Dark was an understatement. There was not even a hint of illumination below. The first few steps were decreasingly visible, then only blackness followed.

“You should take this,” Georgia said suddenly.

Both Daisy and Drew jumped at her abrupt appearance. Somehow Georgia had sidled soundlessly into the kitchen—or perhaps she had been sitting in the corner undetected—and was now standing beside them, holding out a large flashlight.

“So you don't fall and snap your neck,” she explained. “Those stairs are wicked.”

Although
wicked
might have been a bit of an exaggeration, there was no question that the old cellar steps were steep and narrow. It certainly would have been much easier to retrieve the lanterns before the power had gone out.

“Thank you, Georgia.” Drew took the proffered light and immediately handed it to Daisy. “I spend most of my days climbing up mountains and crawling around damp caves looking for bats to study, so hopefully I can make it down a few rickety stairs without doing any permanent damage to myself.”

Having seen him in action, Daisy could vouch for the truth of his words. When it came to traversing rocky peaks and inky caverns, Drew was as surefooted as a Himalayan goat. Granted, that was with the aid of professional equipment, but all things considered, she didn't mind being the one with the flashlight.

“I'll go first,” she said. “To hold the light, and also because I know where the lanterns are kept.”

“I'll catch you if you start to tumble,” Drew promised.

It was a sweet thought, even if unlikely in practice. Daisy started off slow and cautious, but after the first few steps, she got her bearings and the remainder of the dark stairway proved to be less challenging than anticipated. Maybe that was because after so many years of transporting Aunt Emily's countless jars, crocks, and pots between the kitchen and the cellar during jam, jelly, canning, and pickling seasons, the dimensions of the stairs had become ingrained in her memory.

Drew didn't have any more trouble than she did, and they were soon at the bottom. The floor was packed bare dirt—as hard and unyielding as concrete—having been tamped and compressed for many decades.

“Good golly,” Drew's teeth chattered, “it's cold down here.”

“Welcome to the country cellar,” Daisy replied. “In weather like this, it's a giant refrigerator.” She frowned. “You don't think the low temperature will hurt the lamp oil?”

He shook his head. “No, it just might thicken it up a bit.”

“So long as it doesn't damage the likker.” Daisy laughed, thinking of Aunt Emily's precious gooseberry brandy.

She directed the flashlight to the vast network of shelves on their left. Long rows of jars lined the wall, perfectly ordered like battalions marching into battle. Pickled products, canned products, and plenty of moonshine.

“Good golly,” Drew said again, this time laughing also. “That is a heck of a lot of hooch. Come the next war, this is the place to be. You've got enough provisions and barter goods to last five years.”

“Medicine, drink, and entertainment combined in one pretty package!”

He walked over and took a closer look. “Is it all brandy?”

“Mostly,” she responded. “There's also some corn whiskey.”

“Does Emily make that, too? Because the stuff I had last night with Henry sure was tasty.”