An Old-Fashioned Murder (25 page)

Aunt Emily and Edna were both trying to grab Parker's arms, alternately scolding and pleading with him. Sarah Lunt was shrieking. May was weeping. Every few seconds, Lillian would shout her husband's name. And Kenneth kept barking advice and instructions that no one was heeding.

Based on the condition of the room, the battle had apparently been going on for some time. It must have taken a good deal of effort to move Bud from his original seat across the parlor into the smoking chair and then keep him there. Bud was by no means a feeble man or unwilling to defend himself, as evidenced by his misshapen boxing knuckles and corresponding chipped teeth. But Parker had somehow succeeded, proof of the strength and mettle developed through a country lifestyle.

Parker was also succeeding in choking Bud. Even with Aunt Emily and Edna each pulling on one of his arms, he was still able to maintain his hold and was slowly, gradually squeezing the life out of Bud. For his part, Bud was occasionally gasping a syllable and still struggling a bit, but his energy was visibly failing him. If nobody stopped Parker, it was clear that in a short while, Bud Foster would be dead—the third body in three days at the Tosh Inn.

Daisy stared at the scene with a mixture of shock and disbelief, as though what she was witnessing couldn't actually be happening. Parker was in the process of killing Bud. Did that mean Parker had killed Henry and Drew? Then she heard Parker's angry words, and the truth of the situation hit her. Beulah was wrong. Parker didn't kill Henry and Drew. On the contrary, he was trying to kill Bud because he believed that Bud was the murderer.

“Henry was my friend!” Parker hollered at him. “He was my friend and an old man! How could you do that to a helpless old man?”

“I—” Bud croaked.

“What did he ever do to you?” Parker continued, bellowing even louder. “And Drew, too! What could they have done to justify you killing them!”

“I—” Bud croaked again.

If he wanted to respond further, he couldn't. Parker was simultaneously strangling and shaking him.

“This isn't the way, Parker!” Aunt Emily exclaimed.

“It isn't right!” Edna concurred.

Parker took no notice of them and shook Bud harder.

“Let the law handle it!” Aunt Emily entreated.

“It isn't right!” Edna cried once more.

From her perspective, Daisy was disinclined to have much sympathy for Bud. If he had killed Drew and Henry, then he should certainly be made to pay. Aunt Emily wanted Sheriff Lowell to do it, while Edna was no doubt thinking of a higher power. But what gave Daisy pause at that moment was neither legal nor spiritual. It was the fact that it didn't make any sense. What possible motive could Bud have for murdering them? Had he ever even met Henry Brent? And Bud had been the first one to recommend calling the sheriff. He was also the first one to suggest that Henry's death wasn't an accident. A murderer didn't point the finger at himself and then want law enforcement to be notified of it.

All of which meant that Parker was making a mistake, and she had to tell him. Although she didn't trust Bud, she also couldn't allow him to be strangled in error. Daisy started to join Aunt Emily and Edna in their protest, but stopped again almost immediately. It was futile. She could see that. With everybody yelling and in a general panic, no one was listening. And if she didn't act soon, Bud was going to be unconscious—or worse.

Daisy glanced hurriedly around the room, looking for a way to attract universal attention. Throwing a book or pillow? That wouldn't work. It was too calm and quiet under the circumstances. She needed something loud and startling. Her eyes paused at the liquor cart.
Perfect.
With quick steps, she grabbed the nearest bottle, turned toward the hearth with its polite little fire, and hurled the bottle into it.

The glass shattered with a violent crash, followed a split second later by a fireball that inflated like a red-hot balloon, then disappeared up the chimney with a tremendous
whoosh.
There was instantaneous silence amongst the group. No more screeching, weeping, or bellowing from anyone. They were all too busy gaping at Daisy in astonishment. Even Parker was stunned enough to loosen—but not release—his hold on Bud's neck. The only sounds in the parlor came from the now merrily crackling fire in the hearth, and more important, Bud Foster coughing and sucking in oxygen.

Finally, Aunt Emily spoke.

“Was that the applejack?” she said.

Daisy could only shrug. She had taken the first bottle within her reach and had noticed nothing more about it than that its contents were an amber hue.

“But there was still perfectly good likker in there, Ducky. Couldn't you have picked an empty one?”

Although Daisy was tempted to reply that without the likker, there wouldn't have been such an impressive fireball, she held her tongue and answered only with a slight smile. Aunt Emily winked at her, and Daisy had to restrain a chuckle. Leave it to Aunt Emily to be worried about the inventory of her decanters during such a crisis, and then be shrewd enough to use it as a jocular opportunity to defuse the tension of a near-strangulation.

“Now that you mention it,” Aunt Emily went on, even though no one had mentioned anything, “I could use a nip in my coffee. Anybody else?”

Her gaze traveled around the group with a cheerful insouciance, as though there wasn't a dead body lying in the dining room, another on the floor of the cellar, and almost a third in the leather smoking chair next to her. They all gazed back at her in mute bewilderment, still dazed by the explosion in the fireplace.

“Parker?” Aunt Emily prodded gently, slipping into one of her more soothing tones—a blend of the gracious hostess and concerned friend. “Why don't you sit down, and Daisy will get you a fresh cup?”

“I'd be happy to,” Daisy said, taking the cue. “How about over there on the gold settee, Parker?”

He frowned at her.

“And maybe something to eat,” she proposed. In her experience, Parker rarely turned down food, and even more rarely turned down liquor, so hopefully the combination—mixed with the cumulative effects of stress and exhaustion—would be enough to lure him away from Bud Foster's neck.

The frown deepened, and Parker directed it toward Bud. “What about him?” he asked gruffly. “If I move, he'll run.”

Bud's mouth began to open in response, but Daisy was quick to cut him off, not sure whether he would more help or hinder his own cause.

“He won't run,” she told Parker. “And even if he tried, there's nowhere for him to go. We'd catch him before he made it two feet into the snow.”

“Don't let him fool you, Daisy,” Parker replied, anger once again rising in his voice. “He can make it through the snow just fine.”

It was her turn to frown. “You mean when he walked here after his car went into the ditch?”

“It's all a lie,” Parker spat, glaring at Bud.

She nodded. “I thought it might be. That story never sounded quite right.”

“And his name,” Aunt Emily chimed in.

“His name is a lie, too?” Parker exclaimed. His fingers twitched, as though this time he was thinking about snapping Bud's neck instead of squeezing it.

“We're pretty sure that it's fake,” Daisy said.

Bud's eyes met hers. They were questioning, but less afraid than she expected. This was clearly not the first time that he had landed in a difficult situation. He couldn't be the law, because by now, he would have identified himself. But he was definitely something other than a door-to-door life insurance salesman.

“That newspaper in your coat,” Daisy asked him. “You took the name from there, didn't you?”

He inclined his head as far as Parker would allow.

Daisy looked at Parker. “What made you suspicious of his story?”

“I'm not just suspicious,” he corrected her. “I'm positive. I
saw
them.”

“Saw them? Saw who?”

“Not
who
! The footprints!”

A confused murmur spread throughout the group. They didn't understand any more than Daisy or Aunt Emily.

“Where are footprints?” Aunt Emily demanded. She took considerable pride in the cleanliness of her inn and was loath to hear of footprints, even if they also happened to be important clues in the case of two murders. “I haven't seen any.”

Parker gave the same sort of exasperated sigh that he often bestowed on Lillian. “I'll show you. Follow me.”

He dropped his arms, straightened up, and proceeded to turn toward the entryway, then abruptly halted, realizing that he had inadvertently released his captive in the process. Bud was on his feet the next second. The two men stared at each other fiercely, like a pair of warring elks about to charge. There was an ominous pause as the entire group held its breath, waiting for the battle to begin again. Daisy, with a swift glance at Aunt Emily, didn't give it the chance.

“Good,” she said briskly. “Parker, you can show me the footprints. Bud will come with us. And everybody else can stay here, where it's warm and cozy from the fire, and Aunt Emily can provide drinks.”

To Daisy's surprise, no one argued or offered an alternate proposal. Even Bud agreed. He started to walk out of the parlor, with Parker glued to his shoulder, warning him not to do anything stupid. Daisy followed them, passing close to Aunt Emily.

“Henry's room,” she whispered. “Where's the key?”

Aunt Emily's blue eyes widened, immediately comprehending the plan. “Brilliant, Ducky. It's in the lower linen closet. Under the washcloths.”

Daisy nodded.

“Brilliant,” Aunt Emily complimented her again, then she promptly spun around and began organizing the troops for tidying. “If you'll be so kind as to lift that chair, Edna. Lillian can collect those stray cushions. And perhaps someone could help me with the other end of this table…”

Her voice faded away as Daisy hurried to catch up with Parker and Bud.
Brilliant
may have been a bit too high praise, especially since the plan had yet to be completed, but it was working so far. Of prime importance, Parker was no longer choking Bud. In addition, Daisy now had a possible way of getting information from Bud. There was no doubt in her mind that he knew something, was interested in someone, or had some sort of an agenda by being at the inn. At the very least, she intended to learn his real name, along with the truth about how and why he had arrived there. And she was going to do it—with the help of Parker, even though he didn't know it yet—in the privacy of Henry Brent's room. If need be, she would lock him inside. But first, she was supposed to look at footprints.

“Where are we going?” Daisy called to Parker, hoping that their path would take them by the lower linen closet.

“The kitchen,” he answered.

Daisy smiled to herself, and a moment later, they were in the hall, passing in between the Windsor bench and the linen closet. She stopped, pulled opened the closet door, and flipped on the light switch. When nothing happened, she remembered that the power was still out. With a grumble, Daisy began digging around the shelves in the dark, searching blindly through the towels. She knew that she was causing a mighty mess, but was rewarded after a minute when her hand found the brass key as promised under the washcloths. Ordinarily Aunt Emily didn't hide room keys, but in this case, she had chosen the location wisely. No one would have thought to look for Henry Brent's key in the depths of the linen closet.

Tucking the clunky key as well as she could into her pocket, Daisy shut the door and hurried after Parker and Bud once more. When she reached them, they were already in the kitchen. The same as Aunt Emily, Daisy had assumed that the footprints in question were dirty shoe marks, although she had no clue how shoe marks could prove or disprove anything about Bud Foster and his story. So it surprised her when Parker—with his fingers clamped tightly around Bud's arm—went straight through the kitchen without pausing and headed out onto the back porch.

“Parker—” she began, but the sudden surge of fresh air silenced her.

The air was cool—rather than cold—and almost sweet. Daisy hadn't been outside since the storm had ended, and she found herself dazzled by a frozen land of glistening white that reached to the edge of her vision. It looked like luminous mounds of sugar undulating into the distance, with faint electric-blue frosting along the ridge.

Parker didn't have to worry about Bud trying to escape, because short of taking a flying leap into the snow and sinking down like Bobby Balsam at the roadhouse, there was no place to go. The inn was a veritable island, floating above and seemingly untethered to the rest of the snowy world. The steps leading down from the porch to the garden were so completely blanketed that not a trace of them was visible. A person unfamiliar with the inn wouldn't have even known that there were any steps at all. The porch itself had varying amounts of snow, based on the direction of the wind. The rocking chairs resembled a line of hulking polar bears, while the potting stand on the opposite end had only a light dusting of flakes.

It was beginning to thaw. Icicles on the railing were dripping. The top layer of snow was mushy and wet, not powdery. But with as much of it as there was, it was going to take a long time to melt—too long for comfort, with a murderer on the premises.

“You see?” Parker said to Daisy, pointing toward the porch floor. “Footprints.”

She followed his outstretched finger. There were boot prints in the snow. They weren't fresh. The exact dimensions and tread were obscured, from a combination of subsequent accumulation and drifting. But someone had plainly walked on the porch at some point during the storm, more likely early on rather than later, based on the poor condition of the prints. Regardless, it wasn't difficult to discern the person's path. They had come around the corner from the side of the inn and proceeded along the back porch; there was a muddle of prints at the kitchen door; and then they had returned the same way and disappeared around the corner once more.