An Old-Fashioned Murder (22 page)

“No,” Georgia whispered once more.

Then she ran sobbing from the kitchen.

Under other circumstances, Daisy would have followed her, or at least made some effort to listen to where she went. But she didn't. All she could think about was Drew.

Holding the candle in front of her, she descended toward him. When she reached the bottom, Daisy sank down at his side. The ground was icy cold beneath her, but she barely felt it. She was already numb, and she simply let it numb her further.

She didn't know how long she remained there. Her mind was empty. Her eyes didn't see. She just held Drew's stiffening hand. At last, she bent down and kissed his lips. Then she rose, and forcing herself not to look back, returned up the steps.

Without stopping, Daisy left the kitchen and went upstairs. Her mama answered when she knocked. She was in her bed, propped up with pillows, reading a paperback by the light of a lantern.

“Drew—” was all Daisy could get out, but somehow her mama understood.

Her feet made it across the room to the edge of the bed, then her legs crumpled under her. Daisy sat on the floor, her head resting against the side of the mattress. Her mama reached down and stroked her hair in silence. There was nothing to be said. No kind words—no matter how sweet or sympathetic—could change what had happened. No pat expressions could make the truth any less real.

And the truth was that it had been murder. Daisy held not the slightest doubt. Drew was too steady, too dexterous. He wouldn't have slipped or tripped. Even if he had stumbled and wasn't able to catch himself, then he would have landed on his stomach, not his back. The way he lay left no room for uncertainty. Drew had been pushed down the steps, and he had been looking at his killer when he had been dealt the fatal blow.

Unlike with Henry Brent, Daisy didn't wonder why. She knew that it was because Drew had gotten too close, or at least his killer—Henry Brent's killer—believed that he was getting too close. Drew had said the wrong thing or asked the wrong question, and the murderer had gotten nervous about being exposed. Lillian was probably partially to blame. All her talk of Drew poking around and suspiciously disappearing during lunch. It hadn't just sparked a general curiosity. It had proven lethal.

So who had done it? And what was Georgia doing roaming about at that hour? Could she be responsible for two murders? Daisy's instinct told her no. It wasn't because she didn't believe Georgia to be capable. As horrifying as it was, Daisy realized that she had to assume everybody was capable. But in Georgia's case, it wasn't logical. She had been weeping over Drew's body. She had repeatedly proclaimed her innocence, albeit with one word. Most important, however, Georgia had trusted Drew with a secret—a secret about something that she had seen the day before. She wouldn't have done that if she had killed Henry Brent. On the contrary, she would have kept her lips firmly zipped and not drawn any extra attention to herself.

Logic was the only thing Daisy had. Unfortunately, there was so little of it. But she needed every bit, desperately. That way she had something to focus on, something to keep her from breaking down completely at the thought of Drew lying dead on the cellar floor. The world outside the inn may have been quiet and at peace, but inside Daisy, a new storm raged—one of grief.

Time passed without notice. The room grew light. Brilliant bands of sunshine streamed through the windows. There were voices in the hall and downstairs. Pounding footsteps and loud exclamations. The inn's occupants were up, and Drew's body had been discovered. But neither Daisy nor her mama moved.

At some point, there was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” Lucy responded softly.

The door opened, and clicking heels entered the room. Daisy still didn't move.

“Oh, Ducky…”

Aunt Emily said no more. The accompanying sigh contained everything else. Her sorrow, her regret, her compassion, and her consolation.

Eventually Lucy began the conversation.

“We need to call the sheriff.”

“I already have,” Aunt Emily told her. “I talked to Janice at the office, same as Daisy did yesterday. I explained the situation in full. She understands that we can't wait any longer, that we need someone to come as soon as possible. She's working on contacting everybody—including Sheriff Lowell—as quickly as she can. Now that the snow has ended, it shouldn't be too long before they can reach us. The main problem is the lack of plows in the area. Janice says that more are on their way from Richmond, along with trucks filled with salt and gravel. We're at the top of the list. We just have to sit tight until they make it through.”

Lucy nodded. “How is everyone downstairs?”

“Pretty much like we are. Dazed and distressed. I'm most concerned about May. She's as pale as the ice on the porch, and she can't stop shaking. Edna and Parker have been trying their best with her, but I'm not sure how much good it's doing.”

“Perhaps a small glass of brandy?” Lucy suggested. “It does soothe the nerves.” Then she added, to her daughter, “Maybe you'd like a few sips, too, honey?”

Daisy didn't want to drink, whether it was a few sips or half a bottle. She wanted to turn back the hours of the clock and have it be two days earlier. Friday morning instead of Sunday. Then she could cancel the party, and none of this would ever happen.

After a long pause, Aunt Emily said, “I should get the woodstove started to heat the water for the coffee and figure out something for breakfast. I do wish Georgia would help, but she seems to have vanished.”

The remark reminded Daisy of what Drew had said when they were in Henry Brent's room. Georgia was so jumpy that if she was pressed too hard, she would likely clam up and disappear into some cranny, not to be spotted again until a week later. Seeing Drew dead and realizing that he had been murdered certainly could be traumatizing enough to make her go into hiding.

“I've looked in all the usual places,” Aunt Emily continued.

“You won't find her,” Daisy interjected. “Not until she's ready to come out, or you're willing to tear apart the walls in a full-scale search.”

Still sitting on the floor next to her mama's bed, she turned to meet Aunt Emily's gaze. The benevolent blue eyes were brimming with commiseration, ready to offer all the support that was needed. Daisy was grateful, but she shook her head. She didn't want to talk about what she felt. It was guaranteed to unleash a wellspring of emotion, and she wasn't so sure that she would be able to plug it again.

Aunt Emily seemed to comprehend and didn't press her. Instead she remained on the subject of Georgia. “But why wouldn't she come out? She doesn't have any more reason to be upset than the rest of us.”

“She found—” Daisy's voice quivered. She took a breath to steady herself. “Georgia found him before I did. I think she's pretty shaken up.”

“Well, she is young,” Lucy pointed out. “And we know very little about her upbringing or her past. This could be her first experience with…”

Although she let the sentence trail away, they all understood how it ended.
Death.
Sadly, death was no stranger to the three of them, but it might have been—at least prior to that weekend—to Georgia.

“She found him before you?” Aunt Emily echoed with a deep frown. “You don't think … I mean … She couldn't have—”

“No,” Daisy answered, quietly but firmly. “I don't think Georgia is the one who killed Drew.”

“Oh, honey,” her mama exhaled.

“There doesn't seem to be much reason for Georgia to have done it,” Aunt Emily remarked.

Her tone was matter-of-fact, and Daisy greatly appreciated it. Analyzing the situation rationally somehow made it hurt less.

“There's no reason for her to have killed Henry, either,” Daisy added.

“And we have to assume it's the same person, don't we?” Aunt Emily said.

“I don't see how it couldn't be.” Daisy rose and sat on the corner of the bed. “It's the only thing that makes sense. Why else Drew? It must have been because the killer got scared.”

Aunt Emily nodded. “So we have to go back to the beginning. We have to figure out why Henry—”

“But there could have been two,” Lucy mused.

They turned to her.

“Not two people acting separately,” she explained. “Two people working together.”

Daisy was thoughtful. There had been only one shadow at the edge of the kitchen on the night Henry Brent died. But it was possible that the shadow Lillian had seen on the landing shortly afterward wasn't the same. That could mean two people. Except two people managing not to make a sound while marching around the inn in the dark seemed unlikely, especially going up and down the creaking staircase. And Drew had heard only one voice arguing with Henry in the parlor.

“Who do you have in mind, Lucy?” Aunt Emily asked her. “You look as though you're referring to someone—or rather, two people—in particular.”

She hesitated. “I hate to accuse folks.”

“I really don't think this is the time to stand on scruples, Mama.”

“I know, honey. But I don't have any actual proof. And I can't be entirely sure of what I heard, because I only caught part of the conversation through the wall.”

Aunt Emily gasped. “It was the Lunts!”

“Now hold on, Emily.” Lucy sat up straighter in her bed. “I just told you I don't have any proof. All I know for certain is that Kenneth Lunt is awfully intent on buying the inn.”

“He and Sarah were talking about it again?” Daisy exclaimed.

Her mama nodded. “At length. But not so loudly as before. I had the impression that they were trying to be more careful.”

Daisy nodded back at her. “So what exactly did they say?”

“Well, Sarah started off by talking about how pretty the inn was and that everybody was so kind. I missed a part, then her tone changed and she said that she wanted to leave. She didn't like what happened to Henry.”

“None of us like what happened to Henry,” Aunt Emily responded briskly.

“But that doesn't sound as though she had a hand in his death,” Daisy said.

“Not at first,” her mama agreed. “Kenneth replied that she should stop being so squeamish. This is what they had decided on. They couldn't turn back now. They had to follow through.”

“Follow through?” Aunt Emily's brow furrowed. “Follow through on what?”

“Buying the inn from you. Kenneth said—” Lucy bit her lip, hesitating once more. Finally, with evident reluctance, the words came out. “He said that murder always lowers the asking price.”

 

CHAPTER

21

Murder always lowers the asking price.

Although Lucy had spoken them only once—quietly—the words seemed to echo around the room. Aunt Emily, who was rarely so staggered as to be speechless, stared at her with a jutting neck and a gaping mouth. For the first time in Daisy's recent memory, Aunt Emily looked old. Her immaculate silver hair had become a rumpled mass of washed-out gray. Her laugh lines had deepened into heavy creases. And her lips were thin and colorless.

The callousness of Kenneth's remark startled Daisy, too, but instead of being shocked into a stupor, her mind went immediately to Drew.

“When did the Lunts have this conversation?” she asked her mama, careful to keep her voice low in case they—or anybody else—were attempting to listen in.

“Early evening sometime. I didn't think to check the clock. It was after we lost power, but before everybody went to bed.”

“So Drew was still alive then.”

Lucy shuddered, grasping the implication. “I'm sorry, honey. So terribly sorry. It didn't occur to me that Kenneth could mean—that they might—”

Daisy shook her head. “You couldn't have known.”

“I never imagined…,” her mama continued mournfully.

Looking from one to the other with an expression of horrified disbelief, Aunt Emily stammered, “You think the Lunts wanted the inn so badly that they…”

“It's possible,” Daisy replied. “We said before that the same person, or two connected people, were in all probability responsible for both deaths. Why not husband and wife, who also happen to be house-hunting in the area? Sarah really likes this place, and Kenneth
really
likes getting his way. He has the necessary physical strength, and she's small enough to sneak around without making a sound.”

Aunt Emily stammered some more. “But to kill Henry … and then Drew…”

“If one murder doesn't get the desired result, try again.” Daisy's grief had begun to harden. “The more deaths, the better the price, from the Lunts' perspective.”

“That's what they think!” Lucy exclaimed with force. “They're never getting their grubby hands on the inn, are they, Emily?”

There was a pause as Aunt Emily's mouth closed, the color returned to her face, and she carefully smoothed her hair. The tough biddy was back, and she hissed with the ferocity of a snapping turtle.

“They ain't gettin' this house. I can assure you of that. Not even if it involves my own corpse.”

As morbid as the topic was, Daisy almost smiled. When Aunt Emily slipped into her heartiest Southern twang, she meant business.

“Of course, we can't be sure it was them,” Lucy said, taking a more pragmatic tack. “They could just be very interested in the inn and are hoping to get a good deal. They're simply capitalizing on the situation, so to speak.”

Aunt Emily's blue eyes blazed with anger. “What sort of loathsome people would capitalize on two dead bodies!”

Daisy was quick to motion that she should drop her voice.

“I don't care what they hear,” Aunt Emily went on at the same volume, not heeding her caution.

“You should,” Daisy responded, “because Mama is right. We don't have any proof, and we don't know anything for certain, other than that the Lunts seriously want to buy this place.” She remembered her phone conversation with Beulah from the previous morning and sighed. “I should have listened when Beulah said something was off with them. But I thought she was just having fun being suspicious, and she accused Lillian and Georgia, too.”