An Old-Fashioned Murder

by Carol Miller

  “Who?” Rick and Beulah chorused.

  “Bud Foster. He showed up on the porch shortly before we discovered Henry. He said that he got lost and his car went into a ditch near the inn because of the storm. But his story seemed slightly off. He looks…” Daisy searched for the right word. “Rough. Almost like he’s been living in his car. Only, I don’t think that he has. He definitely isn’t a fool. He was the first one to suggest calling the sheriff.”

  “If he did that,” Rick mused, more to himself than to them, “then he can’t be running from the law.”

  “What does Drew think about everything?” Beulah asked Daisy.

  “Drew?” Rick’s voice stiffened. “Is he at the inn?”

  Beulah tittered. “Of course he’s at the inn. Thank him again for letting me use his truck last night, Daisy. It really helped in getting here. The roads were already pretty bad. But I’m afraid I probably won’t be able to get it back to him today.”

  “He won’t care,” Daisy said. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

  “No, he’s not. Drew’s at the inn for the entire weekend.”

  From her tone, it was clear that Beulah was directing the statement at Rick, no doubt to needle him. Evidently their brief moment of harmony had passed.

  There was a tense silence, then Rick snickered. “He must be having a miserable time with Lillian. We all know how devoted and protective she is when it comes to dear Matt.”

  Rick was spot on, unfortunately, but Daisy wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of telling him that. She changed the subject.

  “I’ve got to go. My mama needs her cough medicine, and I still haven’t given Bud his room.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as it looks like I’ll be able to get out of here,” Beulah said.

  “Sounds good—”

  “You have to be careful, Daisy,” Rick interjected.

  “She’ll be fine,” Beulah responded. “She’s got Drew.”

  “What good is he going to do?” Rick scoffed. “He obviously couldn’t help Henry.”

  That launched a spirited rebuttal from Beulah on Drew’s many manly virtues, followed by an even snappier retort from Rick on how those supposed virtues hadn’t done a lick to stop a secretary from crushing Henry Brent. The exchange had the hallmarks of becoming a long argument.

  As she hung up the phone, Daisy drew an unsteady breath. Rick’s words lingered in her mind. Twice he had told her that she needed to be careful, and she was beginning to have a worrisome feeling that he might be right.

  CHAPTER

  13

  “That’s the room key?” Bud said, frowning at the large, tarnished brass key in Daisy’s hand.

  She nodded. “Aunt Emily is a bit old-fashioned when it comes to locks. She doesn’t like those coded cards they use at hotels.”

  “I assume since I didn’t see one in the entry downstairs that she also doesn’t like security systems?”

  “Not if they’re electronic.” Daisy suppressed a smile as she thought of Aunt Emily’s shotgun on the pegs in the kitchen. At the same time, she noted to herself that in addition to not being a fool, Bud Foster was evidently quite observant.

  “The thing is humongous,” he muttered, watching her push the clunky key into the matching brass lock on the door.

  “And heavy,” she added, for no reason other than it was true.

  “Then how does anyone carry it in their pocket?”

  “They don’t, usually. Either they drop the key off with Aunt Emily when they go out, or they just leave the door unlocked.”

  Bud stared at her with his red-ringed, bloodshot eyes.

  “If it’s any comfort,” Daisy said, “there hasn’t been a theft at the inn for years. We don’t get many complete strangers to begin with. Most of the guests have some connection to the neighborhood. And because of all the creaking and squeaking when it comes to the porches and doors, no one can go in or out without everybody noticing. So folks don’t generally walk off with other folks’ hats and trousers.”

  He raised a bushy, skeptical eyebrow.

  She could only shrug as she turned the knob and swung open the door. “Welcome to the Joseph E. Johnston.”

  The room was snug and pleasant, one end tucked up into the attic. It was a favorite with Brenda when she occasionally spent a night or weekend, because it had an excellent view of the fuchsia rhododendrons surrounding the gazebo. They weren’t blooming in February, of course. Now they were being pummeled with wind and snow.

  Bud walked through the doorway, glanced once around, and immediately said, “Isn’t there anything else?”

  It was Daisy’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with the room?” she asked, her voice frosty.

  If there was, she certainly couldn’t see it. The Joseph E. Johnston was warm, clean, and, even with the unfriendly conditions outside, cheery. Daisy couldn’t help thinking the man should be a little more grateful that he wasn’t stuck in his car, freezing into an ice cube.

  “No. Not a problem.” He spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with care. “But it’s the third floor. Don’t you have something lower?”

  Lillian had objected to being on the third floor, too, although that was because she enjoyed being indignant and complaining about whatever she could—in this case, an extra set of stairs. Bud Foster didn’t seem like a habitual complainer, and he didn’t have any apparent difficulty climbing the stairs, so Daisy knew there had to be more to the request.

  “I’m sorry,” she responded lightly, “but there isn’t another room available on any floor. This one is only empty because the woman who was going to stay here couldn’t make it through the storm.”

  Bud appeared thoughtful. “Who else is on the third?”

  That was a mighty interesting question, considering that he was supposedly a lost and stranded motorist and therefore not acquainted with anybody at the inn. Daisy’s doubts about his story were starting to grow.

  “Georgia’s room is up here,” she said. “Lillian and Parker’s also.”

  She watched him curiously, wondering how much that would mean to him, particularly since she didn’t use surnames or offer any additional elucidation. But Bud’s expression remained flat, telling her nothing.

  “There are four doors in the hall,” he observed.

  “Three bedrooms and one storage room, with steps up to the attic.”

  “And who’s on the second floor?”

  There were eight bedrooms on the second floor. Four were permanently—more or less—occupied by Daisy, her mama, Beulah, and Aunt Emily. The other four were allocated for the weekend to Drew, Edna and May Fowler, and the Lunts. It wasn’t any sort of a secret who was where. The rooms were all plainly marked, and every door was visible along the hall. But Daisy didn’t feel like giving Bud a comprehensive list, let alone drawing him a map. If he was that interested, he could simply pay attention and figure it out for himself.

  “Everyone else is on the second floor,” she told him.

  Bud’s gaze flickered, and Daisy could see that it was not the answer he wanted, or expected.

  “What about that man?” he inquired brusquely. “The old fellow who died. Where was his room?”

  She blinked at him in surprise. “Downstairs, on the other side of the dining room.”

  “Why can’t I have that one?”

  Daisy bristled. It was no longer a request for a different room. Now it had become a demand for Henry Brent’s room. Beyond being rude and aggressive, it also struck her as odd. Very odd. What was wrong with the Joseph E. Johnston on the third floor? Was it too close to someone else? Too far from someone else? Or maybe there was something specifically about Henry Brent’s room that drew Bud to it. But why on earth would anyone want a dead man’s room?

  They were questions that she couldn’t answer. But Daisy was sure of one thing. She was not giving Henry Brent’s room to Bud Foster. Except she had to give him a reason, a solid excuse that he couldn’t argue
with. She remembered how Bud had said that there needed to be an investigation. An investigation surely included looking at the deceased’s room, and that meant no one else could be allowed in before Sheriff Lowell had been there.

  She shook her head. “The room is off limits until the sheriff has given his okay. So it’s either this room,” Daisy concluded firmly, “or the rocking chairs outside on the porch.”

  For a moment, she had the impression that Bud might suggest an alternative, like sleeping on one of the settees in the parlor, but then he seemed to change his mind and decided to accept the Joseph E. Johnston, after all. It was a wise choice. Wartime aside, Aunt Emily would never allow anyone to camp in the parlor, and the rocking chairs on the porch didn’t offer hot coffee or after-dinner cordials.

  Sliding the black duffle bag that he was carrying off his shoulder, Bud tossed it next to the bed. It landed on the wooden floor with a heavy thump. Daisy’s first reaction was annoyance, because the noise had probably woken up her mama, whose room was directly below. Then she thought of how the bag had been one of the things that made her mistrustful of Bud and his story to begin with, and she used it as an opportunity to go digging.

  “It was awfully smart of you to bring that bag along from your car,” she remarked, her tone sweet in an effort to sound more complimentary than suspicious. “Especially since you didn’t know this place was an inn.”

  Bud turned to her.

  “Now it would be nearly impossible to get anything out of your car with all the snow,” Daisy continued. “What road did you say you were on when you went into the ditch?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I got lost.”

  “Yes, of course. And where were you headed?”

  “I had an appointment.”

  “Oh, dear.” She widened her eyes like a guileless lamb. “Well, at least they can’t be too upset with you for not making it. It’s not your fault, after all. You can’t control the weather. Have you been able to reach them? Would you like to use the inn’s phone?”

  “I have a phone,” Bud informed her.

  “Yes, of course,” Daisy said again. “But didn’t you mention something about not being able to get a signal in your car? I thought you might still be having trouble, considering the terrible conditions outside. We could also look up a number for you, if you needed. Who was your appointment with?”

  Bud flinched. It was so slight that ordinarily it would have gone unnoticed. But while intentionally chattering like a perky hen, Daisy was also scrutinizing the man closely. Tiny as it was, the balk was enough to confirm to her that something about his story was most definitely fishy.

  “I do hate missing appointments,” she chirped on. “My friend Beulah almost missed one herself yesterday evening because of the storm. I hope yours wasn’t too important. Will you be able to reschedule?”

  “It’s no big deal,” Bud replied, giving an inconsequential shrug. “Door-to-door life insurance. That’s my line. I schedule and reschedule all the time. In the end, I get there when I get there.”

  “How interesting,” Daisy drawled. “I didn’t realize that anyone still did door-to-door life insurance sales.”

  “Indeed they do. An excellent business. Booming.”

  An excellent and booming business, door to door on a Friday night, in a rural area during a winter blizzard? That didn’t just smell fishy. That stunk like a passel of skunks.

  “Everybody you know needs life insurance,” Bud told her with gusto. “Everybody wants a good send-off.”

  Daisy was tempted to respond that on the contrary, she did know someone who no longer needed life insurance, and she was quite confident that Henry Brent was past caring about his send-off. But she shrewdly stayed silent.

  Bud’s chapped lips curled into a crooked grin. “Never too young or too old, too healthy or too ill for life insurance. That’s my motto.”

  He sounded like he was playing a part, reading aloud from a script or advertising brochure, and it gave Daisy an idea.

  “Do you have a business card?” she said.

  The grin vanished.

  “And an informational pamphlet? I think my mama and I might be interested in getting some of that insurance.”

  “I…” Bud started patting his pants’ pockets. “Well, I…”

  Daisy’s nose twitched. It was exactly as she had supposed. The man’s story was a bunch of hooey. It might have been reasonably well rehearsed and constructed with sufficient detail to be passable to someone who wasn’t paying too much attention, but it was still hooey.

  He continued patting. “I can’t seem to find any at the moment…”

  She swallowed a chuckle, waiting to see how long the faux search would last.

  “Maybe in here…” Bud fumbled with his trench coat.

  A folded newspaper, accompanied by a mass of crumpled tissues, fell from the coat onto the floor. The tissues looked used and wet, and Daisy—ever the waitress—promptly reached for the little wicker wastebasket in the corner by the bath.

  Bud mumbled a halfhearted apology while she collected the unappetizingly soggy wad. Daisy gingerly lifted the damp newspaper with two fingers to avoid staining her entire hand with ink. It was a small local paper. The sports section was turned up, with an article about the new baseball coach at the community college in Rocky Mount.

  “Do you want to keep it?” she asked Bud.

  “No.” His back was turned toward her. He had given up searching for the elusive business card and informational pamphlet, and had moved on to brushing off his coat and hanging it in the armoire.

  Setting the paper in the wastebasket, Daisy noticed that a photograph accompanied the baseball article. Although not in color, it was large enough for her to see the age, build, and general appearance of the new coach. He was about thirty years old, tall and fit, trim and tidy. According to the caption, his name was Bud Foster.

  Startled, she looked up at the man standing in front of the armoire. He was twenty years older, thirty pounds heavier, unkempt and unshaven—clearly not the same Bud Foster. What a strange coincidence. And then it occurred to Daisy that maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t only his story that stunk. It was Bud himself, because he wasn’t actually Bud Foster. That was just a name he had seen in the newspaper. A name that he had assumed somewhere between the door of his car and the door of the inn.

  Daisy’s mouth opened, ready to accuse the man of being a liar and demand an immediate explanation for his deception. But a second later, she shut it again as Rick’s warning echoed in her head. She needed to be careful. She had already pressed Bud—or whatever his real name was—hard enough for one day, or at least for that morning. She didn’t know how he might react if she confronted him with the truth.

  Reluctantly, Daisy returned the wastebasket—with the newspaper—to its corner. She wanted to take the paper along as evidence to show Aunt Emily and the others, but she worried that it would be too obvious and put Bud on guard. It would be better if he believed that his secret remained safe, even if only temporarily.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled,” Daisy said, forcing herself to be polite and composed.

  Still busy at the armoire, he grunted a word of thanks.

  “The key is in the lock,” she added, before slipping as quickly as she could out of the room and away from Bud Foster.

  CHAPTER

  14

  “He said he had appointments and his business was door-to-door sales?” Aunt Emily asked Daisy.

  “That’s right,” she answered. They were sitting in her mama’s room as Lucy finished a late breakfast, Daisy on the foot of the bed and Aunt Emily in the yellow painted rocker across from her.

  “What utter rot!” Aunt Emily exclaimed. “It’s either door to door or appointments. It can’t be both.”

  “I think the more important point,” Daisy’s mama interjected, gazing contemplatively at a last bite of toast, “is his name. Could it be a coincidence?”

 
“No, it could not, Lucy. Absolutely not!”

  That was as agitated as Daisy had seen Aunt Emily in some time, but she wasn’t surprised, and she didn’t blame her in the least. Aunt Emily had been circumspect toward Bud Foster from the moment she saw him standing in the doorway of the inn. She had been reluctant to shake his hand and invite him into her home in the middle of the night, and her misgivings had been proven correct. Now she had someone that she didn’t know, didn’t trust, and who was in all likelihood a fraud occupying one of her rooms.

  “I agree. It’s too…” Lucy wiped the crumbs from her fingers, then set the napkin on the tray at her side. “… too improbable. If everything else were going for him, I might be more inclined to believe it. But there’s his peculiar arrival, and him having the newspaper in his coat as though he had just read it and picked up the name, and you both said that he didn’t seem quite right from the outset.”

  Aunt Emily sniffed defensively. “I only let him in because of the weather.”

  “Of course.” Lucy nodded. “It would have been uncharitable not to.”

  Her approbation seemed to soothe Aunt Emily, who nodded back at her.

  “So what do we do with him now?” Daisy asked.

  “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do,” Aunt Emily responded, more cheerfully. “I’d like to give the man a good punt in the rear. It would teach him a lesson.”

  Lucy chuckled. “That it might, but it still wouldn’t solve the problem.”

  “Well, something has to be done,” Aunt Emily went on. “We can’t allow a potentially crazed criminal to run willy-nilly around the place.”

  “Rick doesn’t think that he’s a criminal,” Daisy said.

  “Rick?” her mama and Aunt Emily echoed in astonishment. They exchanged a glance.

  “Yes, Rick,” Daisy returned dryly. “And there’s no need for that look. We haven’t been whispering sweet nothings. I called Beulah earlier to check on her and tell her about Henry—”

  “Beulah’s with Rick?” Aunt Emily’s blue eyes bulged like a trout’s.