by Carol Miller
Daisy frowned at the phone. Even for Beulah, that seemed to be going to the extreme. Henry and Drew weren’t captive birds. They didn’t need to be set free. And they had both held their own against Lillian quite well, particularly Henry, who had given just as good as he had gotten from her, if not better, even.
If they were going to look at every possibility—which at this point, they clearly needed to do—Lillian could certainly be considered a suspect. Henry’s teasing had vexed her to no end, and Drew had interfered with the potential happiness of her darling nephew. But putting Parker on the list was really a stretch.
“I don’t know,” Rick remarked doubtfully.
“You don’t know?” Beulah echoed in amazement. “You don’t know if Lillian could push Parker far enough to make him snap?”
“Oh, I’m sure she could. There’s no question Lillian could nag and criticize a man until he exploded like a tinderbox. But that’s just it. He would snap and—as you said—act irrationally. But neither of the deaths was like that. At least Henry’s wasn’t. It’s harder to know with Drew’s. The second could be a result of the first. It might not have been intended at the outset, but it became necessary in the end.”
“That’s what I think,” Daisy said. “Drew was getting too close, and the killer got nervous. They were worried about being exposed, and they probably panicked. With Henry, it seems more planned. Not brilliantly planned, mind you. Because then it wouldn’t have been done with a piece of furniture during a snowstorm and a party at the inn. But it still seems calculated to me. And Henry must have had some inkling, as well, considering that he took the Remington and hid it.”
“You do realize, Daisy,” Rick replied, “that if someone got nervous enough to kill Drew, you’re in serious danger.”
“Everybody here is, Rick.”
“Except everybody hasn’t been sharing their bed with Drew.”
For a second, Daisy flushed with resentment at his presumptuous tone. Then it occurred to her that he was right. She hadn’t actually been sharing her bed with Drew, but that wasn’t what mattered. They had been spending time together, and the entire inn knew it. If the murderer had indeed thought that Drew was getting too close, then it was only logical for the murderer to also assume that she wasn’t far behind. That was not good.
“Was Drew getting too close?” Rick asked her. “Did he know—or did he suspect—who the killer was?”
“No. At least not the last time I spoke with him. But he was trying to remember a voice that he heard arguing with Henry in the parlor. We both thought it was the voice of the murderer. Drew might have figured it out during the night and—”
“I still think it could be Parker,” Beulah interjected. “He’s such a nice guy. Nice guys tend to be the ones who have meltdowns.”
“But it doesn’t seem like a meltdown—” This time Daisy cut herself off. There was a strange noise coming from somewhere. “Do you hear that? Is it on my end or yours?”
“I don’t hear anything,” Beulah said.
“Me, either,” Rick agreed. “What does it sound like?”
Daisy listened. “Like a cat crying.”
“Brenda didn’t bring Blot, did she?” Beulah asked.
“No. Brenda isn’t here. She was worried about driving in the storm, and I suggested that she stay home.”
“At least that’s one person we don’t have to worry about,” Rick said.
“Small favors.” Daisy sighed.
She listened again. The noise was definitely on her end. It pitched high, then low, and then went high again. It could have been the television, but with the power out, that didn’t make sense.
“I think it’s coming from downstairs,” she told them.
“Ignore it,” Beulah said.
“I can’t ignore it.” Daisy rose and walked toward the door of her room.
“Yes, you can,” Beulah countered. “Your mama’s safe, so let them sort it out for themselves.”
“Except I don’t know what it is. And what about Aunt Emily?”
“Oh, Aunt Emily’s scrappy. There’s no need to fret about her. In the end, she’ll outlive all of us. Guaranteed.”
Rick chuckled. Under different circumstances, Beulah’s boundless confidence in Aunt Emily’s indestructibility would have amused Daisy, too. But Drew had been nearly forty years younger and a lot more fit than Aunt Emily—and he was dead.
She turned the knob, planning on starting with a cautious little crack until she got a better handle on what was happening. But the instant the door opened, it was obvious that the noise was neither a cat nor a television. It was a person wailing.
“Is that somebody screeching?” Rick said.
“I think it might be May.” Daisy moved into the hall, trying to identify the voice. “Or maybe Sarah Lunt.”
“Beulah’s right,” Rick informed her sternly. “Ignore it and stay in your room.”
“Of course I’m right…,” Beulah began.
Not listening to them, Daisy took several steps in the direction of the stairs. The voice became clearer. It was Aunt Emily. A moment later, her words became clear also.
“No, Parker! No!” she shouted. “Don’t kill him!”
CHAPTER
23
For a minute, Daisy stood motionless in the hall, wondering if her ears might have deceived her. Did Aunt Emily just yell something about Parker killing someone? Could Beulah indeed be right—not about her ignoring it and staying in her room—but about Parker being the murderer?
There were more noises downstairs. They seemed to be coming from the parlor, and it sounded like a struggle. Arms and legs scuffling. Furniture getting knocked to the ground. A shriek. And then Aunt Emily again.
“Please, Parker!” she implored. “Don’t do it!”
Daisy dashed toward the steps. She had already reached the landing before she remembered that she was still on the phone.
“I’ll have to call you back,” she told Rick and Beulah hastily.
In unison they protested and demanded to know what was going on, but Daisy was too busy thinking about Aunt Emily and Parker.
“I’ll call you back,” she said again, and then promptly hung up without waiting for a response.
She raced down the stairs and through the front entry. Her feet came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the parlor. Although she had expected some sort of an altercation based on the shouts and noises, what she saw still managed to startle her.
The normally sedate and stately parlor was in a complete uproar. It almost looked like the room had been flooded again—just as it had four months earlier, resulting in the renovations and the supposed party—only with significantly less water and more people.
The gold-brocaded settee usually occupied by Lillian and Parker was empty, its matching throw pillows scattered across the floor. Huddled into the corner of the emerald-brocaded settee was May Fowler, her lace handkerchief pressed to her face, half covering her eyes. The potted dwarf Meyer lemon tree lay at her feet, broken branches and soil spilling over the carpet. The candle stand that had been next to the plant was on top of it instead, one of its cabriole legs cracked and detached from the rest.
Lillian stood pressed against the wall in between the windows and the longcase clock, looking like she was tempted to burst through the glass and sprint outside, if there hadn’t been massive drifts of snow blocking her way. Kenneth Lunt was also on his feet, his cheeks florid and his fingers clutching the back of one of the damask armchairs. His wife stood partially concealed behind him. Her chair was tipped over.
Also tipped over was the chair that Bud Foster typically occupied, along with the neighboring tea table. Bud was in the scuffed leather smoking chair, with Aunt Emily standing on one side of him and Edna Fowler on the other. And in the center of it all was Parker. He was positioned in front of the smoking chair, leaning over Bud, his hands wrapped around Bud’s neck.
Aunt Emily and Edna were both trying to grab Parker’s arms, altern
ately 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.