by Carol Miller
“Did you see them?” the deputy said to her.
“No.” Daisy shook her head. “The back door was closed when I arrived. There was no cream cheese anywhere.”
She glanced toward the storage rack next to the refrigerator. In addition to the old cookbooks, the wire shelves were stacked with supplies: measuring cups and bowls, long sleeves of cupcake liners, assorted jars of colored sprinkles. It all looked a bit tossed about from the man having crashed against the rack, but nothing appeared particularly out of place. There was a thicker dusting of flour than usual from what Brenda had thrown. And the blood smeared on the floor in front of the rack.
“There was no cream cheese anywhere,” Daisy repeated, eyeing the mahogany stains. A man was dead, and she was going to have to scrub away the last remnants of his life.
Deputy Johnson added a few final scribbles to his form. “Well, I think that about covers it. For now,” he emphasized. “If you remember anything more about the other two men, you should contact me immediately.”
Brenda nodded. Daisy went on staring at the floor. There was something red on the ground peeking out from under the edge of the wire rack. It wasn’t more blood, of that she was certain. The color wasn’t right. It was too bright, and the object itself was too solid.
“You should keep a sharp watch for anything out of the ordinary,” the deputy continued. “We’ll give the place a good once-over. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pull a clean print off the refrigerator or back door.” He rose from his chair.
Not hesitating, Daisy stood up with him. She had noticed something out of the ordinary, and she wanted to get to it before he did. Beulah yawned. As she stretched in her seat, her sneaker pushed against the cookbook that she had thrown down earlier. Quick to take advantage of the opportunity, Daisy picked up the book and returned it to the bottom shelf of the storage rack. At the same time, she quietly scooped up the enigmatic object from the floor and tucked it into her pocket.
Turning back to the group, she wondered if anyone had spotted her. Apparently they hadn’t. Beulah was picking cat hair off her clothes. Bobby was sound asleep. And Brenda was nodding at every sententious word from the deputy.
“Criminals make mistakes,” he pontificated. “That’s how we catch ’em, especially strangers. Strangers think they’re so clever, except they always leave a clue behind. Sometimes it can be hard to find. But that’s my job. The first clue is the most important, and I’ll be the one to find it.”
As he droned on, Daisy’s lips lifted into a slight smile. She was pretty sure that she was the one who had found the first clue.
CHAPTER
3
The sun had already sunk below the horizon before Daisy was finally able to lock the bakery doors and return home to the inn. She was mildly crabby and more than a little tired. Normally Sweetie Pies closed for the weekend at noon on Saturday. That way she and Brenda got a much-needed day and a half of rest before once again diving into the cornucopia of flour and sugar early Monday morning. But without Sheriff Lowell leading the charge, his office had moved slower than a confused turtle on the highway with their endless forms and toddling examination of the premises and even more toddling questioning of all the potential witnesses. The only good point from Daisy’s perspective was that at least the bakery didn’t miss out on a lot of sales. The potential witnesses had grown hungry over time and ended up purchasing just as many cookies, brownies, muffins, and scones as they had on the previous days. And they didn’t seem to be overly traumatized by the news that there had been a death by stabbing in the kitchen, which boded well for their return the following week.
Beulah spent most of the drive grumbling. She hadn’t been allowed to leave the bakery, so she had missed her chance to have Connor Woodley try to find—and hopefully also fix—the cause of the mysterious flood at the salon. She hadn’t been able to contact him on the phone again either, so her only hope was that he might be willing to come by tomorrow, which didn’t seem very likely considering that it was Sunday.
Brenda sat in the backseat, clutching Blot under one arm and her overnight bag under the other. She had looked so forlorn and frightened at the prospect of having to go back to her house all alone—with only her feline friend for comfort and protection—that Daisy had insisted on her spending the remainder of the weekend at the inn. Out of collective exhaustion, they had all piled into Daisy’s car. After a brief stop at Brenda’s to retrieve a few essentials for both her and Blot, they then proceeded to the Tosh Inn.
The venerable Victorian rose up in the gray dusk like a behemoth ghost awakening from its ancient grave. At night the shadows from the gables gave the stately house a forbidding air, but it wasn’t in any way a cold or unfriendly place. Daisy had found more hours of joy and solace than she could count sitting in one of the white-pine rocking chairs on the wraparound porch. Although she and her momma had moved to the inn out of necessity, they never lamented staying there.
“I’ll take Brenda upstairs and get her settled,” Beulah said, as they turned off the main road and traveled up the long driveway. “Meanwhile, you can share all the exciting news with Aunt Emily.”
Daisy gave a little snort. “Thanks so much.”
“Hey, it’s your bakery. That makes it your story.”
The snort repeated itself. “You can spin it however you like, but I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Me?” Beulah responded with exaggerated incredulity. “What am I trying to do?”
“You’re trying to avoid being in the room when I tell Aunt Emily that Deputy Johnson thinks strangers were involved.”
She groaned. “I can’t listen to another one of her speeches on strangers lurking.”
“That makes two of us.”
They shared a sigh as Daisy pulled the car into the row of parking spaces at the side of the inn.
“I do think steering clear of Aunt Emily tonight is a good idea,” Daisy said, shutting off the engine and climbing out. “After what happened today, a heavy dose of her could very well be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Somebody’s nerves,” she motioned surreptitiously toward Brenda, who was talking in a low tone to Blot, trying to keep the scaredy-cat calm while she prepared to remove him from the backseat, “might crack completely.”
Beulah took Brenda’s overnight bag, so that she had both hands free to carry Blot up the flagstone path to the house. “Now if we could only get inside without Aunt Emily hearing.”
“Fat chance. It’s why she keeps the front steps creaky and the screen door squeaky.”
“Maybe she’s on the back porch with your momma.”
Daisy shook her head. “Momma’s out this evening. She went to a lecture at the Pittsylvania Historical Society. It’s some sort of fund-raiser. I guess they’re really struggling to keep the doors open.”
“Aren’t we all these days? But I’m glad your momma felt up to doing that.”
“Me too. Except she’ll probably have to spend the whole next week in bed trying to recover from it.”
Beulah limited her reply to a sympathetic nod. They had reached the last flagstone on the path to the house. It was safer not to speak while standing directly before the porch. Old Southern homes had notoriously thin walls, and old Southern aunts had freakishly good hearing. The porch lights were on, but that meant very little. The porch lights were almost always on. Of more interest were the parlor lights. The parlor was the first room to the right of the front door. Its windows were fully lit. Although Daisy and Beulah would have dearly liked to see inside, they couldn’t. The lace sheers were drawn closed.
They leaned forward and listened. Voices. A conversation. It was too quiet to make out the words, but it was definitely coming from the parlor. Aunt Emily was entertaining. The two shared another sigh. There was no way to get through the entrance hall to the stairs without passing by the parlor. Aunt Emily would see them for sure. Their only hope was that she might be too engrossed in her company to pay much attention to them.
<
br /> “I can’t think of an alternative, can you?” Daisy whispered to Beulah.
“No, I’m sorry to say.”
“We might as well just get it over with then. But let’s try to make it quick. As soon as we’re done with all the obligatory niceties to whoever is in there, you get out and take Brenda upstairs. No lollygagging or extra talking.”
“Sounds like a plan. If you can just keep Aunt Emily occupied until we’re—”
“I can’t hold him much longer,” Brenda interjected, struggling to keep the desperately squirming and yowling cat in her arms.
They hustled Blot onto the porch before he could break free and race off into the night. As expected, the aged steps creaked under them. Daisy pushed open the front door with another heralding squeak. The response from inside the house was almost instantaneous.
“Ducky? Ducky, is that you?”
She took a deep breath. “It surely is, Aunt Emily.”
“Oh, good. I was wondering where you were. We were almost beginning to think you had gotten lost.”
“Is my momma back? How was the lecture? Is she feeling okay?”
“Lucy hasn’t come home yet. She’s still at the fund-raiser— Mercy me! What is that racket?”
If there had been any remaining possibility of sneaking Brenda by unnoticed, Blot unequivocally spoiled it. The kitty started shrieking like a furry banshee, no doubt just as tired and unsettled from the day’s troubling events as the rest of them. On top of that, he was now in a strange place—with strange smells and strange voices—and he was vociferously expressing his frustration in the only manner available to him.
“It sounds like a couple of sick sea otters that ate some bad clams for breakfast. You didn’t see anything skulking near the porch when you came in, did you, Ducky?”
Daisy couldn’t help chuckling. “No, Aunt Emily. There were no sick sea otters skulking near the porch.”
Aunt Emily whipped around the corner of the parlor into the entrance hall a moment later. She might have been closing in on seventy, but there wasn’t any evidence of it in her speed. There wasn’t even much evidence of it in her appearance. She was always fashionably dressed. Her silver hair was invariably well coiffeured. And her makeup was beyond reproach. Wrinkles or not, Emily Tosh was a handsome woman with shrewd blue eyes. Very shrewd.
“Mercy me!” she exclaimed again. “What a wonderful surprise! Why didn’t you telephone me, Ducky? You should have called ahead and told me that Brenda was coming along with you. I would have made something fancy for supper.”
“It wasn’t planned,” Daisy explained, truthfully enough. “We just decided at the last minute. I invited her to spend the weekend. I hope that’s not a problem. I was pretty sure there were empty rooms.”
“Of course it’s not a problem. We always have a room for Brenda—and Blot. But what on earth is wrong with him? Why is he crying like that?”
“Rough day. Kitty tantrums.” She nudged Beulah with her elbow.
Beulah moved closer to Brenda and started guiding her down the hallway. “Maybe once we get him upstairs,” she said. “Where there isn’t so much noise and people and excitement—”
“Is he hungry?” Aunt Emily asked. “Should I go dig around the kitchen? We must have something he likes to eat.”
“I think Beulah’s right,” Daisy responded swiftly. “The car ride over here was a tad much for him. Some quiet time in a room is probably just the thing he needs to—”
Although Beulah did an excellent job of standing in between Brenda and Aunt Emily, and she continued to herd Brenda and Blot toward the stairs, Aunt Emily was just too hospitable to the cat.
“You poor dear. So upset about a drive to the inn. How about a snack? Would you like a snack, Blot? Would that make you feel better?”
Taking a step forward, she reached out her hand to comfort the kitty. That was when she saw it.
“Is that blood on your sleeve, Brenda? Did he scratch you?”
There was a pause. Beulah looked at Brenda. Brenda looked first at Blot, then at Daisy. Daisy closed her eyes and waited.
“Hold up a minute,” Aunt Emily went on. “There’s blood all over your blouse. That can’t be from Blot scratching you. Are you okay, Brenda? Did you hurt yourself?”
The pause continued.
“Did you hurt yourself?” she repeated, her brow furrowing.
Brenda didn’t seem capable of answering. Her face was so wan and strained that she appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Daisy knew that she could no longer avoid giving Aunt Emily a full explanation, but Brenda certainly didn’t need to be part of it. In fact, Daisy had the distinct impression that if Brenda did become part of it, she would end up having to take her to the hospital for a nervous breakdown.
Daisy nodded at Beulah, who wrapped her arm around Brenda’s quivering shoulders and led her the rest of the way down the hall. Aunt Emily was astute enough to realize that something was seriously wrong and didn’t protest. She turned to Daisy.
“Ducky?”
“Let’s sit down, please.”
They headed toward the parlor. Aunt Emily glanced back at the staircase as Beulah, Brenda, and Blot disappeared up it.
“I hope she didn’t hurt herself too badly,” she mused.
“She’ll be fine,” Daisy replied. “I think she just needs a good night’s sleep. We all do.”
“You’re beginning to worry me, Ducky. Did something happen at the bakery?”
They turned the corner into the parlor. In the excitement of trying to get Brenda and Blot quickly and quietly to a room, Daisy had forgotten about Aunt Emily’s company. When she had first heard the traces of conversation outside the house, she had assumed that it was a neighborhood acquaintance who had dropped by for a cup of coffee and some friendly gossip. She didn’t expect to find Richard Balsam instead.
He was sitting in the scuffed leather smoking chair across from the settee, holding an etched crystal tumbler filled with ice and a generous serving of a chestnut brown liquid, most likely bourbon. Aunt Emily kept a well-stocked bar, but she liked to pour particular bottles at particular hours on particular days. Saturday evening was usually bourbon.
“Hello, Daisy.”
She gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Rick.”
Rick was Bobby’s brother—two years older and infinitely cleverer, dangerously so. Bobby may have been born a dim bulb, but he was a predictable dim bulb. Rick, on the other hand, was a wild card. He enjoyed playing games, trading favors, and holding an ace up his sleeve at all times. To his credit, Rick was good at keeping secrets. He was also good at philandering, carousing, and distilling corn whiskey. He supplied half the eastern seaboard with his illegal moonshine, making him quite wealthy and allowing him to buy huge tracts of Pittsylvania County land. That included Daisy’s childhood and ancestral home, which stuck deep in her craw no matter how hard she tried to be at peace with it. But copious money and property aside, Rick still drove an old pickup truck, wore construction boots and faded jeans, and slept in a dilapidated trailer so far out in the backwoods that there was no actual need for either his large number of dogs or his even larger arsenal, at least not in terms of personal protection.
“Why don’t you sit down and have a drink?” Rick said, giving Daisy an appraising gaze. “You look like you could use it.”
“Golly, thanks,” she muttered.
“Come on now. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I always think you’re mighty fine.”
She didn’t respond. It was safer not to. Rick was an undisputed snake charmer, and she didn’t have enough energy left to be as careful as she needed to around him.
“He’s right, Ducky,” Aunt Emily agreed. “You’re awfully pale. Take a seat, and I’ll get you a glass.”
Daisy sunk down on the settee. An instant later, she had an etched crystal tumbler in her hand. She didn’t bother asking what it contained. She didn’t care. After the day that she had had, any liquor was good liquor. She took
a drink. It was indeed bourbon. Sharp and bracing, exactly what she needed.
Aunt Emily pulled over a straight-backed chair from the tea table and settled herself on it. “Now let’s get down to business, Ducky. Does Brenda need a doctor? Should we call someone? How bad are those cuts?”
“Brenda cut herself?” Rick asked.
“No.” Daisy shook her head. “Brenda doesn’t need a doctor, not for that, at least. She didn’t cut herself.”
“But that blood…”
She took another drink. Long and slow. A mellow caramel flavor lingered on her tongue. It made her think that maybe she should come up with a few more items for the bakery that featured spirits. A brandy butter for the scones, perhaps. And something with rum. Rum and peaches would make a nice combination.
“But that blood,” Aunt Emily said again. “Brenda had all that blood on her blouse. If she didn’t cut herself—”
“It’s not her blood.”
“Not her blood?” Aunt Emily echoed.
Rick raised a curious eyebrow.
“It’s not her blood,” Daisy repeated. “And I can’t tell you whose blood it is, because he’s dead, and nobody’s been able to identify him yet.”
The eyebrow went higher.
She shrugged. “Three men broke into the bakery this morning. There was a bit of an altercation. Brenda picked up a knife and sort of stabbed one of ’em. It’s his blood.”
“Holy hell.” Rick shot forward in his seat. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” He leaned toward her and put his hand on her knee. “They didn’t hurt you, did they, Daisy?”
As much as she distrusted him, there was something so very warm and soothing about his touch at that moment, she didn’t push his hand away.
“I’m fine, Rick. Really.”
His dark eyes looked at her intently. “If they did anything—”