A Nip of Murder

by Carol Miller

  He sounded amused, like it was one of the wackiest ideas that he had ever heard of. But his sniggering reaction didn’t bother Daisy, because he didn’t have the full story about what had happened at Sweetie Pies—most important, of course, that there was a corpse involved. Rick, however, was less forbearing.

  “You won’t be laughing when they find your prints on them,” he snarled.

  “What!” Chris exclaimed. “My prints?”

  “Are you denying—”

  “Stop, Rick,” Daisy cut him off. “Just stop. You’re being ridiculous.”

  Rick clicked his teeth together. “Are you so confident, Daisy? It couldn’t possibly have been him and his pals? He knows about your bakery. He knows about this place. He was here Saturday night. Where was he Saturday morning?”

  “Oh, for the love of bacon, now you’re getting beyond ridiculous—” This time she cut herself off.

  Was Rick being ridiculous? Could there be some truth to his words? Could Chris have been one of the men who broke in to her bakery? On the surface it seemed absolutely incredible. Chris was so nice, and polite, and—aside from a smidge of trouble after consuming too much likker—upright. Furthermore, she didn’t think that he had even known about the theft until a few minutes ago. And he still didn’t know about the stabbing. So if Chris hadn’t known about either of the events, then he obviously couldn’t have been a part of them. Unless he was a darn good actor.

  Was Chris a good actor? Daisy had never considered it before, but the instant that the first drop of doubt entered her mind, a deluge followed. Had he offered to help her with the crates so that he could explain why his fingerprints were on them? Maybe that was the reason why he hadn’t wanted her to find the red rooster and the tractor road. If she didn’t find the nip joint, then she wouldn’t find her crates. And if she didn’t know that he had been there before, then she couldn’t put him together with any of it. It wasn’t a misunderstanding at all. Chris really had been keeping secrets—huge secrets.

  The more Daisy thought about it, the more it occurred to her that it actually could have been Chris. But not only Chris, or some stranger who was a career criminal, as Deputy Johnson presumed. It could have been anyone. Anyone who knew both about her bakery and the nip joint. That included Duke—and Connor—and even Rick. Beulah had said it at the outset. Rick could have stolen the cream cheese to get her attention. He clearly had enough men working for him to pull it off. The crates were sitting outside his nip joint, where he hadn’t expected her to go and find them. And now he was trying to push the blame onto Chris.

  It sounded outrageous, and it probably was outrageous. Except it made Daisy realize that she didn’t only need to be careful of the men inside the nip joint; she needed to be careful of just about everybody. Her momma and Aunt Emily were excluded, naturally. Brenda, Beulah, and Bobby were all accounted for in Sweetie Pies. And Laurel had been up in the woods. But otherwise, everybody in the area could have done it. They all could have taken the cream cheese, and they all could be looking for revenge for what had happened to their friend. There were so many possibilities, another with each passing second in Daisy’s mind.

  She understood that her best chance of narrowing down the list was to figure out why. Why walk off with ninety pounds of cream cheese? It couldn’t honestly be an attempt to get her attention, either from Rick or anybody else. Not when Brenda was the one who had been in the kitchen. It was far too silly and simplistic, especially considering that a man had ended up dead on the bakery floor as a result. There had to be more to it. A lot more.

  If only she had something to go on. But the cheese itself was so inane and worthless, not to mention perishable. It wouldn’t last long without refrigeration, particularly in southwestern Virginia in the middle of October. The days were still plenty warm, and the nights weren’t nearly cool enough to offset the warmth. Nor was it really feasible to buy and store a sufficient quantity of ice for the amount of cheese involved. That translated into a great pile of melted, mushy, stinking cream cheese rotting out there.

  Although Chris vehemently argued his innocence—while Rick just as vehemently scoffed—Daisy didn’t listen to them. She was too focused on loading the crates wrapped in their protective blanket cocoon into her trunk. No one but the law was going to touch those crates. No one was even going to get near them. They were her only chance for answers. And she had a very bad feeling that if she didn’t find some of the answers soon, much more than cheese was going to turn rotten.

  CHAPTER

  12

  “I was thinking that maybe we should have a little get-together for Laurel,” Aunt Emily proposed.

  Daisy nodded.

  “A sort of combination bridal shower and bachelorette party.”

  She nodded again.

  “As far as I can gather,” Aunt Emily went on, “none of her friends or family are in the area—other than her brother, of course. And he can’t be expected to host anything, not properly at least.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How about Friday in the afternoon? After the bakery closes. Would that work for you, Ducky? I figured we could have a few drinks and some snacks here at the inn, and it could go on for as long as everybody was interested, with the older ladies bowing out early if the younger ladies wanted to get a bit more rowdy or take things elsewhere later on.”

  The nodding continued.

  “Are you planning on being open on Saturday at all?” Aunt Emily asked, as she patted her head to check for any wayward silver strands. Even at the crack of dawn, her hair was perfectly done and her raspberry lipstick was in place. “I wasn’t sure if you and Brenda were going to try to squeeze in a couple of hours of business before the wedding, or if you needed that time to finish the cake.”

  “I’ll have the cake ready on Friday,” Daisy answered distractedly.

  “In that case, should we make it later on Friday afternoon or in the early evening instead for the get-together? I don’t want to rush you if—” Breaking off, Aunt Emily tapped the toe of her shoe against the scrolled table leg impatiently. “Are you paying attention to a word I’m saying?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then why do you keep looking out that window?”

  When she didn’t immediately respond, Aunt Emily rose from her chair and circled around the dining table, stopping at the set of french doors nearest to Daisy’s seat. She stood so close to the doors that her nose nearly touched the glass.

  “There isn’t anything interesting out this way. The blue asters—that old hand pump from the well—your car. What are you staring at, Ducky?”

  She was staring at her trunk. She had left the cream cheese crates inside it, and they had bothered her the whole night. Daisy had woken up every hour, thinking that she heard noises outside. Someone had followed her from the nip joint and was now breaking in to her car to steal the crates. But it ended up being a lot of wasted worry, because with the light of day she found her car, the trunk, and all three crates untouched.

  “I would say that you were hiding a man.” Aunt Emily’s shrewd blue eyes turned to her. “But then you’d be looking at the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, not at the flagstone path heading down to the parking spaces.”

  Daisy smiled. Aunt Emily had a remarkable ability to bring romantic trysts into the most unromantic of conversations.

  “Oh, honey! What a wonderful surprise to find you here this morning!”

  Her smile flew to the doorway leading to the hall. “Hey there, Momma!”

  Lucy Hale entered the dining room with slow but steady steps. She had the thin limbs and sunken cheeks of long-suffering illness. Her hair was a pale blond that matched her pallid skin. Unlike Aunt Emily, she wore no jewelry or makeup. But she was dressed for the day, and even in her sickly state, she carried herself with grace and confidence. The ghost of a once stunning woman lingered beneath the decaying body.

  “Such a treat! We so rarely get to eat breakfast together,” Lucy said to her
daughter.

  “I know.” Daisy sighed. “I wish we could do it more often, but unfortunately, the goodies don’t bake themselves.”

  “Just imagine if they could!” Her momma laughed. “The world would be overrun by poppy seed bagels.”

  “Cement doughnuts,” Aunt Emily retorted. “That’s what bagels are. Nothing more than cement doughnuts.”

  Still laughing, Lucy began to pull out a chair at the dining table. Daisy promptly stood up.

  “No, no,” her momma chided her. “Sit down, honey. I don’t need any help. I’m entirely capable of buttering my own toast, thank the Good Lord.”

  Daisy hesitated. Putting a firm hand on her shoulder, Aunt Emily pressed her back into her seat.

  “You stand enough during the day, Ducky.” She walked over to the buffet and picked up the china teapot with its gold-leaf trim. “I can certainly pour your momma a cup.”

  “Have you decided to start opening the bakery later on Wednesdays?” Lucy asked, shaking out a starched linen napkin and spreading it on her lap. “Or do I have my days confused? It is Wednesday, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Daisy confirmed. “And no, we’re still opening at the same time. But I’m going in a little later this morning. The geocachers are gone now—or most of them are—so we aren’t nearly as busy. I prepped everything yesterday afternoon, and Brenda volunteered to be the early bird today.”

  Aunt Emily clucked her tongue. “How is poor Brenda doing? Better, I hope?”

  “Much better. She’s not jumping like a spooked jackrabbit at every noise anymore.”

  “I don’t blame her one bit for being spooked,” Lucy said. “I do wish they would hurry up and figure out who’s responsible. It makes me worry so. I’ve been worrying ever since you told me about it.”

  “There’s no need to worry,” Daisy responded hastily, not wanting to cause her momma any extra stress. She was weak enough already. “We have new locks on the doors and windows and a temporary security guard.”

  Lucy’s eyes flickered in surprise.

  “A security guard!” Aunt Emily cried.

  Daisy wasn’t eager to explain, but she didn’t have much of a choice. “Courtesy of Rick,” she said dryly.

  Although the two women glanced at each other, neither spoke a word. Aunt Emily poured the tea, while Lucy reached for the honey pot.

  “Before I forget,” Daisy added, happy to switch the subject, “I finished the banana pudding for the lecture at the historical society this evening. I can drop it off there in the afternoon, if that’s convenient.”

  “That would be great!” her momma exclaimed. “Thank you, honey. The timing couldn’t be better. After what happened over the weekend, we really need this fund-raiser to be our best yet.”

  “What happened over the weekend?”

  “Somebody smashed in one of the society’s windows with a beer bottle.”

  “Hooligans,” Aunt Emily declared.

  Daisy frowned at her momma. “You didn’t tell me this before.”

  “It wasn’t a crisis,” Lucy replied calmly, stirring the honey into her tea. “Just one window. Except the insurance deductible is so high, the society will have to pay to fix it itself. That’s more money we simply don’t have.”

  “When was this exactly?” Daisy asked.

  “Well, it was only discovered yesterday. The window belongs to the back conference room, and that room rarely gets used. But the inside of the frame and the rug on the floor were wet from blowing rain, so it probably happened Sunday night. As you may recall, we had that heavy shower early Monday morning. At least that’s Deputy Johnson’s best guess.”

  At the mention of Deputy Johnson, Daisy’s frown deepened. “Was anything taken?”

  Her momma nodded. “A couple of maps that were hanging on the walls.”

  “Maps? Were they valuable?”

  “Not at all. At least, nobody at the society who knows about these things thinks so. They’re old, but apparently not really old for maps—mid-or late-nineteenth century. I’m told they aren’t anything special. Just some parts of Pittsylvania County, mostly around the mountains. Even the society wasn’t particularly interested in them, which is why they were put in the back room to begin with.”

  “If they’re not collectible,” Aunt Emily mused, “then it sure is an odd thing to steal.”

  “Collectible or not,” Daisy returned, “stealing semi-old maps still makes a heck of a lot more sense than stealing cream cheese.”

  Lucy nodded again. “Deputy Johnson thinks that it might be the same people.”

  “Right!” Daisy burst out laughing. “An evil cream cheese–Pittsylvania County map syndicate.”

  Aunt Emily gave her a stern glance. “Strangers lurking in the neighborhood and causing trouble is no joke, Ducky.”

  “Oh, Aunt Emily,” she groaned, “please don’t start with the strangers lurking—”

  “Mercifully,” Lucy interjected, “there wasn’t anyone harmed at the historical society, unlike that sad soul at Sweetie Pies. Not that I’m blaming Brenda for it in the slightest. She was right to protect herself the way that she did.”

  “What makes Deputy Johnson believe the two thefts might be related?” Daisy asked. “The places aren’t at all near each other. It was the same weekend, but aside from that I don’t see the connection.”

  “I don’t honestly know.” Her momma took a sip of tea. “Maybe it’s because neither one seems the least bit logical. Together they somehow become more rational.”

  Daisy remembered the crates in her trunk. “I was going to call him today besides, so I guess I can ask him about it then. Even though I doubt he’s going to tell me anything new. Last I heard, they hadn’t even identified the man who died yet.”

  “Not yet!” Aunt Emily echoed in amazement. “How hard can it possibly be? He’s still got his hands and teeth and face, doesn’t he? Can’t they use one of those to figure out who he is?”

  Both mother and daughter grimaced.

  “It isn’t like Brenda flambéed him,” she continued.

  “Not at breakfast, please,” Lucy reproached her.

  Aunt Emily smiled.

  Although she made an effort to maintain a somber expression, Daisy said, “Brenda never did care for crème brûlée.”

  Not even her momma could keep from cracking a grin at that.

  “Speaking of desserts,” Aunt Emily remarked after a moment, “I don’t want you to think that you need to do any baking for the get-together on Friday, Ducky. I’ll take care of everything, food included.”

  Reaching for an apple in the fruit bowl, Daisy nodded gratefully.

  “But I was hoping that you could be the one to talk to Laurel about it. You’ve had the most contact with her, after all. And she’ll probably be more excited if the invitation comes from a person nearer to her own age, instead of a shriveled biddy.”

  “Gracious!” Lucy chortled. “If you’re a shriveled biddy, what on earth does that make me? A withered and molting hornworm?”

  “Pish, pish. You’re a good ten years younger than I am, Lucy. Not to mention ten times lovelier, even on the worst of days. So I don’t want to hear any such nonsense. And furthermore, hornworms don’t molt.”

  “They don’t? I always thought…”

  Taking a bite of apple, Daisy checked her watch. She had no time for hornworms, molting or otherwise. It was time for her to get to work. As she rose from the table, her momma interrupted the speech that Aunt Emily had just commenced on the myriad differences between the equally fascinating tomato hornworm and tobacco hornworm.

  “Must you leave already, honey?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You’ll ask Laurel, won’t you?” Aunt Emily prodded her.

  “I will,” Daisy agreed. “This afternoon.” She looked at her momma. “After I drop off the pudding.” Then she added silently to herself, And I bring the crates to Deputy Johnson.

  “I didn’t see Beulah last night,” Aunt E
mily said. “Did you, Ducky? Do you know how the repairs on the salon are coming?”

  “I didn’t see her either, but I did see Duke.” She headed toward the doorway that led to the hall. “I think he and Connor need to speak with you.”

  “They did already—yesterday morning. They wanted permission to dig in the yard. They think the problem has to do with the line from the well.”

  Daisy’s feet moved a little faster, anticipating the ill-fated direction of the conversation. “Apparently there’s some question about that now, and they have to do more digging to figure out what’s going on.”

  “What!” Aunt Emily screeched like an agitated barn owl. “How much more digging?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “They sure as heck better not be expecting me to shut off the power to the well for all that digging. The inn uses the same well as the salon, you know. No power means no water for us.”

  Not able to restrain the mischievous imp perched on her shoulder, Daisy gestured toward the french doors and said with a chuckle, “There’s always that old hand pump out there, Aunt Emily. If you start soon, you should be able to get enough buckets for your bath this evening.”

  Lucy nearly spit out her toast in amusement. Aunt Emily’s nostrils flared.

  “You won’t find it so funny, Ducky, when you don’t have water to make your coffee tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t worry,” Daisy responded in an attempt to mollify her. “If you do have to shut off the power to the well—which I highly doubt—I’ll get the guard at the bakery to come over and do the pumping. You should see Caesar’s arms. They’re as big as rain barrels. I’d wager that he could fill up every tub, sink, pot, and ice cube tray in the whole inn before you even finished your first glass.”

  The nostrils quieted. The only thing that comforted Aunt Emily more than her Remington was her nightly snort.

  Daisy glanced at her watch again. Now she was really getting late. Just as she was about to hurry out of the dining room, her phone rang.

  “Hey, Brenda,” she said, answering it. “I’m awfully sorry. I’m leaving the inn right this second, so I’ll be there in—” She was cut off by what sounded like extremely labored breathing.