Sociable and in need of extra income, Emily turned the family homestead into an inn. But the timing wasn’t good. Tourism in southwestern Virginia was on a steady decline. So she began to pick up neighborhood strays instead. Beulah arrived before Daisy. In an attempt to attract a few more visitors—if only just for gossip and a friendly cup of coffee—Emily encouraged Beulah to set up a little salon in an old potting shed on the property. The idea turned out to be remarkably successful for both of them, and soon Beulah traded in her shabby apartment and stale bologna sandwiches for a cheerful room and hot home-cooked dinners at the Tosh Inn.
Not long after, Daisy and her momma moved in. It was a natural enough arrangement. Emily was Daisy’s godmother, and Beulah was Daisy’s oldest friend. If the circumstances that prompted the move had been a little less unpleasant, everyone would have been quite happy. But as it was, the motley group got along fine, with only a few minor complaints, the most frequent being Aunt Emily’s shotgun.
Daisy was just about to slide onto the settee in the parlor and share with Beulah all that Rick Balsam had shared with her that day regarding Fox Hollow when the first thunderous boom emanated from the rear of the inn. It was followed in quick succession by another, which set all the decorative plates lining the walls of the room rattling.
“Aw jeez,” she groaned.
Beulah grimaced and nodded. “I told you she was out back.”
“But now? Does she have to shoot now?”
“Either she thinks the deer have been munching on her perennials again or she’s warning off all those vicious burglars who might be skulking around the neighborhood just waiting for an opportunity to prey on us helpless females.”
“But it’s the middle of the afternoon,” Daisy protested. “The deer aren’t out in the middle of the afternoon. Nor are any supposed burglars.”
Beulah smirked. “Try explaining that to Aunt Emily.”
Daisy rolled her eyes, then settled down on the settee. Beulah curled up in the scuffed leather smoking chair across from her.
“Okay, so what did that weasel Rick do this time?”
“You won’t believe it,” she began. “I can barely believe it. But Sheriff Lowell says it’s true. He saw a copy of the papers and—”
She was interrupted by a second set of thunderous, rattling booms.
“All right. That’s it.” Daisy popped back up. “My momma’s supposed to be resting, not getting her eardrums blasted to kingdom come.”
“I tried talking to her about it earlier,” Beulah said. “I told Aunt Emily some of my customers have been complaining. The main reason they come to the salon is to relax. They’re trying to get away from the fussing men and screaming babies. The last thing they want to do while they’re here is be stuck in the middle of an artillery range. But you know Aunt Emily. She’s like a rabid raccoon with that gun. She’ll probably insist on being buried with the damn thing.”
Daisy headed down the hall toward the kitchen. Beulah followed along. They stepped out onto the back porch just as the rabid raccoon was cracking open the breech of her beloved firearm for reloading.
“Ah, the girls,” she cried. “Just in time!”
“Hey there, Aunt Emily. Hey there, Momma.” Daisy went over to her mother, who was sitting quietly in a white pine rocking chair, and brushed back a few stray wisps of pale blond hair from her sunken cheek. “How are you today, Momma?”
Lucy Hale looked up at her daughter and smiled. “Hi, honey. I’m okay. I can’t complain. I got to come outside.”
“It is a pretty day, isn’t it?” Daisy frowned at the thick cotton quilt wrapped snugly around her momma’s thin legs. “Are you cold? You shouldn’t be. It must be at least eighty-five degrees out here.”
“With ninety percent humidity,” Beulah added sourly, trying without the least amount of success to press down her unruly mop.
“It’s those new drugs,” Lucy responded, taking her daughter’s hand from her cheek and squeezing it affectionately. “They just give me a chill, that’s all.”
“But are they making a difference?” Daisy asked anxiously. “The doctor said it might take a few weeks to see an improvement. He also said we should watch out for side effects. If you have any shortness of breath or—”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that now,” Lucy cut her off gently, squeezing her hand once more. “Not on such a beautiful afternoon. The sun shining. The breeze in the magnolias. And look at those zinnias, Daisy. Aren’t they the most beautiful scarlet you ever saw?”
Daisy glanced over at the pair of old barrels stationed at the corners of the porch that were overflowing with blooms. “They are lovely,” she agreed absently, more concerned with her momma’s wan complexion than the crimson flowers.
“The deer haven’t gotten them yet,” Aunt Emily said, pulling out the spent casings from her Remington.
“And they aren’t going to get them,” Beulah returned teasingly. “Not unless those deer are geniuses and can learn to climb a whole flight of stairs.”
Aunt Emily reached over to her needlepoint bag sitting on one of the empty rockers and began rummaging around inside. “They’ve taken all the phlox. There’s nothing left but a bit of stalk. Every last leaf is gone, not to mention the blossoms.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Daisy said, trying to be tactful. “But really, Aunt Emily, do you have to start shooting in the middle of the day? It’s not as if the deer are eating anything now. And if you keep firing willy-nilly you could actually hit someone.”
“So much the better. If they’re out there lurking, I hope to hit ’em. Serves ’em right for spying on us.”
Daisy and Beulah looked at each other and sighed.
“Nobody’s lurking,” Daisy argued.
“Nobody’s spying,” Beulah added.
“They could be,” Aunt Emily retorted decisively.
They sighed again. It was a useless debate, one that they would never win. Not with Aunt Emily.
“Found ’em!” She pulled a box of shells from the needlepoint bag. “And you’re just in time, girls.” She dropped two new shells into the breech and snapped it shut.
“Just in time for what?” Daisy asked hesitantly.
“Just in time to see me frighten the molasses out of whatever’s hiding in that holly back there.”
“You mean the holly next to the barn?” Beulah squawked.
“Surely.”
“But that’s got to be at least a hundred yards!”
“I reckon so.”
“You’re going to nick one of the horses,” Daisy said.
“Rubbish.” Aunt Emily raised the double-barreled 20-gauge to her shoulder. “I’ve been shooting since before you girls were even a gleam in your daddy’s eye. And shooting good, I might add.”
“Well, if we end up having to fetch the vet,” Daisy replied tartly, pulling a rocker next to her momma and taking a seat, “don’t expect us to make up some ludicrous story like last time. And I’m not fibbing to Sheriff Lowell about it either. He’s got enough going on with the diner today.”
Aunt Emily swiveled on her heel. “That’s right. The diner. I was meaning to ask you about that, Ducky.”
“Uh, Aunt Emily—” Beulah stammered, shrinking from the business end of the Remington that was now staring her in the face.
“Oh. Yes.” She lowered the gun. “Sorry about that, dear.”
Both Daisy and her momma chuckled under their breath. Emily Tosh had a gift for being sharp as a tack one second and scatterbrained as a day-old chick the next.
“So about the diner,” Aunt Emily said to Daisy, leaning her precious pet against the porch railing. “What was all the commotion?”
“There was a problem at the diner?” Lucy immediately asked her daughter.
Daisy hesitated, debating what to say. Evidently Beulah and Aunt Emily hadn’t told her momma about the ambulance or police cars, and she appreciated it. She didn’t want her worried and upset, especially not needlessly. The doctor
s had made it very clear that extra stress should be avoided at all cost.
Lucy’s smile faded to a frown. “You’re not having trouble with Hank, are you? Or Brenda?”
“No, of course not. They’re great.” Daisy shrugged, more to herself than the others. She couldn’t think of any reason why the news of old man Dickerson’s passing would cause her momma undue stress. “It’s Fred Dickerson. He—”
“Fred Dickerson?” she interjected. “Is he still living around here?”
“That’s what I said,” Beulah remarked, reclining on the porch swing.
“If he is, I’m surprised to hear it,” Aunt Emily returned. “I always figured Hank took care of him long ago.”
“What do you mean?” Daisy asked.
“What do you think I mean?” she answered with a small smirk. “I’m talking about Hank killing Fred and dumping his body somewhere.”
Beulah gasped. Daisy stared.
Aunt Emily clucked her tongue in amusement. “Oh, girls. Don’t look at me like that. You’re not two toddlers running around with your blankies and pacifiers anymore. This is real life. And real life has consequences.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Lucy mumbled.
Daisy turned to her momma with a gaping mouth. She knew firsthand that life had consequences, and as far as she was concerned, those consequences were all too frequently unpleasant. But life’s consequences or not, she was dumbfounded that Aunt Emily could talk so cavalierly about Hank murdering Fred. And she was even more dumbfounded that her momma didn’t appear to be the least bit shaken by it.
“You were saying something about Fred, Ducky?” Aunt Emily reminded her.
“I … He…” It took Daisy a moment to pick up her jaw off the porch. “Fred Dickerson is dead.”
“You’re sure?” her momma asked her.
She nodded.
“When did it happen?” Aunt Emily said.
“This morning. At the diner.”
Lucy and Emily looked at each other.
“Well, that’s another chapter ended.” Aunt Emily exhaled, closing the box of shells with firmness and tucking it back into her embroidery bag.
“It’s about time too,” Lucy agreed.
“Was it poison?” Aunt Emily wondered.
“Poison!” Beulah cried.
“Yes, dear.” Aunt Emily shook her well-coiffured head. “How else would Hank do it at the diner? Poison is the most logical choice. He’s the chef, after all. A sprinkle of cyanide in Fred’s hash browns. A dash of drain cleaner in his tomato soup.”
Beulah clutched her stomach with a nauseated expression that clearly stated she wouldn’t ever be able to eat another one of Aunt Emily’s home-cooked dinners.
“Now if it hadn’t been at the diner,” she went on, picking up her gun and wiping a smudge of grease from the stock with her thumb, “I would have guessed stabbing. Hank’s always been handy with a knife. Tool of the trade, I suppose. But then they’d never have found the body. And you saw the body, didn’t you, Ducky?”
Daisy sputtered out a garbled affirmative.
“That’s too bad,” Aunt Emily said. “It’s too bad Hank didn’t have time to get rid of it. It’s so easy to dispose of a body in these parts. You don’t even have to bury it. Just throw it out in the middle of the woods. Ashes to ashes and all that. The only worry you have is a hunter stumbling across it or somebody’s dog going digging and dragging. But you can avoid that if you go deep enough on a nice quiet posted property. No hunting allowed and too far off the road for anything to be running around sniffing that’s not feral.”
Beulah blinked at Daisy. Daisy blinked back at her. It wasn’t every day that they got instructions on how best to hide a corpse in the countryside.
Finally Daisy managed to say, “But Hank didn’t kill Fred.”
Aunt Emily stopped cleaning the Remington. “He didn’t?”
“No. Fred came in, had some sort of a stroke or seizure, and then collapsed. He didn’t eat anything.”
“Huh. That’s interesting. So it might not have been poison then.”
“They don’t know what it was,” Daisy told her. “Sue did think it was a little strange, so she had him taken to Danville for an examination—or autopsy—or whatever it is officially. And Sheriff Lowell called in the Danville forensics team.”
“Even more interesting.” Aunt Emily rubbed her palms together gleefully. “Hank planned better than I gave him credit for.”
With a loud snort, Beulah threw up her arms in frustration. “You’re talking nonsense, Aunt Emily. Absolute nonsense! Poison? Stabbing? Dumping a body in the middle of the woods? I think you’re the one who’s eaten some bad hash browns and tomato soup. Because everything you’re saying is just nuts.”
“And Hank!” Daisy exclaimed, in full accord with Beulah. “Hank’s been cooking at H & P’s since I was a baby. He’s never made a single person sick. At least not intentionally. Why would he want to hurt Fred Dickerson? It makes no sense. Nobody’s seen the man in ages. Everyone’s first question today was whether he even still lived around here. So if Fred hasn’t had contact with anybody, why would anybody—”
Her words fell away as it suddenly occurred to Daisy that maybe she was wrong. She hadn’t seen Fred Dickerson in years. Neither had Brenda or Sheriff Lowell. Rick had initially guessed that the ill man stumbling about the diner might be him, and she had agreed. But it was Hank who had positively identified him. And he did it without any deliberation, even with Fred’s long white beard and the foam covering his mouth and the fact that he didn’t utter more than a couple of syllables. Which made it seem awfully likely that Hank had seen Fred Dickerson much more recently than the rest of them.
“Ah,” Aunt Emily chortled, “the wheels are spinning, aren’t they, Ducky? You noticed something today, didn’t you? Something odd. Something that makes you think I may not be so out of my gourd after all.”
“No,” she protested. “I—”
Again she stopped. She remembered Hank’s strange lack of reaction. The rest of the group had been horrified at old man Dickerson’s collapse. Brenda had called the ambulance. Rick had tried to get a stool for him before he fell. Even the usually oblivious Bobby Balsam had turned queasy after Sue announced that he was dead. But not Hank. Hank had happily eaten peach cobbler and read the newspaper. The corpse lying on his diner floor might just as well have been a muddy sock someone had dropped.
“But—” Daisy frowned. “But why? There’s no reason.”
“Lucy?” Aunt Emily turned to Daisy’s momma.
She voiced no objection.
Aunt Emily looked back at Daisy. There was sympathy in her shrewd blue eyes—and also a hint of excitement—as though she didn’t want to hurt Daisy with what she told her but at the same time was eager to finally reveal a long-held secret.
“Frederick Dickerson,” she said, “was responsible for the death of your daddy.”
CHAPTER
4
“Are you sure you want to be here, Daisy?”
“You’ve asked me that three times already.”
“Yes, but—” Beulah looked at her anxiously.
Daisy lifted her bottle and took a long drink. The beer was cold and bitter. It felt good. Beulah didn’t need to be concerned. The crumbling old roadhouse was a good place to be. It was known fondly throughout Pittsylvania County as the General. The true origin of the establishment’s name was a long-standing local mystery, but there was plenty of speculation on the subject, the most popular theory being that it was a tribute to Robert E. Lee. There was no question that the building and most of its contents could have easily dated back to the War for Southern Independence. The primitive wooden chairs were short and rickety. The tilting wooden tables were etched with countless signatures and doodles. And everything was water stained. The leaky wooden walls. The cracked wooden floorboards. Even the beamed ceiling. The whole place smelled like damp, musty, smoldering firewood, but in a strangely appealing way.
&n
bsp; The General didn’t offer much. No exotic drinks in neon colors. No pretty foods with fancy foreign names. There was beer—domestic only, of course. There were hot dogs—spinning ceaselessly under a red heat lamp. And there were three aged pool tables—all with a great deal of scratched felt. No one would have ever claimed that there was anything hip or trendy about the General. But it served the inhabitants of the neighborhood well. There they could sit, drink, and escape the cold, cruel world outside, if only for a little while. And that was exactly what Daisy needed.
Beulah lowered her voice. “After what Aunt Emily said—”
“Sometimes Aunt Emily is a few apples short of a bushel.”
“I know. There’s no doubt about that. Except—”
“Okay. I’ll be honest.” Daisy took another swig from her bottle, then she met Beulah’s earnest gaze. “What she said did surprise me. Only it’s ancient history. Or at least it should be ancient history. That was four years ago. Almost five now. It was a terrible, terrible accident.” She swallowed hard, forcing down the thick lump that surfaced whenever she had to utter the horrible words. “My daddy died. Matt’s daddy died. But it was an accident. I don’t know how Fred Dickerson could have possibly been involved. He wasn’t at Fox Hollow then. He wasn’t anywhere near Fox Hollow when it happened.”
Beulah nodded.
“The more I think about it,” her brow furrowed, “the more irritated I get. Aunt Emily shouldn’t be talking about the accident in front of my momma. She knows better. She knows how hard it’s been for her. She shouldn’t be dredging up all those nasty memories.”
Murder and Moonshine: A Mystery Page 3
