Read Online An Old-Fashioned Murder by Carol Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol Miller
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ever complain about her tardiness.
While Lillian took umbrage at almost everything, Daisyâs mamaâLucy Berger Haleâwas the exact opposite and took umbrage at nearly nothing. She had always been a very patient and gentle person, the kind who rescued baby birds after a windstorm when they had fallen out of their nest and who never failed to scrape an extra dollar or two out of her already meager purse for the sad soul with an empty stomach huddled around the side of the supermarket. Then life took a hard turn, and Lucy lost her husband, her home, and her health all in rapid succession. But instead of growing nasty and resentful, she became so accommodating and unfalteringly sweet-tempered that it was actually a cause for concern to her daughter at times. Daisy worried that one day her mama might be taken advantage of, that a not-so-sweet person would come along and exploit her boundless trust and kindness.
As she entered the kitchen to make the overdue tea, Daisy found Georgia sitting on the floor on a throw rug at the edge of the hearth. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and she was leaning against the wrought iron log holder, which was stacked with wood.
âHey there,â Daisy said, mildly surprised. She had never seen Georgia curled up in the corner before.
Georgia responded with a faint noise that sounded like the mewing of a lost kitten.
For a moment, Daisy considered sitting down next to her and trying to find out whatâor whoâwas troubling her, but then she thought better of it. She didnât want to overstep. Secrets were secrets for a reason, after all, and Georgia was certainly entitled to keep hers private. Daisy picked up the kettle and filled it with fresh water.
âYou okay?â she asked, deliberately keeping her tone casual.
The mewing repeated itself.
While she organized a cup and saucer and waited for the water to heat, Daisy glanced at Georgia as surreptitiously as she could. She wasnât crying, sulking, or hiding her face as one might have expected from her location and deportment. On the contrary, Georgiaâs chin was propped up on her knees, and her eyes were open and clear. But she wasnât looking back at Daisy. Her face was turned to the side, and she appeared to be looking over her shoulder at something above her head.
Daisy followed her gaze. There was no mistaking what Georgia was looking at. She was sitting alongside the old stone fireplace, and there was only one thing above her head. Aunt Emilyâs shotgun.
The Remington was a double-barreled 20-gauge, and it was nearly the same age as Aunt Emily herself. For as long as Daisy could remember, the gun had been kept on two wooden pegs on the kitchen chimney. An out-of-town guestâwho apparently wasnât used to firearms sitting around in the openâhad once asked Aunt Emily whether it wouldnât be better if the shotgun were stored elsewhere, presumably someplace more private and under lock and key. She had replied that if the wooden pegs and kitchen chimney were good enough for her grandpappy, then they were good enough for her.
For safety purposesâconsidering that there were visitors and children regularly roaming about the innâthe Remington was kept unloaded. But the shotgun shells were invariably close at hand. They were stored in Aunt Emilyâs needlepoint bag, a fact that she was careful not to publicly announce. Daisyâs gaze went to the wall directly behind the log holder. The needlepoint bag was hanging from its usual hook, raggedy and bulging with shell boxes, although none was visible. Aunt Emily was careful about that, too.
Daisyâs eyes returned to Georgia, and she frowned. There was something about the way Georgia was looking at the shotgun that made her a bit uncomfortable. She wasnât quite sure why. Georgia had been in the kitchen every day since her arrival at the inn, which meant that she must have seen the gun on its pegs at least
While Lillian took umbrage at almost everything, Daisyâs mamaâLucy Berger Haleâwas the exact opposite and took umbrage at nearly nothing. She had always been a very patient and gentle person, the kind who rescued baby birds after a windstorm when they had fallen out of their nest and who never failed to scrape an extra dollar or two out of her already meager purse for the sad soul with an empty stomach huddled around the side of the supermarket. Then life took a hard turn, and Lucy lost her husband, her home, and her health all in rapid succession. But instead of growing nasty and resentful, she became so accommodating and unfalteringly sweet-tempered that it was actually a cause for concern to her daughter at times. Daisy worried that one day her mama might be taken advantage of, that a not-so-sweet person would come along and exploit her boundless trust and kindness.
As she entered the kitchen to make the overdue tea, Daisy found Georgia sitting on the floor on a throw rug at the edge of the hearth. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and she was leaning against the wrought iron log holder, which was stacked with wood.
âHey there,â Daisy said, mildly surprised. She had never seen Georgia curled up in the corner before.
Georgia responded with a faint noise that sounded like the mewing of a lost kitten.
For a moment, Daisy considered sitting down next to her and trying to find out whatâor whoâwas troubling her, but then she thought better of it. She didnât want to overstep. Secrets were secrets for a reason, after all, and Georgia was certainly entitled to keep hers private. Daisy picked up the kettle and filled it with fresh water.
âYou okay?â she asked, deliberately keeping her tone casual.
The mewing repeated itself.
While she organized a cup and saucer and waited for the water to heat, Daisy glanced at Georgia as surreptitiously as she could. She wasnât crying, sulking, or hiding her face as one might have expected from her location and deportment. On the contrary, Georgiaâs chin was propped up on her knees, and her eyes were open and clear. But she wasnât looking back at Daisy. Her face was turned to the side, and she appeared to be looking over her shoulder at something above her head.
Daisy followed her gaze. There was no mistaking what Georgia was looking at. She was sitting alongside the old stone fireplace, and there was only one thing above her head. Aunt Emilyâs shotgun.
The Remington was a double-barreled 20-gauge, and it was nearly the same age as Aunt Emily herself. For as long as Daisy could remember, the gun had been kept on two wooden pegs on the kitchen chimney. An out-of-town guestâwho apparently wasnât used to firearms sitting around in the openâhad once asked Aunt Emily whether it wouldnât be better if the shotgun were stored elsewhere, presumably someplace more private and under lock and key. She had replied that if the wooden pegs and kitchen chimney were good enough for her grandpappy, then they were good enough for her.
For safety purposesâconsidering that there were visitors and children regularly roaming about the innâthe Remington was kept unloaded. But the shotgun shells were invariably close at hand. They were stored in Aunt Emilyâs needlepoint bag, a fact that she was careful not to publicly announce. Daisyâs gaze went to the wall directly behind the log holder. The needlepoint bag was hanging from its usual hook, raggedy and bulging with shell boxes, although none was visible. Aunt Emily was careful about that, too.
Daisyâs eyes returned to Georgia, and she frowned. There was something about the way Georgia was looking at the shotgun that made her a bit uncomfortable. She wasnât quite sure why. Georgia had been in the kitchen every day since her arrival at the inn, which meant that she must have seen the gun on its pegs at least
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