Read Online An Old-Fashioned Murder by Carol Miller - Free Book Online Page A

a hundred times over the past few weeks. There wasn’t anything new or suddenly startling about it now. Except Daisy had never seen Georgia staring at the Remington before, and she had just seen her staring at somebody in the dining room and the parlor with the same puzzling intensity.
    â€œGeorgia…”
    Daisy didn’t continue. She felt as though she should ask her something, but she didn’t know what.
    â€œAre you making tea for your mama?” Georgia said, abruptly snapping her head forward like she had just awoken from a trance. “I put those favorite bags of hers in the Rhett Butler cookie jar.”
    â€œDid you? I was wondering where they went.”
    â€œI figured it might be a good idea to separate them from the rest. That way if we run out of the others—some of the guests can get a little piggy—we’ll still have plenty left over for your mama.”
    â€œThank you, Georgia. That was very thoughtful.”
    It was so thoughtful, in fact, and seemingly mature that it made Daisy begin to doubt whether Georgia would have raced out of the dining room due to youthful shyness.
    â€œYour water is boiling,” she said.
    â€œRight.” Daisy removed the kettle from the heat and reached for Clark Gable’s ceramic head.
    Over the years, Aunt Emily had amassed an extensive and unusual collection of cookie jars. They varied widely in age and condition, and ranged from animals and cartoon characters to movie stars and historical figures. Somehow word had gotten out that Aunt Emily had an affinity for them, and ever since, they kept appearing with wearisome regularity on all birthdays, holidays, and as hostess gifts. The funny thing was that Aunt Emily didn’t actually like cookie jars. She didn’t think that they kept cookies particularly fresh, and she was annoyed at always having to make space for the new ones, some of which could only be described as bizarre, such as an abominable snowman wearing spurs and a cowboy hat.
    The Clark Gable as Rhett Butler cookie jar was considerably more attractive than most of the others, although Clark’s lips were such a neon shade of purple that it looked like he had been frozen in time sucking on a grape lollipop. It sat just about in the middle of the line of cookie jars, with a grinning pink hippopotamus on one side and a slightly lewd dancing girl on the other. The cookie jar shelf was on the wall above the old farm double sink. Without the aid of a stepladder, Daisy could reach it only by standing on her tiptoes. She stretched a hand blindly into Clark’s cutaway and pulled out one of her mama’s tea bags.
    â€œI could barely reach it, too,” Georgia told her. “But I figured the bags would be safer that way. Less chance of pilfering guests poking their sticky fingers where they don’t belong.”
    Daisy raised a curious eyebrow. Georgia was apparently not only thoughtful but also somewhat cunning, at least when it came to choosing hiding places.
    â€œI hate sticky fingers.” Her voice cracked, then rose. “You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours! It isn’t right!”
    The eyebrow went higher, although Georgia couldn’t see it, because Daisy had her back to her while she steeped the tea. Daisy agreed with her in principle, of course, but the moral outrage seemed a tad excessive.
    â€œAre we still talking about tea bags?” Daisy said, having the distinct impression that they weren’t.
    There was a momentary hesitation on Georgia’s part. Daisy turned around to look at her. The gray eyes were locked on the steaming cup and saucer. Daisy couldn’t tell if Georgia was thinking hard or hardly thinking. After a minute, she rubbed her freckled arms and jumped up from the floor.
    â€œWe don’t have enough potatoes for dinner,” she declared, a bit too chirpily.
    â€œGeorgia—”
    â€œAnd we wouldn’t want anyone to go hungry,”