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

she added with equal blitheness, spinning on her heel toward the cellar door.
    The stairway leading down to the cellar was on the opposite side of the kitchen chimney. It was a true old-time country cellar, rather than a modern concrete or cinder block basement. The narrow stairs were steep and rickety. The walls were mortar and stone. And the ground was bare dirt. There was absolutely nothing decorative or finished about it. But it held all the inn’s essentials—baskets of onions and potatoes; jars of jams, jellies, and assorted pickled products; oil lanterns with gallon bottles of the necessary fuel; and a veritable stockpile of rusted gardening implements and cast-iron cookware.
    Georgia tugged at the glass knob on the cellar door. Over the years, the door had warped, so it tended to stick in the frame and was difficult to open. Nevertheless, the door was always kept closed. Otherwise in winter, the drafts from the cellar made the kitchen too cold, and in summer, they made it too damp.
    â€œGeorgia—” Daisy began once more.
    She stopped tugging.
    â€œWhat Drew said earlier … I really am a good listener…”
    Her brow furrowed, and she rubbed her arms again, harder this time.
    â€œIf you ever feel like chatting or whatever,” Daisy went on lightly. She could see from the way Georgia had tensed—both earlier with Drew and now with her—that although she was clearly unsettled by something, she also wasn’t comfortable discussing it. “If not, that’s okay, too. No pressure. Just thought I’d mention it.”
    Georgia’s mouth opened. She started to respond but then evidently thought better of it, and her lips clamped shut.
    â€œWell, I’m here if you change your mind,” Daisy concluded with a shrug.
    Meeting her gaze, Georgia shrugged back at her. It seemed like a shrug of futility—an aged, world-weary futility—and in that moment, Georgia looked exhausted and many decades beyond her years. A second later, she gave the cellar door a determined yank. It wrenched open, and she inelegantly went half skipping, half skidding down the steps, suddenly not so mature, after all.

 
    CHAPTER
    7
    â€œIt’s late. I know. I’m sorry.”
    Balancing the teacup and saucer in one hand and a plate stacked with a generous serving of shortbread in the other, Daisy pushed open the slightly ajar door to her mama’s room with her shoulder.
    â€œHi, honey.” Lucy Hale smiled warmly at her daughter from the bed. She was lying under a large patchwork quilt, her neck and shoulders propped up by a quartet of thick feather pillows. “There’s no need to apologize. I woke up just a little while ago, and Beulah’s been keeping me company.”
    Beulah greeted her from the yellow painted rocking chair at the side of the bed, her stocking feet propped up on the edge of the mattress after a long day of cuts and colors. “You need any help?”
    â€œI’m good. Thanks.” Daisy had not the least difficulty walking, talking, and carrying hot beverages all at the same time. Once a waitress, forever a waitress. “But I am surprised to see you up here. How did you manage to sneak into the inn past the lovely group in the parlor?”
    Tucking an unruly red curl behind her ear, Beulah grinned. “No sneaking necessary. I came in the front, and the door squeaked like it always does. Except Lillian Barker was, well, barking so loud that no one heard it. I was going to stop and be all polite, but then I realized that no one heard me either. Lillian and Henry Brent were too busy sniping at each other like a couple of wet ferrets.” The grin grew. “I figured they didn’t need me interfering in their business, so I went right by and came upstairs.”
    â€œSmart girl,” Daisy complimented her.
    â€œLillian’s here?” Lucy asked, astonished.
    Daisy grimaced in affirmation.
    â€œOh,