An Old-Fashioned Murder by Carol Miller Page A

her guests back toward the parlor. Thirsty and tired of being on their feet, the group complied without dispute. There was a general mumbling about who had been seated where and which half-empty glass belonged to whom.
    â€œI still think it’s tippy,” Drew said, partially to himself and partially to Daisy as the others moved out of the dining room.
    â€œThey won’t listen,” Georgia responded tersely.
    Daisy glanced at her in surprise. She hadn’t heard Georgia take a sharp tone before, even slightly.
    â€œThey never listen,” she added with emphasis.
    Georgia’s gray eyes were once again focused on someone in the group, except this time her gaze was narrow and almost as sharp as her tongue. Daisy still couldn’t tell who the person was, and that piqued her interest. It also made her realize just how little she actually knew about Georgia.
    She was eighteen years old. Her last name was Ross. And with her pixie cut and carpet of freckles, she was almost adorably cute. Georgia was also far from lazy, regrettably clumsy, and she always tried hard to please Aunt Emily. But that was it. Aside from those few passing observations, Daisy knew nothing else. Not a lick about Georgia’s family, her friends, where she had been raised or why she wasn’t there any longer, barely even anything about her most basic likes and dislikes, such as her favorite color or her least favorite flavor of ice cream. Granted, Georgia had only been at the inn for a couple of weeks, and Daisy worked long hours at the bakery, so they hadn’t spent very much time together. Except that made Daisy all the more curious now.
    Drew was evidently curious, too. “Who doesn’t listen?” he asked Georgia.
    â€œEverybody,” she answered flatly.
    There was an almost childish sullenness to her voice, but the intensity with which she continued to gaze at the unidentified person in the parlor wasn’t childish in the least. Georgia wasn’t just idly looking at them. She was watching them, studying them, it seemed.
    â€œAnyone in particular?” Drew pressed her.
    The gray eyes clouded. Georgia hesitated just as she had earlier when Aunt Emily had asked her to get the broom and dustpan from the closet. She seemed to be debating how—or even if—she should respond.
    Daisy thought she understood. Georgia must not have expected to see the person standing in the dining room of the inn, and she had dropped the tray with the glasses in surprise. But now that she had recovered from her initial shock, she either realized that the person wasn’t in fact who she had originally taken them to be, or she seriously didn’t like the person—both of which would explain her hard and studious gaze.
    â€œWell, Daisy is an excellent listener,” Drew said after a moment, trying to make Georgia feel more at ease. “She lets me whine about all my problems at work. So I’m sure she’d be great at listening to whatever you—”
    He didn’t finish the sentence. Georgia shot him a deeply troubled look, hurriedly scooped up the broom and dustpan filled with broken glass, and lurched once more through the kitchen doorway.
    â€œThat girl,” Drew murmured after her, echoing Daisy’s own thoughts, “has got some secrets.”

 
    CHAPTER
    6
    Secrets or no, Georgia didn’t return to the dining room. Daisy wondered if her and Drew’s instincts were right, or if they were overthinking it all, and Georgia was just being shy. The group could certainly be overwhelming, especially for a young woman who might not be used to such an eclectic, opinionated, and voluble collection of folks. Their lively conversation in the parlor could be heard throughout the inn.
    Henry Brent and Parker were drinking and woofing merrily. Lillian was complaining about the woofing and about the potential dust from the new furniture. Kenneth Lunt and Edna Fowler were vigorously