An Old-Fashioned Murder by Carol Miller Page B

debating the fluctuating prices in the antiques market. May Fowler had somehow succeeded in getting Sarah Lunt to talk about gardening. And Aunt Emily was dashing among them all like a circus ringmaster simultaneously directing flying trapeze, clown car, and fire juggling performances.
    Daisy watched them from the edge of the dining room and sighed. Drew put a comforting hand on her back.
    â€œTired?” he asked. “How was business at the bakery today?”
    â€œA little chaotic this morning,” she said. “It was weather paranoia, I think. Everybody seemed to be worried about the rain coming and wanted to stock up for the weekend. The bread and rolls flew out the door.”
    â€œWhen we brought in the secretary, it was starting to mist, but with the temperature falling like it is, there’s probably a good chance for sleet.”
    Aunt Emily temporarily stopped dashing and turned toward Drew. “Did I hear you say sleet ?”
    He nodded. “If it keeps up, there could be some snow later on.”
    She nodded back at him, then at Daisy. “I do hope that Brenda gets here soon, Ducky. You know how nervous she is about driving in bad weather. And she’s even worse when it’s dark out.”
    Brenda was a longtime friend of Aunt Emily’s, a fellow former waitress from Daisy’s days at the diner, and now her trusty business partner at Sweetie Pies.
    â€œDidn’t I tell you?” Daisy said. “Brenda isn’t coming this evening. She volunteered to handle the bakery alone tomorrow, so I could stay here and sleep in.” She smiled at Drew. “But since she has to be up so early, Brenda figured that she’d be better off at home in her own bed tonight. She’ll head over as soon as she closes up, which will probably be around noon, or maybe earlier if the weather really does get bad and the place is empty.”
    â€œOh, that’s right.” Aunt Emily nodded again. “You did tell me. I remember now. Too many lists bumping around in my head, I guess.” And she promptly dashed off once more, this time to the far end of the parlor where Lillian, Parker, and Henry Brent were engaged in a spirited dialogue regarding the merits of placing a candle stand next to a dwarf Meyer lemon tree.
    â€œThat stand looks ridiculous where it is!” Lillian snapped like an irate alligator. “The tree should be there alone. It’s much too fine a plant—”
    â€œNaturally you would take the lemon’s side,” Henry Brent interjected with a laugh and a clack.
    Parker laughed, too. Lillian’s sour lips puckered.
    â€œOf course you’re right, my dear,” Parker said hastily, trying to be conciliatory. “It’s a mighty fine plant. But I don’t see what difference it makes where the candle stand—”
    â€œIt makes a difference,” she cut him off indignantly, “because the stand detracts from the tree.”
    Daisy rolled her eyes. Of all the silly things to get indignant about. It was a mystery to her how Lillian managed to get out of bed each morning, considering the degree to which she was continually offended by everything and everyone. It was also a mystery why Parker hadn’t packed a bag long ago and moved to the inn permanently.
    â€œThe candle stand should be in the other corner,” Lillian went on with her usual high-handedness. “Next to the tea table, where it could—”
    â€œTea!” Daisy exclaimed to herself. “I forgot all about my mama’s tea.”
    With a peck on Drew’s cheek—which unsurprisingly elicited a severe glance from Lillian, although it didn’t stop her from continuing her lemon tree tirade—Daisy hurried out of the dining room. The afternoon was quickly fading to evening. Surely her mama would be up from her nap by now. She was probably waiting for her. She had probably been waiting for quite some time, not that her mama would