The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose (12 page)

She took a breath, fumbling for words. Under Charlie’s half-amused, skeptical gaze, this suddenly seemed like a very foolish errand, and she wished she hadn’t volunteered. But now that she had started, there was nothing to do but stumble on.

“It . . . it occurred to us . . . that is, to me, that it might be . . .”

“Yes?” Charlie drawled, half teasing. “Might be what? Come on, out with it.”

She took another breath. “Well, a cipher or something like that. You know, a secret code. I remembered that
wonderful
talk you gave at the Literary Society last year. I thought you might be interested in having a look.”

She bit her tongue. Emphasizing
wonderful
might have been a little bit too much, but she thought she should compliment him. His paper had been genuinely interesting.

Charlie all but rolled his eyes. “What in the world gave you the idea that somebody’s grandmother’s old needlework might be a secret code?” he asked with a disparaging chuckle. “Seems far-fetched to me. Why would a grandmother want to stitch out a cipher?”

When the question was put that way, Bessie didn’t have a good answer. In fact, she had no answer at all. She couldn’t very well tell Charlie that the idea had come into her mind when she was trying to distract Miss Rogers from being angry and upset about the destruction of her pillow’s knitted cover. So she said the only thing she could think of.

“Well, I once heard that certain quilt patterns were used as secret codes to tell slaves where to go on the Underground Railway.” This was true. She had read a magazine article about an old Negro woman who claimed that blocks like Wagon Wheel and Log Cabin and Crossroads, together with fabric colors and certain embroideries, held clues that helped escaped slaves find their way to freedom in the North. Some folks didn’t believe her, but the story had sounded plausible to Bessie.

“Never heard that tale,” Charlie said skeptically, but he looked halfway interested. “You actually think it might be true?”

“I don’t know,” Bessie admitted. “But I suppose it could be, the same way that ships used to use flags for signals before the wireless was invented. Different colored flags meant different things, and flags aren’t anything but pieces of fabric sewn together, like quilts.” She looked at him. “Isn’t that so?”

“Well, yes,” Charlie said, grudgingly. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose that’s what they are. There are flags that represent each letter of the alphabet. In the Battle of Jutland, during the Great War, the Royal Navy sent over two hundred fifty flag signals. And flags are still used at sea, because some ships aren’t yet equipped with a wireless.”

Bessie remembered that he had included this information in his talk and was a little encouraged. She nodded and plowed on.

“And I read once that Mary, Queen of Scots, had a secret language that she used to send messages to her friends. That was after Queen Elizabeth shut the poor thing up in prison and wouldn’t let her talk to anybody for fear they’d be hatching up a plot. I don’t know that she embroidered her messages on hankies, but I’m sure she
could
have. Her jailors might suspect if they saw pieces of paper going back and forth, but they probably wouldn’t look twice at a lady’s silk hanky or an embroidered scarf. Don’t you think?”

Bessie stopped. She was afraid that she was babbling, but Charlie’s eyes were narrowed and he looked thoughtful. “Never heard that story, either,” he said, “but I suppose it’s possible.”

“Well, then,” Bessie asked reasonably, “why not a pillow?”

With a sigh, Charlie reached for the paper she was holding. “Okay. Let me have a look at these ‘symbols’ of yours.” He squinted down at Miss Rogers’ copy for a minute, then went to his desk, picked up a pair of metal-rimmed glasses, and hooked them over his ears. He came back to the counter and studied the paper a moment longer as Bessie held her breath. There were no sounds other than the hollow
tick-tock
of the old wooden clock on the wall.

At last he put the paper down on the counter, his forehead wrinkled. “Where’d you say you got this?”

Bessie let out her breath and repeated what she’d already told him. “My friend has a pillow that she inherited from her grandmother. It has these symbols embroidered on it, on both sides. She copied all of them.”

“How old is your friend?” He frowned. “Not being nosy, just trying to get some kind of historical fix on this stuff, whatever it is.”

“To tell the truth, I don’t know how old she is, exactly. But her age doesn’t matter. Her grandmother’s initials and the date are right there.” She pointed to the very bottom of the page.

“Yes, I saw them.” Charlie bent closer, peering at the paper. “Rose,” he read aloud. “July 21, 1861.” He looked up, frowning a little. “What did you say your friend’s name is? Or, more to the point, what was her grandmother’s name?”

“My friend was an orphan,” Bessie replied. “Her papers were lost at the orphanage and she never knew her family name. All she knew was that her grandmother’s name was Rose. The pillow belonged to her—to her grandmother, I mean.”

To Bessie, who loved to spend time digging into Darling’s history and researching genealogies, not knowing the family name seemed like a very great tragedy, akin to waking up in an utterly strange place and not being able to remember where you were or how in the world you got there. She herself had uncovered some truly horrifying secrets about her own family, and particularly about her father, but she still cherished his name, because it connected her with a family past. She couldn’t imagine how Miss Rogers could have endured it all those years, not knowing who her people were.

“The pillow was the only thing she had that belonged to her family,” she added. “It had a cover on it, a knitted cover, which had never been removed—until Saturday, that is. The cover was pulled off, unraveled, actually, by accident. My friend had never seen those symbols before.”

“Anything else?” Charlie prodded.

Bessie thought. “Well, her mother’s name was Rose, too,” she said slowly. “My friend remembers her mother telling her that her grandmother was a very brave woman. She drowned, apparently.”

“She drowned?” Charlie repeated. He pursed his lips and pushed them in and out, frowning as if he were trying to grasp an elusive memory.

“That’s what my friend remembers.” She looked back at the paper lying on the counter. “Do you think those symbols mean anything?” She almost hated to ask the next question, because she was afraid he would laugh at her. “Do you think they might really be some sort of secret code?”

“I doubt it,” he said. But he didn’t laugh. “They are certainly curious, I’ll say that much.” He straightened up. “You’re not in a tearing hurry for an answer, are you?”

“A hurry?” she answered with a chuckle. “That pillow has been lying around for nearly seventy years. I doubt if a few more days is going to make any difference in the scheme of things.”

He nodded. “Well, then, if you’ll leave this with me, I’ll do a little research on it and see what I can find out.” He lifted his hand in a warning gesture. “Don’t get your hopes up, Bessie.”

“I won’t,” Bessie said. She smiled. “Thank you, Charlie. I was afraid . . . I was afraid you’d think I’m being pretty silly about this.”

“Oh, I do,” Charlie said with a shrug that was meant to look careless. “But I get pretty silly sometimes, too—when it comes to things I’m interested in.” He paused for a moment, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “I guess you saw Angelina Biggs rushing out of here as you came in.”

“I did,” Bessie said. She smiled wryly. “She nearly bowled me over, in fact.”

He paused again, as if he were fishing for words. This hesitation was so totally unlike Charlie Dickens that Bessie was surprised. Finally, he said something entirely unexpected, in a voice that was almost tentative. “Afraid she was a little upset. But I want you to know I had nothing to do with it, Bessie.”

Nothing to do with it?
Why should Charlie think that
she
would think he had something to do with Angelina’s hasty, blundering exit?

But there wasn’t a tactful way to ask this nosy question. And anyway, Charlie was turning back to his desk, obviously putting an end to the conversation. Over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll give you a call if I learn anything about this so-called secret code of yours.”

“Thanks,” Bessie said, still puzzling over what he’d said about Angelina Biggs and slightly offended at his patronizing reference to that
so-called secret code of yours
. She pushed open the door and left, going kitty-corner across the square to Mann’s Mercantile. Roseanne’s old straw broom was in tatters, and she needed a new one. Miss Rogers wanted some black darning cotton for her stockings, and Bessie was looking to buy three yards of bleached cotton to make dish towels for the kitchen.

*  *  *

If Bessie had stepped out of the
Dispatch
office just a minute or two earlier, she would have seen Myra May heading back from the grocery store, her shopping finished for the morning. But Myra May didn’t go back to the diner, at least, not right then. Instead, she turned at the corner of the
Dispatch
building and went quickly up the stairs to the second-floor law office. Bessie wouldn’t have wondered at this, for Liz Lacy and Myra May Mosswell were good friends. She would have thought that Myra May was just dropping in to trade a little gossip and maybe have a cup of coffee before she went back to work.

But truth be told, Myra May had a much more serious errand. She had decided that she needed to tell Liz what she and Violet had learned when they broke the Rule. She wanted to get Liz’s advice about what to do.

SEVEN

Lizzy, Verna, and Myra May

It had taken Lizzy quite a while to reach Mr. Moseley in Birmingham, where he was closeted in a morning meeting of the Alabama Roosevelt for President club, but their conversation took only a few minutes. She hung up the receiver and put the black candlestick telephone back on her desk, then turned to Verna, who was leaning forward eagerly in her chair.

“Well,” Verna demanded. “What did he say? Is he going to take my case? What am I supposed to do?”

Lizzy took a breath, knowing that Verna would not be happy to hear the message. “Mr. Moseley says he’s terribly sorry but there’s nothing he can do unless you’re actually arrested.” She hurried on. “He understands how you feel about taking some sort of action immediately, but he says that isn’t a good idea. For one thing, you don’t even know what’s really going on. It’s probably just a mistake. He says you should go home and wait to see what happens.”

“Go home and wait?” Verna cried desperately. “No, Liz! I can’t!”

“But you
have
to, Verna.” It took an effort, but Liz made her voice firm. “You may be jumping at shadows, you know. This problem, whatever it is, could get sorted out in a couple of hours and you’ll be back at work.” She took a breath. “Of course, if you should get arrested—although we hope it won’t happen—Mr. Moseley says you need to call me right away and I’ll come and post bail. That way you won’t have to spend the night in jail.”

Lizzy occasionally made arrangements on behalf of one or another of Mr. Moseley’s clients with Shorty Boykin, Darling’s only bail bondsman, who had a storefront office next door to the jail. It was painful to think of doing it for one of her friends, but she certainly knew the procedure.

Verna pushed herself out of her chair and began to pace back and forth in front of Lizzy’s desk, her shoulders bent, her hands clasped behind her back.

“I can’t just go home and wait for the sheriff to show up, Liz. I’ve got to find out what’s going on. This is either a huge mistake or . . .” Her voice dropped. “Or somehow, for some reason, somebody’s trying to frame me. For something. For embezzlement.”

“
Frame
you?” Lizzy asked doubtfully, thinking that Verna had probably been reading too many of those murder mysteries she liked so much. Lizzy knew what
frame
meant, because she’d heard the word in
The Last Warning
, starring Laura La Plante, which she and Grady had seen at the Palace a couple of weeks before. But who in the world would want to frame Verna? And why?

“Yes. Frame me. Make me look guilty of something.” Verna threw out her hands. “It’s the only explanation I can come up with. Nothing else makes sense. That’s why I’ve got to find out what’s going on. I need to know what really happened to that money. And the sooner the better.”

“But how is that possible?” Liz asked reasonably. “Unless you want to go directly to Mr. Scroggins and ask him to—”

“Ask Earle Scroggins?” Verna interrupted her with a harsh, impatient laugh. “He won’t tell me anything.” She reached the edge of the carpet and turned. “I’ll just have to conduct my own investigation, Liz. I’ve known ever since I took over the treasurer’s office that there was something goofy with the bank accounts, I just couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was. But now I will, I swear it.” Her voice hardened and her eyes were flashing fire. “If money is missing from the county treasury, I’ll find out where it went and who took it—or die trying.”

Lizzy shivered, not liking the sound of those last three words. “But Mr. Scroggins told you to turn in your key. How could you manage to get into the office to—”

Verna barked another harsh laugh. “You don’t think I gave that man my
only
key, do you? I’m not that dumb, Liz. I had two duplicate keys made at the hardware store a long time ago, just in case I lost one.” She sat back down in her chair, looking pleased with herself. “What’s more, I also have a key to the courthouse. I can get into that building any time I want to.”

“Oh,” Liz said. That kind of precaution was exactly like Verna, who liked to have everything under control. But still—“You’ll have to do it at night, won’t you? How long is it going to take?”

“Of course I’ll have to do it at night,” Verna said shortly. “And it’s not going to take that long, either. I watched that man—that auditor—when he was going through those books. He had a face that was carved out of stone and I couldn’t tell a blessed thing by his expression. But I know which records he spent the most time working on, and I made it a point to glance over his shoulder whenever he seemed to linger over certain pages. I noted them down, so I have a pretty good idea of where to look.”

Lizzy frowned, thinking what Mr. Moseley would say if he thought his client (assuming that Verna actually became his client) intended to trespass on county property, especially when she might be facing a charge of embezzling county funds. Hoping to dissuade her, she said, “But isn’t it awfully risky, Verna? If you’re caught, people will think you were there to try to cover something up. It will look just terrible. And if somebody’s trying to frame you, won’t they be expecting you to do something just like this?”

Verna was irritatingly sure of herself. “I won’t be caught, Liz. I’ll come in after dark and leave before dawn, and I’ll work in the room where we keep the records. It doesn’t have any windows. Nobody will know I’m there. And when I’m through, I’ll have a suspect list. I might even be able to tell you who dunnit.”

Lizzy wished that Verna hadn’t read quite so many crime stories, but now she was curious. “A suspect list? Who do you think might be on it?”

Verna looked thoughtful. “Mr. DeYancy set up those multiple accounts. And he never let Melba Jean or Ruthie know why or what was going on. At least, that’s what they
said.
”

“But Mr. DeYancy is dead,” Lizzy objected.

“Suddenly and unexpectedly dead,” Verna pointed out in a meaningful tone.

Lizzy frowned. “You’re suggesting that Mr. DeYancy’s dying had something to do with—”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Verna said flatly. “Just thinking about a list of possible suspects. Mr. Scroggins would have to be on it, of course. And anybody who’s had access to those account books over the past year or so. Including Melba Jean and Ruthie. One or the other of them might just be playing dumb. Or maybe even both of them. They might know a lot more about those accounts than they’re letting on. In fact, I have the idea that Ruthie—”

She stopped, hearing footsteps on the stairs, and her eyes widened. “Quick!” she hissed. “It might be the sheriff. Or Mr. Scroggins! I don’t want anybody to find me. Where can I hide?”

Liz didn’t stop to ask why Verna thought the sheriff or Mr. Scroggins would be looking for her in Mr. Moseley’s law office. “In the broom closet,” she said quickly, and pointed.

In a flash, Verna jumped out of her chair, disappeared into the closet, and pulled the door shut behind her.

But it wasn’t the sheriff or Mr. Scroggins. Myra May Mosswell stepped through the door, carrying a basket full of groceries.

“Well, hello again.” Lizzy was relieved to see her friend, but a little surprised. Myra May was always so busy at the diner in the mornings—she almost never took the time to drop in. And they had spoken just a little earlier. “Nice to see you, Myra May. Sit down and have a cup of coffee with me, won’t you?”

At that moment, she saw Verna’s coffee cup and her untouched doughnut. Hoping that Myra May hadn’t noticed, she quickly gathered them off the desk.

Myra May put her basket down beside the door and took the chair Verna had just vacated, not appearing to realize that the seat was still warm or that a cup of coffee and a doughnut had just disappeared from Lizzy’s desk. Her face was troubled and she leaned forward, her voice urgent.

“No coffee, thanks. I really need to talk to you about Verna, Liz. I’m afraid she’s in serious trouble.”

Lizzy wasn’t terribly surprised that Myra had some information, given what she had witnessed at the diner that morning, but she wasn’t sure how to respond. “What kind of trouble?” she asked, uncomfortably aware that Verna could hear every word.

“Money trouble. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of trouble.”

“Thousands?” Lizzy croaked, shocked. From what Verna had told her, she was aware that some amount seemed to be missing from the county treasury. But she had no idea how much.
Thousands?
That was real money. All of a sudden, Verna’s plight became more real, and much more frightening.

Myra May was nodding. “Violet and I . . . well, we overheard several telephone conversations over the weekend.” She held up her hand. “I know, I know. We’re not supposed to listen in, and mostly we don’t. But once Violet heard how much money was involved and connected it with Verna’s office, we felt we had to. Now, I’m not sure what to do, whether I should tell Verna or—”

“Of course you should tell me,” Verna said indignantly, pushing the closet door open and stepping out. “I need to know, Myra May. I have a
right
to know!”

Myra May jerked around. “You were hiding, Verna!” she said in an accusing tone. “You were listening. You were eavesdropping!”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Verna muttered darkly.

“Verna came here because she wanted to get Mr. Moseley’s advice about something that’s been bothering her,” Lizzy explained in a soothing tone. “When she heard you coming up the stairs, she thought you might be somebody she didn’t want to see.”

“Then she went into the closet so she could eavesdrop,” Myra May said reproachfully.

“Not exactly,” Verna replied. She pulled another chair forward and sat down. “But now that I’ve heard it, I want to know everything you know, Myra May. And I want to know
now.
So spill those beans.”

Myra May became sympathetic. “I’m sure you do, Verna, and I don’t blame you one bit. If I were in your shoes, I’d want to know it, too. The trouble is, I don’t know what you can
do
about it.”

“Well, we won’t know what we can or can’t do until you tell us what you know,” Lizzy pointed out, trying not to sound impatient. “Come on, Myra May. Now’s the time. Tell.”

And for the next few minutes, Myra May told, while Verna listened in growing disbelief and Lizzy shook her head, clucking her tongue softly.

“Fifteen thousand,” Verna said numbly. “I knew things were a mess in the treasurer’s office, but I had no idea the mess was that
big
.” She swallowed. “Fifteen thousand?” she repeated. “And they’re talking about restitution? That’s crazy, Myra May! I see the account books every week. The county doesn’t have that kind of money. It’s barely got enough to make the payroll.”

“By restitution,” Lizzy said gently, “they probably meant that the thief—whoever it is—will have to give it back.”

“And you said that Amos Tombull wanted to get the sheriff to investigate—” Verna began.

“But Earle Scroggins didn’t,” Myra May broke in. “Which I couldn’t figure out.” She frowned. “You’d think Mr. Scroggins would want to get to the bottom of it right away, wouldn’t you? Maybe he doesn’t trust Sheriff Burns to handle the investigation.”

“I wouldn’t blame him.” Lizzy giggled. “Mr. Moseley always says that Sheriff Burns couldn’t investigate his way out of a paper bag.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Or maybe Mr. Scroggins just doesn’t want to look bad. Maybe he thinks he can figure out what happened and take care of it himself without anybody else finding out.”

“I think you’ve put your finger on it, Liz,” Verna said grimly. “Remember, he didn’t want Charlie Dickens getting wind of it. If people read in the newspaper that fifteen thousand dollars is missing from the treasurer’s office, they might blame Mr. Scroggins and refuse to reelect him. And the thing that man wants most in life is to win every election right up to the moment he keels over
dead.
” She smacked her fist against the arm of her chair. “Now I have fifteen thousand reasons to get started on my investigation—tonight!”

Myra May gave her a quizzical glance. “Investigation?”

Verna pulled herself up importantly. “I have a copy of the key to the office, Myra May. Tonight, after it gets dark, I’m going to have a look at those account books myself. I made notes while the auditor was doing his work. I’m sure I can figure out where that money went. And you mentioned that the state auditor is sending a report to the office. Maybe I can get a look at that. I might even be able to copy the pertinent information from it.”

“Uh-oh,” Myra May said softly, ducking her head.

Verna and Liz traded uneasy glances. “Uh-oh?” they asked in unison.

“Yeah.” Myra May sighed. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell you. When Mr. Scroggins called Coretta Cole to ask her to come in and manage the office while you are taking a furlough, he said he was getting the locks changed. He would be giving her a new key.”

“Getting the locks changed!” Verna wailed. “Oh, no! I can’t
believe
it! That means I can’t get into the office! I won’t be able to get a look at the books!”

Lizzy couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief. But she only said, “Oh, that’s too bad, Verna.”