The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush (13 page)

“There’s something to that,” Charlie allowed.

“Purley, he thought so, too, after him and Jessellyn went to that revival meeting last Friday night and heard Rev’rend Craig preach on the sins of the bottle. Purley came home a changed boy. He even got my mama’s old Bible out and started readin’ it. He said he was glad when Mickey told him about Rider. He’s ready for a new start.”

“Got religion, did he?” Charlie chuckled at the thought of a Mann reading his Bible and maybe even getting saved. But he tended to agree with Mrs. Mann. It was probably a good thing for Baby. Taking all in all, moonshining was rough work and dangerous.

But maybe Baby was just looking for a change of scene. Maybe he’d already lined up another job—with Bodeen Pyle, for instance, who was a nasty thorn in Mickey’s side. Bodeen ran a large still somewhere just inside Briar’s Swamp, not far from the Jericho State Prison Farm, where the guards and inmates were his primary customers. His whiskey didn’t have the famous LeDoux firepower, but it was cheaper, and for lots of folks, there wasn’t a hairsbreadth of difference between a cheap drunk and a pricey one.

“What does Purley have to say?” Charlie asked. “Is
he
looking for a new line of work?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Mann exclaimed eagerly. “He says he’d a lot rather have a town job. Working for Mickey, he was out there in the woods for days at a time. He didn’t have much of a social life.”

That was true, Charlie thought, with some sympathy. A still hand worked around the clock, with one day off every couple of weeks. And while Baby might be a tad slow in his wits, he had a kind heart and he wasn’t at all bad-looking. He might just find a good woman and live a good life—once the town’s economy turned around.

“I couldn’t pay him much,” he said. “And all I’d have is a couple of hours a day.” He paused. “Why can’t he work over at the Mercantile?”

Mrs. Mann looked regretful. “He and his daddy don’t get along just real well, seems like. But if he was working for you and you could give him a recommendation, there might be other work he could get.”

Charlie looked around. The print shop really did look like a dump. It could stand a good cleaning. “Well, I could give him maybe three, four hours a day, a couple of days a week. Twenty-five cents an hour. When does he want to start?”

“Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Mann exclaimed. “How about tomorrow?”

Might as well be today as tomorrow,
Charlie thought. “Send him over this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll find something for him to do.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mrs. Mann said. She slung her pocketbook over her arm, smiling happily. “Now I have to go see Miss Champaign about a hat. For the wedding, you know.”

At the words “Miss Champaign,” Charlie felt a stab of sharp regret. He wished he could go and see her, too, but he knew that she thought him a hundred kinds of cad for the way he had treated her. She would refuse to speak to him, or even shut the door in his face. And she would have every right. He was
worse
than a cad. He was an out-and-out scoundrel.

When Mrs. Mann had gone, Charlie finished stuffing the bundled scrip into the satchel and put the satchel under the counter so it would be handy when Mr. Duffy came in to pick it up. Then he went to his desk, took out the bottle, and fortified himself with a good long swallow. He was still thinking about Fannie—and about Liz. News traveled around Darling like greased lightning. Liz must know already. If she didn’t, he hoped somebody would break it to her gently, before she read it in Friday’s
Dispatch.

*   *   *

Two doors down the street at the diner, Violet put Cupcake at one of the tables with her crayons and a coloring book. Myra May was taking a turn on the telephone switchboard and Raylene was in the kitchen, cleaning catfish. The lunch crowd had been sparse, just a couple of strangers off the train, Mr. Musgrove from the hardware store next door, and Mr. Dunlap from the Five and Dime.

And Mr. Duffy from the bank. Violet colored, remembering. He had come in, sat at the end of the counter, and watched her. Just
watched
her. Oh, of course he ate—Raylene’s now-famous sautéed liver, topped with sliced apples, bacon, onions (“caramelized,” she called them), with sides of homemade noodles and coleslaw. But every so often he would look admiringly at her, which made her so nervous that she splashed Mr. Dunlap’s second cup of coffee on the counter. And when Mr. Duffy paid for the meal, he touched her hand and smiled, as if they shared some sort of secret message—what it might be, she hadn’t a clue. She was glad when he left.

Violet tidied up, wiped the counter clean, and was brewing a fresh pot of coffee when Twyla Sue Mann came in, her hair nicely curled and smelling of Beulah’s setting lotion. She sat down on one of the red-leather-covered stools.

“I’ll just have me some of that fresh coffee,” she said, putting her pocketbook on the counter and digging inside for a nickel. She found one and slid it toward Violet. “Kinda slow today, huh?”

“Kinda,” Violet allowed. “People are holding on to their cash money, I s’pose. Waiting to see whether the scrip we’ve been hearing about is going to do them any good.” She poured Twyla Sue’s coffee. “How’s your family, Twyla Sue?”

“We’re looking forward to a wedding.” Twyla Sue reached for the sugar bowl. “Grady Alexander is marrying my niece. Well, Archie’s niece,” she qualified. “Sandra.”

Violet nearly dropped the coffeepot. “Grady Alexander . . . marrying your
niece
?” she gasped. “But everybody knows that Grady is marrying Liz Lacy! They’ve been going together for years.”

“So I have heard,” Twyla Sue said carelessly, spooning the third sugar into her coffee. “But nevertheless, Sandra and Grady are getting married. Saturday, two p.m. I just gave Mr. Dickens the announcement to put in the paper.”

Saturday.
Hearing that, Violet got the whole picture and, quick as a flash, understood that there was nothing to be done. Those who danced, as her mother had always said, had to pay the piper. But all the same, she felt a quick upsurge of anger. The wedding announcement was going to be in Friday’s
Dispatch
and when the paper was delivered,
everybody in the county would know about it—if they didn’t already. She pressed her lips together, thinking of Liz, who must be feeling just awful. And Mrs. Alexander, too. Grady’s mother was a fussy little lady, always making disapproving remarks about the way people behaved. She would be hanging her head in shame. And that was all because of something Grady Alexander had done in the heat of passion.

But the moment that thought appeared, Violet scratched it out. Passion was passion—she knew that from her own experience. You loved whoever you loved and it was nobody’s business what the two of you did in private. She wouldn’t want people peering through her windows and making judgments about her love life. She wasn’t about to make judgments about Grady’s.

All that went through her mind in a flash. When she glanced up, she saw that Twyla Sue was looking at her expectantly, so she said, “Well, they’re brave, getting married. It’s tough these days for folks just starting out.” She managed a smile. “At least Grady’s got a steady job, which is more than some can say.”

“Yes, he’s got a
good
job.” Twyla Sue took a sip of her coffee, then put the mug down. “I was wanting to talk to you about that, Violet. My Purley is looking for part-time work.”

“Oh, really?” Violet turned away and began wrapping silverware in paper napkins for the tables. She usually called him Baby, like everybody else. “Sorry, but I don’t think we—”

“Just maybe an hour or two a day? He could sweep and mop.” She cast an eye at the wall, which was beginning to look a little grimy. “And he’s real handy with a paintbrush. Hammer and saw, too, if you’ve got any repair work you need done.” Twyla Sue leaned forward. “I’m awful glad he’s leaving Mickey LeDoux. He’ll have more of a future here in town.”

Violet couldn’t disagree with that. Between accidents and armed revenue agents, moonshining was a risky business. And since Earlynne Biddle’s boy Bennie had gone to Atlanta to look for a job, she and Myra May hadn’t had any help with the heavier work. They were short on cash, but maybe—

“He’s found Jesus,” Twyla Sue added piously. “And he says he wants to do work that the Lord won’t frown at.”

“I don’t know that we could pay him,” Violet replied slowly. “Would he consider working for meals, at least until things pick up a little? Or maybe a pie, or something he could take home for the family?”

Twyla Sue beamed at that. “I’m sure he would consider it.” She finished her coffee. “Want me to tell him to stop by this afternoon and see what you’ve got in mind?”

Violet nodded. It wouldn’t be any trouble for Raylene to bake an extra pie. She began making a mental list of things that needed doing, like digging up the flower bed along the sidewalk and planting a few flowers, and painting the front door—purple would catch people’s eye. And fixing the back porch step, so she or Myra May didn’t fall down and break a leg on their way to the clothesline with a basket of heavy wet laundry.

Twyla Sue was barely out the door when Myra May burst out of the Exchange office, shaking her head incredulously. “Violet, you are not going to believe what I’ve been hearing on the switchboard,” she said breathlessly. “Grady Alexander is getting married! And he’s
not
marrying Liz! Everybody in Darling is talking about it.” She ran her fingers through her hair until it stood up on end. “Oh, poor Liz,” she moaned. “Somebody ought to tell her. But I
can’t,
because I heard it on the switchboard.”

It was a rule of the Darling Telephone Exchange that the switchboard operators were not to repeat anything they happened to overhear, and Myra May insisted on holding the girls who worked the board to a very strict code of ethics. She was on record as saying that if she got wind of so much as five words of gossip that could have come from the switchboard, she would fire the loose-lipped offender on the spot, no excuses accepted.

But while repeating what you heard was an unforgivable sin, it was also understood that listening in was pretty much unavoidable, since it was too much to ask any human being to sit in front of the switchboard for eight hours a day with her headphones on without overhearing
something.
And occasionally, since Myra May and Violet owned the switchboard (well, half of it, anyway), they gave themselves permission to discuss what they heard. But just between themselves, never with anyone else. Which was why Myra May was so upset. She was thinking that she couldn’t tell Liz about Grady because she heard it on the switchboard.

“Don’t worry about it,” Violet said reassuringly. “The word is already out there, so you could have heard it anywhere. In fact, I just heard it from Twyla Sue Mann. It’s her niece he’s marrying. She’s put an announcement in the newspaper, so everybody will know.”

Myra May pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I can’t believe it of Grady,” she said. “The idea that he—” She bit it off.

“Got that girl pregnant.” Violet finished the sentence sadly. “Yes, I know. It’s going to be very painful for Liz. Humiliating.”

“I suppose that’s true, but that’s not what I was going to say.” Myra May’s eyes were on her now, direct and steady. “What bothers me is the idea that he betrayed her by getting involved with another person. The baby is irrelevant.”

Violet frowned. That was an odd thing for Myra May to say. And that look—what did it mean?

“You really think so?” she asked, puzzled. “I don’t. I think Liz will be mortified, knowing that people are talking about Grady and wondering if she and he had . . . well, you know.” She squared her shoulders. “But whether they did or not is nobody’s business.”

“Well, it’s her friends’ business to make sure she’s all right,” Myra May said tartly. “As soon as Rona Jean comes in, I’m going to go see her.” Rona Jean Hancock was on the switchboard from two to ten, then Nancy Lee would come in for the night shift. When they had first taken over the Exchange, there’d been no nighttime service. But now, people expected to be able to use their telephones around the clock.

“That’s fine,” Violet said. She was about to go back behind the counter when Myra May put a hand on her arm.

“I would be hurt if you got involved with somebody else.” Her voice was low and gruff and her fingers dug into Violet’s arm.

“Hey, don’t!” Violet disengaged Myra May’s fingers. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, Myra May. I’m not—”

“Just remember,” Myra May said in a warning tone, and dropped her hand. “Just remember.” She turned away to go back into the Exchange office.

Violet stood still, feeling the pressure of Myra May’s fingers on her arm and the disconcerting directness of her gaze. She could be short-tempered and unpredictable, and it sometimes took every ounce of patience Violet possessed to navigate her moods. What was bothering her now?

And then, in a flash, she understood. It was Mr. Duffy. That’s what it was.

Verna Asks Questions

The shower had been over by the time Mr. Duffy drove Verna home after the meeting at the
Dispatch
office on Monday evening. But he found an umbrella in the back of his Oldsmobile and walked with her to the front door, holding it protectively over her head. Verna thought again how good it felt to have a hand on her elbow and was on the verge of inviting him in for a cup of coffee. But her black Scottie, Clyde, met them at the door and growled so savagely that she abandoned the idea. She apologized for Clyde, but Mr. Duffy only smiled.

“He’s protecting his mistress,” he said, looking down at the little dog. “Clever fellow. Admirable instincts.” For some reason, Clyde seemed to take this as an insult and peppered his growls with sharp, loud barks.

Verna gave up. “Thank you for the ride,” she said, over Clyde’s objections.

With a smile, Mr. Duffy raised his hat. “Entirely my pleasure, I assure you, Mrs. Tidwell. I wonder . . . If I may be so bold, would you like to go to dinner with me some evening?”

“Why, that would be very nice,” Verna said, surprised. Walter had asked her to dinner once or twice, before they were married. But since he had died, no one had bothered. Of course, most of the Darling men were already spoken for, but still—

“Very good.” He smiled again, warmly. “I’ll call you.”

Clyde had stopped barking the moment Verna closed the door. She turned her back and leaned against it, feeling soft and tingly and full of something like wonder, as if she were a teenager who had just come home from her first date, or a plain young woman who had just been told that she’s pretty, or—

Clyde whined plaintively and pawed at her shoe. She bent down and scooped him up, holding him in front of her so she could look into his bright, alert little eyes.

“Why did you put up such a fuss?” she demanded crossly. “Mr. Duffy is a very nice man. If you had only been halfway polite, I would have asked him in for coffee.” Clyde squirmed and whined, and she gave him a little shake as she put him down. “Don’t do it again,” she warned him, as he scampered off. “And don’t go too far,” she called after him. “It’s time for your supper.”

She went to the kitchen, where she opened a can of Ken-L Ration and mixed it with a spoonful of leftover vegetables and gravy from supper the night before—wondering as she scraped it into Clyde’s bowl how long she would be able to buy canned dog food for her buddy. If the supplier wouldn’t extend credit, Mrs. Hancock might not be able to get it, and Clyde would have to content himself with leftovers.

She shook her head. It was amazing how much people took for granted. It hadn’t occurred to her, for instance, that canned dog food on the grocery store shelf might depend on Mrs. Hancock’s access to a bank. No bank, no canned dog food!

Clyde came when she called and gobbled his dinner while she went into her bedroom and changed into a blue cotton print housedress. Looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser, she wiped off the red lipstick, which now struck her as perhaps a bit too . . . well, garish. Frowning critically, she regarded her reflection. Had Mr. Duffy thought so?

Then tipping her head to one side, she colored, remembering his response when she’d told him that she’d had plenty of time to get used to being a widow.

“These local fellows,” he had said. “What’s wrong with them? They haven’t got eyes?” He’d sounded almost amused by their failure.

She smiled wonderingly. But what had he found so attractive? Her new hairstyle? Her skin? Her figure? It wasn’t bad for a woman her age—she was naturally slender. She didn’t have to worry about spreading out, the way some women did past thirty. Then she shook her head, telling herself not to be silly. Mr. Duffy hadn’t meant anything by the remark—it was just something that a gallant gentleman would say to a lady. She only found it surprising because there weren’t that many gallant gentlemen in Darling.

But a little later, while she was heating up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup and making a grilled Velveeta cheese sandwich for her supper, she remembered something that had happened not long before. Clyde was usually friendly and pleasant, with a wag of his tail and a polite little bark of greeting for everyone. But a salesman had knocked on the door late one evening, wanting to sell her a life insurance policy, and the little dog had barked and growled so menacingly that the fellow had excused himself and left, hurriedly. The next day, she learned that the very same man was locked up in Sheriff Burns’ jail, having been caught breaking into Pete’s Pool Parlor.

At the time, she had congratulated Clyde on his astute assessment of the fellow’s character. Who knows what mischief that man might have tried if she had let him in? But now that she had seen the Scottie behave the same way toward Mr. Duffy, she had to admit that he might be merely jealous of male callers whom he didn’t recognize. By instinct, he was a territorial little dog, and he considered her to be his very own property. Still—

She flipped the grilled cheese sandwich onto a plate and poured the hot soup into a bowl. Then she put the plate and bowl on the kitchen table beside a glass of milk and her current book, Ellery Queen’s
The Greek Coffin Mystery,
which Miss Rogers had just gotten for her at the library. Verna had already read and enjoyed the three previous books in the series,
The Roman Hat Mystery
,
The French Powder Mystery
, and
The Dutch Shoe Mystery
. Queen was both the pseudonym for the authors—a pair of them—and the novel’s protagonist, Ellery Queen, a clever amateur detective who occasionally assisted his father, police inspector Richard Queen. In every book, the Queens, father and son, were confronted by a bizarre and baffling crime within a seemingly impenetrable maze of motives, clues, and red herrings.

But Ellery Queen used careful, analytic logic to arrive at the correct, truly brilliant, and least likely conclusion—the
only
conclusion, the authors insisted, that could be drawn from the clues they had presented to the reader. Verna always tried to solve the mystery before Queen did, and once or twice, she thought she had succeeded. But Queen inevitably out-reasoned her. In her opinion, his intellectual exploits were simply dazzling. She was always surprised.

Verna always looked forward to reading while she ate her supper. But when she propped her book against the green glass butter dish and picked up her grilled cheese sandwich, she found that she couldn’t keep her mind on her reading. Her thoughts kept going back to Mr. Duffy and what had happened after they left the meeting together. She was attracted to him, and the memory of his solicitous attentions—his hand on her elbow, the umbrella over her head—brought her an unaccustomed warmth.

But something was nibbling away at her pleasure, like an unwelcome little mouse in the bread box. There was Clyde’s behavior, for one thing. And what was it that Myra May had said earlier that day, when she had brought that piece of pie to the office? Mr. Duffy was “slick,” she’d said, and repeated Jed Snow’s odd remark that “women just seemed to fall at his feet.” There was something behind that comment, and Verna felt she should find out what it was.

And there was more, too. At this afternoon’s meeting in the
Dispatch
office, Mr. Duffy was the one who insisted on managing the scrip. He had put himself in charge, and nobody, not even the mighty Amos Tombull, had been willing to challenge him—except, that is, for Jed Snow, who had tried but eventually caved in under the others’ pressure. And that story about Mr. Johnson and the bank—was it
true
?

Now, if Verna had been anyone but Verna, she probably would have rolled her eyes and gone back to her book and her soup and sandwich. But Verna was mistrustful by nature. Once she had begun to feel that something was not quite the way it ought to be, not even the pleasant sound of a man’s voice or the remembered admiration in his eyes was enough to quiet her misgivings.

In fact, perhaps it was that very admiration that was making her wary. Men didn’t usually respond to her as Mr. Duffy had. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had offered to drive her home so she wouldn’t get wet in the rain. Why had Mr. Duffy been so accommodating?

And who
was
he, really? How did anyone know that the man was who he said he was? She would bet that Ellery Queen wouldn’t take him at face value, even if he was a banker. Or maybe, especially
because
he was a banker. What would Queen do, if he were confronted by such a situation?

Verna was still considering that last question as she washed her few dishes, swept the kitchen, and went into the living room. On Monday evenings, she always listened to
The Chase and Sanborn Hour
. The show, which starred Eddie Cantor, was light and funny enough to take her mind off the question. But when it was over and she got out her sewing box to repair the hem of the blue serge skirt she planned to wear the next day, it came back.

Who
was
Mr. Duffy, really? How could she find out?

Both of these questions were still in her mind when she let Clyde out into the April darkness to do his evening business, called him back in again, and went to bed. But by that time, she had come up with a plan that might satisfy even Ellery Queen, so she had not the slightest trouble falling asleep.

*   *   *

Verna usually ate lunch with Liz Lacy. On pretty days, they often picnicked on the courthouse lawn, where they could keep an eye on the comings and goings around the square. But on Tuesday morning, very early, Liz had telephoned to say she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be going in to the office. She didn’t sound up to par, and since she had missed work only once or twice in years, Verna was concerned.

“You’re okay?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, nothing.” There was a catch in her voice. “But thanks for asking. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow. Let’s get together for lunch in a day or two, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“We’ll do it,” Verna said. “In the meantime, I prescribe chicken soup. Works for whatever ails you.”

But Liz had only chuckled—sadly, Verna thought—and said, “I don’t think chicken soup will fix an ailing heart.” Verna (who was not a metaphorical thinker) was about to ask Liz what was wrong with her heart, but she had hung up.

Business was slow at the county clerk’s office, and to keep both Sherrie and Melba Jean busy, Verna had set them to cleaning out the files, which had been accumulating for the hundred-plus years of the town’s existence. Darling’s local historian, Bessie Bloodworth, loved to tell how it was settled in 1823 by Joseph P. Darling—accidentally, it seemed, rather than on purpose, since Mr. Darling was not at all sure where in the world he was.

The Darlings had come by wagon from Virginia: Mr. Darling and Mrs. Darling, with their five Darling children, two field-hand slaves, a team of oxen, a pair of milk cows, Mrs. Darling’s three hens and a rooster, and Mr. Darling’s saddle horse. Mr. Darling intended to push on to the Mississippi, where he planned to build a plantation and make a fortune in cotton. The Mississippi River had become a part of the United States after Mr. Jefferson negotiated the Louisiana Purchase, which in Mr. Darling’s view was a very good idea, even though some folks said it was unconstitutional. Nevertheless, it was bought and paid for, and Mr. Darling was determined to be first in line when the tracts were laid out along the river.

But Mrs. Darling had just about had her fill of riding in that wagon and sleeping under the stars. When they got to Pine Mill Creek, just north of what is now the town of Darling, she announced that she was not going one step farther. If Mr. Darling wanted to plant cotton, he could plant it right here. If he wanted to plant it beside the Mississippi, he could do it without her. Without the Darling children, too. And the milk cows. And the chickens. And before he left he could build her a cabin so she and the children didn’t have to sleep out under the stars.

Since Mrs. Darling was a mild-mannered woman who did not usually deliver ultimatums, Mr. Darling took this one seriously. Their conversation (sadly) was not recorded for posterity, but as Bessie told the tale, the slaves unhitched the oxen and put the cows on picket lines, Mr. Darling set up camp and began staking out a cabin on a little rise above the creek, and Mrs. Darling took off her sunbonnet and put the soup pot over the campfire. They were home at last.

Over time, enough Darling friends and relations joined them to constitute a village, and before long, the village grew into a town, quite appropriately named Darling, after Joseph P. Soon, it boasted a sawmill, a gristmill, a general store, a post office, a school, three churches, and four saloons. And because one of the Darling cousins was a surveyor and the town fathers wanted things neat and orderly, he laid out a tidy grid and platted streets and lots. Within a few years, Darling became the seat of Cypress County, so a brick courthouse was built on the square in the center of town and filled with records of property sales, marriages, births, deaths, wills and last testaments, transcripts of court cases, and all sorts of legal documents.