The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush (14 page)

This was why the files in Verna’s office required cleaning and reorganizing. The shelves and file cabinets were overflowing with ancient records, going all the way back to the beginning of the town. They couldn’t be thrown away (heavens, no!) but they could be preserved for posterity (if posterity cared) in the courthouse basement. So Melba Jean and Sherrie were packing files in labeled boxes, and taking them downstairs.

Halfway through Tuesday afternoon, Verna (who had not forgotten the question that had bothered her the night before) declared that she was taking a coffee break. She walked across the street to the diner to get a cup of Violet’s coffee, which was always better than the coffee Melba Jean brewed on the office hot plate on the windowsill.

But it wasn’t Violet she wanted to see, it was Myra May. Verna found her out in the ramshackle garage behind the diner, where—dressed in striped coveralls and with an L&N railroad engineer’s cap on her head—she was changing Big Bertha’s spark plugs. Bertha was the green 1920 Chevrolet touring car that Myra May had inherited from her father, who for decades had been Darling’s only doctor. Bertha was on her second carburetor and Myra May had long ago lost track of how many spark plugs she’d used up. But her green canvas top was still sound, her chrome fittings were reasonably shiny, and Violet had repainted the spokes in her wheels a jazzy red. Chugging down the road, Bertha was a pretty sight.

Myra May ducked out from under Bertha’s hood and straightened up. “What brings you across the street in the middle of the afternoon? You’re usually at work at this hour.” She removed a stack of clay flowerpots from a wooden bench. “Have a seat. We can talk while I finish this job.”

“I was thinking about something you said yesterday.” Verna sat down and put her coffee cup on the bench beside her. “About Mr. Duffy.”

Myra May’s face darkened. “Oh,
him,
” she said, with a grim emphasis.

“What don’t you like about him, specifically?” Verna asked the question in a neutral tone, having decided not to reveal her own misgivings. She was sure that Ellery Queen would be wearing a poker face.

“Specifically?” Myra May picked up her spark plug wrench. “He’s a Romeo. You should see him giving the eye to Juliet.”

“Juliet?” Verna asked, and then immediately understood. “Oh. You mean—”

She swallowed, aware of a stab of disappointment. So she wasn’t the only woman Mr. Duffy was buttering up. A Romeo, was he? Well, at least she understood the score.

“Yeah.” Myra May was morose. “Juliet kinda likes him, too. I’m chicken to ask her, but that’s the way it looks to me.”

Wrench in hand, she went back under the hood. Verna heard a gruff curse, and a moment later, Myra May emerged triumphant, holding up a dirty spark plug. “Got the sucker!” she crowed. “Three down, one to go.”

Verna picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Is there anything else? About Mr. Duffy, I mean.”

“About Casanova?” Myra May narrowed her eyes. “Who the devil is he, anyway? He shows up in town one day, and the next he’s vice president of the bank. How did that happen?” She dropped the dirty spark plug on the workbench and went back under the hood.

“As I understand it,” Verna said, “his bank—Delta Charter, in New Orleans—bought our bank.”

There was another curse as Myra May wrestled with something under the hood. At last, she came out with another spark plug. “Hard as pulling teeth,” she growled, and tossed it on the bench. Frowning, she picked up a rag and wiped her hands. “Bought our bank? I didn’t know it was for sale. Can you sell a bank? Can somebody actually buy one?”

“Yes, they can, if they’ve got the money.” She’d read about banks being bought and sold in the newspaper. “As I understand it, it’s mostly banks that buy banks, not people.”

“So that’s why the bank is closed?” Myra May asked, taking an empty Campbell’s soup can off the shelf over the workbench. “Because some other bank bought it? Is Alvin Duffy fixin’ to take all our money back to New Orleans, or wherever the hell he came from?” She began dropping spark plugs, one at a time, into the can.

“I don’t know,” Verna said. “But I intend to find out. Would it be okay with you if I spent some time on the switchboard? I have to do some research, and it’s quicker to do it by telephone than by letter. I’ll be glad to pay for the call, but it’ll be quicker if I make it myself, rather than go through your operator.”

Verna had learned to use the switchboard back when Mrs. Hooper had operated it, before Myra May and Violet had acquired the Exchange. And it wasn’t just because the call was quicker that Verna wanted to make it herself, at the switchboard. At home, she was on a party line, and it was always likely that four or five people could hear every word of every call she made. In this case, she would be asking for some very private information, and she didn’t want either her questions or their answers shared all over Darling. Of course, she could send a wire, but it would have to go through Mrs. Curtis, who ran the Western Union office at the railroad depot. She was as notorious a gossip as Leona Ruth Adcock. Put them in a gossip contest together and they’d end up in a dead heat.

“Damn sight quicker,” Myra May agreed equably. “Sure. Use the switchboard. Call whoever you like, wherever in the world you want to call. It won’t cost you a cent.” She picked up the fourth spark plug. “In fact, if you can find out that Duffy is playing a dirty trick on Darling, I will give you free telephone service for a month.”

“You’re joking,” Verna scoffed. She opened her pocketbook and took out her cigarettes and lighter.

“Maybe.” Myra May squinted at the spark plug. “Bring me your dirt and we’ll dicker. In my opinion, that city slicker is up to no good.” She blew some grit off the spark plug and dropped it into the soup can with the others, then picked up a galvanized spigot can and poured gasoline into the can.

“It’s a deal.” Verna thought better of smoking and put her cigarettes and lighter back in her pocketbook. “What are you doing with that gasoline?”

“Don’t have the money to buy a new set of spark plugs,” Myra May replied pragmatically. “Gotta clean these and put them back in.” She sloshed the gasoline around in the can and set it down, her expression darkening. “Listen, Verna, I need to change the subject. I’m afraid Liz is having a very bad time of it. Have you heard about—”

She was interrupted by a rapping at the door. “It’s open,” she called.

A young man, six feet tall and heavily built, with broad shoulders and a cherubic, apple-cheeked face, stepped into the garage. He was wearing oil-stained bib overalls, a dirty sleeveless undershirt, heavy leather boots, and a shapeless felt hat pulled down over his ears. Verna recognized him as Baby Mann, Archie Mann’s son.

“Miz Vi’let says you got a spade in here,” he said. “She says if I dig up the flower bed, Miz Raylene’ll give me a buttermilk pie.” He grinned broadly. “You know what I’m gonna do with it? I’m gonna give it to Miz Jenkins, for her kids. They don’t have much to eat but greens and fatback. And the Good Book says we oughta share what we got with those that ain’t got as much. Ain’t that right?”

“That is definitely right, Purley,” Myra May said. “In fact, if you do a good job with that spade”—she pointed to the garden spade hanging on the wall beside the door—“if you do a good job, we might just make that
two
pies.”

“Praise the Lord an’ thank you, ma’am!” Baby said. He took the spade down from its hook. “I’ll put this back when I’m done.” He touched the brim of his hat and left.

“That was nice,” Verna said. “Giving his buttermilk pie to Mrs. Jenkins.” Raylene’s buttermilk pie, which had a spoonful of whiskey in it, was a specialty; giving it away required a serious sense of generosity.

“Baby’s quit working out at Mickey’s moonshine operation,” Myra May added with a chuckle. “His mother says he’s got religion. He’s decided to do work that the Lord won’t frown at. And she thinks he’ll have more of a social life, working in town.”

“She’s probably right about that,” Verna replied. “I know the Lord worked miracles with loaves and fishes, but I doubt He’s up to sending Baby a girlfriend out there in the woods.” She paused. “If he’s looking for work, I might be able to use him for a few hours. We’re moving files to the courthouse basement, and some of the boxes are too heavy for Melba Jean and Sherrie. Too heavy for poor old Hezekiah, too. He can push a broom and run the flag up and down, but that’s about it.”

“Ask him,” Myra May urged. “He’ll probably jump at the chance, especially if you can manage to pay him cash money. We can’t—at least, not this week.”

“I’m short on cash,” Verna said, “but it looks like I’ll have plenty of scrip—for whatever that’s worth.” She frowned. “Before he came in, you were saying that Liz is having a bad time. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is Grady Alexander,” Myra May replied. “You’ve heard about him and his bride-to-be, I suppose.”

“What?” Shocked, Verna felt her mouth drop open. “Our Liz is getting
married
? So that’s why she skipped work today! But when I talked to her, she didn’t sound very happy. And why didn’t she tell me? I wonder why—”

“It’s not Liz who’s getting married.” Myra May pulled a pointed metal nail file out of her coverall pocket. “It’s Grady. To Archie Mann’s niece, Baby’s cousin. Sandra, her name is. She’s barely twenty, and Grady’s what—thirty-five? I’ve never seen her, but she’s supposed to be very pretty.”

Verna was dumbfounded. “But . . . but . . . what about Liz?” she sputtered. “Why, she and Grady have been going together
forever
!”

“That was then. This is now. The wedding’s on Saturday, over at Rocky Bottom.”

“So soon?” Verna brooded over that. And then she understood. “Oh,” she said. “Of course. Oh, poor Liz!”

“Yeah. Poor Liz.” Glumly, Myra May sloshed the spark plugs in the can. She fished one out and began to scrape a gritty sludge off the threads. She obviously knew what she was doing. “Men are so cruel.”

“What a jerk!” Verna muttered. “Somebody ought to—” She stopped. She was too much of a lady to say out loud what she thought somebody ought to do to Grady Alexander. But she was
thinking
it.

“My sentiments exactly,” Myra May said. She picked up a small wire brush and began brushing the spark plug energetically.

“Poor, poor Liz,” Verna said again. “I wonder how she found out.”

“I hope to God it was Grady who told her—if he was man enough.” Myra May dunked the spark plug in the gasoline again and wiped it off with a clean rag. “I heard it on the switchboard after lunch and went to her office to see if there was anything I could do. But she wasn’t there. Mr. Moseley said she was taking the day off.”

“Does he know? Mr. Moseley, I mean.”

“I think he does, from the way he looked—sort of tight around the mouth, as if he’d like to give Grady a bloody nose and a couple of black eyes.” Myra May put the clean spark plug on the bench and took another out of the can. “He didn’t say that, of course.”

“He wouldn’t do it, either,” Verna muttered. “He’s a lawyer.”

“He’s Liz’s boss. And her friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.” Myra May began scraping at the threads with the point of her nail file. “Anyway, he said she’d be in tomorrow.”

Verna glanced at her wristwatch and stood up. “I have to get back to the office. If I’m gone too long, Melba Jean will run of out things to do, and Sherrie will start lining up committee meetings for her Darling Downtown projects. I’ll be back at four thirty to make the call I was telling you about. But just one today. If there are others, they’ll have to wait until my lunch hour tomorrow.”

“Okay by me,” Myra May said. “Listen, Verna, when you’re done with your call this afternoon, why don’t you go over to Liz’s with me? Just the two of us.”

“You think she’ll want to see us?” Verna asked doubtfully.

“Probably not. But she needs to. We can commiserate. We can cuss Grady out. We can make a Grady voodoo doll and stick it full of pins, or make a Grady target and throw darts.” Myra May swished the spark plug in the gasoline and began to dry it off with the rag. “What do you bet that the poor thing hasn’t eaten a bite all day? We could take a picnic basket.”

“We could,” Verna agreed, and then she thought of something else. “Listen, I’ve got an idea. Instead of just the two of us, how about—”

Myra May listened to her plan, then nodded. “Sounds right to me, Verna. When I get Big Bertha’s spark plugs back in, I’ll go make some phone calls. Not everybody will be able to come, but there’ll be some. And everybody can bring something.”

“That would be swell.” Verna picked up her pocketbook and headed for the door. “Look for me on the switchboard about four thirty.” As she passed the flower bed that Baby Mann was spading up, she paused to ask if he’d be available to carry some boxes into the courthouse basement later that afternoon.

She was rewarded with a wide grin and an eager “Be glad to, Miz Tidwell. I could do some sweepin’, too, like I done for Mr. Dickens.” He leaned forward. “I ain’t workin’ for Mickey no more, you know?”

“I heard, Purley. It sounds like a good move to me.”

He smiled beatifically. “Reckon so,” he said. “Reckon I’m on the Lord’s path now.” He began to sing a song that Verna recognized:

Drinking gin, drinking gin,

Ohhh it is an awful sin

Ragged old clothes and shamefaced kin,

All brought about by drinking gin.

“O’course,” he added, “it was whiskey I was makin’ out there for Mickey, and not gin. But it’s probably all the same in the eyes of the Lord, ain’t it?”

“I’m sure it is,” Verna said. “Come on over when you finish the flower bed and I’ll put you to work.”

“I will,” Baby said. He was still smiling. “I think the Lord’s gonna be glad of what I aim to do. To cleanse the earth of the scourge of drinkin’, I mean.”

Verna thought that might be claiming a little too much, but she nodded sympathetically. “No doubt,” she said.

Later, she would have reason to rethink her approval.

*   *   *

Years before, Verna and her high school chum Ima Gail Renfro had piled into Ima Gail’s Studebaker Big Six and driven to New Orleans for Ima Gail’s little sister’s graduation from Sophie Newcomb College. For Verna, the trip had been simply magical.