The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush (27 page)

“And I have news for you,” Verna said. “I don’t know how this is going to turn out, but I’ve talked to somebody who might be willing—and able—to buy some of the bank shares. I don’t know if she can go as high as fifty percent, but I really think you should talk to her.”

“No kidding? That would be swell, really swell, Verna! And it’s down to twenty-five percent now, so—” His face darkened. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Johnson died early this afternoon.”

Verna gasped. “Mr. Johnson died! But how? Was he—”

“A massive heart attack, according to Dr. Roberts. He died at home, in his library.”

Verna let her breath out, relieved. “Thank God. I was afraid for a moment that—” She bit it off, not wanting to say what she had been thinking. It would have been absolutely horrible if the poor man had been murdered by a disgruntled depositor.

“I know,” Al said gravely. “That was my first thought, too, Verna. But Dr. Roberts says he’d been cautioning Mr. Johnson to slow down, and Mrs. Johnson was nagging him to sell the bank so he could get some rest.”

“But he just kept plugging.” Verna hadn’t known him well, but she had respected him. He’d had the best interests of Darling at heart throughout his decades at the bank. Since the Crash, things had been so difficult, with bank failures everywhere. It must have been very hard on him. She frowned. “You just said that you’ve found another possible buyer?”

“Yes. Bent Moseley called Mrs. Johnson up in Montgomery to tell her the bad news. It turns out that she’s willing to buy back twenty-five percent of the shares, if another buyer can be found.” He gave Verna a quizzical look. “So you’re saying that you know someone else who might be able to help?”

Verna nodded. “Hetty Little and I had a talk with Miss Tallulah LaBelle. She owns a plantation outside of town and—to all appearances, anyhow—is a wealthy woman.” She held up her hand, warning him against getting too hopeful. “I really have no idea how serious she is, or how well qualified. But she’s willing to listen to a proposal.”

Al’s glance lingered on her face. “You are a lifesaver,” he said quietly. “I owe you, Verna.”

“Don’t say that until you know how it’s going to turn out,” Verna cautioned, but she felt her pulse quicken and the color rise in her cheeks, which made her a little angry. It was silly to let this man affect her in this way.

With a determined look, he straightened his shoulders. “There’s no time like the present, strike while the iron is hot, and all that. Do you have Miss LaBelle’s telephone number? I’ll make an appointment to talk to her as soon as she’ll see me.”

Verna shook her head. “I don’t have her number, no. But if you call the Exchange and ask the operator to put you through to Miss Tallulah, you’ll reach her. It’s a small town, remember?”

The hard lines of Al’s face softened into a smile. “Oh, yes. A small town. And that is very, very nice.” He pushed the satchel toward her. “You take out what you need to meet your payroll. I’ll go make that phone call.”

*   *   *

As things turned out, Miss Tallulah was willing to see Mr. Duffy that afternoon, and since the roads to the plantation weren’t marked, Verna volunteered to go along, so he wouldn’t get lost. At least, that was the reason she gave, although if she had been completely honest with herself, she might have confessed to another reason. And it wasn’t just that she wanted a ride in his late-model Oldsmobile, either, although that might have been a factor.

When they reached the LaBelle plantation, Verna went inside with Al to introduce him to Miss Tallulah, then excused herself and went back out to the car so that the two of them could talk privately. Wishing she had brought her Ellery Queen mystery, she lit a cigarette and settled down to wait, wondering what was going on inside. As the acting county treasurer, she was used to dealing with money—and accustomed to working with strong-minded people, like Mr. Tombull and the other county commissioners. But she had never before asked someone to buy a bank, and the fact that she had had the temerity to do that half astonished her. She hoped Mr. Duffy and Miss Tallulah were getting along all right. He could be charming—yes, she had to admit that. But could he charm the old lady into opening her purse? And even if he could, did she have enough money to actually do the deal?

Ten minutes grew into fifteen, and then into a half hour, and Verna found that she had smoked three cigarettes all the way down to a tiny butt, and she was feeling the nicotine. To keep from smoking another, she stuck her pack in her pocketbook and her pocketbook under the seat. She was relieved when, ten minutes later, Al came out, walking jauntily and with a broad smile on his face.

“It’s all settled,” he said jubilantly, sliding under the wheel. “Miss Tallulah is going to do it! She’s buying twenty-five percent of the shares in the bank—and she has the available cash to do it with.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “Add that to Mrs. Johnson’s twenty-five percent, and we’ve met Delta Charter’s fifty percent requirement! Thanks, Verna, for this.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Verna protested. “Miss Tallulah is Aunt Hetty’s friend.”

“You thought of her,” he said. “And I’m grateful.”

“Well, it’s grand news.” Verna was surprised by how relieved she felt. She stole a sideways glance at him as he turned the key in the ignition and started the Oldsmobile. “Now that you’ve got that straightened out, when do you think the bank will reopen? Soon, I hope.”

“We’re a lot closer than we were.” He shifted into first gear and they were off. “I hope the Darling Dollars will take some of the urgency out of it. Pumping what amounts to ten thousand extra dollars into our local economy will help people buy what they need—which will help the merchants. It’s all tied together, you know.” He grinned. “Basic economics.”

“True,” Verna agreed, “although I don’t think most people understand the process.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe you should have Charlie write a story about it for the
Dispatch.
Better yet, you could write it yourself.” Somehow, she imagined that he would be a pretty good writer.

He gave her an appreciative look. “Actually, I’m doing that, for Friday’s paper.”

“That’s swell,” Verna said enthusiastically, getting into the spirit of the thing. “And maybe Charlie could write a front-page story about the new ownership of the bank. That way, people will know that the Darling Savings and Trust doesn’t belong entirely to an out-of-town owner. Two local people—two women, in fact!—now own half of it. That’s going to be important to the locals.” She wasn’t exaggerating, either. Knowing that Mr. Johnson’s widow and the legendary Miss Tallulah owned a big share of the bank would give people confidence. For something that had started out so badly, the ending—this part of it, anyway—couldn’t have turned out better.

“We need to wait on that part of the story for a week or two,” Al said in a cautious tone. “It’s going to take a while to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Charlie is going to run Mr. Johnson’s obituary on Friday, and that will take up a full page.” He paused, considering. “But you’re certainly right that people will feel better if they know what’s in the works. So I’ll ask him to include a paragraph about future plans. Without going into specifics, he can say that a deal for local ownership is pending and an announcement will be made soon. That will quiet some of the apprehension”

“Good,” she said, nodding. “Makes sense.” She sighed. “I’m so sorry that Mr. Johnson has died—it’s nothing short of tragic. In a way, it feels like the end of an era, and I’m sure that the townspeople will see it that way, too. But with Miss Tallulah and Voleen Johnson becoming partners in the bank, it almost feels like the beginning of something new and . . . well, exciting, really. Don’t you agree?” But that was silly. Al Duffy was new to Darling. He wouldn’t be able to sense a change in direction in the same way a native would.

But he did, or rather, he understood it in his own terms. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “It feels like an entirely new ball game. It’s as if the Boston Red Sox have been bought by new owners in the middle of the season—and they suddenly discover that they have a new fastball pitcher and two new .300 hitters and as good a chance at the league title as anybody else.” He chuckled. “Well, not quite. But you get the point.”

She laughed at that, since the Red Sox had been at the bottom of the American League standings the previous year. But he had understood what she meant in a way she hadn’t quite grasped herself, which she found quite surprising. And Walter, with all his indisputable facts and known quantities, had never been able to surprise her. What would it be like to be surprised every now and then—or even dazzled by someone’s brilliance, as she was by Ellery Queen?

He was concentrating on the road ahead. “Speaking of new beginnings, I wonder if you remember what’s happening tonight.”

“Tonight?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yes, tonight. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. We’re having prime rib at the Old Alabama, on a white tablecloth with flowers and candles.” He slid her a grin. “And out in the lobby, Mrs. LeVaughn will play ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’”

Verna hooted. “Mrs. LeVaughn won’t play that! She plays Chopin and Debussy. Dinner music.”

“She will if I ask her,” Al said confidently. “In honor of our new team. But it’ll be our secret, and we’ll smile and drink a toast—in cider, of course—to the success of Mrs. Johnson and Miss Tallulah. What do you say, Verna?”

Verna shook her head. “Prime rib, candles, flowers, a white tablecloth, and Mrs. LeVaughn.” And perhaps a surprise or two. “I can only say yes.”

“Good.” Al chuckled. “There’s one condition, though.”

Uh-oh,
she thought.
Here it comes.
“Okay. What’s the condition?”

He reached over and gently tugged at the brim of her newsboy’s cap. “You have to wear that red hat all during dinner.”

The Dahlias Get Beautiful

Wednesday, April 19

“I swear.” Bessie Bloodworth pushed herself out of the shampoo chair and allowed Beulah to wrap a dry towel, turban-style, around her wet hair. “I cannot recall a week in living memory when so much has happened. Feels like we’ve been hit by a hurricane.”

“That’s the Lord’s truth,” Beulah said cheerfully, drying her hands. “Makes me tired just to think of it, Bessie. Now, you go on and sit in my cutting chair and I’ll be right with you, soon as I see how Aunt Hetty is coming along under that hair dryer. Oh, and Bettina put your plate of sour cream cookies on the table, and there’s tea in the pot.”

Bessie had brought cookies to share with Beulah’s and Bettina’s regular Wednesday morning clients—Aunt Hetty, Fannie Champaign, Earlynne Biddle, and Alice Ann Walker—who were discussing the latest local events. They might not add up to a hurricane, but there was a lot to discuss, including a jail break, two funerals, a wedding, the just-released Darling Dollars, and Liz Lacy’s exciting new job up in Montgomery.

“How long did you say Liz is going to be gone?” Alice Ann Walker asked from the chair where Bettina was cutting her hair. “A little shorter over the ears, please, Bettina,” she added. Alice Ann kept her hair cut short and simple so she didn’t have to fool with rollers and pin curls. That was because of her job at the bank, which kept her busy. She was going back tomorrow, when the bank was scheduled to reopen—to everyone’s great relief. It seemed that the crisis was over.

“She’ll be back at the end of July is what Charlie told me,” Fannie said. “Earlynne, do you want clear, or this pale pink?” She held up a bottle of nail polish. “Or maybe red?”

Fannie and Earlynne were seated on opposite sides of the manicure table next to the window, doing each other’s nails. When Fannie finished Earlynne’s, Earlynne would do Fannie’s. The manicure table was a new service, free and complimentary—Bettina’s idea, and a good one, too. All it took was a few bottles of inexpensive nail polish, some emery boards, and a little jar of cuticle cream, arranged on a small table with a vase of pretty flowers from Beulah’s garden. It would make a visit to the Bower that much more fun.

Bettina turned around, shears poised over Alice Ann’s damp hair. “Fannie, did I hear you mention Mr. Dickens? Are you seeing
him again?”

Shyly, Fannie nodded. “But don’t ask me anything more, Bettina.” She pantomimed turning a key to lock her lips. “Charlie made me promise not to talk about . . . us.”

With a cup of tea and two of her own cookies, Bessie settled herself in Beulah’s haircutting chair. “That’s wonderful news, Fannie!” She chuckled wryly. “It sure took that man long enough to see the light. What finally brought him around?”

“I think Verna had something to do with it,” Fannie said. “She and I had a little talk, then she had a little talk with him, and then he—” She stopped, coloring. “Well, you know. I really shouldn’t say another word.”

“I’ll have pink,” Earlynne said. “No, do me in red, Fannie. A girl has to live dangerously every now and then.” She smiled. “And maybe I’ll have you make me a red newsboy cap, like the one you made for Verna. Myra May and Violet said that Mr. Duffy fell head over heels for her the minute he saw her in that cap.”

“Red it is,” Fannie replied, uncapping the little bottle of nail polish. “And haven’t I always said that hats can work miracles?”

“I’ll tell you what would be a miracle,” Earlynne said knowingly. “If Verna fell for Mr. Duffy, that’s what. You know how unsentimental that woman is.”

Fannie lifted an eyebrow. “Stranger things have happened.” She looked down at Earlynne’s hand and clucked her tongue. “What
have
you been doing to your nails, Earlynne?”

“Digging in the garden.” Earlynne made a face. “I hope you can do something with them.”

Beulah lifted the metal hair dryer bonnet off Aunt Hetty and felt to see if the curls were dry. “That’ll do you, Aunt Hetty,” she said and turned off the dryer. Going back to Alice Ann’s question, she added, “Liz promised to be back in time to start the planning for the Dahlias fall flower show, Alice Ann. She may be back on weekends, too. Her mama’s not just real good. She’s taken to her bed.”

“Her mama’s sulking about Grady Alexander,” Aunt Hetty said darkly. To the group, she added, “Ophelia is acting president while Liz is in Montgomery, so if you’ve got any flower show questions, you can ask her.”

“And while Liz is gone,” Earlynne put in, “Ophelia is also working half-time for Mr. Moseley. She’s doing the typing part of Liz’s job.”

Aunt Hetty got out of the hair dryer chair and stretched to get the kinks out. “Well, if you ask me,” she remarked, “it’s a good time for Liz to get away, with Grady Alexander getting married and buying the old Harrison house and installing his new wife there.” She paused. “His
pregnant
wife.”

Alice Ann met Aunt Hetty’s eyes in the mirror. “So you know for sure that the new Mrs. Alexander is pregnant?”

Aunt Hetty nodded. “That’s what Grady told Liz and Liz told Verna and Verna told me. The baby’s due in six months.” She counted on her fingers. “That makes it mid-October.”

“They ate their supper before they said grace, as my grandmother used to say,” Alice Ann remarked.

Beulah went back to the chair where Bessie was sitting and shook out a pink cape. “I don’t think anybody from Darling went to the wedding,” she said, “out of respect for Liz.” She tied the cape around Bessie’s neck.

Bessie put her teacup on the counter and adjusted the cape across her lap. “I don’t know what Grady Alexander is thinking, moving his new wife here to Darling. You’d think that man would have better sense, wouldn’t you?”

Aunt Hetty gave a snort. “Well, my daddy always said that somebody who pets a live catfish ain’t crowded with brains. I guess that goes for Grady.”

“I can’t imagine anybody will want to make a friend of her,” Alice Ann said. “That would be an insult to our Liz.” She sniffed. “And really, we just can’t have that kind of behavior right here in Darling.”

Beulah cleared her throat and everybody fell silent. They knew there was a limit to the amount and kind of gossip she tolerated at the Bower. Beulah—who believed that you couldn’t be truly beautiful on the outside if you weren’t beautiful on the inside as well—wanted all her clients to think beautiful thoughts whenever possible. She always said she just couldn’t do much with a person whose thoughts were mostly mean and ugly, because her hair wouldn’t behave right. It would be all snarled and snarly.

Aunt Hetty went over to the table and refilled her teacup. “I think if folks had a choice, they would’ve rather gone to Rider LeDoux’s funeral than Grady Alexander’s wedding. I did.”

“Was it good?” Bettina picked up the clipper and ran it up the back of Alice Ann’s neck. “Were there many there?”

“Why, half the county,” Aunt Hetty said. “I went ’cause Mrs. LeDoux is a second cousin on my mother’s side, but I would’ve been glad to go, even if we weren’t kin. It was a grand funeral, with all kinds of music—fiddle and banjo and harmonica, accordion, too. And hymns, of course. Oh, my goodness, the hymns! ‘Life’s Railway to Heaven’ and ‘In the Sweet By and By’ and of course ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘Rock of Ages.’ And then we all went to the graveyard, which is right out behind the church, and after Rider was in the ground, we had potluck.”

“Somebody said there was a lot of food,” Beulah said, combing out Bessie’s thin gray hair. “Bessie, you need to work on your hair, hon. Before you shampoo next time, just beat yourself an egg until it’s nice and bubbly and add a spoonful of honey and stir it in. Then wet your hair and massage the egg and the honey in just real good, all the way to the ends, and wrap it up in a towel for ten minutes or so. Then shampoo it out.”

“I’ll do it, Beulah,” Bessie said. “I’ve been a little worried about the way it’s thinning out on top.”

“Food, oh, my, yes.” Aunt Hetty nodded emphatically. “There was more food than you could shake a stick at! Rider’s daddy roasted a pig and there was baked turkey and fried chicken and potato salad and so many cakes and pies you couldn’t count them. Rider would have been proud to see so much food laid out and his friends all dressed up in their Sunday best. And of course, Mickey and Tom-Boy were there. They set a few jugs on a bench out behind the barn, so the men who wanted could have that last swig of moonshine. It’ll be a while before Mickey makes any more.”

“Mickey and Tom-Boy!” Bettina stopped in midsnip. “I thought they were in jail!”

“They were,” Earlynne said. “But they got out on Friday night, just for the funeral.”

Bettina’s mouth fell open. “You mean, they escaped? There was a jailbreak?”

“Well, sort of.” Earlynne laughed. “Actually, it was Deputy Buddy Norris’ idea. He knew they wanted to go to that funeral in the worst way, and Judge McHenry had already told them they couldn’t. So he let them tie him up to a chair there in the jail and stuff a gag in his mouth, which is where the sheriff found him—after Mickey and Tom-Boy called in a tip to the Telephone Exchange a couple of hours later.”

“And then,” Aunt Hetty continued the story, “when the funeral and the burying and the eating were all over and done with and everybody went home, Rider’s daddy drove Mickey and Tom-Boy to the jail and they went in and locked themselves back in their cells. That’s where they are now, waiting for the circuit judge to come and hear their case. They’ll get two years, likely, but they’ll be out in ten months, is what I heard. The state doesn’t like to buy groceries for moonshiners.” She laughed a little. “And then they’ll go back to making moonshine, most likely.”

“Not if Agent Kinnard has anything to say about it,” Alice Ann said. “He was in the diner, talking to Mr. Musgrove. Myra May overheard him say that when Mickey got out, he—Agent Kinnard, that is—was going to hound him to the end of his days. He means to make sure there’s gonna be no more moonshine.”

“Speaking of Mr. Musgrove,” Bessie said, “I heard that he figured out who bought that red barn paint that ended up all over the Johnsons’ front porch. And that Artis Hart at the Peerless Laundry took in four white sheets with mud all over them. Sheriff Burns has the list of names. He told Mr. Musgrove he thought he’d have them repaint the porch and scrub the walk and fix up Mrs. Johnson’s garden.”

“That ought to teach them,” Bettina said with satisfaction.

“Well, if I was Agent Kinnard, I would watch out for myself,” Aunt Hetty said. “There are plenty in Darling who think Mickey hung the moon, so to speak. They’re counting the days until he’s back in business.”

Blowing on her bright red nails, Earlynne said, “I didn’t go to Rider’s funeral because I don’t know the LeDoux family, but Mr. Johnson was a deacon in the Methodist church where I go, so I went to his funeral.” She rolled her eyes. “It was so solemn and just lovely. There were banks of flowers all over the place, and the choir wore their white robes and sang ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ with Mrs. LeVaughn at the piano and Mary Lea Gerard singing the high soprano part. Voleen Johnson made such a beautiful widow, dressed in a new black suit and a gorgeous black hat with a black veil that she got in Mobile, I am sorry to say, Fannie.” She nodded apologetically at Fannie Champaign. “I’m sure you would have made an even more beautiful one for her, dear. But you know Voleen. She’s got to get her hats in the big city.”

“Everybody’s going to miss Mr. Johnson,” Beulah said sadly. Then she cheered up. “But I think it’s just wonderful that Mrs. Johnson and Miss Tallulah LaBelle are going to be partners in the bank. Have you heard that?”

Aunt Hetty frowned. “Has that news got out already?”

“Well, it’s nothing official, the way I understand it,” Beulah said. “But Verna told me that Mr. Duffy has talked to both of them. Mr. Moseley has drawn up the paperwork for them to sign, and the bank in New Orleans has agreed. Maybe there’ll be a piece in the
Dispatch
on Friday.”

“Well,” Aunt Hetty said in a knowing tone, “things are likely to be a little bit exciting when those two women start working together.”

“Why, how’s that?” Bettina wanted to know.

“Because . . .” Aunt Hetty stopped. “Well, it’s a long story, and it goes back quite a ways. We’ll just have to hear it another time.”

And with that, the Dahlias had to be satisfied.