The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  At the time of their conversation, Lizzy had been working full time for Mr. Moseley, and she told Mr. Nichols that. He’d promised to stay in touch, though. And now that Mr. Moseley had cut her hours, the income from a part-time job with the Writers’ Project might be very welcome—as long as it left her time to work on her book.

  Anyway, she was glad to hear from Mr. Nichols again and hoped that his project was still a possibility. He was a Yankee, yes, but courteous and soft-spoken, in a comfortable way that made him seem to be a friend from the moment he’d walked through her front door. Plus, he was quite nice-looking.

  But if there were any other feelings tucked away in the corners of her heart, Lizzy wasn’t ready to pull them out and look at them.

  Mr. Moseley came in a little after ten, having driven down from the state capital at Montgomery. “It is cold out there,” he said, shrugging out of his navy blue overcoat and hanging it and his felt hat on the coat tree beside the office door. “The heater in the car isn’t working right, either. My feet are just about frozen. Is the coffee hot, Liz?”

  “Coming up.” As always, Lizzy was glad to see him. His presence in the office made things feel . . . well, complete again. “I brought you a couple of Raylene’s doughnuts. They’re on your desk.”

  “Ah, wonderful,” he said. “You take such good care of me, Liz. Makes me wonder why I ever leave Darling.” He smoothed back his dark brown hair. “The capital is a circus when the legislature is in session. So much political infighting going on, especially with Senator Long campaigning up a storm all across the South. You’d think the presidential election is tomorrow, instead of nearly two years away. Long is going to give the president a real test in thirty-six—if FDR runs again, that is.”

  Lizzy was surprised. Mr. Moseley was well connected, politically, and usually knew what was going on. At Thanksgiving, he’d spent a day with FDR and some of his advisors at the Little White House, at Warm Springs, over in Georgia. “You think the president won’t run for a second term?” she asked.

  “He says he won’t, although I’m not sure I believe him.” Mr. Moseley blew on his cold fingers and rubbed his hands together. “But enough of that political stuff. I’m glad to be back home in Darling, where nothing exciting ever happens.” He grinned. “Bring the coffee to my office, Liz. While I take care of Raylene’s doughnuts, you can fill me in—if there’s anything to tell, that is. As I say, this is Darling.”

  Sitting across from Mr. Moseley with a cup of coffee in front of her and her steno notebook in her lap, Lizzy didn’t waste any time. She got right into the phone call from Mr. Price, the lawyer in Los Angeles, and the threat against Cupcake.

  But she had only managed a few words when Mr. Moseley held up his hand. “You’re telling me that somebody is threatening to steal our Cupcake?” he asked incredulously. “I don’t believe it!”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Lizzy said ruefully. “According to Violet, Neil Hudson—Mr. Price’s client—is Cupcake’s real father. Raylene thinks he’s planning to take her to Hollywood and try to get her into the movies.”

  Mr. Moseley rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Take it from the top, Liz. Chronologically and in detail. Don’t leave anything out.”

  He loosened his tie, lit his pipe, and smoked while Liz—who prided herself on her ability to tell a coherent story—recounted the whole thing, beginning with Cupcake’s birth in Memphis. She ended with Raylene’s report of Neil Hudson’s appearance at the dance recital, his amazement at the discovery of his daughter, and his plan for turning himself and Cupcake into a Hollywood dancing duo.

  “On the order of Shirley Temple and James Dunn, in Stand Up and Cheer,” she added. “Remember the song-and-dance number, ‘Baby Take a Bow’?” She and Mr. Moseley occasionally went to the movies, and that was one they had seen together.

  “Ah,” Mr. Moseley said thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. Shirley Temple. The shiniest little star in Hollywood. I’m sure he thinks there’s money to be made. Give me a moment to think about what we should do.” He turned his chair around and looked out the window.

  Benton Moseley was a good listener who never failed to hear what was said—as well as what wasn’t said, but was meant. In his early forties, he was a slender, attractive man with neatly clipped brown hair, regular features, and brown eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses. He looked, Lizzy thought, a lot like Gary Cooper, puffing away on his pipe.

  She also thought, just for an instant, how glad she was that he was back in the office and how relieved she was that she could turn this latest crisis over to him. She didn’t ask herself whether there was anything else behind her pleasure, although if she had, she would have refused to admit it. That silly old business had been settled a long time ago, when she had outgrown her schoolgirl crush on her boss. All that was behind her, in the past.

  After a moment, Mr. Moseley turned his chair back around and looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “Thank you,” he said. “That was a very clear recap, Liz. Now, tell me how you see this situation. Both sides of the issue, please.”

  Lizzy pressed her lips together. Mr. Moseley frequently asked her opinion about his cases, and always asked her to see both sides. This time, though, that was difficult to do.

  “Well,” she said hesitantly, “On Mr. Hudson’s side, I’d have to say that it doesn’t seem right to keep a little girl from her father. He would certainly have a stronger claim than a mere aunt. I’m supposing that his legal claim is valid—that he can prove he’s her father. There’s a birth certificate, I suppose—but is that enough? And Violet says he’s the father. But if the case went to court, she probably wouldn’t testify to that.”

  She stopped, thinking about it. “Actually, Violet can only testify that her sister was the child’s mother—she can’t say with certainty who the father was. And since her sister and this man weren’t married . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Very good, Liz,” Mr. Moseley said encouragingly. “Go on.”

  “In fact, Violet wasn’t even with her sister when she got pregnant, so her testimony on that issue would be meaningless.” Lizzy blushed. This was a rather delicate subject. “We’re talking about proving paternity. I’m not sure how Mr. Hudson might do that, if it were contested. I’ve read that blood tests aren’t conclusive.”

  “That’s right, Liz,” Mr. Moseley said. “Yes, the courts have decided that the blood typing system that was developed in the 1920s—Type A, Type B, Type O—isn’t accurate enough to determine paternity. There are some new serological tests, but none of them can be relied on.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “In fact, I could claim to be the girl’s father, and the current tests couldn’t exclude me. It would be nearly impossible for Hudson to prove paternity to a court. Now, what arguments do you have on the other side?”

  Lizzy tilted her head. It was easier to argue for her friends. “Cupcake has two loving mothers and a grandmother, and lots of friends here in Darling. She has a stable home in an established community. And while Hollywood might be alluring, what would happen to her if she and her father don’t make it in the movies? Would he go back into vaudeville? Is a traveling vaudeville troupe any place for a child to grow up?”

  “And what happens if they do make it in the movies?” Mr. Moseley asked, in a rhetorical tone. “Shirley Temple may be enormously popular now. But a child star can’t count on staying popular. A star for a few years, three or four at the most, and then she outgrows the part. Suddenly she’s a has-been.” He puffed out a ring of blue smoke. “Remember Baby Peggy?”

  “Oh, I do!” Lizzy exclaimed. Along with Jackie Coogan, Baby Peggy had been a hugely popular child star in the silent movies of the 1920s. “She made an enormous amount of money, didn’t she?” She tilted her head. “But then she dropped out of the picture.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Moseley said. “Ten years ago, the newspapers dubbed Baby Peggy the Million Dollar Baby. That was the year she earned a million and half dollars.” He pulled on his pipe.
“After that, it was all downhill. She tried for a comeback recently under her real name, Peggy-Jean Montgomery. But it was no surprise when that didn’t work out.”

  “And if it’s a question of custody,” Lizzy went on, “the court ought to be interested in Mr. Hudson’s ability to provide for the child—beyond a long shot at Hollywood. He wasn’t around to take care of Cupcake’s mother in her last days, and he was willing to give the baby to an orphanage. What’s different now? Can he provide a stable home for the little girl, a place to live comfortably, have friends, go to school? These are things that Violet and Myra May can provide, here in Darling.”

  “Very good,” Mr. Moseley said. “A judge awarding custody would have to consider all those issues.” He sat up straight in his chair and put his elbows on the desk. “It’s likely that Hudson—and that lawyer of his, Price—have already thought about all this. That phone call sounds to me like a bullying strategy. They’re hoping to scare Violet into giving them the girl without getting a court order.” His eyes narrowed. “Hudson might even be thinking that if there’s any resistance on this end, he’ll just swoop in and take the child.” He gave Lizzy a hard, direct look. “Is there any way you can ensure her safety, Liz?”

  “There might be,” she said slowly. In fact, she had thought of several possibilities as she walked to work that morning. “How about if we—”

  Mr. Moseley held up his hand. “Don’t tell me what it is. If Cupcake disappears and I’m questioned, I want to be able to say ‘I don’t know’ without telling an outright lie. It’s called deniability.” He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “If you have an idea—a good idea—you should act on it. The sooner the better. Got that, Liz?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lizzy said firmly. “Got it.”

  “Fine,” Mr. Moseley said. “I suggest that you get started on that little project today, since we have no idea whether—or when—Hudson may show up in Darling.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk. “I want to make a telephone call. In the office directory, you’ll find the number of a private detective out in L.A. by the name of Jake Gillis. See if you can get him on the phone. He’s kind of a shady character, which is perfect for what I want him to do.” He turned his pipe over and tapped it into the ashtray. “When you put in the call, I don’t want any of the switchboard girls—especially Violet—listening in. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  Lizzy stood and picked up their empty coffee cups. “I’ll make that call now.”

  “Thanks.” Mr. Moseley smiled at her. “I’m glad to be back, Liz. Montgomery might be where the action is, but this office is home. I think it’s because I . . .” His voice trailed off, and he gave her a searching look.

  “Because?” Lizzy prompted. Her skin prickled. Why was he looking at her like that?

  He reached into his drawer and took out a pipe cleaner. “Oh, just because,” he said carelessly. He sniffed. “Is that camphor I’m smelling? Couldn’t be my Santa Claus suit, could it?”

  “That’s what it is,” Lizzy said with a light laugh. “Suit and cap and snowy white beard. It’s hanging in the closet, ready and waiting for the big day. Verna Tidwell promises that there’ll be a plenty of kids at the party.”

  “Ho ho ho,” Mr. Moseley muttered. “Close the door when you leave.”

  * * *

  *You can read about Lizzy’s unexpected visit from Ryan Nichols in The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WATCH ME EAT MY WORDS”

  Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Moseley had finished talking to Jake Gillis. Lizzy, who had placed the call and got off the line as soon as Mr. Moseley got on, was curious about what was going on. But she had learned not to ask Mr. Moseley about his conversations. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her.

  She was bent over a filing cabinet drawer, getting out a file Mr. Moseley would need for court the following week, when the door opened. Buddy Norris came in, followed by his deputy. Both were wearing winter coats, wool caps, and mufflers. The cold blew in with them.

  “Why, hello, Sheriff,” Lizzy said cordially. “And Deputy Springer.” The sheriff had called earlier to say that he wanted to see Mr. Moseley on urgent county business—something that involved the Whitworth case and an ongoing investigation at the prison farm. “He’s expecting you, but let me see if he’s available.”

  But before Lizzy could knock at his door, it opened. “Gentlemen, come in,” Mr. Moseley said. “I want to hear what’s going on.” To Lizzy, he added, “You, too, Liz. We’ll need good notes.”

  Which was why Liz found herself seated in a corner of Mr. Moseley’s office, taking rapid shorthand notes as Mr. Moseley smoked his pipe and listened while Buddy Norris made his report. She had known that Jimmie Bragg’s death had been reported as a suicide—everybody who read the Dispatch knew that. So it came as a great surprise to hear that the sheriff was now saying that Bragg had been murdered (thanks to some firearm research conducted by Deputy Springer). And that Bodeen Pyle had heard a rumor that the murder was committed by a guard at the prison farm, on the order of Warden Burford.

  What’s more, Pyle (himself the biggest bootlegger in Cypress County) had told the sheriff that the warden had set up a still and was making corn liquor. To try to get some insider information, the sheriff had sent Charlie Dickens out to the prison as an “undercover agent,” on the pretext of interviewing the warden about his latest award. Tonight, Charlie was supposed to have a confidential talk with an informant he had met at the prison. He would report to the sheriff first thing Saturday morning.

  And then (as if all that wasn’t enough!) the sheriff reported that Bodeen Pyle had given him a large sum of money to keep him from breaking up the still at Briar Swamp and arresting him—a “protection racket” that had apparently been going on with the widely respected former sheriff, Roy Burns! The sheriff handed over an envelope containing the latest payment of the money, along with Deputy Springer’s notes on the conversation.

  “I’ll feel a heckuva lot better now that you have this,” he said. “I sure don’t want anybody pointing the finger at me and accusing me of accepting a bribe to look in the other direction.” He shifted his weight uneasily. “Matter of fact, I am looking the other direction, as far as Pyle is concerned. I’m going to have to shut him down, though, sooner or later. Which will make a lot of folks unhappy hereabouts.”

  For Lizzy, this was an altogether unsettling series of revelations. As she quickly recorded the conversation—the sheriff’s report and Mr. Moseley’s questions—she felt as if she had been given an unwelcome and deeply unsettling glance into the dark underside of Darling. She had never thought of herself as naïve. After all, she had worked in a lawyer’s office for a good many years, and the view from her desk had sometimes been unpleasant. She had seen some unseemly things that other Darling citizens knew nothing about and heard some stories that were much too ugly to make it into the Dispatch. And she had learned that the rules only seemed black and white, the law only appeared solid, and it was the very elasticity of justice that made it work.

  But to learn that a trusted Jericho prison guard might be a murderer, a respected warden a moonshiner and a bootlegger, and Darling’s beloved former sheriff a crook . . .

  Well, it was almost too much for Lizzy to manage all at one time. But she tried to conceal her feelings of disillusionment and went on making notes as if all this was business as usual. As perhaps it was, if she just looked a little closer.

  Finally, Mr. Moseley sat up straight in his chair, dropped his pipe into the ashtray, and said, “Thank you for that report, Buddy. You, too, Wayne. Good work, both of you.” He paused. “I could wish that you hadn’t involved Charlie Dickens, but I understand why you felt you had to. Charlie’s done a fair bit of investigating in his career as a reporter, and he’s smart enough to stay out of trouble.” He stood. “You say you’re meeting him tomorrow morning?”

  The sheriff and the deputy stood, too. Lizzy kept
her seat and continued to take notes. The sheriff said, “Yeah. For breakfast. You going to be around?”

  “I’ll be here in the office early,” Mr. Moseley said. “If Dickens turns up anything interesting, come in and report. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “I’ll do that,” the sheriff said. “About the moonshine operation that the warden is planning—”

  “All you’ve got is Pyle’s say-so,” Mr. Moseley said. “I’m not sure he can be trusted. This is tricky business, Sheriff, and there may be more going on out there than just the distillery. Before we make a move, you need to pull together as much hard evidence as you can. Witnesses, documents, whatever you can dig up. Maybe use that inside source Dickens has located.”

  “Maybe.” The sheriff sounded dubious. “Of course, we have no idea whether he’s reliable. The source, I mean.”

  “Or vulnerable,” Mr. Moseley said softly. “Remember what happened to Bragg.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Yeah. There’s that, too.”

  “Well, go as far as you can with it,” Mr. Moseley said briskly. “Once you’ve got enough probable cause to impress Judge McHenry, we can get a warrant. I’ll also have a phone conversation with my contact at the Board of Prison Administrators. And with Agent Kinnard. Jericho is state land, and shutting down an illegal still at the prison is a job for state and federal agents—a whole passel of them.”

  He looked from the sheriff to his deputy. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting that you two gentlemen couldn’t handle this on your own. But the warden’s distillery is not the county’s business. Murder is, and it has priority. If you get a firm line on Burford’s involvement in Bragg’s death, I want to be in on the questioning.”