“Thank Aunt Hetty,” Bessie said. “It was her idea.” She smiled. “You don’t get to be eighty-something without having a passel of good ideas.”
And at that point, a light bulb went off in Mildred’s brain, as she understood Aunt Hetty’s mysterious remark. “Ah,” she said. And then, “Who else?”
“Liz and Verna, that I know of,” Bessie said. “And maybe more, next week. The Dahlias take care of their own, you know.” She leaned over the display case. “Oh, what cute Christmas cupcakes, Mildred! I’ll take six, for my dear Magnolia Ladies, plus Roseanne and me. And give me six of those gorgeous croissants, too. Earlynne is quite the baker, isn’t she?”
“No, it’s on the house,” Mildred said, as Bessie opened her pocketbook.
“Not on your life, dear,” Bessie said sweetly. “The bread is a gift. Let’s not make it a trade.”
With a grateful smile, Mildred went to arrange Roseanne’s bread on the shelf—just in time for Mrs. Hart, from Hart’s Peerless Laundry on the other side of the square, to buy two loaves, as well as cupcakes for all the little Harts, some gingerbread, and two croissants.
“We’ve been so busy at the laundry,” Mrs. Hart told Mildred, speaking in her customary italics and exclamation points. “I just don’t have time to bake the way I used to, and I know my poor family must feel utterly deprived! It’s so lovely to run over here and pick up a few sweet treats for Mr. Hart and the kiddies.” She waved her hand at the shelves in the display case. “Everything looks so tasty, just like home-baked. You tell Earlynne I said Darling needs you! Both of you!”
“Thank you,” Mildred said. “I’ll tell her.”
They had just sold out of Roseanne’s bread (which was every bit as pretty as Aunt Hetty’s) when Liz Lacy appeared just before noon. She had a shopping bag in one hand and was holding a little girl’s hand in the other. The child wore a bright red wool coat, red and green stockings with black patent leather Mary Janes, and a red wool bonnet over her strawberry blond curls.
“I’ve brought you more bread,” Liz said. Glancing at the display case, where Mildred had just stuck the “Out of bread—SORRY!” sign, she said, “Looks like you’ve already sold out. Now, you can take your sign down.” She handed over her sack.
“We sold out twice,” Mildred said. She peeked into the sack. “Oh, just look at that wonderful bread. Liz, you are an angel!”
Liz smiled. “I know I speak for all your friends when I say how much we want you to succeed, Mildred. Darling needs a bakery!”
Mildred came around the corner and gave her a hug. “You have no idea how much your support means to us—you and all the other Dahlias.” She bent down and gave the little girl a kiss. “My goodness, Cupcake, you are as cute as a bug’s ear today. Where are you going, all dressed up in that pretty red coat?”
“To Aunt Opie’s house,” Cupcake replied excitedly, bouncing up and down. “Aunt Liz and I are playing ‘Hide the Cupcake.’ It’s like hide and seek, only better!”
Liz put a finger to her lips. “Sssh, honey. You know, if you tell people where you’re hiding, they might find you!”
“Oops!” the little girl said. Blue eyes sparkling, she clapped her mittened hand over her mouth. “I forgot! The game is supposed to be a big secret! So please don’t tell anybody, Aunt Mildred. Please?”
“I won’t,” Mildred said. “But to celebrate your secret game, you should take some holiday cookies to Aunt Opie’s house. Let me get you some.” She filled a sack with a dozen of the prettiest ones and handed it to Liz, lowering her voice. “Is something going on here?”
“I’m afraid so,” Liz said. “But I’ll have to tell you later. Cupcake, we need to be on our way. Say thank you to Aunt Mildred for the lovely cookies.”
“Thank you, Aunt Mildred,” Cupcake said, and made a little curtsey.
“You’re welcome, Cupcake,” Mildred said, and waved goodbye as they left the shop. She was curious about the secret game they were playing, but she didn’t have time to think about it. Mrs. Hazelwood (the Baptist minister’s wife) came in and bought the last carrot cake and two loaves of the bread Mildred was putting into the display case.
“Wonder Bread is fine with me,” she said, “but Reverend Hazelwood’s favorite story is the miracle of the loaves and fishes. He will be so pleased when he sees this home-baked bread. You’ll be selling it from now on?”
“We certainly hope to,” Mildred said, tempted to tell Mrs. Hazelwood that they had experienced their very own miracle of the loaves that morning. But she didn’t. It was just the sort of story the Reverend would love to tell his Sunday School class, and before long, it would be all over Darling.
Liz’s bread lasted until just before two. When it was gone, Verna Tidwell came in with enough to take care of the rest of the day’s customers. When all was said and done and Mildred had put the Closed sign into the front window, she calculated that they had sold forty-six loaves (there were only two left on the shelf in the display case), all of them contributed by the Dahlias’ Puzzle Divas: Liz, Verna, Bessie, and Aunt Hetty.
As well, they had sold all but a few of the sweet and savory pastries and treats that Earlynne had baked. Mildred put what was left on a tray and took it to the kitchen, where Earlynne was finishing the prep for early Monday morning. All signs of Smudge’s mouse-killing spree had been cleaned up, and everything was back in its place. Happily, Mildred passed along Mrs. Hart’s compliment, Verna’s remark, and the good words of other customers, and reported on their sales.
“Forty-six loaves of bread!” Earlynne exclaimed, her eyes wide. “Forty-six? You’re sure? Mildred, that’s amazing! Why, that’s over five dollars, just in bread!”
“I told you so,” Mildred murmured, but not very loud.
Still, Earlynne heard her. “Yes, you did,” she said contritely. “And I have to tell you that I was wrong. You said bread would be our best seller, and it was. I apologize.” In a lower voice, she said, “There’s no two ways about it. I am going to have to learn to bake bread. When we go for our lesson tomorrow, I’m going to put my heart into it.”
Mildred shook her head. “Bread might have been our single best-selling item. But almost your entire stock of baked goods has disappeared.” She gestured at the tray. “People loved your croissants, Earlynne. And the cupcakes and the carrot cake and the gingerbread and the cookies. I was wrong when I said that you were baking too many different items. I’m sorry.”
“It’s very nice of you to say that,” Earlynne replied softly. “But I—”
Mildred stopped her. “No, let me finish. All day, I watched people hesitating among their choices. Everything was so tempting that they couldn’t decide what to buy. So they bought two or three or even four or five different things instead of just one or two. They said they were sampling, and everybody promised that they would be back for more of what they liked. You are right to insist on putting out a wide selection. People might come into the shop for bread, but they leave with lots more.”
Mildred paused for a moment, thinking how remarkable it was that she and Earlynne had just traded apologies—unrehearsed, impulsive, and spontaneous apologies—almost without noticing.
And that it actually felt good.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“AS SERIOUS AS IT GETS IN DARLING”
While Darling folk were getting their first taste of The Flour Shop’s irresistible bakery goods, Sheriff Buddy Norris was having a different kind of day.
It had begun at seven-thirty that morning at the Dickens’ second-floor flat over Fannie Champaign’s hat shop, next door to the new bakery. Breakfast was prepared by Fannie herself, who (in addition to being a well-known milliner and Charlie Dickens’ wife) had a reputation as a pretty darned good cook. On the table in the apartment’s small kitchen, she had put a king-sized platter of griddle cakes, fried ham, and fried eggs, a china pitcher of red-eye gravy, a basket of biscuits, a small pottery jug of maple syrup and a jar of raspberry jelly, glasses of orange juice, an
d cups of coffee.
“Wow,” Buddy said, blinking. “This is nothing like Mrs. Beedle’s breakfasts. What a feast! Thank you.”
“Coffee pot’s on the stove,” Fannie said briskly. “You boys help yourselves when you’re ready for more. I’m going downstairs to work on a hat.” And then she had left the room so Buddy and Charlie could have a private conversation while they ate.
That was when Buddy learned about Wilber Casey, who had taken Jimmie Bragg’s job as Warden Burford’s assistant at Jericho. Charlie had met the young man at the Cotton Gin the night before and had plenty to report. Like any experienced newspaperman, Charlie had practically perfect recall of the details. Listening, Buddy was more and more surprised—and satisfied. By the time he’d used the last bit of biscuit to sop up the last delicious bit of red-eye gravy, he was shaking his head in genuine wonderment.
“Holy cow,” he said reverently. “The kid actually saw Sergeant Richards shoot Jimmie Bragg? With the sergeant’s own gun?”
Mr. Moseley was going to like this news, Buddy thought. Now that they had an eyewitness, they could get a warrant for Richards’ arrest. They could get his gun, too, and Wayne could test it. Maybe also send it off to Chicago for a test that would stand up better in court.
“There’s more,” Charlie said. “Wilber says that Richards was ordered to kill Bragg—by Warden Burford. He says he can document that, too. He didn’t go into detail, and I haven’t seen his evidence. But I believe him.”
Buddy whistled. “Better and better.” Now they were talking conspiracy, in addition to the other charges.
“Yeah.” Charlie lathered jam on a biscuit. “Wilber is a smart kid. He’ll be a pretty convincing witness when the case goes to trial. Too bad he didn’t come forward earlier, huh?”
“Some crimes don’t get wrapped up overnight,” Buddy said, sounding wiser than he felt. But knowing who didn’t answer all the questions. Thoughtfully, he added, “We still need to know why.” If the warden had ordered the killing, why did he do it? Why did he want Bragg dead?
But there was more. It turned out that young Wilber Casey had a secret hankering to be an investigative reporter. He had begun paying attention to some of the more intriguing items that crossed his desk on their way to and from the warden. As a result, the boy was now privy to some enterprising skullduggery on the part of Grover Burford, who—it was becoming clear—was hardly the model manager the state prison board thought he was.
According to Wilber, the warden treated the prison as his own personal profit center. His sins ran the gamut from overcharging for prison labor and prison-raised crops and products (the profits going into Burford’s personal checking accounts in out-of-state banks), to smuggling in girls of questionable moral character for weekends at the warden’s residence, recently renovated to include a fancy spa and a well-stocked wet bar. And operating a bootleg corn whiskey still in a remote corner of the prison farm informally called the Back Forty. When he heard this, Buddy couldn’t help breaking into a big smile. It was confirmation of the rumor that Bodeen Pyle had heard.
What’s more, Wilber hadn’t been content to simply raise an eyebrow as these criminal evidences slid across his desk. He had made notes of names, dates, invoice numbers, amounts, and (where he thought it might be useful) copied the information into a small pocket notebook. Buddy was glad to hear this, although he fervently hoped that most of it would turn out to be somebody else’s enforcement problem.
“Bootlegging was the thing I couldn’t quite get my head around,” Charlie said. He pointed to the last pancake on the platter. “You want that, Sheriff?”
“No, thanks,” Buddy said, pushing back his plate. “I am full up to the gills.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “What is it you don’t quite get about making shine?”
Charlie poured syrup on the pancake. “It just seems, well, stupid. I mean, it’s one thing to set up a small still and make enough whiskey to keep the local boys happy. But it’s another thing altogether to go into the distillery business—with a plan to distribute it all over the state.”
Buddy was surprised. “Is that what the kid told you?”
“Pretty much. And according to him, he’s got documentation. Supplies, plans, stuff like that. He even knows where the still is located, more or less. Or says he does.” He hesitated. “Is that something you have to act on?”
Remembering his conversation with Mr. Moseley, Buddy shook his head. “The Jericho still—if there is one—isn’t the county’s business. I’ll probably be working with Agent Kinnard.”
Charlie finished the pancake. “Well, if you ask me, Wilber is putting himself into some personal danger.” He looked up, his expression serious. “Bragg may have been killed because he knew too much about what was going on out there at the prison farm. The same thing could happen to Wilber, couldn’t it?”
“It could,” Buddy said slowly. It was certainly true that young Casey was putting himself in jeopardy. And Richards was, too. If Burford had had anything to do with the Bragg murder, was there anything to keep him from silencing Richards, permanently? He could probably get away with it, too. Bury his body in some distant corner of the farm, and nobody would be the wiser.
Buddy stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray Charlie had put on the table. “I owe you a big one, Dickens. You got a helluva lot more information out of that trip to the farm than I figured. After I leave here, I’m walking across the street to let the county attorney know about this. I’m thinking we ought to get moving on this in a hurry. It might save us some time if you were there to answer Moseley’s questions. What do you say?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Charlie stood up and began collecting their plates. “Give me a few minutes, though. I have a deal with Fannie. When she cooks, I wash the dishes.”
“Fine with me,” Buddy said. “If you’ll find me a towel, I’ll dry.”
After a brief strategy session with Mr. Moseley, Buddy and Charlie drove to Wilber Casey’s mother’s house outside of Darling, where they invited the young man to have a conversation with the county attorney. He was reluctant at first, but Charlie persuaded him that they needed him to clinch the case and that it would be a good idea if he cooperated.
“Moseley can get a warrant for those notes of yours,” Buddy said. “But it would be better if you’d hand them over voluntarily.”
Charlie added, “If you’re still interested in being a reporter for the Dispatch, that is.”
Wilber looked from one of them to the other, apprehension written on his face. “This is serious, huh?”
“It is,” Buddy said quietly. “There are two cases here, Wilber. One is Bragg’s murder, which will be tried here in Cypress County. The other is Burford’s corrupt private empire, which the state will investigate. You’re key in both of them.”
“And you’re in a hot spot, my boy.” Charlie’s tone was sympathetic. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but if the warden figures out just how much you know, you could get what Bragg got.”
Wilber squared his shoulders. “I’ll come,” he said. “And bring my notes.”
Back in Darling, Charlie headed for the Dispatch office, while Buddy took Wilber upstairs to talk to Mr. Moseley. The attorney questioned the young man in a low-key, nonthreatening way. Moving quickly from one point to another, he confirmed that Wilber claimed to have actually seen Richards shoot Bragg as he was ordered to do by the warden, and that he knew about and had documented many of Burford’s corrupt extracurricular activities. Nodding approvingly, he scanned Wilber’s notes, then got up from his desk and locked them in his safe.
Coming back to his desk, he said, “You’ve done a good job, Wilber. Your documentation will help us decide what charges to file, and you’ll be a valuable witness when both of these cases come to trial. But if I were you, I think I’d take a little trip out of town. Do you have a friend you could stay with for a little while? Just to be on the safe side, until we get this thing wrapped up.”
Nervously, t
he boy pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Well, my Uncle Hamp has a place up on the Alabama River—”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Mr. Moseley interrupted. “There are some papers I need to have delivered to my office in Montgomery. How about if you take them up there for me, today? I’ll get my associate, Mr. Jackman, to fix you up with a place to stay. You can see the sights and take in a few shows.”
“Montgomery?” Wilber asked excitedly. “Gee, Mr. Moseley, that would be swell. Thanks!”
“Thank you.” Mr. Moseley gave him a straight look. “By the way, it might not be a good idea to tell your uncle where to find you. No point in spreading the news.”
Wilber frowned. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Moseley said. “So let’s just keep it quiet, shall we?” He put a piece of paper and a pencil on his desk. “Before you go, I’d like you to draw us a map that will take us to Burford’s still.”
“Sure thing,” Wilber said confidently. “It’s not hard to find, if you know where to look. And how to get there.”
Mr. Moseley chuckled. “That’s true about a lot of things.” He turned to Buddy. “Sheriff, I’ll write up a warrant for you to take to Judge McHenry. I want you and Wayne to pick up Richards this morning. Get that gun, too. We need the gun.”
“Yes, sir,” Buddy said. “What about Agent Kinnard?”
“I talked to him yesterday.” Mr. Moseley grinned. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. You won’t have to handle it on your lonesome.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Buddy muttered.
Mr. Moseley’s grin faded. “But before you go, you and I need to have a little talk.” To Buddy’s inquiring glance, he added, “It’s about Violet Sims’ little girl.”
“Cupcake?” Buddy asked. He was very fond of the child and looked forward to seeing her dance when he stopped at the Diner for lunch, usually on Wednesdays (when Raylene served fried chicken) and on Fridays (when Euphoria’s meatloaf topped the menu). “She’s not sick, is she? I would sure hate to hear that.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle Page 19
