The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “No, she’s not sick,” Mr. Montgomery replied. “But there’s trouble all the same. I may need your help, Sheriff. In your official capacity.”

  “You got it,” Buddy said fervently. “I’d do just about anything for that sweet little girl.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Mr. Moseley said. “You may have to.”

  Judge McHenry was still in his bathrobe, sitting beside the living room fireplace with his feet in a pan of warm water and Epsom salts, reading the Mobile Press Register. The old man was close to eighty, with a head of shaggy white hair and white bushy eyebrows above piercing blue eyes. He peered over his glasses as Buddy explained why he had come, handed him the warrant for Horace Richards’ arrest, and asked him to sign it.

  “First degree murder, huh?” the old man said, reading over the warrant. “Seems like you young fellas are makin’ a habit of pokin’ your noses into other folks’ business. Don’t recall Roy Burns ever asking me for a warrant to arrest a Jericho guard.”

  Sheriff Burns probably knew better, Buddy admitted to himself. “It’s an unusual situation,” he said aloud. “Mr. Moseley said that if you had any questions, just pick up the telephone and give him a call. But now that we’ve located an eyewitness—”

  “Who isn’t named here.” The judge thumped the warrant. “Is this character somebody who knows what he’s talking about? Is he goin’ to be a credible witness if this case goes to trial?”

  Buddy swallowed. “He’s Hamp Casey’s nephew, Judge. He works in the warden’s office. And now that we’ve located him, we figure we’d better move fast on Richards. There are other—”

  The judge broke in. “Wonder what old Hamp is gonna do when he finds out about this. Him and that warden play a lot of poker together, I understand.”

  “Yessir,” Buddy replied. “But as I was saying, there are other considerations—”

  “There gen’rally are.” The judge said gave Buddy a narrow look. “You reckon on serving this today, boy?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Then you’d better stop wastin’ time talkin’ to me and get on with it,” the judge said, and signed the warrant with a flourish of his pen.

  Buddy found his deputy reading a True Detective magazine at his desk in the sheriff’s office. “Come on, Wayne,” he said. “We’ve got a job to do.”

  Wayne closed his magazine and put it into a drawer. “What kind of job?”

  Buddy went into his office. Over his shoulder, he said. “We’re arresting Sergeant Horace Richards, the guard at Jericho. On suspicion of murder.”

  Wayne whistled between his teeth. “Sounds like we’ll be earning our pay today. Such as it is,” he added ironically.

  With a sigh, Buddy reached for his gun belt, which was hanging on the back of the door. He buckled it on and took his .38 out of the safe in his office. He had considered not wearing his gun when they went to pick up Richards, on the theory that if he wasn’t armed, he’d be less likely to shoot somebody and maybe less likely to be shot. But Buddy had met the man once, on the day that Bragg was murdered. He was about as big as an elephant. He wasn’t exactly cordial, either, and Buddy thought he would likely be aggravated when he was arrested. It was a reasonable assumption.

  So like it or not, he figured he’d better go armed. Anyway, Wayne always wore his gun, and it wasn’t fair to depend on his deputy to shoot and be shot at while he stood by with his hands in his pockets.

  When he came out of his office, Wayne eyed his holster. “Hey,” he said, raising both eyebrows. “Looks like we’re in for some serious business today.”

  “As serious as it gets in Darling,” Buddy said. “You ready?”

  Wayne took out his .38 Special and spun the cylinders—the way, Buddy thought, they did it in the movies. “All set,” he said cheerily. “You driving or am I?”

  “I am,” Buddy said. “We’re bringing back a prisoner.”

  That was the plan, anyway. When he was a deputy, he had ridden his Indian Ace motorcycle, which had got him pretty much anywhere he wanted to go. Now that he was sheriff, he drove Roy Burns’ black Model T. He had converted it into a patrol car by installing a strip of hog wire between the front seat and the back. Now, he could haul a prisoner without worrying whether the fellow was going to grab him around the neck and try to throttle him or snatch his gun.

  Buddy hitched his holster around so that it rode better on his hip. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this damned thing over with.”

  Wilber Casey had told Buddy that Sergeant Richards stayed in the Jericho guards’ barracks only during the week. He spent weekends at his place out past the cemetery—a house and barn and a few acres of scrub timber—which was where he was likely to be on a Saturday morning. Buddy was glad when he heard this. He hadn’t been thrilled by the thought of arresting the man at the prison, where the odds were something like four hundred to one, and not in his favor. Including Wayne didn’t markedly improve the odds, either. Four hundred to two wasn’t much better.

  Richards’ house was about five miles west of Darling. It was a rundown frame building, no more than four rooms, with an open porch across the front and a screened porch on the back. There was a bucket of coal beside the front door, an ax and a two-man crosscut saw propped against the wall, and chickens—black-and-white Barred Rocks, a rooster and a half-dozen hens—scratching in the front yard. A brick chimney, leaning slightly to the left, leaked smoke, and as Buddy got out of the car, he could smell bacon frying.

  “Seems like our man is at home,” Wayne said.

  “Yeah,” Buddy said, without enthusiasm. He had parked behind a dense stand of bushes that screened the car from the house. “You go around to the back door, Wayne. Just in case he decides to make a break for it out the rear.” He thought Richards was man enough to tough it out, but he couldn’t count on it. “If I yell, you come on around front.”

  He waited until he thought Wayne had time to get set at the back of the house, then walked up the dirt path to the screen door, opened it, and rapped smartly on the closed wooden door.

  “Richards,” he called, making his voice sound deeper than it usually was. “Horace Richards, this is Sheriff Norris. We got to have a talk. You come out here on the porch so we can do this peaceable-like.”

  Inside the house, a dog barked. It sounded, Buddy thought, like a big dog. He rapped on the door again, louder this time. “Come on out, Richards, hands on your head. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  What happened next happened fast. A slamming door somewhere inside the house. A flurry of excited barks and heavy running footsteps, elephant-sized footsteps. Another slamming door, at the back of the house. Then Wayne’s voice, rough and angry.

  “Stop, police! Stop, you sonuvabitch! Stop!”

  Then a gunshot.

  Buddy pulled his gun and sprinted around to the back of the house. Richards was face down on the path, Wayne astride of him. On the path lay a revolver.

  “What happened?” Buddy asked breathlessly.

  “He came barreling out the back door and I tackled him,” Wayne said. “He’s out. Must’ve hit his head when he fell. And pulled the trigger. Gunshot went wild.” He unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt, jerked Richards’ arms around behind his back, and cuffed him. He stood up and nudged the revolver with his toe. “Smith and Wesson .44. What do you want to bet it’ll test as the gun that killed Bragg?”

  “I hope,” Buddy said. He tried not to feel too relieved that there hadn’t been any serious shooting. “You stay here. I’ll pull the car around and we can put him in the back seat. With luck, he won’t wake up until we get him back to the office.”

  He did. But he was cuffed and his ankles were securely tied, so there wasn’t a heckuva lot he could do except curse. Which he did. A blue streak.

  Buddy was amazed. He thought he had a pretty wide vocabulary. But listening to Richards, he felt like a babe in the woods.

  Mr. Moseley (who as county attorney would prosecute Richard
s when his case went to trial) came over to the sheriff’s office to talk to the prisoner. He sat behind Buddy’s desk, Richards in a chair front of him. In one corner, Wayne took notes. In the other corner, Buddy sat with folded arms, watching and listening.

  Richards was now dressed in the gray jail coverall provided by Cypress County, but it was a size too small, and the buttons strained across his chest. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, his dark hair hung down in his face, and his face and neck were sweaty, even though the office was about as cold, Buddy thought, as the inside of Mrs. Beedle’s icebox. He was also surly and uncommunicative, until Mr. Moseley told him that an eyewitness was willing to testify that he had seen him shoot Jimmie Bragg. And that his Smith and Wesson would be subjected to a ballistics test that would prove that it was the gun that had fired the fatal bullet—the bullet that had not been fired by the Colt that Richards had left at the scene.

  “What the hell?” he shouted. “An eyewitness? You’re lying! Wasn’t nobody around to—” He stopped abruptly.

  “First degree murder gets you twenty to ninety-nine years,” Mr. Moseley said in a conversational tone. “On the high side, I reckon, since you attempted to conceal your crime by throwing down that Colt. And no possibility of parole.”

  “You’re tellin’ me somebody seen it?” Richards’ eyes narrowed. “Who, man?”

  Mr. Moseley took out his pipe. “On the other hand,” he went on, “I might consider manslaughter. Two to ten.” He fished a pouch of tobacco out of his shirt pocket and began filling it. “Up to you, Mr. Richards.”

  Richards hunched his shoulders. “What do you mean, up to me?”

  Mr. Moseley let the silence lengthen as he tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. At last he said, “I doubt that you killed Jimmie Bragg on your own personal say-so.” He put the pouch back in his pocket. “Did you?”

  Richards was silent.

  Mr. Moseley took out a book of paper matches and lit his pipe. “You tell us who put you up to it, and I might let you plead to a lesser charge.”

  Richards shifted uneasily. “Lesser . . . charge?”

  “Manslaughter.” Mr. Moseley pulled on his pipe. “Ten years. Possibility of parole.”

  “Immunity. Give me immunity and I’ll tell you everything I know.” As an afterthought, Richards added, “Anyway, I want a lawyer.”

  “Fine.” Mr. Moseley pushed his chair back and stood. “You get yourself a lawyer. I can recommend Tommy Knight. He’s won a couple of cases this year. But you killed a man, Mr. Richards. Immunity is not an option.”

  “It wasn’t my idea!” Richards protested. “I just—” He mopped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

  “The plea deal is a one-time offer,” Mr. Moseley said. “Nonrenewable. In fact—” He looked at his watch. “It’s on the table for two minutes only. Starting right now.” He turned and walked to the window, standing with his back to Richards.

  “Who is this so-called eyewitness?” Richards demanded.

  Mr. Moseley put his hands in his pockets. “Looking damned cold out there, isn’t it?” he said, to nobody in particular. “Wonder if it’s going to snow.”

  “Might could,” Buddy allowed. “Snowed once when I was a kid. Got down to five above, too.” He shivered.

  “Who is he?” Richards was belligerent. “I want to know. I got a right to know who’s accusin’ me, don’t I?”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun.” Mr. Moseley looked at his watch. “A minute thirty.”

  There was a silence. Then, “Five years, damn it,” Richards growled.

  “Ten.” Mr. Moseley spoke without turning.

  “Seven. Bragg was a low-life scum who deserved what he got. He killed Whitworth, didn’t he?”

  “Nine.” Mr. Moseley turned away from the window. “Who ordered you to do it?”

  Richards was silent.

  Mr. Moseley looked at his watch. “Fifty seconds.”

  “Eight,” Richards said. “I’ll plead, if it’s eight.”

  Mr. Moseley’s face hardened. “Who?” His voice was steely. “Who told you to kill Bragg?”

  Richards let out a long breath. “Burford,” he said, very low.

  Mr. Moseley looked at Wayne, hunched over his notebook. “I heard you say that Warden Grover Burford ordered you to shoot Jimmie Bragg,” he said distinctly. “Is that correct, Mr. Richards?”

  “Yeah,” Richards muttered. “It was Burford. All his idea.”

  “Louder, please.”

  “Burford,” Richards said. “Eight years, Moseley. I know the system. Eligible for parole in two.”

  “Why?” Mr. Moseley sat down again. “Why did Burford want Bragg murdered?”

  Another silence. Then, finally, Richards said, “Burford was pissed that Bragg killed Whitworth by ramming him off the road. He was only supposed to scare him. Bragg was a cocky little bastard. Didn’t know when to stop. Didn’t like to take orders.”

  “Why did Burford want to scare Whitworth?”

  “To show him what would happen if he invested any more money in Bodeen Pyle’s bootleg business.”

  “Why did Burford care what Whitworth did with his money?”

  “Cause Burford is goin’ into the moonshine business. He was aiming to shut Pyle down.”

  “Just a matter of a little local competition, huh?” Mr. Moseley said. “Was there anything else?”

  Richards sighed. “Bragg threatened to blow the whistle on some of the other stuff Burford was doin’. But Burford don’t like nobody gettin’ in his face. So he told me to take him out.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “Oh, man.” Richards rolled his eyes. “There’s a lot. I don’t know—”

  Mr. Moseley turned to Buddy. “This prisoner needs some paper and a pencil. See that I get a list of that ‘other stuff’ the warden is doing. All of it.” To Richards, he said, “That’s it for now, Mr. Richards. I may have more questions later.”

  “Eight years,” Richards said.

  “I’ll want that list by—” Mr. Moseley looked at his watch. “Three this afternoon.”

  Wayne closed his notebook and stood up. “I’ll take him to his cell. Jed Snow will keep an eye on him.”

  When they had gone, Mr. Moseley turned to Buddy. “I talked to Agent Kinnard on the phone yesterday. He’s bringing two men with him. You and Wayne will make five—that ought to be enough to break up that still. They’ll get here in an hour or so.”

  “That’s good news,” Buddy said, letting out his breath. He didn’t much like Kinnard, who was famous for his smashand-grab raids, leaving stills in smoking ruins and shiners in handcuffs. But the man had busted stills all over Alabama and Georgia. He knew his business.

  Mr. Moseley took a folded map out of his pocket and laid it on the desk. “I’ve transferred Wilber Casey’s sketch of the still’s location to this map of the prison farm area. It’ll give you a good idea of the layout of the Back Forty and where to look for the still. But you’ll have Burford with you. He ought to be able to tell where to go, if you ask him nicely. When you’re finished breaking up his still, bring him back here and we’ll have a little talk.” He straightened up. “About Bragg’s murder.”

  “Richards’ word is enough to hold him, then?”

  “It’ll do for a start. But I had a quick look at Wilber’s documentation. Burford was dumb enough to put Richards in for a pay raise right after the shooting. In a note in the file, he said that Richards was getting the raise for ‘the prompt execution of an order.’ A nicely ambiguous phrase that Burford will have to explain when I put him on the stand.” Mr. Moseley glanced up at the rack on the back of the office door, where Buddy had hung his gun belt.

  “Better wear your weapon, Sheriff,” he added. “Somebody might shoot at you, and you’ll want to shoot back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “SAFE AS A BABY LAMB”

  True to her word, Lizzy had gotten up before Rowser woke the neighborhood on that Saturday
morning. She had to bake several batches of bread for The Flour Shop’s grand opening. There was the Cupcake problem to deal with. And she was hoping to spend some time at her typewriter. She had to finish her Garden Gate column, or she would miss Charlie Dickens’ deadline.

  So she dressed quickly in tan slacks, a blue plaid blouse, and a blue cardigan. The bread was easy and fun, and by late morning, Lizzy had filled a large shopping bag with loaves, some of them still warm. While the batches were baking, she had been on the telephone with several of the Dahlias. The day before, she had told Mr. Moseley that she had an idea to keep Cupcake safe, someplace where her father couldn’t snatch her up and make off with her. Now, she was making the final arrangements for what she was calling “Hide the Cupcake.” It would begin today and go on as long as necessary. On the phone, she tried to make it sound like fun—like a game—but she felt she had to explain the unfortunate reason behind it, which she did without going into a lot of unnecessary detail. It was only important for them to know that there was a real threat and that their help was urgently needed.

  “It’s a rather difficult situation,” she told them in her calls, “and Myra May and Violet are worried that something may happen to their little girl. We trust that Mr. Moseley is going to handle things on his end and there won’t be any serious trouble. But just in case Mr. Hudson shows up here in Darling and tries to locate Cupcake, we’d like to make it tough for him to find her.”

  “That is totally despicable!” Beulah Trivette cried, when she heard the story. “That awful man had better not show his face in this town!”

  “But if he does, he’ll never find our Cupcake,” Ophelia Snow declared flatly. “We’ll make darn sure of that.” She added, in a lower voice, “You know, Jed keeps his dad’s old revolver under our bed. I won’t let him load it, but I like knowing it’s handy.”

  Alice Ann Walker responded differently. “You tell Myra May and Violet that they are not to worry about one single thing,” she said in a soothing voice. “That precious sugar will be safe as a baby lamb with her Auntie Alice Ann and her Uncle Arnold. If you’d send her over tomorrow afternoon, that would be perfect. Our little grandson Curly is having his fifth birthday, so we’ll have us a big ol’ happy birthday party!”