The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Nice place,” he said appreciatively, looking around. “Have you been here long?”

  “Just a few years,” Lizzy said, checking the coffee pot. “I grew up across the street. That’s where my mother lives. This house is small, but when it became available, I knew I wanted it.” She laughed a little. “Took a lot of fixing up.”

  “It’s almost like a playhouse,” he said with a smile. “It fits you.”

  A playhouse? She hadn’t thought of her house that way, and it gave her a jolt. What could he have meant? She wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer. Perhaps it was just a word. Perhaps he meant nothing at all.

  She set a cup of coffee in front of him, poured another for herself, and sat down across the table. “What brings you to Darling, Mr. Nichols?”

  “Please,” he said. “We can’t be formal with your cat jumping into my lap.” He chuckled. “My name is Ryan.”

  “Daffy, get down!” she exclaimed, embarrassed. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. He’s usually more standoffish. Just put him on the floor.”

  “Put him on the floor, Ryan,” he corrected with a twinkle. “But no, Daffy’s fine right where he is. Every cat needs a lap.” His eyebrow went up. “What do your friends call you when they want to get your attention?”

  “Liz, mostly,” she said, thinking that he had to be the most direct man she had ever met. Was it because he was a Yankee? Were all Yankees like this?

  “I prefer Elizabeth,” he said decidedly, but with that quick smile. “If you don’t mind, that is. Elizabeth.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said. She didn’t like it when her mother called her that, but it sounded different when he said it. She repeated her question. “What brings you to Darling? Ryan,” she added. His name felt strange in her mouth. It didn’t feel like the Southern names she was used to. She rather liked it, but—

  “You do.”

  Her breath caught. “Me?”

  He frowned a little. “Why are you surprised?”

  “I’m not—I mean . . .” She was irritated with herself. What was wrong with her?

  “I apologize,” he said, but he didn’t sound apologetic. There was an odd light in his eyes. “Maybe it would be a little less alarming if I explained that I was accidentally driving from Montgomery to Mobile, happened to remember our conversation of some weeks ago, and said to myself, ‘Self, Darling is only a few miles out of the way. Why don’t you just pop in and say hello to Elizabeth Lacy?’” His grin was teasing. “There. Is that better?”

  She couldn’t help laughing.

  He picked up his coffee cup, took a drink, set it down again. “That’s mostly true.” he said lightly. “Sort of. But it wasn’t entirely accidental.” His voice became serious. “I hope you won’t mind if I say that I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “That’s . . . nice,” she said absurdly. To fill the silence—and to sidestep the impossible possibility that his thoughts about her might be personal—she reached for another explanation.

  “Then perhaps you’ve gotten your funding? For the Writers’ Project, I mean. The one we talked about when you were here before.”

  The light in his eyes became amusement. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros, tapping it on the table to extract a cigarette. “Yes, that’s right. We haven’t been officially notified of the funding. Congress always likes to keep people guessing as long as possible. It makes them feel powerful. But the word out of the Budget Office is that it’s coming sometime in the first quarter. It’s just a matter of time.” He took out a gold lighter and lit his cigarette.

  She cleared her throat. “So you’re beginning to plan the staffing?” Now, why had she said that? He would think she was hinting she wanted to be hired, when in fact it was the last thing on her—

  “Right again,” he said. And now the amusement reached his mouth. The corners quirked. “We’re just about ready to start hiring our state program directors. Why? Are you interested? Available? Or maybe that’s too much to hope for. Elizabeth,” he added.

  Was he making fun of her? He seemed to be ironic, or mocking. Or something. The humor seemed to dance in him, which made him hard to read. And different. From Grady, from Mr. Moseley. From any other man she knew.

  “I meant that,” he added quickly—and more seriously, as if he had read her thoughts. “Are you interested? Available?”

  There was a sunflower-shaped yellow ashtray—Bank in Darling, The Sun Will Shine on You!—on the counter. She stood up and got it for him. As she sat down again, she found herself saying, “I suppose I am.”

  “You suppose?” He sounded surprised. “Really?”

  And pleased. But maybe she was imagining that. Because she wanted him to be pleased? Really, she scolded herself. This was all very silly. She had just this morning told Ophelia she didn’t want another job, which was true. What she wanted was time to work on her book. Why would she let this man believe that she might consider the job he had mentioned to her? But she had boxed herself in, and she had to answer his question honestly.

  “I think I told you that my boss might have to cut my hours. Well, that’s what happened. I’m working for him just in the mornings, now.”

  He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. “You have afternoons free, then? Say, four hours a day, five days a week?” He slanted her a quick look. “And you would be interested in working on the Writers’ Project—with me?”

  The Federal Writers’ Project. As he had described it on his earlier visit (and as she had read about it later, in the Mobile Press Register) the funding would support writers, editors, historians, teachers, and librarians—most of them women. Working regionally, they would produce tourist guides, collect local history and folklore, and do social research. Interesting work, yes. But the part of the project that had intrigued her most was the collection of oral histories from people whose stories hadn’t yet been told. Older people who remembered what life was like in the old days. Immigrants from other parts of America, and from foreign countries. Colored people, some of whom had slave stories to tell. Yes—that would be interesting. Rewarding. And worth doing.

  But it was his “with me” that had made her heart skip like a foolish girl’s. Did that mean that he interested her more than the job he was offering? That disturbed her, because it meant—

  Well, what did it mean, exactly? She had no idea, utterly no idea. Which was even more disturbing.

  And what about her writing? She had planned to keep her afternoons free for the novel. But she had written the first book on weekends, hadn’t she? Couldn’t she write the second book that way, too? It wasn’t as if she had an editorial deadline looming over her head. There was no guarantee that Mr. Perkins would want to publish it. For all she knew, the publishing business might be so bad that Scribner wouldn’t publish anything.

  She heard herself say “Yes, I’m free in the afternoons. Right now, anyway.” The words were very distant, as if they were spoken by someone else. “Yes, I’d like to work on the project.” With you, she added silently. Whatever that meant.

  “Well, good,” Ryan said, and his pale eyes lit up. “The job starts at twenty-five dollars a week. Which I know isn’t enough to support a living soul. I’m glad to know that you’re getting paid for your mornings’ work at your other job.”

  Lizzy caught her lower lip in her teeth. Twenty-five dollars a week for half-time work? Mr. Moseley was paying her fifteen. If she took the job Mr. Nichols—Ryan—was offering, she would be earning forty dollars a week. Forty dollars! Why, that was ten dollars more than Mr. Moseley paid for full-time work! She would be able to afford a car and some new clothes! She would—

  He was going on. “There’s always the possibility that the hours could increase. In a few months or a year, the job might even become full time. And as I think I told you when we talked back in October, there’ll be some travel, overseeing fieldworkers, attending meetings and conferences with other managers across the Sou
th—Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, Florida. We’re setting up a regional office in Montgomery, so I’ll be there. Not far away.” He leaned forward. “What do you say, Elizabeth? It’s a new opportunity for you. It’ll take you out of Darling. Give you a glimpse of the wider world. A larger life.”

  Travel. Meetings and conferences. And the regional office in Montgomery. But could she do it? The work, that is. Did she have the skills? The management ability? As for a new opportunity taking her out of Darling, giving her a glimpse of the wider world—was that what she wanted?

  She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure. But she had never trusted herself when it came to anything new. Change, even the anticipation of change, made her uneasy. She needed time to think, time to plan, to look ahead. To ease into whatever it was. She—

  She took a deep breath. “I’d like to try it,” she said, and added, “Of course, if it doesn’t work out, we can always—”

  “Sorry.” His mouth became firm and he shook his head. “I can’t hire on that basis, Elizabeth. There’s training involved, and the expense of setting up an office here in Darling. And you’ll be recruiting people who want to work with you. I’m going to need a commitment. Six months, at least. More, if I can get it.” His eyes on hers were intense, challenging. “If you’re wondering whether you’re able to do the job, forget it. It’ll be easy for you, I promise. Duck soup. And if you run into trouble, I’ll be there. I can help.”

  He would be there. He could help. Breathlessly, she tried to pull her glance away. She felt giddy and fragile, as if she were walking out to the edge of a very steep cliff, and in front of her, there was nothing but empty air. And sky, and space. Wideopen, whirling space.

  “All right, then,” she managed, finally. Her mouth was dry. “Six months.” Six months? What had she just agreed to? “Unless—” she began.

  “Wonderful!” he said, and slapped his hand on the table. “You’re my first hire, and I couldn’t be more delighted. I’ll get the paperwork started right away. It’s the government, you know, so there’s plenty of it. That’s fine, though. It’ll give us a head start. You’ll be able to go to work the minute the funding is announced.”

  And now he was laughing, quite openly. “But that isn’t why I came, you know.”

  Was there any end to his surprises? “It isn’t?”

  “Nope. Hiring you is a bonus for me, and one hundred percent unexpected. I figured that your boss was way too smart to let you go to part time. That was his mistake.”

  “Well, then, why did you come?” she asked. It was a real question. What possible reason could he have for—

  The phone rang in the hallway. “Excuse me,” she said, and went to answer it.

  “It’s me, Elizabeth,” her mother said petulantly. “Are you all right? Who is that man? Really, you shouldn’t entertain strange men in—”

  “I’m fine, Mama,” she said, trying to curb her impatience. Living across the street from her mother had its drawbacks, definitely. “Mr. Nichols is a . . . a friend. I’m going to work for him next year. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “Work for him?” her mother sputtered. “Doing what? What about Mr. Moseley? If it’s a matter of money, Mr. Dunlap and I will be glad to let you work at the Five and Dime.” She added stiffly, “We offered you twenty-five cents an hour, if you will remember.”

  “Yes, I remember, and I’m grateful. I promise I’ll tell you all about it later. And please don’t call back, Mama. I am just fine.”

  “But Elizabeth—” her mother wailed.

  “Goodbye, Mama.”

  Lizzy put down the phone and went back to the kitchen. “Sorry for the interruption,” she said breathlessly, sitting down again. “Where were we?”

  “I was about to tell you why I came,” he said. “Do you still want to know?”

  “Yes, of course,” Lizzy said.

  “I came to ask you if you’d like to go to dinner and a movie tonight. And now we can celebrate your new job.” He put out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Clark Gable and Jean Harlow are playing in Red Dust at the Palace. It’s supposed to be a very good movie. Have you seen it?”

  Dinner? A movie? Wordlessly, Lizzy shook her head.

  “Good. That makes two of us, then. I have a room at the Old Alabama Hotel, which is supposed to be a swell place to eat. Before I came over, I checked out their menu for tonight. It’s Chicken Kiev, which I think is—”

  Lizzy found her voice. “Euphoria fries chicken at the Diner on Saturday nights. It’s good and quite a bit cheaper than—”

  His mouth twitched. “Cheaper. I’ll remember that,” he said, and she thought again that he was making fun. “But we’re celebrating, remember? The sky’s the limit. It’s Chicken Kiev and a cold bottle of Chablis at the Old Alabama.” He glanced down at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly five. If we leave for dinner soon, we’ll be finished in time for the early show. How does that sound?”

  The sky’s the limit. Suddenly, it seemed possible. The wider world, a larger life. The sky’s the limit.

  “I have to change,” she said, getting up. She would wear the navy mohair dress with the pleated skirt. Put on some makeup. And hope that her hair would behave. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  He looked her up and down, smiling that half-amused smile. “Why change? I’ve been wearing a suit and tie all week. It’s Saturday, and I’m roughing it. I intend to go as I am. You look perfectly beautiful, Elizabeth. Just as you are.”

  She flushed at his glance. Looking down at herself, she laughed a little. “It’s obvious that you don’t know the first thing about going out on a Saturday night in Darling, Ryan. A lady never wears her grubbies.”

  “Ah,” he said, and smiled gently. “But a lovely lady is lovely in anything she wears.”

  As Lizzy went up the stairs, she felt she was floating. The sky’s the limit, she thought again.

  The sky’s the limit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “GOOD HUNTING, GENTLEMEN”

  “Any questions?” Mr. Moseley looked from one to the other of the five men gathered in the sheriff’s office. “Now’s the time to ask.”

  “What about Casey?” Buddy asked.

  “He’s the kid that drew the map to the still?” Agent Kinnard wanted to know.

  “Right,” Mr. Moseley said. “Wilber won’t be there. He’s not going back to Jericho—he’s got a new job. But he will be a witness at trial.” He looked around. “Anything else?”

  One hand on his holster, Chester Kinnard glanced at his two deputy federal agents, both armed. They shrugged. Kinnard looked back at Mr. Moseley.

  “I take it we don’t want any shootin’ on this one,” he said. Buddy thought he sounded disapproving.

  “No shooting,” Mr. Moseley replied firmly. “The Board of Prison Administrators knows what we’re doing here, and they especially cautioned against any violence. We’re after one man, Grover Burford. Go in, find him, take him out to the still, and make sure he watches while you axe it. After that’s done, the sheriff—” He nodded at Buddy and Wayne. “The sheriff and his deputy will bring Burford back here. We’re charging him on another, more serious matter.”

  “Got it.” Kinnard shook his head. “I’ve been on some pretty strange raids in my time. Once I raided a sheriff’s still—another time, a still that was operated by the town’s mayor, out behind his privy. I even busted a still that was run by a widow woman and her four daughters, not a one of ’em over fourteen.” He grinned mirthlessly. “But I never expected to break up a still in a goldurn prison.”

  Buddy respected Chester Kinnard the way he respected a rattlesnake. The agent was tall and stoop-shouldered, with a pitted face and cold, watchful eyes that never missed a trick. He was a brutal man who shot first and asked questions later, especially if he suspected that a moonshiner had a derringer in the pocket of his bibbed overalls. Buddy had been angered and disgusted when Kinnard and his men had carelessly killed Mickey LeDoux’s kid brother Rider a
while back, while they were axing Mickey’s still out on Dead Cow Creek. Darling hadn’t forgotten that, and Darling’s sheriff hadn’t either.

  But while Kinnard was cruel, he got the job done. Moonshining had long been a contest between the crafty hunter and the cunning hunted, and while moonshiners were wary and armed for defense, Kinnard was determined, resourceful, and fearless. He went in to do a job and he came out having done it, every time. And since in this case they were aiming to arrest the warden of the Jericho State Prison Farm and golden boy of the Alabama Board of Prison Administrators, Buddy was glad that he and Kinnard were on the same side.

  “Just think on it,” one of Kinnard’s agents muttered. “A damned prison warden, goin’ into the moonshine business.”

  “It’s a unique situation.” Mr. Moseley smiled thinly. “Good hunting, gentlemen.”

  It was late in the afternoon by the time they got to Jericho—three cars, with the sheriff’s black Model T in the lead. The temperature had risen, but the sky was the color of lead, the leafless trees had a wintry look, and the wind had a bite. Not a day to be out, Buddy thought, without a coat and a cap with flaps over your ears.

  Buddy got out of the car at the kiosk in front of the compound’s main gate. He was glad to see that Leonard was on guard. The two had known one another since Leonard was an acne-scarred, rail-thin senior forward on the Darling high school basketball team and Buddy was the team’s water boy. Leonard had gained a hundred pounds, at least. He looked like he would pass out if somebody threw him a ball and told him to dribble down the court. But he always wore a friendly grin when Buddy saw him around town.