The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “We think we have it hard now,” Mildred said seriously, “and we do, with people losing their money and their jobs. But it was a lot worse back then. The War changed everything. You wonder how people managed to survive.”

  “A lot of them didn’t,” Ophelia said. “Unless you had a garden, you and your kids could starve.” Walking slowly, they had reached the edge of the grassy lawn. “Is that the spring down there?” The area was green and thick with clumps of green ferns and shrubby bushes and shaded by low-hanging branches.

  “This is it,” Bessie said ruefully. “As I said, if we’re going to plant a bog garden here, we’ve got a lot of work to do. It’s a jungle.” There were a number of square-cut stones scattered randomly among the underbrush. “I wonder if there was a garden area here before. Those stones—looks like they might have come from a wall. Maybe a seating area, too?”

  “It would have been beautiful,” Mildred said, looking up. “These are gorgeous old trees. Just look at that huge sycamore, with the lovely peeling trunk. And that cucumber tree, in bloom. Must be the same age as the one out front, on Camellia Street.”

  “Dahlia said that her mother planted a half dozen or more cucumber trees along Camellia Street,” Bessie replied. “Back then, you know, it was just a country lane, running along the front of the mansion’s grounds.” She sighed. “The trees are all gone now, except for the one in front of the Dahlia House. There was a splendid tree in front of Magnolia Manor—growing there since before the house was built. It was a sad day when it got struck by lightning. The cucumber tree has to be the prettiest tree God ever invented.”

  “Magnolia acuminata,” Ophelia amended, in Miss Rogers’ prim voice, and all three of them laughed.

  Mildred had wandered a few steps away, looking curiously at an area of broken ferns. She bent over and parted the greenery to have a closer look, then called over her shoulder, “Girls, come look at this.”

  “What is it?” Bessie asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “Looks like somebody’s been digging up plants,” Mildred said. “In the last few days, too. The dirt is fresh.” She stepped back, frowning. “I thought people were supposed to donate plants for the bog garden—not come and dig them up.”

  For that’s what they were looking at: a half-dozen mounds of freshly turned soil, among the stones scattered under the cucumber tree. A few of the holes were quite large and deep.

  Ophelia and Bessie exchanged wide-eyed glances.

  “The ghost?” Ophelia asked breathlessly.

  “Ghostly spirits don’t dig real holes,” Mildred pointed out.

  “Ghostly spades don’t clink, either.” Bessie frowned. “You don’t suppose somebody was looking for a plant, do you? But if that’s what it was, why didn’t they just ask, for pity’s sake?”

  “Might’ve been a rare plant,” Mildred remarked. “Maybe we’d better put up a no-trespassing sign.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Listen, girls—I’ve only got another half hour to work on that honeysuckle. Then I have to get back home and see how Jubilee is coming with the ironing. Last time, she had to do two of Mr. Kilgore’s shirts over again.”

  “What about putting up that sign out in front?” Ophelia asked Bessie.

  “We can do that another day,” Bessie said. “Let’s just finish that bed, tote the rubbish to the compost pile, and call it quits. It’s getting hot, anyway.”

  They went back to work, and when it was time to stop, Mildred offered to give Ophelia a lift home.

  “Thanks, but it’s just a couple of blocks,” Ophelia replied. “I can walk.”

  “Nonsense,” Mildred said, opening the car door. “We haven’t had a chance to talk in weeks. Get in.”

  Ophelia climbed into the front seat. The two of them had been best friends once, but Mildred and Roger had built a big house not far from the Cypress Country Club and they didn’t see as much of each other now as they used to. But the old friendship was still there, and when they got together, it wasn’t long before they were chattering like a couple of teenagers.

  Mildred turned the key in the ignition and started the car. “Did you hear about the girl who stole the car and drove it into Pine Mill Creek and killed herself?”

  “Bunny Scott,” Ophelia replied. “Lizzy and Verna said they sometimes ate lunch with her, but I only knew her from the drugstore. Actually, I bought some lipstick from her a few weeks ago. Tangee. She said it would look natural, and it does. Did you know her?” she added curiously. There must have been some point to Mildred’s question.

  “No, not really,” Mildred said. She shifted gears, glancing at Ophelia. She had the look of somebody who is carrying a huge secret and is just bursting to tell it. “But I know something interesting about her. I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Bessie. You know how she hates anything that sounds remotely like gossip—even though most of that history stuff she’s so crazy about is nothing but old folks’ gossip.”

  Ophelia frowned. She didn’t like gossip, either, but there might be something here that Verna and Lizzy ought to know about, for their investigation. “What do you mean, Mildred? What do you know?”

  Mildred looked straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. “Well, on Friday afternoon, I happened to go into the drugstore to buy a bottle of Bayer. When I went in, I couldn’t see anybody. Bunny Scott wasn’t there, nor Mr. Lima, either. Which I thought was sorta odd, you know, because Mr. Lima never leaves that store untended, not after he had all that trouble with boys coming in and stealing candy bars. That’s why he put the candy behind the soda fountain counter, where they can’t reach it.” She sighed. “Really, I just don’t understand modern children. They are so undisciplined. Where are their parents? Don’t they learn anything at Sunday school? Why, when we were girls—”

  “You’re right,” Ophelia broke in. Once Mildred got started talking about undisciplined children, she’d never stop. “So what happened when you went into the store?” she prompted.

  Mildred turned the corner onto Ophelia’s street. “Well, like I said, I didn’t see anybody right away, so I went toward the back, where the medicines are. You know the curtain that hangs over the door between the pharmacy area and the storage at the back?”

  Ophelia nodded.

  “Mr. Lima and Miss Scott were behind the curtain,” Mildred said avidly. “I could see their shadows.” She turned to look at Ophelia, her eyes very wide. “He was kissing her, Ophelia! Not in a friendly way, either. Passionate, just like in the movies.”

  “Oh, my gracious!” Ophelia was utterly shocked. “Mr. Lima? Why, he’s a deacon in the Baptist church! What was she doing?”

  Mildred gave what sounded like a snicker. “Well, of course I couldn’t exactly see, since they were behind the curtain. But she definitely wasn’t fighting him off. In fact, I’d say she was giving every bit as good as she got, if you want to put it that way.” They had reached Ophelia’s house. Mildred pulled up in front and turned off the engine.

  “But Mr. Lima is married!” Ophelia protested. “Plus, he must be thirty years older than Bunny is. Was,” she corrected herself quickly. And really, there was no point in passing judgment. Whatever Bunny Scott had done, it was all in the past. Nobody but the good Lord could judge the poor girl now, and maybe He’d be lenient, seeing that she was so young and hadn’t had proper bringing-up.

  Mildred leaned both arms against the steering wheel. “Plus,” she added in a knowing tone, “Mrs. Lima is the jealous type. Remember Nadine Tillman?”

  “Nadine Tillman.” Ophelia pursed her lips, frowning. “I know who she is, but I don’t exactly remember ... Didn’t she work at the drugstore a while back?”

  “Last year, after she got out of high school. But Mrs. Lima found out that Mr. Lima was getting fresh with her.”

  “Mildred!”

  “Exactly. And this is no gossip, Ophelia. I know it for a fact, ‘cause Mrs. Lima’s maid is my Jubilee’s cousin. Jubilee said they were talkin’ about it all over Maysville. You kn
ow you can’t keep a thing from the help—especially something like this.”

  Knowing what she knew about the way news got around, Ophelia could not discount this source. And by now, she was deeply interested, in spite of herself—not to mention that this shocking information seemed like something she ought to share with Verna and Lizzy.

  “What happened when Mrs. Lima found out about Nadine Tillman?” she asked.

  “Well, I don’t know what Mrs. Lima said to Mr. Lima, of course. But I can tell you that he fired Nadine. Just flat-out fired her, no notice or anything. The girl left town. Nadine’s mother said she was headed to Chicago to look for work, but she’s never heard from her. Not a peep. Never even got a postcard. Just plain gone. And that’s been over a year ago. For a while, Mrs. Tillman talked about hiring a private detective, but Mr. Tillman got laid off out at the Coca-Cola plant, so that’s out.”

  “My goodness,” Ophelia said weakly. Of course, young people these days didn’t always keep in touch, but this definitely sounded suspicious.

  “Which, to tell the truth,” Mildred added in a significant tone, “is why I was curious about Bunny Scott. I was wondering just how she managed to drive into Pine Mill Creek.” She paused. “I mean, I have never been one to cast aspersions. If I didn’t already know what I know about Nadine Tillman dropping off the face of the earth, maybe I wouldn’t think anything of it. But it does seem to me that it is just too coincidental. Don’t you think? Nadine disappearing the way she did. And then Bunny Scott driving into that creek.”

  Ophelia shivered, not liking what she was hearing. “They didn’t see you, did they?” she asked apprehensively. “Mr. Lima and Bunny Scott, I mean.”

  Mildred shook her head. “I decided the aspirin could wait. I went to Hancock’s and bought some groceries and went back to the drugstore after that. When I walked in, both of them—Mr. Lima and that girl—were as cool as cucumbers. You’d never know anything had happened between them.” She turned the key in the ignition and the Dodge started smoothly. “Well, I have to go. Thanks for letting me dump all this. As I said, I’m not one to cast aspersions. But I just had to tell somebody. And you’re such a good listener. Really, Ophelia, we ought to see more of each other.”

  “Sure,” Ophelia replied, and said good-bye. By nature, she was not a suspicious sort of person. But as she went up the steps to her front porch, she couldn’t help wondering whether Mrs. Lima knew about Mr. Lima and Bunny Scott. And if she did, what she might have said. Or done.

  She frowned. This wasn’t the kind of information she wanted to pass along on the party line. She looked at her wristwatch. It was just past ten, and the courthouse was only a couple of blocks away. She would drop in on Verna in the probate office and deliver this surprising fact in person.

  Verna and Lizzy were conducting an investigation into Bunny’s death. This was something they needed to know.

  TWELVE

  Myra May Learns Some Startling Facts

  Myra May Mosswell’s daddy had been a doctor. When he died, he left his only child a small house and a nice little bundle of money, not very big, but big enough to get her started in a business. Myra May, who was a practical sort of person with a good head on her strong shoulders, spent several months considering in a logical, rational way what she wanted to do with her inheritance. Did she want to move to a big city that would offer exciting opportunities for a woman of ambition and common sense? Memphis, maybe, or Mobile or Atlanta? Or did she want to invest her money in Darling and live in a small, comfortable, but essentially boring town for the rest of her life?

  While Myra May was turning these important questions over in her mind and trying to decide what she wanted to do with her life, she was managing the dining room and kitchen at the Old Alabama Hotel. As things turned out, however, staying in Darling was not a calculated decision based on a commonsense approach to planning for the future. It was sheer, random happenstance—a bit of luck. Or, as Myra herself said afterward, a piece of stunning good fortune. Just before Labor Day brought a close to the long, hot, boring summer (during which Myra had just about decided she’d be better off in Atlanta) a young woman got off the Montgomery-Mobile Greyhound bus and came into the hotel looking for work. Her name was Violet Sims. She had curly brown hair and a sweet voice and she was very pretty.

  Now, Myra May was not what anybody would ever call pretty. She had a strong jaw, a broad forehead, a firm mouth, and a way of looking at people—especially men—as if she might bore a hole right through them with her eyes. When men were around her, they had a tendency to stumble and mumble and make themselves scarce as soon as they could. She had never yet met a man she wanted to marry and by this time (she could see thirty in the rearview mirror) she was pretty sure that she never would. Women liked her because she was strong and a straight shooter, but they were afraid of her, too, although not as much as the men.

  Violet, as it turned out, was not at all afraid of Myra May. She had been born and raised in Memphis and had seen enough of the city, as she put it, to last her for a couple of lifetimes. She and Myra May hit it off at once—“It was just like we’d known one another forever,” Myra May said in astonished delight—and for the next six months, they worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the Old Alabama dining room and kitchen. By Halloween that year, Violet had moved into Myra May’s house, and by Christmas, Myra May had decided that she definitely wanted to stay in Darling, at least as long as Violet was there.

  And then there was another piece of luck. Mrs. Hooper, who had owned the Darling Diner for over thirty years, began to have trouble with swelling in her legs and decided it was time to put the business up for sale. It had a fine location on Franklin Street, across from the courthouse, between the Dispatch building and Musgrove’s Hardware. The serving area featured a long linoleum-covered lunch counter with a dozen red leather—covered stools and a half-dozen wooden tables and chairs. Behind the counter was a pass-through to the kitchen, and at the back of the building was the small room that housed the town’s telephone exchange. Upstairs was an attractive, sun-filled apartment with its own porch and private entry, where Mrs. Hooper herself had lived. The building needed some painting and fix-up, but the kitchen equipment was in good shape, and the diner had a reputation for serving good food at fair prices—unlike the Alabama Hotel, where the food was good but the prices were out of sight.

  Myra May and Violet inspected the property and discussed the matter for several days. Then Myra May went to Mr. Manning, Darling’s real estate dealer, and made an offer to trade her house and some cash for the diner, as long as Euphoria Hoyt (who was known as the best chicken fryer in southern Alabama) was part of the bargain. Mrs. Hooper was in the market for a small house where she didn’t have to walk up stairs, and Myra May’s house suited her just fine.

  Euphoria was happy to agree as well. “Whoo-ee,” she said. “I’s real relieved to jes’ keep on fryin’ chicken. That’s whut I does best in this world. That, and make meat loaf. Oh, an’ bake. I do love bakin’ pies, ’specially ones with meringue on top.” It was a fact that Euphoria’s fried chicken and mouthwatering meringue-topped pies—lemon, coconut, chocolate, and especially peanut butter—were spoken of with great fondness as far away as Monroeville. When Myra May chalked up “Peanut Butter Meringue Pie” on the menu board, it was gone lickety-split.

  The papers signed, Myra May and Violet quit their jobs at the Old Alabama and moved into the apartment over the diner. Olive LeRoy, who had worked at the telephone exchange since the system was first installed, taught Violet and Myra how to manage the switchboard, and the three of them, with Olive’s friend Lenore Looper, set up a regular rotation for trading shifts, so that the board was covered all day and all night. Of course, there weren’t many telephone calls at night, but somebody had to stay near the board in case of an emergency, so there was a cot in the room for whoever was working the night shift.

  Myra May herself usually opened the diner at eight and cooked and served breakfast. She always
tried to be downstairs by seven, so she had time to stir up a batch of biscuits, cook up the grits and red-eye gravy, and make coffee. Once that was done, all that was left was frying bacon or ham and cooking up eggs, which she did to order, as people came in.

  Business had fallen off a bit lately, but the breakfast trade was still pretty good. She could usually count on filling at least half of the counter stools at any given moment, and one or two of the tables. Of course, not everybody came in at the same time, which was good, because if they did, she’d have to get Violet to come down and help.

  This morning—Tuesday morning—the crowd was the usual. There was Charlie Dickens from the Dispatch, Jed Snow from the Feed Supply, Marvin Musgrove from the hardware store next door, and J.D., Marvin’s helper. All of them sat, as usual, at the counter. Charlie Dickens and Jed Snow seemed glum, but the other two were talking up a storm about the Elk’s Club picnic, coming up on Saturday, and wondering whether Sparky’s arm was going to be in shape for the baseball game. Then the sheriff came in, smoking his usual smelly cigar, and Myra May had to tell him, as she usually did, to leave it outdoors. As usual, he glared at her, but complied, putting it on the outside windowsill where he could pick it up on his way out. Buddy Norris was with him, and the two of them, plus Tom Hinks from the Circuit Court office, took their usual table in the corner.

  When Myra May carried the coffeepot to the table to pour their first cups, the sheriff and Buddy and Mr. Hinks were talking about Bunny Scott, and how she had died, and why they were sure she’d been driving the stolen car when it went into the creek, and drinking, to boot. They still hadn’t figured out who her accomplice was. Buddy thought it was most likely the convict, but the sheriff had a different opinion. He thought the convict was out of the state by this time.