The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “A new car, a new house,” Bessie shouted, which also came out too loud, because Bettina had shut off her blower. “Sounds pretty incriminating to me,” she added, in a lower voice. She turned her head, admiring her reflection in the mirror. “My, Beulah, but that is pretty.”

  “Well, if I say so myself, I do know hair,” Beulah said modestly, picking up a soft brush and whisking hair off the back of Bessie’s neck. “Listen, ladies, I want to know if either of you have heard anything about that escaped convict. Bettina and I ask everybody who comes in here, and nobody seems to have heard a blessed thing.”

  “There wasn’t even anything about him in Friday’s Dispatch,” Bettina complained, beginning to unwrap Aunt Hetty’s little white caterpillars, which by now were nice and dry and very springy. “You would think Mr. Dickens would give us at least one little clue, wouldn’t you? Why, I don’t know whether it’s safe to sleep with my window open at night, or whether I ought to lock all the doors and take the stove poker to bed with me.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Aunt Hetty said dismissively. “You can stop worrying about that escaped convict, Bettina. He probably hopped a freight train and is havin’ a high old time with the ladies in Memphis or St. Louis by now.”

  “I agree,” Bessie Bloodworth said, getting out of the beauty chair and allowing Beulah to unfasten her cape. “Nothing for any of us to worry about, Bettina.”

  Bettina breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I am glad to hear that. I guess I can put that big ol’ stove poker back where I got it, can’t I?” She unwrapped the last caterpillar. “Now, Mrs. Little, I need you to tell me what I’m doin’ wrong with my eggplants. They just don’t seem to be growin’ as good as they should. They’re just little bitty things.”

  “Don’t you fret about those eggplants, dear,” Aunt Hetty said in a comforting tone. “The mornings have been chilly lately, and they don’t like cold feet. They love summertime, and they’ll perk up real good when it heats up some. Look for ‘em to grow like a house afire along about the Fourth of July. Come hot summer, you’ll have more eggplants than you know what to do with, and you’ll be askin’ everybody for recipes.”

  “I’ve got a good one for you, Bettina,” Beulah said, hanging Bessie’s cape on the hook. “Tomato and eggplant pie, with eggs and a little milk and cheese rubbed through the grater, if you’ve got cheese. If you don’t, you can do without, but maybe put in an extra egg so the custard sets up. I have a hard time getting my children to eat eggplant, but they do like that pie.”

  “Thank you, everybody,” Bettina said gratefully. She looked around, smiling. “I guess I owe just about everything I know about gardening and cooking to Beulah’s Beauty Bower.”

  It is true, however, that while the Dahlias know quite a lot about growing vegetables and making pies, they don’t know all there is to know about escaped convicts.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lizzy and Verna Plan an Expedition

  When Lizzy and Verna stopped giggling about their narrow escape from Mrs. Brewster’s boardinghouse, they discovered that they were hungry—which might be expected, since the sandwiches they had eaten at lunchtime were a distant memory. Lizzy’s house was closest, so she invited Verna to have supper with her.

  “Nothing fancy,” she said, “but there’s cheese and ham, and tomatoes and green onions and lettuce from the garden, and I can scramble some eggs and open a pint jar of Sally-Lou’s canned peaches. She always puts up more than we can eat.”

  “Sounds perfect to me,” Verna said. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

  Lizzy nodded. She had been wondering how much of what Mr. Moseley had told her she should share with Verna. He expected her to keep it in confidence, but she felt she owed Verna an explanation for taking that revealing letter, which she knew should be left for the police to find. But she and Verna had been friends for a very long time and Liz felt that she could be trusted. After all, they were both Dahlias, weren’t they? Dahlias were loyal. Dahlias could keep a confidence.

  So while she fed Daffodil and then got busy scrambling eggs with cheese and bits of ham and green onions and Verna assembled a garden salad from lettuce, fresh tomatoes, and chopped green peppers, along with a handful of fresh raw peas and more green onions, Lizzy told Verna about her conversation with Mr. Moseley. Some of it was ... well, torrid, she thought, especially the part about Bunny and Mr. Moseley going to Mobile together.

  But as Lizzy had said earlier, she wasn’t a prude. If Mr. Moseley wanted to have an affair with Bunny, who was she to sit in judgment? After all, she was thinking of Grady in pretty much the same way—although she had to admit that there was a difference. Neither she nor Grady were married. Mr. Moseley was, and Bunny knew it. That was what made it torrid, in Liz’s opinion.

  Verna, however, was not very interested in the seamy stuff. In fact, she hardly blinked. She seemed to be much more interested in the story Bunny had told Mr. Moseley about her life on a farm outside Monroeville, with a drunk for a father and a runaway mother who had left her with four younger brothers and sister to care for, including a pair of twins.

  “Bunny told him she kept them all fed and clothed and walked miles to school every day,” Lizzy concluded. “He was impressed by her courage. I guess that might have been what attracted him to her in the first place.”

  “Courage, smourage,” Verna scoffed. “He was impressed by her—” She glanced at Lizzy. “By the way she looked in that red dress. What’s more, she lied to him. Bunny lived with her widowed mother, not with four little kids and a drunk.”

  “How do we know?” Lizzy asked, pushing scrambled eggs onto two plates.

  “What do you mean, how do we know?” Verna put the salad bowl on the kitchen table. “Because that’s what she told us.”

  “Well, yes. But how do we know whether the story about her widowed mother is true, or the story she told Mr. Moseley?”

  Verna frowned. “I guess we don’t,” she said slowly. “That girl was such a liar—I wonder if she told Maxwell Woodburn she’d marry him.”

  “Or told Mr. Lima that she would run away with him. Or—” She put the skillet in the sink.

  “Or promised something to somebody we don’t even know about yet,” Verna said. She looked around. “What’s to drink, Lizzy?”

  “Lemonade in the fridge. Glasses on the first shelf in the cupboard. Oh, and while you’re at it, pour some milk in a saucer for Daffy.”

  “Your fridge is a lot bigger than mine,” Verna said enviously, taking out the pitcher of lemonade and a bottle of milk. “This Monitor-top is really a beauty. Quiet, too. My Kelvinator works fine but it growls.” She opened the cupboard and took two glasses off the shelf.

  “I lived with Mother’s icebox for too many years,” Lizzy replied. “Somehow, I was the one who always got to empty the pan, because it was too heavy for Mother, and Sally-Lou always spilled water all over the floor. So when I moved in here, I got the best fridge I could afford, figuring I’d have it for a while.” She put a plate of corn muffins on the table and took the cover off the butter dish. “We could ask Mrs. Bledsoe about Bunny. They were cousins. She’d know.”

  Verna poured the lemonade and Daffodil’s milk. “We can’t ask Mrs. Bledsoe because she’s up in Nashville with a new grandbaby.” She put the glasses on the table and the saucer of milk on the floor. With a rumbling purr, Daffodil began to lap it up. “Looks like there’s nothing further we can do as far as the Limas are concerned,” she added. “So what would you think of going over to Monroeville to do a little snooping? I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to locate somebody who knew Bunny. She’s not exactly the shrinking violet type, you know. Probably everybody knew her.”

  Lizzy opened Sally-Lou’s home-canned peaches and spooned them into two bowls. “Monroeville,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, I guess we could. But it would have to be after work.” The two sat down. Lizzy took some salad and passed the bowl to Verna. “And how would we get there?” She occasionally rode her bicycle to work,
but neither she nor Verna had a car.

  “How about going tomorrow? We might could ask Myra May to drive us, if she can get away from the diner and the switchboard. Maybe stop for supper at Buzz’s Barbeque?”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Lizzy felt in the pocket of her dress for her hankie and pulled out something else.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “It’s Bunny’s photo. And the deposit book.” She put it on the table between them. “I guess I had these in my hand when we heard Mrs. Brewster coming and we had to hide in the closet. I must’ve stuck them in my pocket.”

  Verna chuckled. “Well, I don’t suppose anybody is going to put you in jail for stealing a photo, Lizzy. And now that Bunny’s dead, she’s not going to be withdrawing that money.” She picked up her fork and took a bite. “Hey, these are good scrambled eggs.”

  “I get eggs from Mrs. Freeman, down the street,” Lizzy said. “Her rooster wakes me up in the morning, so I figure the least I can do is eat his hens’ eggs.” Fork in one hand, she looked down at the photo, then picked it up and held it closer, studying it. “You know, this car looks a lot like—” She put down her fork, frowning. “Oh, my gosh! You’re not going to believe me, Verna, but I would swear that this is the same car—”

  “Yeah?” Verna added another couple of tomato wedges to her salad. “The same car as what?”

  “The same car that I saw wrecked in the ravine yesterday.” She took a deep breath. “With Bunny in it.”

  “It can’t be the same one.” Verna took the photo, looking at it closely. “The car she was in was stolen, Lizzy. It was reported stolen hours before she turned up in it, dead.”

  “But it is! I’d swear it is, Lizzy! Look. It’s a Pontiac—there’s the Indian hood ornament. The one I saw was green, and this one might be, too, although you can’t tell from this photo.” She pointed with her fork. “And it’s got an Alabama license plate. See there? Alabama 10-654. White numbers on black. Big as life.”

  “Well, there you go. If it’s the same license plate number as the one in the ravine, you’ve got a match. Is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Lizzy said regretfully. “There was no reason for me to notice that plate. I’m sure the sheriff did, though—he had already matched it with the one that was reported stolen.” She paused. “I don’t want to ask Sheriff Burns, but Charlie Dickens was there, too, taking pictures and making notes. He might’ve written it down.”

  Verna gave her an intent look. “Lizzy, I think you should call Charlie right now. He’s probably still at the newspaper. The sooner we get this question settled, the sooner we’ll know for sure.”

  “You’re right about that.” Lizzy was already on her way to the telephone on the wall. She rang the exchange—one short ring. “Myra May, this is Lizzy. Would you ring the Dispatch office for me, please? I need to talk to Charlie.”

  “Sure thing,” Myra May said. “Listen. I need to talk to you. I’ll call you back after you’re through with Mr. Dickens. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Lizzy said. “Anyway, Verna’s here and she’s got the idea that maybe we should all drive over to Monroeville tomorrow evening.” She laughed. “She’s playing detective.”

  “Okay,” Myra May said. “I’ll ring you back.”

  Charlie was at the office, working on Friday’s paper. Yes, he had made a note of the Pontiac’s license plate. Give him a minute and he’d hunt it up. There was the sound of papers rustling. A moment later, Lizzy had her answer. She wrote it down as Charlie read it out of his notebook.

  “How come you’re askin’, Lizzy?” Charlie wanted to know.

  “Just tying up a couple of loose ends,” Lizzy said evasively.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Charlie said. “If there’s something important here—”

  “Thanks a lot, Charlie. See you soon.” She hung up and went back to the table. “It’s the same,” she said, sitting down at the table. “Alabama 10-654. So it is the same car, Verna.”

  Verna picked up the photograph and studied it. “Which means that Bunny knew the owner of the car she died in.”

  “And she knew him pretty well,” Lizzy put in. “You don’t strip down to your underwear to pose for just anybody.” She paused. “I wonder when this was taken.”

  “Not too long ago, I’d guess,” Verna said. “Had to be a warm day.” She pointed to the photograph. “That’s a man taking the picture. You can see his shadow. Looks like he’s wearing a fedora.”

  “That doesn’t help,” Lizzy said. “Lots of men wear fedoras. Grady, for instance.” She frowned. “The sheriff said that the car belonged to Mr. Harper’s brother, over in Monroeville. That must be the connection.”

  “Makes sense,” Verna said. “But what I don’t understand is why—”

  The phone rang and Lizzy got up. “Probably Myra May.”

  It was. “Lizzy, do you know anything about Imogene Rutledge?”

  “Wait a minute,” Lizzy said, listening for clicks on the line. There were none so she went on, with a little laugh. “Miss Rutledge? Well, all I know is that a lot of people breathed a sigh of relief when she left the bank last year. She had a habit of telling people what they didn’t want to hear, I guess. Why are you asking?”

  “Because I’m trying to think who else—besides Alice Ann—might have been taking money from the bank. If you still want to go to Monroeville tomorrow evenin’, I’ll be glad to drive—if we can spend some time checking out Imogene Rutledge. She lives over there now, with her mother.”

  “It’s okay with me,” Lizzy said, “although I hope you’re not planning to walk straight up to her and ask her if she’s an embezzler. She’ll tell you where to get off.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line. “I’ll think of a way,” Myra May muttered. “So we’re goin’ to drive over there and poke around?”

  “If you’re agreeable. Oh, and could you do a couple of things for me? Telephone-operator type things? Remember last night when we were playing hearts and Verna was telling us about Maxwell Woodburn, the guy who might be Bunny’s pen pal? One of the girls at Mrs. Brewster’s told Verna that she thought this fellow lived in Montgomery. Could you find a telephone number for him?”

  “Great idea!” Verna applauded from the table. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” Myra May said. “Let me write that down. Maxwell Wood-b-u-r-n?”

  “Right. And also, last night you mentioned that the Pontiac that Bunny Scott is supposed to have stolen belonged to Fred Harper’s brother.”

  “He lives in Monroeville, too,” Myra May said. “He’s a dentist.”

  “Could you get a phone number for him?”

  “And an address,” Verna put in.

  “Verna says we need an address, too,” Lizzy repeated.

  “What’s all this about?” Myra May asked.

  There was a click on the line. “Lizzy, could I break in?” Mrs. Freeman asked, in her old-lady’s quivery voice. “Myra May, I need to get hold of Mr. Lima at home, quick. Howard’s stomach is real bad again, and Doc Roberts is here. He says Howard has to have some new medicine and wants to tell Mr. Lima which one to order.”

  “Mr. Lima isn’t at home, Mrs. Freeman,” Lizzy said. “He and Mrs. Lima drove down to Mobile this morning, on a little vacation. There’s a sign on the drugstore door that says it’s closed.”

  “Actually,” Myra May put in, “they drove on to Pensacola. Mr. Lima telephoned his sister not twenty minutes ago to let her know where they were.” She sounded apologetic. “He says they plan to stay for a week, at least. Mrs. Lima wants to sit on the beach.”

  “A week!” Mrs. Freeman exclaimed. She sounded frightened. “Mr. Lima has never closed that drugstore before! He always says he’s here to take care of this town, regardless. What are we supposed to do for medicine while he’s gone?”

  “Tell you what, Mrs. Freeman,” Myra May replied. “I’m here at the telephone switchboard, and Tommy Ryan is sittin’ out front in the diner, p
olishin’ off a piece of Euphoria’s chocolate meringue pie. Tommy works out at the Coca-Cola bottling plant, but he lives over t’wards Monroeville and drives back and forth every day. If you’ll put Doc Roberts on the phone, he can tell Tommy what he needs and Tommy can pick it up at the drugstore in Monroeville tomorrow morning and bring it to you.”

  “Oh, what a wonderful idea, Myra May,” Mrs. Freeman said, with a sigh of relief. “I’ll go fetch the doctor.”

  “I’ll go get Tommy,” Myra May said. “Lizzy, see you tomorrow at five.”

  “I’ll get off the line now,” Lizzy said. “Mrs. Freeman, I hope Mr. Freeman gets to feeling better.”

  “I do, too, dear,” the old lady said fervently. “Howard suffers so with that stomach of his. And I sure hope Lester Lima gets back from that vacation real soon. There’ll be lots of folks in town needing medicine.” She sighed heavily. “Oh, and Lizzy, there’s a few more eggs for you here, if you want them. The hens are laying good right now.”

  “Thanks,” Lizzy said. “I’ll get some extra for Mother, if you can spare them.” Going back to the table, she said, “Myra May says that Mr. Lima called his sister and said they’d gone to Pensacola so Mrs. Lima could sit on the beach.”

  “I really would like to know why they left town so suddenly,” Verna said.

  “We may never know,” Lizzy replied. They finished their meal in silence, the deposit book and the telltale photograph on the table between them.

  NINETEEN

  Bessie Bloodworth Bags a Ghost

  Evenings were always quiet at Magnolia Manor—so quiet, in fact, that the younger folks (the ones who liked to go out to the Watering Hole or the Dance Barn to dance and drink bootleg booze in the parking lot) might have called them dull. Bessie didn’t see it that way, of course, for her days were full of chores, sunup to sundown. When supper was over and the evening work was done, she was glad to go out to the front porch and join the Magnolia Ladies (that’s what they called themselves) for a relaxing hour or two before bedtime.