The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Joey?” Ophelia swallowed. “You ... You know his name?”

  “Of course I know his name, you goose. He’s been living here with us. Hiding out. He’s been so sick. Really sick, I mean. Once or twice, I actually thought he was going to die.” She wrung out the towel in the bucket and folded it across his forehead. The gash was beginning to swell. “Joey,” she crooned. “Come on, Joey, wake up!”

  Ophelia sat back on her heels, trying to come to terms with what she was seeing and hearing. He had been living here? Hiding out? And there was Lucy, speaking as gently to this escaped convict as she would to one of Ralph’s boys. What was going on here?

  It took a few moments, but at last the convict—Joey—was sitting up, taking little sips of water from the dipper Lucy held to his lips, and trying not to cry. With Lucy’s arm around him, he looked even younger than fifteen. Twelve, maybe.

  “Sit tight, Joey,” Lucy said, getting to her feet. “I’ll fetch the iodine.” She was back in a moment, iodine bottle in her hand. She doctored the gash as he winced.

  “It hurts,” he whimpered. His voice squeaked, and he ducked his head, embarrassed.

  “Of course it hurts, silly,” Lucy said warmly. “Iodine is supposed to hurt. Kills the germs that way. You don’t want to get infected, do you?” She finished with the iodine. “Now, let’s get you off to bed. I don’t think you ought to try to eat right now, with your head like that. Okay?” She frowned at Ophelia. “Well, don’t just stand there, Opie, help me!”

  “Oh, sorry,” Ophelia muttered, already beginning to wish that she hadn’t been so quick to act. Obviously, she had walked into something that was entirely different from what she had thought it was.

  Between the two of them, they got the boy to his feet, his arms over their shoulders. He was tall, yes, taller than Ophelia, but much lighter than she would have guessed, almost skin and bones. Ophelia thought he must have been sick, to have lost so much weight.

  Or maybe they didn’t feed them very well at the prison farm. She’d heard that the farm raised its own food, but that the best of it—the meat, especially, and the freshest vegetables—went to the guards and the higher-ups and their families. Of course. That was just the way things worked. The prisoners would always come last. They probably didn’t get any milk, either. And she had heard horror stories about the prison doctor who tended the prisoners when they got sick—not somebody you’d want to look after somebody you loved.

  They put the boy to bed in one of the kids’ beds. Lucy covered him lightly and smoothed his gashed forehead with a tender hand. “He doesn’t have a fever anymore, thank goodness,” she said, half to herself. More loudly, she said, “You have a nice rest now, Joey. I’ll fix you something else to eat when you’re awake.” She glanced at Ophelia. “And then we’re going to do what we talked about. Remember what that was?”

  The boy’s eyes lit up. “Today?” he asked eagerly.

  “I hope so,” Lucy said, with a glance at Ophelia. “But first you have to rest.”

  They went back into the kitchen. Without a word, Lucy set about cleaning up the mess. She scooped the food into the slop bucket by the door, where it would go to feed the pigs, and put the plate and fork and spoon into the enamel dishpan, to be washed later.

  Ophelia stood by, feeling helpless and more than a little guilty, not knowing what to say. When Lucy was finished, she helped her right the table, and managed, in a small voice, “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t know—I mean, I thought he was ...”

  “I know what you thought,” Lucy said in a chilly tone. “And you were wrong. That poor boy nearly died in that prison farm. He didn’t belong there in the first place. Do you know what he was sentenced for?” She answered her own question. “He got six months for stealing a chicken, that’s what. One lousy chicken. He was hungry. The poor kid hadn’t had anything to eat for several days.”

  Ophelia stared at her. At her house, things were pretty much the way they always had been, so it was easy to turn a blind eye to the problems that were cropping up everywhere else. Men without jobs, mothers without food for their children, children without proper clothes and shoes.

  “They sentenced him to the juvenile home,” Lucy continued, “but it was full, so they sent him to the prison farm with all those tough, seasoned criminals. He wasn’t strong to start with, and they made him work terribly long hours, in all kinds of weather, until he could barely stand up. There was worse abuse, too, because he’s young and slender and some of the other prisoners, big bullies, men who—” Her voice broke and she turned away.

  A moment later, she turned back, wiping her eyes with her hand. “I don’t want to tell you what they did, but you can imagine.” Ophelia could, and shuddered. “It was more than he could take,” Lucy went on. “When the other fellow made a break for it, he ran, too. He told me he was running for his life.” She turned to look squarely at Ophelia. “And if you’d been me, Opie, you would’ve taken him in, too. You’re a kind person—you couldn’t have helped yourself.”

  “What happened?” Ophelia asked quietly.

  Lucy finished wiping the table. “Sit down and I’ll pour us some coffee and tell you,” she said, and Ophelia obeyed.

  What happened, it turned out, was that when the two convicts escaped, the sheriff and Buddy caught the older man right away, at the low-water crossing on the road between Ralph’s place and the Spencers’. The other convict, Joey, managed to get away and hide out in the woods before the dogs arrived.

  Normally, of course, the dogs would have tracked him down and the sheriff would’ve hauled him back to the prison farm before supper time. But Scooter and Junior found him first, hiding under a sweet gum tree in the swamp about a mile away. They saw how young and scared and pitiful he was and immediately felt sorry for him.

  “I was proud of them,” Lucy said quietly. “They knew they couldn’t let that boy go back to the prison farm, and they were right.”

  It was Scooter’s idea to trade shoes with him, to keep the dogs from following. Each of the boys put on one of Joey’s shoes—such as they were, almost no heels and soles flapping loose—and gave him one of theirs to wear. Then Junior took the boy on his back and carried him to another tree, where they boosted him up high. Scooter ran off in one direction and Junior ran off in the other, circling around through the marsh and crisscrossing their trails until they got back home.

  This tactic naturally confused the dogs, of course, when they were brought in. They tracked Joey off the road and into the swamp, but when they got to the sweet gum tree, they lost the scent completely, circling around and sniffing. They never did pick up the trail. When the dogs were pulled off for the night, the boys went out and brought Joey back and hid him under Lucy’s bed.

  “So he wasn’t already here when Jed came,” Ophelia said, trying to get the sequence of events straight in her mind.

  “No, he was still out there in the swamp.” Lucy met her eyes. “To tell the truth, Opie, I wanted Jed here so that the sheriff wouldn’t suspect Scooter and Junior of having anything to do with Joey getting away. Jed doesn’t know anything about Joey.” Her forehead puckered. “Say you won’t tell him. Please!”

  Ophelia hesitated. She knew her husband, all too well. He took his duties as Darling’s mayor very seriously. She didn’t like keeping secrets from him—it made her feel disloyal. It made her feel ... Oh, it was hard to describe, almost as if she were disobeying one of the Ten Commandments. But if Jed knew, he’d insist that the boy be sent back to the prison farm immediately.

  “I won’t tell him,” she said at last. “It feels like being between a rock and a hard place, but I won’t tell him.”

  Lucy looked relieved. “You should have seen the poor boy, Opie,” she said soberly. “He was skinny as a fence rail, scratches all over him and welts on his back from the overseers’ whips. Wrists like sticks, too, and his eyes all hollow, and of course not a hair on his poor shaved head. Once I started feeding him, though, he began to look a little be
tter.”

  Which must be why, Ophelia thought, Lucy had run out of food and had been desperate to get to the grocery store. “What are you going to do?” she asked. “He can’t stay here forever. Ralph will be back in a week or so, won’t he?”

  Lucy sighed. “Yes. Joey has to be gone before Ralph comes home. He’d be furious if he ever found out what the boys and I have done. They won’t tell, of course. They’d be scared of a thrashing.” She looked grave. “I have a plan, but I need help, Opie. Ralph’s Studebaker still isn’t running. I was going to take Junior’s horse, but that foreleg is still pretty bad. I need you to drive Joey and me to—”

  “No, no!” Ophelia protested quickly, shaking her head. “Not me. I can’t help, Lucy. Jed would ...” She shivered, imagining what her husband would say—and do—if he caught her aiding and abetting a convict’s escape. “Why, he’d be as mad as Ralph. Maybe madder.”

  “I don’t give a hoot about Jed Snow, Opie,” Lucy said fiercely. “And now that you’ve discovered our secret, you’re obligated. You are going to help me get Joey out of here, to a place that’s safe. It’s not hard—your part of it. All you have to do is drive the car. I’ll do the rest. And I don’t want to hear any excuses. Got that?” She leaned forward, looking stern. Her voice no longer sounded like lemon-meringue pie. “Got that?”

  Ophelia gulped. Lucy was much tougher than she had thought. “I guess so,” she said in a small voice. She heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, I guess so. When do we have to do this?”

  “Today,” Lucy replied. “Like you said, he can’t stay here forever. Every day makes it more likely that somebody’ll stumble over him, the same way you did.” She pressed her lips together. “Next time, he might get shot, instead of just getting beaned with a jar of jam.”

  Ophelia pretended she didn’t hear that. “Today?” She gave a rueful little laugh. “Well, that lets me out, I’m afraid. If it’s a car you need, and if you want it today, you’ll have to find somebody else.”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because the Ford has a flat.” Ophelia made a face. “I parked it beside the road and walked the rest of the way here. There’s a spare on the back but I have no idea how to change it—Jed always handles things like that. I was going to call him later today and ask him to send somebody out to do it for me.”

  “A flat?” Lucy laughed. “Is that all? Well, you can stop worrying your head about that. I’m a champion tire changer. And don’t you think it’s something you should learn, too?” She pushed her chair back. “In fact, it would be a good idea if we put the spare on now, while the boy’s asleep. Come on.”

  And Ophelia—still wishing she’d worn her other shoes—had no choice but to follow. Lucy had taken charge.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Verna, Myra May, and Lizzy: On the Case in Monroeville

  That same afternoon, right after work, Verna, Lizzy, and Myra May all met outside the diner, where they piled into Big Bertha, Myra May’s 1920 green Chevrolet touring car. Bertha had belonged to Myra May’s father, who had taken very good care of her. Even though she was ten years old and was on her fifth set of tires and her second carburetor, she still had a good many miles left in her. Big Bertha was roomy, too. There was ample space for all three of them with room left over, and they started off for Monroeville in high spirits.

  It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and they were dressed for an outing in light summer dresses with frilly collars—all except Myra May, who wore her usual trousers and tailored blouse. They all wore summer straw hats, too. Myra May’s was narrow-brimmed and mannish, Lizzy’s was decorated with flowers, and Verna’s sailor hat sported blue and red grosgrain ribbons.

  “Did you hear about the excitement in the garden behind the Dahlias’ clubhouse last night?” Myra May asked when they had all piled into the car and were driving off.

  “Excitement?” Lizzy asked, startled. “No! What was it? Is everything okay?”

  “Somebody was digging in the back garden, under the cucumber tree,” Myra May said. “The ladies at the Magnolia Manor heard it and they all got up to see what was going on. Bessie Bloodworth took her shotgun out there and actually shot at him.”

  “Shot at him!” Verna exclaimed.

  “Right. She meant to shoot over his head, but she thought she might’ve hit him, according to Miss Rogers. She’s the one who told me the story.” Myra May giggled. “Would you believe? This fellow was dressed up like the Cartwright ghost.”

  “Well, my goodness,” Verna said. She shook her head, frowning. “Who would have done such a thing? And why? Do you suppose it was the escaped convict?”

  “Could’ve been, I suppose,” Myra May replied. “That’s what Miss Rogers thinks, anyway.”

  “But why?” Verna persisted. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We’ll have to get Bessie to tell us all about it,” Lizzy said. “No word about the convict yet?”

  “Nope,” Myra May said. “It’s as if he’s dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “And Alice Ann?” Verna asked, concerned. “She hasn’t been arrested yet, I hope. Have you heard anything about the situation at the bank?”

  “I heard Mr. Johnson talking to the bank examiner,” Myra May said soberly. “They’re still looking for evidence. Alice Ann has been warned not to leave town.”

  “As if she would,” Lizzy said. And with that, they settled in for the ride to Monroeville.

  Route 12 took them to Route 47, through the village of Mexia and into town on West Claiborne Street. Monroeville, the county seat for Monroe County, was the major market town for the whole area, and anything that couldn’t be bought in Darling was sure to be found in one of the Monroeville stores. Around the square were the First National Bank (“The Only National Bank in Monroe County”), the Monroe County Bank (“Promoting the Progress of Monroe County”), the U.S. Post Office, the Commercial Hotel, the office of the Manistee & Repton Railroad Company, the Monroe Journal building, Dawson’s Drugs, and a dry goods store. In the center of the square: a grand brick courthouse, a twin of the one on Darling’s courthouse square, with a large white-painted dome and a clock.

  “Well, ladies,” Myra May asked as they came into town, “where do we start? Sounds to me like we have a long list of things to do.”

  Myra was right. On the way over from Darling, they had gone over all the questions that needed answers, and Verna had jotted them all down.

  Which of the stories about Bunny is true? Was she really her widowed mother’s only child or the abandoned daughter of a runaway mother?

  Fred Harper’s brother (Dr. Wayne Harper, a dentist) owns the green Pontiac that Bunny was supposed to have stolen. Did he know Bunny? Did he take the photo of her sitting on his car in her teddy?

  Did Imogene Rutledge have anything to do with the money problem at the Darling bank? Could she have taken the money Alice Ann is suspected of taking?

  Scanning the list with a critical eye, Verna thought it seemed pretty silly and amateurish and doubted that Miss Silver would approve. It wasn’t very likely that Dr. Harper would tell them anything about Bunny (if there was anything to tell), and it was altogether unlikely that Imogene Rutledge would even condescend to speak to them, much less give them any real information. Why should she—especially if it incriminated her? And would anybody tell them anything if all three of them marched up to the person and began clamoring for information?

  But then she had an idea. Instead of all three of them trying to answer all three questions at once, why not split up? She was the one who was most interested in Bunny’s background—she could look into that. Lizzy had brought the photo of Bunny sitting on the car, so she could talk to Dr. Harper. And Myra May had already spoken to Miss Rogers about Imogene Rutledge (at Aunt Hetty Little’s suggestion), so she could look up Miss Rutledge.

  “Well, what do you think?” Verna asked, when she had proposed this division of responsibilities.

  “Sounds good to me,” Myra May replie
d with a little laugh. “I have a very good reason to knock on Miss Rutledge’s door. I want to see her face when I tell her that Miss Rogers sent met.”

  Lizzy tilted her head to one side. “You know, I’ve done some reporting for the Dispatch. I could pretend to be on assignment from the newspaper, interviewing Dr. Harper for a human-interest piece on the theft of that car. That would give me a reason for having the photograph. I wonder how he’ll respond to it.”

  “And I’ll see if I can track down Bunny’s old neighbors,” Verna said. “I’ll start at the drugstore. She used to work there.” She looked at her watch. “Two hours? Will that be long enough, do you think?”

  “If we can’t find out something in two hours,” Myra May replied firmly, “we’re not going to find it out at all.”

  “You’re probably right,” Verna said. “How about meeting at Buzz’s Barbeque for supper when we’re done? It’s just down the street, across from the railroad depot.”

  “Or we could eat in the Commercial Hotel,” Lizzy put in. “It’s a little more ... civilized, maybe.”

  “I vote for the barbeque joint,” Myra May said. “They’ve got good ribs and catfish, fresh out of the river. And there’s nothing better in this world than Buzz’s pulled pork sandwiches.” She grinned. “There’s something to be said for being uncivilized.”

  “Buzz’s, then,” Verna said. “Let’s meet in two hours.”

  Dawson’s Drugstore was brighter and more attractive than Mr. Lima’s store, Verna thought, as she opened the door and went in—about the same size, but well lit, the walls painted a light color, and with a nicely arranged front window display of Euthymol, Colgate, and Pepsodent toothpastes, with a big cardboard advertisement for Pepsodent’s new radio show, Amos ‘n’ Andy, and a pyramid of bottles of Lavoris mouthwash. The soda fountain counter boasted a half-dozen stools and a pair of patrons, a teenaged couple sharing a milk shake with two straws. They were trading jokes with the soda jerk, a pimply faced, dark-haired teenaged boy in a white apron.