“Thanks.” Ophelia paused, looking a little guilty. “Oh, by the way—if you see Jed, please don’t mention this.” She turned down her mouth. “I . . . I haven’t told him yet. I don’t know how he’s going to take it.”
Uh-oh, Lizzy thought. It sounded as if Ophelia was in some kind of trouble. But she didn’t like to pry into her friends’ business, so she just nodded.
After Ophelia left, Lizzy settled down to work again. But she managed to write only two more items for her column when Old Zeke, the colored man who delivered grocery orders for Mrs. Hancock and did odd jobs around the neighborhood, showed up to report that Sheriff Burns had come knocking on Verna’s front door—with a warrant.
As Lizzy pieced the story together later, it had happened this way. Just before Ophelia arrived to drive her out to Lucy’s place, Verna got one of her bright ideas. She went next door and told Mrs. Wilson that she planned to visit a friend in Nashville for a few days and would appreciate it if Mrs. Wilson would keep an eye on things at her place. If anybody happened to come looking for her, Mrs. Wilson should tell them she had gone to Nashville and then telephone Miss Lacy in Mr. Moseley’s office and let her know who was asking, so Miss Lacy could relay the message. (Verna later told Lizzy that she had stumbled on this idea, a classic strategy of misdirection, in one of the true-crime magazines she was always reading.)
Mrs. Wilson was happy to help out in this way, for Verna had been ready to lend a hand in Mr. Wilson’s last illness and Mrs. Wilson (who was eighty-five and not as spry as she used to be) was grateful to have a neighbor who didn’t mind picking up one or two things at the Mercantile or getting one of Doc Roberts’ prescriptions filled at Lima’s Drugs on the way home from work.
Anyway, Mrs. Wilson didn’t have much else to do. She spent her days rocking on her front porch, crocheting granny squares for afghans for the missionary box at the church and keeping an eye on the neighborhood in general. She certainly didn’t mind watching Verna’s front door and letting Verna’s visitors know that she was out of town. Nothing very exciting had happened on the block since the month before, when Mr. Renfro’s second cousin (the Renfros lived across the street) had parked his old Buick out front and neglected to put on the hand brake. Mrs. Wilson had seen the car start to roll down the hill and shouted out a warning, but it was too late. With Mr. Renfro and his cousin in hot pursuit, the Buick had rolled merrily all the way down Larkspur to Rosemont. There, it smashed into a light pole and caved in the radiator, which had spouted like Old Faithful out in Yellowstone Park.
Mrs. Wilson knew it wasn’t funny, especially because when the light pole went down all the lights in the neighborhood went out. But she had to laugh because the chase reminded her so much of the Keystone Kops. Mr. Renfro looked a lot like Fatty Arbuckle, who had starred in Mr. Wilson’s favorite Keystone Kops movie, The Gangsters. When the Palace showed a Kops flick, Mr. Wilson, God rest his soul, had always been the first one in line, no matter how many times he had already seen the movie. He was heartbroken when Fatty got in trouble over that girl in San Francisco back in 1921 and got tried for manslaughter, not once but three times before a jury finally saw the light and acquitted him.
And when Sheriff Burns parked his Model A at the curb, marched up the front porch steps, and banged on Verna’s door, Mrs. Wilson had another laugh. Roy Burns (whom Mrs. Wilson had known ever since he was a little kid with a runny nose who went around with his pet chicken under his arm) had grown up to be another Fatty Arbuckle lookalike. She was still chuckling about that when she called out, “If you’re lookin’ for Miz Tidwell, Sheriff, she’s gone off to visit a friend in Nashville. She left just a little bit ago. Won’t be back for a few days.”
“Now ain’t that a coincidence.” The sheriff scowled, took off his hat, and scratched his head. “I’m lookin’ to have a little talk with her and she runs off to Nashville.” He pushed out his pudgy lips and squinted at her. “Wouldn’t happen to know the name of her friend, would you, Miz Wilson?”
“She didn’t say,” Mrs. Wilson replied, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that Roy Burns might not have come calling to ask Verna to contribute to the county employees’ welfare fund. She sat back in her rocking chair and picked up her current granny square and her crochet hook. “Is it impo’tant, Sheriff?”
“I reckon it is,” the sheriff said with heavy irony, “or I wouldn’t have this here warrant in my pocket, would I? And I wouldn’t be wastin’ my time bangin’ on this here door, neither.”
A warrant? “Well, now, I don’t reckon you would,” Mrs. Wilson replied thoughtfully. “You have a good day, Sheriff.”
“I’ll do that,” the sheriff said. “You happen to hear from Miz Tidwell, you tell her that I was here. And that I’m lookin’ to talk to her jes’ as soon as she gets back.” He stomped to his Model A and drove off, trailing a cloud of dust.
Mrs. Wilson put down her crocheting and puckered her forehead in a frown. Verna had told her to telephone Miss Lacy in Mr. Moseley’s office if anybody came calling. But Mrs. Wilson was thinking that she was on a party line and maybe Verna wouldn’t want everybody in town to know that the sheriff had dropped by to see her with a warrant in his pocket, which they certainly would, if the Newmans or the Ferrells or the Snows happened to pick up the receiver.
Mrs. Wilson was still considering the possible ins and outs of this when she looked up and saw Old Zeke trudging slowly down Larkspur, pulling a rusty red wagon with wooden slat sides. The wagon was empty. She had seen him earlier, when the wagon was full of groceries and he was on his way to make deliveries. He was likely on his way back to Hancock’s for another load.
“How are you today, Mr. Zeke?” she called out pleasantly.
Old Zeke wore bib overalls and a sweat-stained brown felt hat mashed down on his grizzled head. He’d been a middleweight before the Great War, traveling around the Southern circuit, fighting any fool who would climb into the ring with him. Now, he was bent and frail, his nose misshapen, his face as leathery as a piece of old cowhide hanging on the side of a barn. He lifted his head and shaded his eyes, as if the bright sunshine was too much for him.
“I’s right po’ly,” he replied in his cracked voice, “but I sho’ do thank’ee for askin’, Miz Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson understood. Old Zeke was known to indulge in the local moonshine and was a frequent overnight guest at the county jail on the second floor of Snow’s Farm Supply. He always felt poorly after a riotous weekend.
She pushed herself out of her rocking chair. “Would you mind doing a little something for me? I need to send a note to Mr. Moseley’s office.” The office was next door to the grocery store, so it wouldn’t be out of his way. “I don’t happen to have any spare change right now, but I’d be glad to give you some cookies. Would that be all right?”
“Cookies.” Old Zeke grinned toothlessly. “Cookies is allus good. Ol’ Zeke likes cookies.”
And that’s why, ten minutes later, Old Zeke, hat in hand, was standing like a battered Western Union delivery boy beside Lizzy’s desk and Lizzy was opening an envelope with her name written on the outside. She took out a note, seeing that it came from Verna’s next-door neighbor.
“Thank you for bringing this, Zeke,” she said, and reached into the drawer where she kept the office petty cash. She took out a dime and gave it to him. He pocketed it eagerly and looked around.
“You got ’ny jobs Old Zeke might could do?” he asked hopefully. “Sweepin’? Fixin’? Totin’?”
“Not here in the office,” Lizzy replied. “But could you mow the front yard at the Dahlias clubhouse? It’s looking a little shaggy.” The Dahlias managed the garden, but Zeke kept the grass looking nice.
He brightened. “Sho’ thing, Miz Lacy.” He put his hat on his head and saluted. “I’ll do it this evenin’.”
When Lizzy read the note, she was glad that Mrs. Wilson had had the pres
ence of mind to write down what she had seen, rather than go to the telephone. It would not have been a good idea to let everyone in Verna’s neighborhood know that the sheriff was knocking at her door. She frowned apprehensively. He’d said he had a warrant. Was it a search warrant, or a warrant for her arrest? Either way, he had to have some sort of probable cause before the judge would sign off on it. Probable cause—what was it?
But while she was worrying about this, the telephone rang with an urgent question from one of Mr. Moseley’s clients that required fifteen minutes of research before she could call him back with the answer. Then Judge McHenry’s clerk called to say that the judge had mislaid a document in one of Mr. Moseley’s court cases and hoped that Miss Lacy could replace it. She located a copy, locked the office, and ran across the street to the courthouse, where she left the document with the clerk and then came back, to another ringing phone.
This time it was Mr. Moseley, asking her to take dictation over the telephone, then type the letter, sign it for him, and make sure it went out in today’s mail. Thinking of Verna and the warrant, she wanted to ask Mr. Moseley about probable cause, but he was in a hurry, so she skipped it. Anyway, he wouldn’t be happy to hear that Verna had refused to follow his advice to stay home and wait for the sheriff. He would be especially unhappy to learn that Lizzy had aided and abetted her decision. It was probably better not to open the subject.
Lizzy had finished typing the letter and was getting ready to take it to the post office when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs and Myra May pushed the door open. She was panting.
“I thought you went over to Beulah’s to get beautiful,” Lizzy said. She didn’t say so, but Myra May’s hair looked no different than it had earlier that morning. What’s more, there were deep puckers of worry in her forehead.
“I did,” Myra May answered breathlessly. “But while I was waiting for Bettina to come and shampoo me, I heard something you ought to know about. And Verna, too, wherever she is. Thought I’d better come straight on over here and tell you.”
Quickly and succinctly, Myra May reported what Alice Ann Walker had said about Mr. Scroggins, Mr. Johnson, and the sheriff, all showing a great interest in Verna’s bank account.
“Alice Ann wouldn’t tell us how much got deposited into Verna’s account,” she concluded. “But she did say it was a tidy sum. Said it would be enough to get Arnold a new leg and a roof on the house and a new water well, plus paying off her bills, so it sounds like it must be in the thousands of dollars.” She frowned apprehensively. “Did Verna ever happen to mention how she managed to get her hands on that much money?”
Taken aback by this new information, Lizzy shook her head. “You know how closemouthed Verna is. She almost never discusses her personal money affairs with me—or anybody else.”
But money was so hard to come by these days, and Verna’s only income, so far as Lizzy knew, was her job, which certainly wouldn’t pay enough to put a new roof on the Walkers’ house or buy Arnold a new leg. So where did that deposit come from?
She paused, thinking that since Myra May had brought this piece of news, she ought to tell her what she had just learned from Mrs. Wilson. “That money in Verna’s account—it must be the reason for the sheriff coming to her house a little while ago,” she said. “He had a warrant. I don’t know whether it was a search warrant or an arrest warrant.”
“A warrant?” Myra May asked, lifting both eyebrows. “My gosh, Liz. How’d you find that out?”
“From Mrs. Wilson, Verna’s next-door neighbor. Verna told her that she was going to Nashville.”
“Did she?” Myra May asked. “Go to Nashville, I mean.”
Lizzy only shrugged.
“Ah, I see.” Myra May chuckled, then turned serious. “The sheriff.” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “Sounds to me like Scroggins and the sheriff think Verna had something to do with that missing money, Liz.”
“Sounds that way to me, too,” Lizzy said grimly. She narrowed her eyes. “I wonder what Mr. Moseley will say when he finds out that Mr. Johnson let Mr. Scroggins have a look at Verna’s bank account. I’m not sure, but I think they should have told the sheriff he had to get a warrant to do that.” She thought of something and brightened. “If I’m right, and if the case comes to trial, Mr. Moseley might be able to get it thrown out.”
“Oh, really?” Myra May asked. “How?”
“Tainted evidence. When the police don’t do things the way they’re supposed to be done, Mr. Moseley objects. If the judge agrees, he refuses to allow the evidence to be entered in the case.”
Myra May gave her an admiring look. “You tell Mr. Moseley that he definitely ought to object to Mr. Johnson and Mr. Scroggins snooping in Verna’s bank account. They’ve got no business doing that.” She paused curiously. “Are you going to tell Verna about this?”
“Yes, but I can’t leave the office until quitting time and I don’t want to use the telephone. Lucy’s on a party line. I promised Bessie I’d come to her card party tonight, but I guess I’ll have to cancel. I’ll ask Grady if I can borrow his car and drive out to the Murphys’.” Lizzy clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, blast,” she said disgustedly. “Now I’ve gone and let the cat out of the bag.”
“You can trust me,” Myra May replied in a comforting tone. “I won’t tell a soul. And I’m glad she didn’t go all the way to Nashville.” She tilted her head. “Would you like to borrow Big Bertha instead, Liz? I’m taking a shift on the switchboard tonight, or I’d offer to drive you. But I’d be glad to lend you the car, if you like.”
Lizzy considered. Big Bertha was Myra May’s old Chevy touring car, and probably a good alternative. If she asked Grady to lend her his car, he would volunteer to drive, and she didn’t think it was a good idea to share any of this with him. Grady was a dear and she loved him, but he could be a stickler when it came to rules. He might not understand about Verna hiding from the sheriff when there was a warrant out on her. And now that she had spilled the beans, she might as well take up Myra May on her offer.
“Thanks,” Lizzy said gratefully. “I’d love to borrow Big Bertha. That’s really good of you, Myra May.”
Downstairs, the old job press in the Dispatch office started up. It wasn’t as loud as the newspaper press, but it made quite a racket.
Myra May raised her voice. “Good, hell. You know me, Liz. Curious is my middle name. When you bring Bertha home, come in for a cup of coffee.” She gave Lizzy a wicked grin. “Maybe I can get you to tell me how much Verna really has in that bank account—and where she got it.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Lizzy said with a chuckle, picking up the letter she had to mail and pushing back her chair. “I’ll walk with you. I’m headed for the post office.”
ELEVEN
Charlie Dickens
Downstairs, in the Dispatch office, Charlie Dickens finished repairing the ink roller on the old Prouty job press, a real antique he had inherited with the business, and began printing the menus for the Old Alabama Hotel. While he worked, he was puzzling over what had happened that morning during that surprising and painful encounter with Angelina Dupree Biggs, his high school sweetheart.
Angelina was water under a very old bridge, very long ago, and their flaming, furtive passion—now as cold and unappetizing as last night’s okra gumbo, and difficult, embarrassing even, to remember—was a thing of a long-dead past. Angelina had decided not to wait for Charlie to finish college and get a job that would support her in the style to which her mother thought she should become accustomed. She had opted instead to become Angelina Biggs, and Charlie’s love for her (if that’s what it was, or something else) had died a sudden and chilly death.
This had happened so long ago that Charlie had all but forgotten it, except to be glad, now and again, that Artis Biggs and his Buick had come along when they did. Not
being married to Angelina, he had been able to cut his ties to Darling. Not being married to anybody, he had been able to travel and work and play whenever and wherever and as much or as little as he pleased, having to consider only his own wants and whims. And as a bachelor, he had no wife to nag him about his drinking. He bore no ill will toward Angelina for jilting him, quite the contrary. He was glad that she had married a man who gave her children and treated her right. It had all worked out, the way things usually do if you let them alone for long enough.
At least, that’s what Charlie had thought until this morning, when Angelina (now almost twice the size she had been when he could scoop his arm around her tiny waist and twirl her around the dance floor) had come into the Dispatch office. She was there to turn in the copy for the next week’s menus for the Old Alabama Hotel, the way she usually did. Angelina was always a little diffident on these occasions, as if she might be remembering what had once been between them and wondering if Charlie remembered it, too, which he did, sometimes, in the way of a man who remembers a dream of something beautiful glimpsed long ago.
But this morning, Angelina had done something totally unexpected. Instead of staying on the customer’s side of the wooden counter that divided the public area from the working area, she had come around behind it, and before he realized what was happening, she had accosted him. Yes, accosted him—there was no other word for it. She had flung her plump arms around his neck and pressed the soft, heaving pillows of her bosom against him in a way that inspired not passion but panic in Charlie’s breast. The room was brightly lit and the two of them were standing in full view of the sidewalk. What if somebody walked past the plate-glass window and looked in?
The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose Page 16
