“Different banks? Monroeville?” Charlie reached for the coffee. “That’s a little unusual, isn’t it? I would’ve thought that the Cypress County accounts—if there had to be more than one—would be right here in Darling. Monroeville is in Monroe County.”
“Unusual, you bet,” Verna said emphatically. “The county’s accounts—six of them—are held in three different banks in Monroeville, and in the Darling Savings and Trust. If you ask me, I think it was set up that way so the money could be moved around without leaving a clear trail. Just in case somebody asked—although apparently nobody did, until the audit.”
“Ah, the old short con.” He put his mug down, grinning bleakly. “You never know which cup hides the pea—or even if there is a pea. And usually there isn’t. Usually, it’s been palmed by the operator. And you’re out whatever money you put down. Tough tiddy.”
“Yeah.” Verna put her elbows on the table and cupped her hands around the mug. “The con. Here’s how it went, at least as far as I’ve been able to dope out. On July thirtieth last year, the State of Alabama sent Cypress County a check for fifteen thousand dollars from the state’s gasoline tax account. The money was earmarked for road improvements, bridge repair, and so forth.”
“Like the bridge on Pine Mill Creek,” Lizzy guessed, “where Bunny Scott was killed. It was washed out over a year ago, and hasn’t been fixed yet.” She’d heard a lot of grumbling about that bridge, because people had to make a ten-mile detour to avoid the washout.
“Exactly,” Verna said. “And there are several other projects that have come to a standstill—such as extending electricity out to the county fairgrounds—because the money meant for them was diverted to the road fund instead, to cover emergencies. Only there hasn’t been enough to go around, so even the emergencies don’t get covered.”
Charlie downed another gulp of coffee. “The gasoline tax money came from the state and went . . . where?” His voice was sounding steadier, Lizzy thought.
Verna met Charlie’s eyes with a straight, hard gaze. “What I’m telling you is off the record for now, Charlie. I’ve got to decide what to do with the information—that is, who should take it from here. The sheriff or—” She shook her head, frowning. “There’s a warrant out for my arrest. I’m not sure who I can trust.”
“You don’t see a notebook in my hand, do you?” Charlie countered.
“No, but I want to hear you say it,” Verna said firmly. “Just three little words. Off the record. I don’t want to read about this in Friday’s paper.” She gave him a crooked grin. “The Friday after, maybe, but not just yet. And not with my name on it. You got that?”
Charlie looked disgruntled. “Okay. Off the record,” he growled. “For now. But when I do the story, I’ve got to be able to nail it down with some sort of attribution. I can’t just say anonymous.”
“You could say sources in the county courthouse,” Lizzy suggested helpfully. “Knowledgeable sources, maybe. Informed sources.”
“I’d rather have a name,” Charlie said.
“You’re not going to get it,” Verna replied. “I have to live in this town. And I’d like to hang on to my job.”
Charlie sighed. “You’re a hard lady. Well, go on. What’s the bottom line? Where did that money go? Off the record,” he added. “Damn it.”
“The bottom line,” Verna said steadily, “is that the state’s fifteen-thousand-dollar gas-tax payment went to settle a mortgage on Jasper DeYancy’s Sour Creek Plantation.”
Charlie’s eyes widened and he put his mug down with a thump. “You’re pulling my leg.”
Taken aback, Lizzy stared at Verna. The Sour Creek Plantation was one of the oldest and most revered of all the plantations on the Alabama River. Over past decades, going back to the time of Jasper DeYancy’s father and grandfather, it had been known for its prodigious production of cotton, peaches, and peanuts. But the drought and boll weevils had been hard on the DeYancys, as on all the farmers around Darling, and many of the fields lay flat and fallow, baking under a hot, dry sun, while the price of cotton went down, down, down.
But the Big House remained as lovely and graceful as ever, rising out of the river-borne mists like a romantic vision of the antebellum South. It was painted white as whipped cream, with green shutters and a gabled portico with fluted white pillars, and surrounded by sweeps of green lawn, a gorgeous garden of azaleas, roses, and ancient trees draped with silvery Spanish moss. Lizzy had never been inside the Big House, but the DeYancys entertained frequently, and she had heard tales of crystal chandeliers and Oriental rugs and cases full of leather-bound books and engraved family silver and oil portraits of the DeYancy women framed in gold. The family fortunes were thought to be framed in gold, too.
“Nope, not pulling your leg,” Verna said flatly. “The abstract on the DeYancy place is in the probate clerk’s office, from the earliest land grant claim down to the present. I checked it tonight, after I tracked down the information from the bank accounts.”
Ah, Lizzy thought—of course. Of all people in Darling, Verna Tidwell was the one person who would know how and where to lay her hands on this kind of information. She had worked in the probate office for years and years. If you asked her where to find the abstract of any piece of property in the county, she’d be able to tell you. A look at the abstract would reveal any and all financial transactions recorded against the property, such as deeds, wills, probate records, court litigations, tradesmen’s liens, and tax sales. And—yes—mortgages.
“In the records for 1924,” Verna went on, “I found the original entry for the mortgage on the Sour Creek Plantation. It was held by the Merchants Bank down in Mobile, for fifteen thousand dollars, due January 12, 1930. It wasn’t paid, though, not even the interest. And in June of last year—June 1930—the bank began foreclosure proceedings.”
“Uh-oh,” Charlie said softly.
“Yes,” Verna said. “But on August tenth, the full amount of the mortgage was repaid. Fifteen thousand dollars. There’s no record of exactly how it was paid, but I was able to backtrack through the Monroeville bank accounts. I found three checks, one for six thousand five hundred dollars, another for four thousand five hundred dollars, a third for four thousand dollars, written on separate county accounts. The checks were dated August fourth, fifth, and sixth.”
“Written to whom?” Charlie asked sharply. “To the bank?”
Verna laughed dryly. “He wasn’t quite that barefaced about it, but almost. The checks were written to Mrs. DeYancy’s father. Howard Carruthers. For ‘road materials.’”
Charlie whistled low, half under his breath.
Lizzy sat back in her chair. Mrs. DeYancy’s father owned a gravel pit on the far southern border of the county. “Gosh.” She whooshed out her breath. “Fifteen thousand dollars is a whole lot of gravel.”
“You said it, Liz,” Verna replied. “And the amount—a total of fifteen thousand—and dates are just too coincidental.”
“Wait a minute,” Lizzy objected. “If the checks were in payment for road materials, even if those were bogus charges, the money wouldn’t have shown up as missing in the audit. Right? So how—”
Verna nodded approvingly. “You’re right, Liz. But for some reason—carelessness, maybe, or an effort to conceal what was being done—the payments weren’t recorded in the proper accounts. That’s why the state auditor didn’t spot them. If they’d been properly recorded, I doubt if the theft would ever have been discovered.”
“And the gravel?” Charlie asked, and answered his own question. “It was probably never ordered. And never delivered.”
Verna made a face at Charlie. “You interrupted before I could search for the two Carruthers’ invoices. But I agree. The delivery probably never existed.”
Charlie was eager now. “And I’m willing to bet that the bank records will show that the fifteen
thousand that went to the Mobile bank to pay off the DeYancy mortgage came out of the Carruthers’ account,” he said excitedly. He paused, shaking his head. “Corruption and outright thievery,” he muttered. “I wonder if that’s why DeYancy killed himself. He figured that if he was out of the picture, there would never be any investigation. The plantation would be safe and his insurance would bring a nice little bundle that would take care of his wife for life.”
“Killed himself!” Verna asked, both eyebrows going up.
“But I thought it was alcohol poisoning,” Lizzy protested. “An accident. That’s what everybody said.” She pointed at Charlie. “That’s what you said. In the newspaper.”
“I had to say it. I didn’t have any evidence to the contrary. And it was alcohol poisoning, all right,” Charlie said grimly. “But whether it was accidental or intentional, we’ll probably never know. Or if it was intentional, whether it was DeYancy’s intention or somebody else’s.”
Lizzy gasped. “You mean, you think he might have been . . . murdered?”
“Alcohol is a pretty convenient weapon, Liz,” Charlie said, very seriously. “It doesn’t leave any fingerprints or ballistic traces. Drink enough, or drink the wrong stuff, and you’re dead. Happens all the time, especially since everybody and his cousin cooks his own mash. Quantity, not quality, is what they’re after.” He reached for the coffeepot and filled his mug, then leaned back. “So, Verna, what are you going to do with this information?”
Verna sat still for a moment, her fingers laced around her mug. Finally, she pushed it away. “Charlie, you’ve been watching the county commissioners more closely than I have. Do you have any reason to suspect that Amos Tombull might be in on this theft?”
Charlie considered, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Verna. Of course, the Tombulls and the DeYancys move in the same social circle, and the two men probably did their fair share of hunting and fishing together. But Tombull has always seemed on the up-and-up to me. The only thing I’ve ever been able to fault him for was being too cozy with Earle Scroggins.”
Lizzy leaned forward. “Verna, do you think Mr. Scroggins knew? About that mortgage payment, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Verna replied, and her face darkened. “But there was that nasty trick that Scroggins pulled at the bank.”
“What nasty trick?” Charlie wanted to know.
“Verna sold a piece of property she had inherited,” Lizzy explained, “and deposited the money in her account at the Darling Savings and Trust.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” Verna said, and Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Florida property,” she added. “It was a surprise to me, too.”
“Anyway,” Lizzy went on, “Mr. Scroggins went to Mr. Johnson and asked him to take a look at Verna’s account. They saw the money from the property sale and decided it must have come from the county treasury. It wasn’t fifteen thousand, but I guess they figured she spent the rest.”
Charlie frowned. “That’s pretty slick, Liz. How the devil did you find out about it?”
“Oh, we Dahlias have our ways,” Lizzy said with a chuckle. “Anyway, that’s how the sheriff got involved. On Mr. Scroggins’ say-so, with Mr. Johnson’s connivance.”
“A warrantless, illegal search of the bank records,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Pretty dumb, if you ask me.” He grinned at Lizzy. “Your boss will have a lot of fun with that one.”
“Scroggins was anxious to push the whole thing off onto me,” Verna said. “I’d say that he’s definitely involved in trying to stage a quick cover-up. But I don’t have any way of knowing how much he knew about DeYancy, Carruthers, and that fifteen thousand. He might have been in on it from the very beginning. Or he might not have known anything until that audit report came through—and then he started trying to protect DeYancy’s reputation.”
“Or his own skin,” Lizzy said. “He might’ve been afraid that he’d get blamed. And that the voters would remember, come the next election.”
“Back to my question, Verna,” Charlie said. “What are you going to do with this?”
She paused. “I’m taking a chance, but I think I should have a talk with Amos Tombull. If the county commissioners conducted their own official investigation and if they did it right, with a little nudge in the right direction, they’d pretty quickly figure out what happened. The mortgage and the payoff are both recorded in the property abstract. All they have to do is look for the checks to Carruthers and move forward from there.” She paused. “Anyway, that’s what the state wants the commissioners to do. Investigate. I think they might be afraid to try to cover things up, with the state auditor looking over their shoulders.”
Lizzy put down her coffee cup. “I agree, Verna. I think that’s exactly what you should do. Talk to Mr. Tombull. First thing tomorrow morning.”
Charlie looked up at the clock on the wall. “It’s already tomorrow morning.” He grinned. “And don’t forget. The minute you’re in the clear, Verna, I get the story.”
Verna gave him a tight smile. “That’s right, Charlie. You get the story.”
TWENTY-ONE
Monday, April 27, 1931
Confederate Day, an Alabama state holiday, was celebrated on the fourth Monday of April. It marked the surrender of Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston to Union General William Tecumseh Sherman, on April 26, 1865, after the last major Confederate offensive of the War near Durham, North Carolina.
Confederate Day was always an important day in Darling. Last year, there had been four Confederate veterans to be honored—white-haired, bearded old men who got their gray uniforms out of the camphor chest and proudly donned them for the parade around the courthouse square, down Robert E. Lee, and out Schoolhouse Road to the Darling Cemetery. Last year, they’d ridden in two cars, but old Abner Prince hadn’t made it through the winter, and the three who were left would be riding in Andy Stanton’s open-topped 1928 Franklin touring car, with Rebel flags fluttering fore and aft and Andy at the wheel, decked out in his summer whites, with a Rebel flag stuck in the band of his white straw hat and a big cigar stuck in his mouth.
The ceremony took place at the cemetery, where the town’s Stars and Stripes were run down for the day and the Confederate flag run up beside the stage that had been built for the occasion. The Reverend Carl Mason of the First Baptist Church gave the invocation, Mayor Jed Snow gave the welcome, and the speeches flowed like good corn whiskey.
And at the very end, there was a special tribute. Lizzy Lacy, dressed in her prettiest spring dress and wearing a new pink straw hat with pink and green velvet ribbons, reminded folks that they should be sure to notice the row of Confederate roses along the fence at the front of the cemetery.
“The planting of the Confederate roses was a project of the Darling Dahlias Garden Club,” Lizzy said, “led by Miss Dorothy Rogers, whom all of you know as our town librarian. Miss Rogers, will you please stand so we can thank you for helping to make our cemetery the most beautiful in Cypress County?”
And Miss Rogers, blushing as pink as a peony, stood up and received the audience’s appreciative applause. When the clapping had died down, she said, in her prim, precise voice, “I’d like everyone to know that the Confederate rose isn’t a rose at all. It is actually an hibiscus. Hibiscus mutabilis is its real name.” As everyone chuckled, she sat down again, smiling and obviously glad to have set the record straight.
“And there’s another Confederate Rose to be honored today,” Lizzy went on. “Miss Rogers recently learned that she is the granddaughter of Rose Greenhow, whom many have called the Confederate Rose. Mrs. Greenhow served as a Confederate spy in Washington, D.C., during the first year of the War Between the States. In 1862, she was imprisoned by President Abraham Lincoln.” (At the mention of Lincoln’s name, a low, hissing exhalation of breath swept through the audience.) “After her release, she was se
nt to Europe by President Jefferson Davis”—someone in the back row cheered—“as an ambassador for the Confederacy. Upon her return, she was shipwrecked and drowned, weighed down by the gold she was bringing for the Confederate treasury.” (Someone cried, “Oh, dear!” and quite a few people clapped.)
“Over the years,” Lizzie said, “Miss Rogers kept a piece of her grandmother’s needlework. It was recently discovered that this needlework provides a key to some of the puzzles of Mrs. Greenhow’s espionage. To tell this part of the story, I’ll call on Mr. Charles Dickens, editor and publisher of the Darling Dispatch.”
At that point, Charlie got up and told about the secret code that Mrs. Greenhow used to send messages to General P. G. T. Beauregard, and about the key to the code that was embroidered on the outside of the small pillow that Miss Rogers had kept ever since she was a little girl. Hidden in the pillow were several important documents. He had been in touch with two experts who had verified this surprising discovery. They would be using the information it provided to uncover more of the mysteries surrounding the work of Mrs. Greenhow, who had contributed so much to the Confederate cause.
When Charlie sat down, Lizzy presented Miss Rogers, who by this time was utterly engulfed in tears, with a certificate (printed in fancy letters on Charlie’s job press) that honored the Confederate Rose. Then, as she did each and every year without fail, Mrs. Eiglehorn recited all five stanzas of Henry Timrod’s poem, “Ode,” (“Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause . . .”), which was first recited on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead at Magnolia Cemetery in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1867. After that, Eva Pearl Hennepin, accompanied by Josiah, led everyone in a rousing rendition of “Dixie”:
I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times they are not forgotten;
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
In Dixie Land where I was born in,
The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose Page 26
