The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

by Susan Wittig Albert

  But Ellery Queen used careful, analytic logic to arrive at the correct, truly brilliant, and least likely conclusion—the only conclusion, the authors insisted, that could be drawn from the clues they had presented to the reader. Verna always tried to solve the mystery before Queen did, and once or twice, she thought she had succeeded. But Queen inevitably out-reasoned her. In her opinion, his intellectual exploits were simply dazzling. She was always surprised.

  Verna always looked forward to reading while she ate her supper. But when she propped her book against the green glass butter dish and picked up her grilled cheese sandwich, she found that she couldn’t keep her mind on her reading. Her thoughts kept going back to Mr. Duffy and what had happened after they left the meeting together. She was attracted to him, and the memory of his solicitous attentions—his hand on her elbow, the umbrella over her head—brought her an unaccustomed warmth.

  But something was nibbling away at her pleasure, like an unwelcome little mouse in the bread box. There was Clyde’s behavior, for one thing. And what was it that Myra May had said earlier that day, when she had brought that piece of pie to the office? Mr. Duffy was “slick,” she’d said, and repeated Jed Snow’s odd remark that “women just seemed to fall at his feet.” There was something behind that comment, and Verna felt she should find out what it was.

  And there was more, too. At this afternoon’s meeting in the Dispatch office, Mr. Duffy was the one who insisted on managing the scrip. He had put himself in charge, and nobody, not even the mighty Amos Tombull, had been willing to challenge him—except, that is, for Jed Snow, who had tried but eventually caved in under the others’ pressure. And that story about Mr. Johnson and the bank—was it true?

  Now, if Verna had been anyone but Verna, she probably would have rolled her eyes and gone back to her book and her soup and sandwich. But Verna was mistrustful by nature. Once she had begun to feel that something was not quite the way it ought to be, not even the pleasant sound of a man’s voice or the remembered admiration in his eyes was enough to quiet her misgivings.

  In fact, perhaps it was that very admiration that was making her wary. Men didn’t usually respond to her as Mr. Duffy had. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had offered to drive her home so she wouldn’t get wet in the rain. Why had Mr. Duffy been so accommodating?

  And who was he, really? How did anyone know that the man was who he said he was? She would bet that Ellery Queen wouldn’t take him at face value, even if he was a banker. Or maybe, especially because he was a banker. What would Queen do, if he were confronted by such a situation?

  Verna was still considering that last question as she washed her few dishes, swept the kitchen, and went into the living room. On Monday evenings, she always listened to The Chase and Sanborn Hour. The show, which starred Eddie Cantor, was light and funny enough to take her mind off the question. But when it was over and she got out her sewing box to repair the hem of the blue serge skirt she planned to wear the next day, it came back.

  Who was Mr. Duffy, really? How could she find out?

  Both of these questions were still in her mind when she let Clyde out into the April darkness to do his evening business, called him back in again, and went to bed. But by that time, she had come up with a plan that might satisfy even Ellery Queen, so she had not the slightest trouble falling asleep.

  * * *

  Verna usually ate lunch with Liz Lacy. On pretty days, they often picnicked on the courthouse lawn, where they could keep an eye on the comings and goings around the square. But on Tuesday morning, very early, Liz had telephoned to say she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be going in to the office. She didn’t sound up to par, and since she had missed work only once or twice in years, Verna was concerned.

  “You’re okay?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, nothing.” There was a catch in her voice. “But thanks for asking. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow. Let’s get together for lunch in a day or two, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “We’ll do it,” Verna said. “In the meantime, I prescribe chicken soup. Works for whatever ails you.”

  But Liz had only chuckled—sadly, Verna thought—and said, “I don’t think chicken soup will fix an ailing heart.” Verna (who was not a metaphorical thinker) was about to ask Liz what was wrong with her heart, but she had hung up.

  Business was slow at the county clerk’s office, and to keep both Sherrie and Melba Jean busy, Verna had set them to cleaning out the files, which had been accumulating for the hundred-plus years of the town’s existence. Darling’s local historian, Bessie Bloodworth, loved to tell how it was settled in 1823 by Joseph P. Darling—accidentally, it seemed, rather than on purpose, since Mr. Darling was not at all sure where in the world he was.

  The Darlings had come by wagon from Virginia: Mr. Darling and Mrs. Darling, with their five Darling children, two field-hand slaves, a team of oxen, a pair of milk cows, Mrs. Darling’s three hens and a rooster, and Mr. Darling’s saddle horse. Mr. Darling intended to push on to the Mississippi, where he planned to build a plantation and make a fortune in cotton. The Mississippi River had become a part of the United States after Mr. Jefferson negotiated the Louisiana Purchase, which in Mr. Darling’s view was a very good idea, even though some folks said it was unconstitutional. Nevertheless, it was bought and paid for, and Mr. Darling was determined to be first in line when the tracts were laid out along the river.

  But Mrs. Darling had just about had her fill of riding in that wagon and sleeping under the stars. When they got to Pine Mill Creek, just north of what is now the town of Darling, she announced that she was not going one step farther. If Mr. Darling wanted to plant cotton, he could plant it right here. If he wanted to plant it beside the Mississippi, he could do it without her. Without the Darling children, too. And the milk cows. And the chickens. And before he left he could build her a cabin so she and the children didn’t have to sleep out under the stars.

  Since Mrs. Darling was a mild-mannered woman who did not usually deliver ultimatums, Mr. Darling took this one seriously. Their conversation (sadly) was not recorded for posterity, but as Bessie told the tale, the slaves unhitched the oxen and put the cows on picket lines, Mr. Darling set up camp and began staking out a cabin on a little rise above the creek, and Mrs. Darling took off her sunbonnet and put the soup pot over the campfire. They were home at last.

  Over time, enough Darling friends and relations joined them to constitute a village, and before long, the village grew into a town, quite appropriately named Darling, after Joseph P. Soon, it boasted a sawmill, a gristmill, a general store, a post office, a school, three churches, and four saloons. And because one of the Darling cousins was a surveyor and the town fathers wanted things neat and orderly, he laid out a tidy grid and platted streets and lots. Within a few years, Darling became the seat of Cypress County, so a brick courthouse was built on the square in the center of town and filled with records of property sales, marriages, births, deaths, wills and last testaments, transcripts of court cases, and all sorts of legal documents.

  This was why the files in Verna’s office required cleaning and reorganizing. The shelves and file cabinets were overflowing with ancient records, going all the way back to the beginning of the town. They couldn’t be thrown away (heavens, no!) but they could be preserved for posterity (if posterity cared) in the courthouse basement. So Melba Jean and Sherrie were packing files in labeled boxes, and taking them downstairs.

  Halfway through Tuesday afternoon, Verna (who had not forgotten the question that had bothered her the night before) declared that she was taking a coffee break. She walked across the street to the diner to get a cup of Violet’s coffee, which was always better than the coffee Melba Jean brewed on the office hot plate on the windowsill.

  But it wasn’t Violet she wanted to see, it was Myra May. Verna found her out in the ramshackle garage behind the diner,
where—dressed in striped coveralls and with an L&N railroad engineer’s cap on her head—she was changing Big Bertha’s spark plugs. Bertha was the green 1920 Chevrolet touring car that Myra May had inherited from her father, who for decades had been Darling’s only doctor. Bertha was on her second carburetor and Myra May had long ago lost track of how many spark plugs she’d used up. But her green canvas top was still sound, her chrome fittings were reasonably shiny, and Violet had repainted the spokes in her wheels a jazzy red. Chugging down the road, Bertha was a pretty sight.

  Myra May ducked out from under Bertha’s hood and straightened up. “What brings you across the street in the middle of the afternoon? You’re usually at work at this hour.” She removed a stack of clay flowerpots from a wooden bench. “Have a seat. We can talk while I finish this job.”

  “I was thinking about something you said yesterday.” Verna sat down and put her coffee cup on the bench beside her. “About Mr. Duffy.”

  Myra May’s face darkened. “Oh, him,” she said, with a grim emphasis.

  “What don’t you like about him, specifically?” Verna asked the question in a neutral tone, having decided not to reveal her own misgivings. She was sure that Ellery Queen would be wearing a poker face.

  “Specifically?” Myra May picked up her spark plug wrench. “He’s a Romeo. You should see him giving the eye to Juliet.”

  “Juliet?” Verna asked, and then immediately understood. “Oh. You mean—”

  She swallowed, aware of a stab of disappointment. So she wasn’t the only woman Mr. Duffy was buttering up. A Romeo, was he? Well, at least she understood the score.

  “Yeah.” Myra May was morose. “Juliet kinda likes him, too. I’m chicken to ask her, but that’s the way it looks to me.”

  Wrench in hand, she went back under the hood. Verna heard a gruff curse, and a moment later, Myra May emerged triumphant, holding up a dirty spark plug. “Got the sucker!” she crowed. “Three down, one to go.”

  Verna picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Is there anything else? About Mr. Duffy, I mean.”

  “About Casanova?” Myra May narrowed her eyes. “Who the devil is he, anyway? He shows up in town one day, and the next he’s vice president of the bank. How did that happen?” She dropped the dirty spark plug on the workbench and went back under the hood.

  “As I understand it,” Verna said, “his bank—Delta Charter, in New Orleans—bought our bank.”

  There was another curse as Myra May wrestled with something under the hood. At last, she came out with another spark plug. “Hard as pulling teeth,” she growled, and tossed it on the bench. Frowning, she picked up a rag and wiped her hands. “Bought our bank? I didn’t know it was for sale. Can you sell a bank? Can somebody actually buy one?”

  “Yes, they can, if they’ve got the money.” She’d read about banks being bought and sold in the newspaper. “As I understand it, it’s mostly banks that buy banks, not people.”

  “So that’s why the bank is closed?” Myra May asked, taking an empty Campbell’s soup can off the shelf over the workbench. “Because some other bank bought it? Is Alvin Duffy fixin’ to take all our money back to New Orleans, or wherever the hell he came from?” She began dropping spark plugs, one at a time, into the can.

  “I don’t know,” Verna said. “But I intend to find out. Would it be okay with you if I spent some time on the switchboard? I have to do some research, and it’s quicker to do it by telephone than by letter. I’ll be glad to pay for the call, but it’ll be quicker if I make it myself, rather than go through your operator.”

  Verna had learned to use the switchboard back when Mrs. Hooper had operated it, before Myra May and Violet had acquired the Exchange. And it wasn’t just because the call was quicker that Verna wanted to make it herself, at the switchboard. At home, she was on a party line, and it was always likely that four or five people could hear every word of every call she made. In this case, she would be asking for some very private information, and she didn’t want either her questions or their answers shared all over Darling. Of course, she could send a wire, but it would have to go through Mrs. Curtis, who ran the Western Union office at the railroad depot. She was as notorious a gossip as Leona Ruth Adcock. Put them in a gossip contest together and they’d end up in a dead heat.

  “Damn sight quicker,” Myra May agreed equably. “Sure. Use the switchboard. Call whoever you like, wherever in the world you want to call. It won’t cost you a cent.” She picked up the fourth spark plug. “In fact, if you can find out that Duffy is playing a dirty trick on Darling, I will give you free telephone service for a month.”

  “You’re joking,” Verna scoffed. She opened her pocketbook and took out her cigarettes and lighter.

  “Maybe.” Myra May squinted at the spark plug. “Bring me your dirt and we’ll dicker. In my opinion, that city slicker is up to no good.” She blew some grit off the spark plug and dropped it into the soup can with the others, then picked up a galvanized spigot can and poured gasoline into the can.

  “It’s a deal.” Verna thought better of smoking and put her cigarettes and lighter back in her pocketbook. “What are you doing with that gasoline?”

  “Don’t have the money to buy a new set of spark plugs,” Myra May replied pragmatically. “Gotta clean these and put them back in.” She sloshed the gasoline around in the can and set it down, her expression darkening. “Listen, Verna, I need to change the subject. I’m afraid Liz is having a very bad time of it. Have you heard about—”

  She was interrupted by a rapping at the door. “It’s open,” she called.

  A young man, six feet tall and heavily built, with broad shoulders and a cherubic, apple-cheeked face, stepped into the garage. He was wearing oil-stained bib overalls, a dirty sleeveless undershirt, heavy leather boots, and a shapeless felt hat pulled down over his ears. Verna recognized him as Baby Mann, Archie Mann’s son.

  “Miz Vi’let says you got a spade in here,” he said. “She says if I dig up the flower bed, Miz Raylene’ll give me a buttermilk pie.” He grinned broadly. “You know what I’m gonna do with it? I’m gonna give it to Miz Jenkins, for her kids. They don’t have much to eat but greens and fatback. And the Good Book says we oughta share what we got with those that ain’t got as much. Ain’t that right?”

  “That is definitely right, Purley,” Myra May said. “In fact, if you do a good job with that spade”—she pointed to the garden spade hanging on the wall beside the door—“if you do a good job, we might just make that two pies.”

  “Praise the Lord an’ thank you, ma’am!” Baby said. He took the spade down from its hook. “I’ll put this back when I’m done.” He touched the brim of his hat and left.

  “That was nice,” Verna said. “Giving his buttermilk pie to Mrs. Jenkins.” Raylene’s buttermilk pie, which had a spoonful of whiskey in it, was a specialty; giving it away required a serious sense of generosity.

  “Baby’s quit working out at Mickey’s moonshine operation,” Myra May added with a chuckle. “His mother says he’s got religion. He’s decided to do work that the Lord won’t frown at. And she thinks he’ll have more of a social life, working in town.”

  “She’s probably right about that,” Verna replied. “I know the Lord worked miracles with loaves and fishes, but I doubt He’s up to sending Baby a girlfriend out there in the woods.” She paused. “If he’s looking for work, I might be able to use him for a few hours. We’re moving files to the courthouse basement, and some of the boxes are too heavy for Melba Jean and Sherrie. Too heavy for poor old Hezekiah, too. He can push a broom and run the flag up and down, but that’s about it.”

  “Ask him,” Myra May urged. “He’ll probably jump at the chance, especially if you can manage to pay him cash money. We can’t—at least, not this week.”

  “I’m short on cash,” Verna said, “but it looks like I’ll have plenty of scrip—for whatever that’s worth.�
�� She frowned. “Before he came in, you were saying that Liz is having a bad time. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is Grady Alexander,” Myra May replied. “You’ve heard about him and his bride-to-be, I suppose.”

  “What?” Shocked, Verna felt her mouth drop open. “Our Liz is getting married? So that’s why she skipped work today! But when I talked to her, she didn’t sound very happy. And why didn’t she tell me? I wonder why—”

  “It’s not Liz who’s getting married.” Myra May pulled a pointed metal nail file out of her coverall pocket. “It’s Grady. To Archie Mann’s niece, Baby’s cousin. Sandra, her name is. She’s barely twenty, and Grady’s what—thirty-five? I’ve never seen her, but she’s supposed to be very pretty.”

  Verna was dumbfounded. “But . . . but . . . what about Liz?” she sputtered. “Why, she and Grady have been going together forever!”

  “That was then. This is now. The wedding’s on Saturday, over at Rocky Bottom.”

  “So soon?” Verna brooded over that. And then she understood. “Oh,” she said. “Of course. Oh, poor Liz!”

  “Yeah. Poor Liz.” Glumly, Myra May sloshed the spark plugs in the can. She fished one out and began to scrape a gritty sludge off the threads. She obviously knew what she was doing. “Men are so cruel.”