The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Thank you,” Verna said. “I’ll pass the compliment along to Fannie—and Beulah. They’ll be pleased.”

  Myra May turned around and dialed up the volume on the radio, and the close female harmonies of “I Found a Million Dollar Baby (In a Five and Ten Cent Store)” filled the air.

  “Such a swell song,” Myra May said. “Did you know that the Boswell Sisters are from New Orleans? They’re really sisters, too. Love their sound.” She began wiping the counter, humming cheerfully and swaying slightly in time to the syncopated rhythm.

  The song had just ended when someone took the counter seat next to Verna. She turned and saw Alvin Duffy. Coloring quickly, she turned away again, thoroughly flustered.

  But he was smiling. “Hey, I like that cap,” he said in an approving tone. “Looks swell on you, Mrs. Tidwell. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Duffy,” she said starchily, looking straight ahead. She could feel the blush climbing in her cheeks.

  He took off his fedora and put it on the counter beside him. “The last time I saw you, we agreed that we’d have dinner together one night soon. How about tonight?” Myra May had stepped down the counter to refill Mr. Lima’s coffee mug, but he lowered his voice anyway, obviously not wanting her to hear. “The Old Alabama serves prime rib on Wednesday nights. They really put on the dog, too. White tablecloths, flowers, candles, and Mrs. LeVaughn playing dinner music on the piano in the lobby.” He grinned mischievously. “Am I tempting you?”

  The minute he began to speak, Verna had seen the corner that she had painted herself into. Yes, her investigation had satisfied her curiosity about Alvin Duffy’s personal life. But she now knew that he had lost the two people he loved most in the world and been hurt and deceived by two others, whom he had trusted. She was embarrassed to know what she knew.

  More than that, she was deeply ashamed that she had learned this intimate information in such a devious and underhanded way. She didn’t think she could spend an entire evening with the man without confessing to her guilty knowledge and admitting that she had surreptitiously asked someone—several someones, actually—to look into his personal history. When he found out, he would be so angry that he would never speak to her again. And she would deserve it, too, every bit. Her snooping was, to put it bluntly, reprehensible.

  But she still needed to know about the bank—what he was doing to resolve Darling’s precarious situation, and where he was looking for somebody who could buy up 50 percent of the stock in the bank. And the more she thought about it, the more she felt she might know someone who could help—it was a slim chance, certainly, and probably wouldn’t pan out. But what if he didn’t have any better prospects, or any prospects at all? She had to talk to him about this, but not over dinner. It would be better to discuss it at the office, where they weren’t so likely to lapse into a personal conversation.

  “I’m afraid I’ve already made other plans for this evening,” she replied in a level tone. “But as I remember, you’re bringing the scrip to the courthouse this afternoon, so we can get it into Friday’s payroll envelopes. So I’ll see you then.”

  He turned his mouth down. “There’s been a delay,” he said gruffly. “Charlie Dickens claims he printed it up but now he can’t find it. It seems to have just . . . disappeared. He thinks he’ll have it reprinted in time for your Friday payroll, but I can’t promise. I’m sorry. I am really sorry.”

  He looked up at Myra May, who had come back to their end of the counter and was waiting to take his order. “I’ll have the special, please. And coffee.”

  “The scrip disappeared?” Verna asked in surprise. “How? Who—” She pulled in her breath, suddenly aware of the consequences. “But that means no payroll!” Not only for the county employees, but the sawmill and the bottling plant as well.

  “I wish I could tell you for sure that it will be ready tomorrow,” Mr. Duffy said, sounding resigned. “It depends on whether the paper supplier can get the paper on the Greyhound bus—and whether the bus actually gets to Darling. Maybe we can make it, maybe not.”

  “I’m not sure I heard that right.” Myra May filled a white china mug with coffee and slid it across the counter. “What’s that you were saying about the scrip?”

  “It’s disappeared,” Mr. Duffy said flatly. “Dickens doesn’t have the ghost of an idea where it might have gone. He claims he—”

  “What does it look like?” Myra May asked. “This stuff you’re talking about. Scrip, or whatever.”

  Verna chuckled ironically. “It doesn’t look like money, I’m willing to bet. It looks like—”

  “It looks like this,” Mr. Duffy said, taking a paper out of his jacket pocket. “These are the designs I gave Charlie Dickens, so he could print them up. Each denomination is on a different color paper—yellow, red, purple, green—although I couldn’t tell you what colors he used for which.” He frowned at Myra May. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because this morning, a customer gave me this.” Myra May reached into the apron pocket where she kept the currency the diner took in during the day, and pulled out a yellow piece of paper. It was a little smaller than a dollar bill, with the words DARLING DOLLARS printed across the middle, and $1 printed in each of the four corners. She put it on the counter. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  “That’s it!” Mr. Duffy exclaimed, picking it up and turning it over in his fingers. “How did you get it?”

  “Pete Starkey—you know, from Pete’s Pool Parlor—came in for breakfast, the way he usually does. Two eggs over easy, sausage, fried potatoes. When it was time to pay up, he said he didn’t have any cash on him, so he gave me this. Said it was as good as money, and now that the bank is closed, it’s all the money we’re likely to have for a while. I took it because I’d heard that something like this was going to be issued later this week. I just figured it had already been put out there and somebody forgot to tell me.”

  “Sorry,” Mr. Duffy said apologetically. “That’s not the way it happened. Looks to me like somebody stole that scrip from the Dispatch office, and now they’re trying to pass it off.”

  Myra May straightened up, hands on hips. “Well, it wasn’t Pete Starkey who stole it,” she said firmly. “He’s about the nicest guy you’ll ever hope to meet. He runs that poolroom like it was your grandmother’s front parlor. The boys can gamble, but they’ve got to play clean. No fighting, no swearing, no drinking.”

  “Well, Pete got that scrip somewhere,” Verna said reasonably. She turned to Mr. Duffy. “If you can find who gave it to him, you might have the thief. And you might get the scrip back in time for the payroll.”

  “Cancel that lunch order, Miss Mosswell.” Mr. Duffy stood up. “I’m going over to the pool hall and see Starkey. That stolen scrip could jeopardize the whole project.”

  “How?” Verna asked.

  “Because, Mrs. Tidwell, the scrip is intended to be payment for work done,” Mr. Duffy explained patiently. “If the stolen scrip is mingled with the reprinted scrip, it would dilute its value, in the same way inflation does, in the world of real money. When the government prints more, the value goes down. In this case, if we don’t find that scrip and have to reprint, the new scrip would be worth just fifty cents on the dollar.”

  “Ah, yes, I see. Inflation,” Verna said, suddenly understanding. It would be just like President Roosevelt telling the Federal Reserve to print an extra dollar bill for every one that was currently in circulation. It might look as if there was twice as much money in the country, but it would be worth only half as much.

  “But that’s only if the stolen scrip could be mingled with the reprinted scrip,” she added. “There’s an easy way around this, you know. Charlie—Mr. Dickens—can reprint in different colors.” She nodded at the note on the counter. “Instead of the dollar being yellow, make it red, or green. Any color but yellow.”

  “Too
complicated,” Myra May said, shaking her head. “Nobody will ever remember what color a dollar is supposed to be. They won’t know whether they’ve got the right or the wrong dollar.”

  “I’m afraid Miss Mosswell is right,” Mr. Duffy said regretfully. He took the Darling Dollar off the counter and stuck it in his pocket. “I need to take this for evidence.”

  “Hey!” Myra May was indignant. “That’s my money you just put in your pocket. If you’re walking out of here with it, you can fork over the thirty-five cents for Pete’s breakfast.”

  “But it’s not real money, Myra May,” Verna protested. “It’s just . . . well, paper. And Mr. Duffy is right—he needs it for evidence.”

  “It may be phony as a two-dollar bill, but it’s real to me,” Myra May retorted, folding her arms. “I gave Pete real change for that piece of paper. Those were real eggs and real sausage, too, cooked by my real mother. And Pete ate them off a real plate, which had to be washed in real water.”

  Mr. Duffy gave her an approving grin. “You are one hundred percent right, Miss Mosswell.” He pulled a quarter and a dime out of his pants pocket and put it on the counter. Winking at Verna, he said, “Real money, Mrs. Tidwell. If I can run that scrip down, I’ll have it in your office this afternoon. If not—” He pulled his brows together. “The way it’s set up now, Dickens is reprinting the scrip. But given this new development, I’d say that we all need to sit down and discuss our options.”

  “Before you go, Mr. Banker, sir, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Myra May’s tone was challenging. “The way I understand it, you’re the new Savings and Trust president. Is that right?”

  Mr. Duffy met her eyes. Verna saw that his were twinkling, and there was a smile in one corner of his mouth. “That’s the way I understand it, too, more or less.”

  “Then how come you’re fooling around with this bogus scrip stuff? Mr. Johnson would never mess with anything like that.” She turned down her mouth. “He might not be a very likable guy, but he’s a real banker. He stuck to real money.”

  Verna shivered, remembering what Ima Gail had told her about Mr. Johnson’s mismanagement of the bank. Real bankers could make real mistakes with real money, and their mistakes could doom an entire community. Mr. Duffy knew exactly what Mr. Johnson had done, in detail. In his own defense, he was entitled to tell people why the bank was closed and who was responsible. In fact, he would be a fool not to, since none of this was his fault. He shouldn’t be expected to shoulder the blame for Mr. Johnson’s errors.

  But Verna was very aware that if he did tell what he knew, the news would rip through the town like wildfire. Mr. Johnson’s reputation, already seriously damaged, would be ruined beyond repair. Last night’s vandalism would certainly be repeated, and worse. There might even be threats on the poor man’s life. And Mrs. Johnson, whose social connections gave meaning to her existence, would never again be able to hold up her head in Darling society. Disaster heaped on disaster.

  Verna waited, holding her breath and expecting to hear the worst. But to her surprise—and very much to his credit—Mr. Duffy did not defend himself by attacking Mr. Johnson. Instead, he picked up his fedora, put it on his head, and stuck one hand in his trouser pocket.

  “Why am I doing this?” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’m doing this because I happen to like the people in this little town, Miss Mosswell. I think Darling is worth saving. And as a banker—a real banker—I am willing to try just about anything to keep this town and its businesses and its citizens afloat until we can solve our most urgent problem, which is finding somebody willing to buy half the shares in the Savings and Trust. And getting the real money flowing again. I hope you are, too.”

  He smiled, although there were hard lines around his mouth and the smile only briefly touched his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’d better go and see if I can chase down that scrip while there’s still some of it left.” He lifted his hat and went toward the door.

  “Wait!” Verna said, lifting her hand. “Please.” She realized that she had completely misjudged the man, both personally and professionally, and she was feeling very much ashamed of herself.

  “Yes?” Mr. Duffy said, turning.

  Verna cleared her throat. “That . . . that buyer for the bank,” she said humbly. “I think I might have a suggestion for you, if you’d stop in at the office sometime this afternoon.”

  He looked at her, his face lighting up. “Really? You know somebody who might—”

  “Please don’t get your hopes up,” she cautioned hurriedly. “I might be way off base. And I have to do some checking.”

  “However it turns out, I thank you, Mrs. Tidwell.” Mr. Duffy squared his shoulders with what Verna thought was a stronger resolve. “I’ll see you this afternoon. In your office.” He strode to the door and was gone.

  “Of all the—” Myra May stared after him, then turned to face Verna, scowling. “That guy has got a nerve, if you ask me. And what’s this stuff about a new buyer for the bank? I thought you said it had already been bought by some bank in New Orleans.”

  “It was,” Verna said uncomfortably. “But it turns out that Delta Charter has decided not to—”

  But she didn’t get to finish her explanation. The door to the Exchange office flew open and Violet burst out. “There’s news!” she cried breathlessly, waving her arms. “News!”

  “Good news, I hope,” Myra May said. She glanced darkly at Verna. “I could use some, along about now.”

  “No, not good news.” Violet’s eyes were large and her face pale. “I just plugged in an emergency call from Liz Lacy.”

  “Liz?” Verna asked with concern. “An emergency? Is she all right?”

  “She is,” Violet replied. “She was calling from the Johnson house, asking Dr. Roberts to go over there. But she said there wasn’t any hurry. It’s Mr. Johnson.” Violet gulped. “He’s dead!”

  THIRTEEN

  In Which Charlie Dickens Makes Amends

  A minute after Verna Tidwell had told him what she thought he ought to hear and left the Dispatch, Charlie Dickens pulled on his seersucker jacket, jammed his straw hat hard on his head, and locked the front door behind him. His hair was uncombed, his tie was undone, and his collar was crooked, but he paid no attention. Striding fast, he was in such a hurry that he didn’t take the sidewalks but cut catty-corner across the courthouse lawn to Fannie Champaign’s hat shop, his unbuttoned coat flapping.

  As he went, the images raced through his mind like Movietone newsreels, speeded up. The social evenings he and Fannie had shared the year before, the Methodist Ladies pie supper and the Dahlias Valentine party and the St. Patrick’s Day Lions Club’s Irish Stew Supper. The private evenings in the following months: dinner at the Old Alabama one week and dinner in Fannie’s apartment the next, with pinochle or dominoes afterward, the radio softly playing. He remembered the quality of her company, as well, the slyly intelligent wit and quiet good humor, which had so subtly disarmed his ironic cynicism. And the look of her, the curly brown hair with its russet highlights, the expressive eyes, the trim ankles and slim hips. Under her spell, he had entirely forgotten his curmudgeonly ways and had allowed himself to be transformed into something almost . . . well, companionable, especially when their evenings began to end with a few soft kisses that seemed to promise something more. Charlie was enchanted.

  But when he heard that Fannie had told her friends that they were engaged, he was shocked into a sudden understanding of his precarious situation. He was teetering on the brink of marriage. Of course, he might have gotten around to proposing, if he had been allowed to come to it in his own way, when he was ready. But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. How dare she spread such a ridiculous fiction?

  In his pique, Charlie had deliberately—oh, yes, deliberately and quite hurtfully—broken Fannie’s spell. Affronted, he told himself that he had been clever enough to elude
marriage all these years, and he would be damned if he was going to be pushed into it now. Why, he could barely support himself on what little money the Dispatch brought in, over expenses. He could not begin to support a wife—and what if there were children? He had no patience with children. He had no need of a wife to tell him what to do and when to do it. He much preferred the single life, so that he could drink and play pool and poker with the boys whenever he damned well pleased.

  And so he had lied to her, had made up a stupid story about himself and Lily Dare, and had squired Lily (an old flame, long ago extinguished) publically around town, knowingly humiliating Fannie in the eyes of her friends. But when she locked up her shop, rented her apartment, and went away, he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. He had thrown away something priceless, something of such enormous value that he could never recoup the loss. He was a fool, an utter fool.

  And so he had done what some men do when they are disappointed in love. He had pickled himself in Mickey LeDoux’s Lightning. He likely would have died there, too, alone and unmourned, if it had not been for Verna Tidwell. A few moments before, she had marched into the Dispatch office and read him the riot act, telling him that Fannie still cared and if he had a single ounce of intelligence left in that booze-sodden brain, he would go straight to her and confess that he had been a total and complete idiot and throw himself on her mercy.

  And now he had reached the path to Fannie’s shop. He took the two steps up to the narrow porch in a single bound, flung the door open so hard that it banged against the wall, strode inside, and stopped, suddenly aware that he must look like a wild man, not like a suitor coming to plead his case and seek forgiveness.

  Fannie was standing on tiptoes at a shelf at the back of the shop, reaching over her head to take down a bolt of red velvet ribbon. Startled, she turned when she heard the door slam violently. She was dressed in something soft and yellow that curved over her bosom and slim hips and flowed with her movement. Seeing Charlie—collar askew, tie undone, hair uncombed—her eyes widened, her lips parted, and the ribbon dropped from her fingers and curled around her ankles.