Gardening wasn’t Lizzy’s only subject, though. She occasionally wrote a feature story for the Dispatch, and she kept a small notebook in her purse where she could jot down vignettes of people she met, places that seized her imagination, and events that piqued her curiosity. While nothing very big or exciting ever happened in Darling, there were always more little things to notice than you might expect, surprising crises that poked up unexpectedly out of the quiet surface of everyday life. She cherished the people who lived in her imagination, and deep in her heart, her secret heart, she half believed that if she wrote about them, if she told their stories, they might actually become real. And the only way to find out if this was true was to do it.
Writing a book, however, took a more sustained effort than Lizzy had ever devoted to her writing. It simply wouldn’t have been possible if she hadn’t left Darling and moved to Montgomery, where she had much more time to herself. She didn’t have to be in the office until ten each morning, and she was free after five o’clock every afternoon. Somebody else took care of the garden. There were no meetings of the Dahlias to attend, no Grady to go out with, no friends to telephone or people to see—and (best of all, even though she hated to say it) no interfering mother to casually drop in for an hour every single evening, just to see what Lizzy was doing.
Instead, there had been long, lovely stretches of time with no one around but Daffodil and nothing to do but sit at her typewriter and immerse herself in the world of her story. When she had been working for several months, she rather shyly mentioned what she was doing to Mrs. Jackman, who clamored to read the first three chapters. When she did, she was impressed.
“I think this is simply splendid, my dear,” she exclaimed. “Coincidentally, my favorite cousin, Nadine Fleming, has her own literary agency in New York City. Please do let me share these chapters with her.”
This wonderful coincidence paid huge dividends. After Miss Fleming had seen the first three chapters of Lizzy’s book, she asked to see more—and then more, and then more, until finally she had seen the whole thing.
“Surprisingly good, for a first effort,” Miss Fleming acknowledged, when she telephoned—long-distance!—to discuss her impressions with Lizzy. “I was involved with your characters from the very first page. I’d like to send you a few suggestions to help you tighten up your narrative and . . .”
Entitled simply Sabrina, Lizzy’s book was about a young woman who lived on her family’s Alabama plantation during the difficult years after the War Between the States. Her young lover had been killed at Gettysburg, and she was being courted by an older man, a neighbor who seemed to offer her freedom from the burden of keeping the plantation going. Marriage was tempting, but—and in that but, of course, lay the story.
Lizzy did her best to incorporate the agent’s suggestions into what she hoped would be a final draft. When she was finished, she typed it one more time (with two carbons) and sent the manuscript off to New York. Now, Lizzy was waiting for a letter that might tell her whether Miss Fleming liked it or didn’t like it—or might like it better if Lizzy revised it yet again.
She was about to ask Verna what it was she wanted to ask when a bicycle bell jangled behind them. “Hello, ladies,” came the shouted greeting. “Pretty day, isn’t it?”
“Hello, Charlie.” Lizzy lifted her hand to wave at Charlie Dickens, who was catching up to them on his old blue bicycle. He was dressed in his summer seersucker suit and straw boater, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. Charlie, the editor and publisher of the Dispatch, was a rather different man since his marriage to Fannie Champaign. He still wore his newsman’s cynical skepticism like a hair shirt, but he no longer hung out at Pete’s Pool Parlor, he was home most evenings, and he even mustered the occasional smile.
Charlie slowed his bicycle. “Just letting you know that I’m putting out a special edition of the Dispatch early next week,” he said, raising his voice. “If your garden column is ready, Liz, there’ll likely be room for it.”
“The special is for Rona Jean’s murder?” Verna asked with interest. The Dispatch was a weekly, but if there was a big story, Charlie was known to publish an extra edition, which his readers very much appreciated.
“Guessed right the first time,” Charlie said cheerfully.
“What’s the scoop on the autopsy?” Lizzy asked. “Has Edna Fay heard anything from the hospital?” Charlie’s sister, Edna Fay, was married to Doc Roberts, and she sometimes gave her brother the inside story—her version, anyway. Since Charlie was coming from the direction of the Roberts’ house, it was a good guess that he had been visiting his sister.
Charlie gave her a crooked grin. “No comment,” he replied. He lifted his hat and pedaled away.
“He knows something we don’t,” Lizzy said, frowning. “I wonder what it is.”
“He knows that murder sells newspapers,” Verna remarked, waving at Mrs. Donner, who was deadheading her roses.
“You’re right about that,” Lizzy said. “He doesn’t do that many special editions. The last one was back in December, wasn’t it?”
Verna nodded. “When the country went wet.” The Twenty-first Amendment had finally ended Prohibition, only months after Roosevelt and the Democrats rode into office on a wet ticket. Michigan had been the first state to repeal in April 1933, and Utah was the thirty-sixth in December, making it official. Alabama had ratified in August, although the legislature had played safe and gone for a local option. Cypress County was still dry, of course (the Temperance movement was strong), but that was only on paper. Everybody knew that Bodeen Pyle was making shine down at Briar’s Swamp, in the southern part of the county. And now that Mickey LeDoux had finished serving his sentence at the Wetumpka State Penitentiary (where he had been sent after Agent Kinnard broke up his still and busted him for bootlegging), he would likely be in business again shortly.
Verna went back to what they had been discussing before Charlie came along. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you, Liz. Sabrina is a very good book—and I’m not just saying that to please you.”
“Of course, you’re not at all prejudiced,” Lizzy said wryly. “But it would be silly to get my hopes up. According to Miss Fleming, the publishing business is terrible right now. People don’t spend money on books when they don’t have enough to buy food or pay rent. Even established writers are having a hard time. They’re finding work wherever they can—ghostwriting, movie scripts, advice to the lovelorn.”
“I don’t know about that,” Verna said. “I just finished reading Murder Must Advertise.” Verna loved to read mysteries more than anything else, and while the Darling library didn’t have much of a book budget, Miss Rogers, the librarian, bought as many as she could. “It’s Dorothy Sayers’ eighth book.”
“But I’m not Dorothy Sayers,” Lizzy pointed out. “Sabrina is my first book. Miss Fleming says I’m lucky to have a paying job. And now that this book is done, she told me to immediately start writing another. That way, even if Sabrina doesn’t make it, I’ll have something else to send out.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Verna remarked as they crossed Dauphin Street and came onto the town square, with the imposing brick courthouse in the center. On the far side, Mr. Greer was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the Palace Theater, getting ready for the afternoon matinee. Above his head, the marquee advertised a double feature: King Kong, with Fay Wray, and Dora’s Dunking Doughnuts, featuring Shirley Temple, the curly-haired little girl that everybody had fallen in love with.
Since it was Saturday, trading day, the square was crowded with people. Farmers and their families had driven their mules and wagons or ancient Model T Fords into town to trade eggs and butter—and live chickens and fresh-picked sweet corn and watermelons—for coffee and sugar and salt and washing powder at Hancock’s Grocery. Others had come to buy tools or equipment at Musgrove’s Hardware or Mann’s Mercantile. Young women, dressed in their
best pastel voiles and floral print chiffons and white summer shoes, had come to be seen and admired, while the young men leaning nonchalantly against the storefronts had come to see and admire—and occasionally, to dare a low wolf whistle that the young women in question demurely pretended not to hear.
As Lizzy and Verna paused on the corner, surveying the crowd, Lizzy went back to the subject of the murder. “I’m afraid I can’t get Rona Jean out of my mind,” she confessed. “It must be awful for Bettina, too, losing her roommate that way. I hope she’ll be able to find somebody else to move in with her.”
“She’ll have to,” Verna replied. “She doesn’t earn enough at the Bower to afford the rent on that house all by herself.” She frowned. “You don’t suppose Bettina is somehow involved in the murder, do you? I mean, I could imagine a scenario where a woman stole her roommate’s boyfriend and the roommate got angry and killed her. Can’t you? Theoretically, I mean.”
“I suppose so,” Lizzy said, as they were about to cross the street. “But I can’t imagine Bettina Higgens doing that. I don’t think she’s the type to get jealous, even theoretically. Do you, really?”
“Well, still waters run deep, you know. It’s very hard to know what’s going on inside her. And anyway, she might know something that would give us a clue to Rona Jean’s murder.”
Give us a clue? Lizzy smiled to herself. She understood the way Verna’s mind worked. If there was something mysterious going on anywhere, Verna always wanted to know what it was, who was involved, and what they were up to—and she went to great lengths to find out, even when it was none of her business.
“Don’t you think Sheriff Norris has already talked to her?” she asked. “I’d imagine that she would be at the top of his interview list.” They paused on the sidewalk. Lizzy was going straight ahead, to the post office, and Verna was turning right, to go to the grocery.
“Probably. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that she told him everything she knows,” Verna remarked. “And she may know something she doesn’t know. If you know what I mean.”
“Ah,” Lizzy said, with a light laugh. That was Verna, always on the case. “You’re probably thinking of having a little talk with her, aren’t you?”
“I’d like to,” Verna said, “but I’m not sure I’ll have time today. Which brings me to the favor I wanted to ask you, Liz. Captain Campbell is coming for dinner this evening. That’s why I’m going to the grocery. Mrs. Hancock is saving a stewing hen for me—only twenty cents a pound. I’m going to make a chicken pot pie.”
“Captain Campbell?” Lizzy asked. “Who’s he? Didn’t you just tell us you are still seeing Alvin Duffy?”
Verna had been a widow since her husband, Walter, stepped out in front of a Greyhound bus on Route 12. Their marriage had not been a happy one, and she had always sworn that another man was the last thing in the world she wanted. But when she met Alvin Duffy, she had changed her tune. She had updated her hairstyle, gotten several chic new hats from Fannie Champaign, and bought herself some stylish new clothes.
The “new Verna” had definitely impressed Alvin Duffy. Now president of the Darling Savings and Trust, he had taken the position after the previous president, George E. Pickett Johnson, had died of a sudden heart attack. Actually, every citizen of Darling thanked the good Lord that Mr. Alvin Duffy had come along, for he was the man who—practically single-handedly—had kept the town going during the banking crises of the previous year.
“Yes, I’m still seeing Al,” Verna replied, with a wave of her hand. “Captain Campbell is a friend of his. He’s also the commandant at the CCC camp and very good-looking—tall, dark hair, blue eyes, in his forties. His first name is Gordon. And he’s a widower. I think you’ll like him, Liz, even if he is a Yankee. I’m sure he’ll like you.”
“I’ll like him?” Lizzy asked, surprised.
“When you meet him. Tonight.” Verna gave her a look that just missed being anxious, and Lizzy understood that for some reason, this was important to Verna. “You will come for dinner, won’t you? I mean, four for dinner is much more fun than three. Al speaks very highly of the captain. And of course, the CCC is doing important things for Cypress County—and can do much more, with a little encouragement.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing, what a little government money can do.”
“I’m sure it is, Verna, but I don’t see what that has to do with my coming to dinner.”
But Verna wasn’t listening. “You probably already know about the upgrade to the Jericho Road,” she went on enthusiastically, “and the new bridge that’s been built over Pine Mill Creek, to replace the one that was washed out a couple of years ago. But maybe you haven’t heard about the dam they’re thinking of constructing out there. Al says it could create a sixty-acre lake. He’s hoping that the CCC will build some boating and camping facilities, like the ones they built over at Sipsey River, and maybe even a lodge. Why, it might even become a state park!”
“Oh, really?” Lizzy murmured. “Mr. Duffy is such a cheerleader.” She was beginning to get the picture.
“Yes, really!” Verna waved her arms excitedly. “Just think what that would do for Cypress County, Liz! The lake would attract people from all over the state. And everybody would have to drive right through Darling to get there!” She dropped her arms. “Of course, this is all in the thinking stages now, but if it happens, it could change sleepy little Darling forever. It could catapult us into the future.”
Lizzy wanted to say that she liked sleepy little Darling pretty much the way it was, with its small-town heart planted, like a green and pleasant garden, in the past, not the future. But she was afraid that might sound selfish, especially when Verna was so excited about the possibilities. And maybe she was wishing for something that couldn’t be. Maybe a town and its citizens always had to look toward the future, with more people and more businesses and more roads and schools and everything else that went with it. Except, of course, in fiction. Maybe that was why she had set her novel in the past.
She smiled and said what any friend would say. “So you would like me to come to dinner and be sweet to the captain. Make him want to give Darling a lake and boating facilities and a lodge.”
“Exactly!” Verna exclaimed, beaming. “Al and I first met him at a town meeting a couple of weeks ago, when he came to report on some of the possibilities for land development that the CCC officials are considering. That’s when I thought of having him over for dinner—but Al didn’t tell me until this morning that he’s available for tonight. Al is going to bring a map of the county and some photographs, to give the captain an idea of the terrain around the new lake.”
“It doesn’t sound much like a double date,” Lizzy said with a little laugh. “It sounds more like a sales meeting—you and Al selling him on the beauties and benefits of Cypress County and the possibilities of a state park.”
Verna was unfazed. “Well, you might think of it like that, I suppose. The men are coming about seven. You’ll do me a very large favor and come, too? Pretty please?”
Lizzy nodded. “Yes, I’ll come. And I’ll be sweet as pie to your captain.” She narrowed her eyes. “But you are going to owe me, Verna.”
“Anything you say.” Verna looked vastly relieved. “Oh, and if you see your chance, you could mention that man you saw at the movie with Rona Jean. He might be able to tell us who it was, right off the bat.”
“Yes, Miss Marple,” Lizzy said. “Can I bring something for dinner? A salad, maybe? I have cucumbers in the garden and the last of the spring lettuce. Oh, and tomatoes.”
“Perfect. We’ll have chicken pot pie and fresh sweet corn, and Raylene has promised to save one of her famous lemon meringue pies for me.”
Lizzy grinned. “Well, gosh, Verna. With all that, you should be able to wrap the captain around your little finger.”
“No.” Verna returned the grin impishly. “Around your little finge
r.”
SEVEN
Sheriff Norris Learns a Few Facts of Life
When Buddy followed Bettina into Rona Jean Hancock’s bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the heat, for the room had been closed all night and the air was heavy and hot. The second was Rona Jean’s perfume, a floral fragrance that tickled the back of his throat and made him want to sneeze.
“Blue Waltz,” Bettina replied when he asked. “From Lima’s Drugstore.” She went to the window and heaved up the sash. “It’s a nice perfume, as long as you don’t wear too much of it.”
He agreed about the “too much” and was glad she had opened the window. The room could stand a good airing. “Maybe you could tell me where she kept her diary.”
“I have no idea. She hid it. The bedroom doors don’t have any keys, and I guess she didn’t trust me not to read it if she left it lying around.” She stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed. “If you don’t need me, I’d better go to work. It’s a holiday coming up, and Beulah and I are going to be behind. I don’t mind if you stay and look for . . . whatever.”
“Thank you.” He was glad that she wouldn’t be standing there, looking over his shoulder. He added, “You’ve been a big help. I appreciate it.”
She looked away. “I owe you an apology. About that slapping business, I mean. I should have known that you wouldn’t . . . I mean, being a sheriff and all. It’s just that—well, it’s happened to me, and to other girls I know. I guess I just thought . . .” She brushed a lock of brown hair off her forehead. “That all men are alike when it comes to that, I mean. It was easy to believe.”
For a moment, Buddy was struck by her vulnerability—by the vulnerability of all women. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That it happened to you, or to anybody else. That’s not right.” He wanted to add that being a gentleman had nothing to do with being a sheriff, but he didn’t. “Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt. I’ll lock the front door when I leave.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady Page 7
