The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree Read online

  The men didn’t try to keep their voices down, and Myra May listened carefully and made mental notes. However, they said nothing that she hadn’t already heard from Verna and Lizzy the night before, except that Bunny Scott’s body was over at Doc Roberts’ office this morning, where he was giving her a good looking-over before she was moved to Noonan’s Funeral Home. Mrs. Bledsoe—the girl’s mother’s cousin—was up in Nashville, helping her daughter with a new baby. The sheriff was trying to get in touch with her for the names of other relatives.

  Then the door opened and Hiram Riley came in. Myra May knew him because he’d done an audit of the hotel accounts the year before. With him was a well-dressed stranger. Everybody in the diner turned their heads, watching as they went to the table in the farthest corner.

  Charlie Dickens leaned toward Jed Snow. “Bank examiner,” he said in a low voice.

  “Bad news,” Jed Snow returned, under his breath.

  Hiram Riley and the bank examiner had their heads together, talking in low, serious voices, so that nobody at the counter could hear what was being said, even though they strained their ears. But when Myra May took them their hot plates of ham and eggs and grits and gravy, she heard enough to startle her so that she almost dropped a plate. She hurried back with an extra bowl of grits, and after that, another plate of biscuits, just so she could hear the rest. It was dynamite.

  Impatiently, Myra May bided her time for another hour, until Euphoria came in to start cooking for the dinner bunch and Violet came downstairs to handle the counter. Then she took off her apron and hurried straight over to the courthouse. Luckily, the probate office was empty, except for Verna. She was sorting a stack of documents into alphabetical order, a pencil stuck behind her ear.

  “What’s going on?” Verna asked, riffling through the papers.

  “Have you heard about Alice Ann?” Myra May asked urgently.

  “Alice Ann?” Verna looked up. “Heard what? She was supposed to play hearts with us last night, but she didn’t show up. Is she sick?”

  “No. She’s being questioned.”

  “Questioned?” Verna put her papers down and stared. “Alice Ann? Who’s questioning her? About what? Why?”

  “Mr. Johnson at the bank,” Myra said tersely. “And the bank examiner. About embezzling money. They haven’t brought the sheriff into it, but that’s the next step.”

  “Embezzling? Alice Ann?” Verna was shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous! What in the Sam Hill are those men thinking?” She narrowed her eyes. “How’d you hear about this, Myra May? On the switchboard?”

  “In the diner. Hiram Riley, the accountant, was discussing it with the bank examiner while they were having breakfast this morning.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s a good thing that it never occurs to men that the women putting their food on the table might be interested in what they’re saying. They just go on talking as if we’re invisible.”

  Verna pushed out a long breath. “But I don’t understand how anybody could think that Alice Ann Walker was involved in anything like that. She’s just a cashier, and not even the head cashier at that!”

  “I don’t know the full story, of course,” Myra May said, “but from what I picked up this morning, Mr. Johnson thinks that Alice Ann has been stealing money from people’s accounts. ‘Jiggling the books,’ he calls it. A little bit here and a little bit there, but it’s added up. Almost ten thousand dollars. Maybe more. All in the past five or six months.”

  Verna gasped. “Ten thousand—Why, I don’t believe it, Myra May! If she did it, what’s she done with the money? The Walkers certainly aren’t spending it.”

  “Seems very strange to me, too,” Myra May said. “Apparently she hasn’t been charged yet, maybe because they don’t have enough evidence.”

  Verna narrowed her eyes. “Evidence?”

  “Well, Hiram Riley was saying that the bank’s records show that the money is gone—it’s been jiggled out of various accounts, but they haven’t figured out what she’s done with it. They’ve looked at the Walkers’ bank account, which is no more than you’d expect, apparently, and at the accounts of her relatives—her cousins, her sisters, her parents. They went to her house, which didn’t strike them as being anything fancy, and questioned her husband. Alice Ann says she can’t tell them what she did with it because she didn’t do anything with it, and Arnold denies knowing anything about it, as well. But Mr. Johnson says she probably hid the cash someplace and has just been waiting for a chance to run off with it.”

  “Run? Alice Ann?” Verna hooted incredulously. “Where would she go? She’s lived in Darling her entire life. What’s more, her whole family is here, and Arnold’s family, too. Of course, she would never leave Arnold, never in the world. And maybe it’s cruel to say so, but Arnold couldn’t run off with her—he’s crippled. It’s kind of hard to run if one of you is in a wheelchair.”

  “You’re right. But the money is definitely gone, according to the examiner. What’s worse, the bank was already in trouble because it doesn’t have enough capital. This theft—and the withdrawals in the last day or so—might push it over the edge. At least, that’s what they were talking about this morning.” Myra May’s voice, always so strong, trembled. “That would be terrible, Verna. Every business in town needs that bank. We can’t survive without it!”

  “You’re certainly right about that.” Verna shook her head. “But this business with Alice Ann—why, it’s just crazy. As nutty as Bunny Scott stealing a car and driving it into the creek.”

  “Speaking of Bunny,” Myra May said, “I heard this morning that Doc Roberts has her in his office, doing an autopsy, I guess.”

  “Why an autopsy? She was killed in the car wreck.”

  Myra May shrugged. “I guess it’s standard operating procedure. Anyway, after that, they’ll take her to the funeral home. There’s some question about the funeral and where she ought to be buried. They’re trying to find out who’s next of kin.”

  “Mrs. Bledsoe,” Verna said. “I think the rest of Bunny’s family is either dead or gone.”

  Myra May nodded. “Well, I need to get back to work, Verna. I just thought you ought to know about Alice Ann. And you’re right. It really does seem crazy.” She turned to go.

  “Thanks, Myra May,” Verna said. She was still shaking her head over the news when Ophelia opened the door and came in.

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Verna,” Ophelia said breathlessly. “You’re not going to believe this, but—”

  “If you’ve come about Alice Ann,” Verna broke in, “I already know. Myra May just told me. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “This isn’t about Alice Ann,” Ophelia said with barely suppressed excitement. “It’s about Bunny Scott and Lester Lima. Something Mildred Kilgore just told me. You’ll never guess, Verna, not in a million years!”

  Verna sighed impatiently. She hated it when people said that. “No, I’ll never guess, Ophelia. You’ll just have to tell me.”

  Which was what Ophelia did.

  THIRTEEN

  Lizzy Learns Some Dismaying Facts

  While Myra May was finishing up with the diner’s breakfast crowd and Ophelia was working with Bessie and Mildred in the Dahlias’ garden, Lizzy was standing outside the bank with three or four other people, waiting for it to open—waiting nervously, for the usual opening time of ten a.m. came and went, and the doors remained shut.

  While she waited, Lizzy was going back over all the recent excitement in Darling. The escaped convict, Bunny’s death in that stolen auto, and now some sort of trouble at the bank. She swallowed hard, remembering what Myra May had told the Dahlias the night before, when they were playing hearts.

  Bank examiner. After reading about so many bank failures all around the country in the past few years, Lizzy shivered at the words. What if the bank examiner had come to Darling yesterday, studied the bank’s account books, counted the bank’s money, and ordered it to be closed? Overnight, her fifty doll
ars (which she hadn’t thought was very much money, compared to what she had already spent on the house), had ballooned into what seemed like a huge amount. It was all she had, besides her paycheck. If she lost it, she’d be sunk.

  But far, far worse, everybody in town would lose their money. The businesses, the people, everybody. They’d all be sunk!

  The group grew larger, and people began to whisper anxiously. But when the doors of the Savings and Trust opened at last (and only eight minutes late), it seemed that the worry was for nothing. There was the usual bouquet of Mrs. Johnson’s flowers on the table just inside the door. Mr. Johnson himself greeted Lizzy pleasantly, asking after her mother’s health as if everything was perfectly normal, as perhaps it was.

  But Lizzy knew what she needed to do. She returned Mr. Johnson’s smile, straightened her shoulders, and headed for Alice Ann Walker’s window. When she saw it was closed, she turned to the chief cashier’s window, presenting her deposit book and saying, in a clear voice, “I’d like to withdraw my savings, please.”

  “How much?” asked the chief cashier, Mr. Fred Harper. Verna’s description had been accurate. He was thin and pale, with pale hair and pale, thin eyebrows behind steel-rimmed glasses. His fingers were long and thin, with well-manicured nails. If he was worried about the bank, he didn’t let on.

  “All of it, please.” Lizzy wanted to ask him to tell her exactly what it was that he had seen on Saturday night when he reported a woman and a man stealing his brother’s car. But now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to get her money, in case the bank—She made herself stop.

  Mr. Harper looked into a drawer, then stepped away from the window and came back with a packet of bills. While she watched, he counted out the money—fifty dollars in fives—put it into an envelope, and passed it to her through the window.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied crisply. He looked over her shoulder at the line of silent, nervous people behind her. “Next,” he called.

  Her withdrawal secure in the office safe, Lizzy worked through the usual Tuesday morning tasks, typing, sorting, filing, and paying the bills that had arrived in the mail the day before. Mr. Moseley phoned at ten thirty to tell her that he would be late. Mrs. Moseley phoned (from Birmingham), demanding to talk with her husband and all but accusing Lizzy of lying when she said he wasn’t in the office. There were several other calls—one from Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson, another from Mr. Riley, the accountant, and a third from a Mr. Matthew Bogard, who didn’t identify himself. Then another call from Mrs. Moseley. And then, just after eleven, a call from Grady.

  “I need to talk to you.” He sounded urgent. “Are you busy? Is it okay if I come to the office?”

  “Well ...” Lizzy said hesitantly, looking at the half-finished page in her typewriter. “I guess I can take a little break. But I’m supposed to meet Verna at noon.” The two of them were going to the Palace Theater to ask Don Greer if he remembered seeing Bunny with anyone on Saturday night. “When do you think—”

  “In about three minutes,” he said. “I’m next door, at the diner.”

  It took him less than three minutes.

  Lizzy nodded toward the percolator on the hot plate. “There’s coffee. Shall I pour you a cup?”

  He shook his head. “Just had some.” He took off his fedora and dropped into the chair beside her typewriter table, stretching out his long legs. “I was at the diner when Doc Roberts came in a few minutes ago. He had just turned in his autopsy report on the girl’s death.” He looked straight at her, his eyes dark. “It wasn’t the car wreck that killed her, Lizzy.”

  “Bunny?” For a moment, she couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. “It wasn’t the wreck? Then what?” She looked at his face, tense and strained. “What, Grady?”

  “She was shot.” Grady was his usual blunt self. “Back of the head, behind the left ear.”

  “Oh, no!” Lizzy exclaimed.

  “It’s a fact, Liz,” Grady replied. “Doc Roberts said it was hard to spot. Her skull got pretty well mashed when the car rolled over on her.”

  Lizzy shut her eyes, but she could see the image anyway. Bunny under the car, her blond hair crusted dark with blood. “Then ... Then how does the doctor know?” She opened her eyes. “That she was shot, I mean.”

  “Because he retrieved the bullet. It was still inside her skull. A twenty-two caliber. Not a very big gun, but big enough to do the job.”

  Lizzy stared at him in wide-eyed dismay, still trying to put it all together. “But I don’t ... The left side? You mean, somebody shot at her through the car window? While she was driving? Is that why she crashed through that barricade and into the ravine?”

  “Uh-uh.” Grady shook his head. “Not through the window. The driver-side door flew off in the tumble and the window stayed intact. It was rolled up, and there was no sign of a bullet hole in the glass. Anyway, Doc Roberts says it was point-blank range. Whoever did it was close enough to put the gun right up to her head.”

  “But I don’t see—” She tried to puzzle it out. “Point-blank range. But that means ... That means she was sitting in the car, Grady. On the passenger side. And somebody else was driving. The same man—”

  “The same man that Fred Harper reported seeing when the car was stolen,” Grady said. “So now the sheriff is looking for a car thief and a murderer.” He laughed shortly. “And he’s still looking for that escaped prisoner as well. Got his plate full, I’d say.”

  The convict! “Maybe that’s who did this, Grady.” Lizzy leaned forward excitedly. “Maybe the convict kidnapped Bunny at gunpoint and forced her into the car and drove away with her.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ll bet that’s it! He grabbed her and made her go with him, as a hostage. She struggled, or tried to jump out of the car, and he shot her. Then he put her in the driver’s seat and pushed the car through that barrier and into the ravine, in order to hide what he’d done.”

  “My goodness,” Grady said mildly. “You’ve missed your calling, Lizzy. You oughta be writing stories for one of those true crime magazines.” He chuckled. “You’re right about one thing, though. The girl was in the driver’s seat, but she wasn’t driving that car when it went over the edge.”

  Lizzy stared at him. “How do you know?”

  “Because the engine wasn’t running.”

  “Wasn’t ... running? But how—”

  “When we righted the car yesterday, I noticed that the key was in the ignition but it was turned off. Fact is, the motor wasn’t running when the car went over the edge. Even if Doc Roberts hadn’t spotted the gunshot wound, there still would’ve been a big question about that wreck.” He hoisted himself out of the chair. “Well, I guess I’d better go. I’ve got work to do, and you have, too.” He looked toward Mr. Moseley’s closed office door. “Where’s the boss?”

  “He’s not here,” Lizzy said. “He said he was coming in a little late this morning and—”

  She didn’t get to finish her sentence. Grady bent down, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her. Then he kissed her harder, and his arms went around her, lifting her to her feet, pulling her against him. She tried once or twice to push him away, but only briefly, for she found herself melting against him, tingling suddenly as if there were an electrical charge pulsing between them, giving herself to the reckless, unruly moment, wanting it to go on and on endlessly.

  “Ahem,” said a dry voice. “Excuse me, but I believe I work here. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  Lizzy pulled away from Grady, feeling herself blushing furiously, mortified. How long had Mr. Moseley been standing there, watching? She clenched her fists, trying to steady her breathing.

  But Grady was grinning broadly. “Hello, Bent,” he said. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Nice to see you.”

  “Same here,” Mr. Moseley acknowledged. He didn’t sound enthusiastic.

  Grady picked up his hat and put it on his head, tipping the brim to Lizzy in a rakis
h way, his eyes glinting. “Later, doll.” He put his hands in the pockets of his pants, strolled out the door, and clattered noisily down the stairs.

  “Doll?” Mr. Moseley’s brown eyebrows arched. “Later, doll?” he repeated, amused.

  Lizzy, her face hot, pushed her hair out of her eyes. She sat back down at her typewriter table and turned the platen on the machine, bending over to look as if she were searching for the place where she had left off typing. But to tell the truth, she was trying, not very successfully, to catch her breath. She was still feeling the hardness of Grady’s body against hers. It was as if they had simply picked up where they had left off on Saturday night in the car.

  Mr. Moseley hung his hat on the rack and shrugged out of his jacket. He turned, studying her for a moment, as if he were seeing her in a new way. “Doll,” he said, half under his breath. Then he smiled crookedly and put the morning’s mail on her desk. He began to roll up his sleeves.

  “Well, now,” he said in a businesslike tone, “what about telephone calls? Anything urgent?”

  Lizzy reached for the collection of telephone notes and handed them to him. He went through them, nodding, until he got to his wife’s two calls. His mouth hardened. “She didn’t leave a message?”

  “Just that she’d like you to call as soon as you got in.”

  “Right,” he said sarcastically, and wadded up the note and threw it, forcibly, into the wastebasket. He looked at Lizzy. “Did you do what I told you to do at the bank this morning?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ve put the money in the safe. In an envelope with my name on it.” She took a breath. “What’s it all about, Mr. Moseley? I’ve heard something about a bank examiner—”

  “You’ve heard that?” he asked in some surprise. “People are talking about it? Who told you?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He grunted. “This damn town. People talk all the time. You can’t keep private affairs private.” He glanced at her. “Not that kind of affair,” he added archly. “Business affairs, I mean.”