The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover Page 18

  “No occasion.” Ophelia gave a little shrug. “You know what Aunt Hetty always says. ‘All it takes to be happy is good health and a little bunch of flowers.’” She raised an eyebrow. “And I just might have a question or two that you could answer, if you have a few minutes.”

  Lizzy smiled. “I do. But I’ll put these in water first.” She got up. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’d love a cup,” Ophelia said, and took the chair Mrs. Slimm had vacated.

  Lizzy filled a small crystal vase with water and arranged the flowers. With coffee, the flowers, and a tin of cookies, she went back to her desk. “I want you to try one of my Chocolate Crunch cookies.” She opened the tin. “They’ve got little chunks of chipped chocolate in them.”

  “Chipped chocolate?” Opie took a cookie.

  “Right. The story goes that a lady named Ruth Wakefield, somewhere up in Massachusetts, invented the recipe by accident a couple of years ago. She planned to make some chocolate cookies, but she was out of baking chocolate. She did have a chunk of semi-sweet chocolate, though, so she chipped off some little pieces, about a cup or so. She expected the chips to melt into the dough the way regular baking chocolate would, but they didn’t. Instead, they mostly stayed the way they were, little chips of chocolate, but sort of soft and gooey. She called it the ‘Chocolate Crunch cookie.’ I heard the recipe on the Betty Crocker radio program a couple of weeks ago.” She paused to nibble a cookie. “What do you think?”

  “It’s swell!” Ophelia said delightedly, munching. “Little chips of chocolate. I know my kids would love it—Jed, too. Will you give me the recipe?”

  “Of course,” Lizzy said, and picked up her coffee cup. “So what’s going on?” She eyed the flowers on the corner of her desk. She wanted to ask—again—what they were for, but she figured that Opie would get around to telling her.

  Ophelia held up her reporter’s notebook. “Actually, I’m working on the Whitworth story for Charlie. I’ve just been talking to Regina Whitworth. With the sheriff,” she added importantly.

  The sheriff? Lizzy frowned. This sounded serious. “Then he hasn’t turned up yet? Mr. Whitworth, I mean.”

  “Turned up?” Ophelia frowned. “I guess you haven’t heard, then.”

  “I’ve been behind this desk for most of the day,” Lizzy said. “I brought my lunch, so I haven’t been out. I—” She broke off. “Heard what, Opie?”

  “Why, Mr. Whitworth is dead, Liz. He was killed in an automobile crash out on Spook Hill. His body was found this morning.”

  “Dead?” Lizzy set her coffee down so hard the coffee almost sloshed over. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, feeling breathless. “How terrible! Was he … had he been kidnapped?”

  “Kidnapped?” Ophelia asked quizzically. “My gracious, Liz—why in the world would you think that?”

  “I didn’t, exactly,” Lizzy said. “Mrs. Whitworth brought it up when I talked to her this morning.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Yes,” Lizzy said. “She called here quite early, wanting to talk to Mr. Moseley. She seemed upset, so I gave her his number in Montgomery. After he talked to her, he called to tell me that Mr. Whitworth hadn’t come home last night. He wanted me to go over there and see if I could help.”

  I must tell Mr. Moseley about Mr. Whitworth, she thought. But I don’t suppose there’s any huge hurry. Now that her husband is dead, Mrs. Whitworth won’t be getting a divorce.

  Aloud, she said, “So you’re writing the story for the Dispatch?”

  Ophelia shook her head regretfully. “You know Charlie. He always keeps the best for himself. But the sheriff thought he ought to take a woman along when he went to tell Mrs. Whitworth what had happened, so Charlie suggested me. He asked me to collect some human-interest bits that he can use in the story.” She looked glum. “I didn’t do so well with that assignment, I’m afraid.”

  Lizzy leaned forward, feeling concerned. “How did Mrs. Whitworth take the news? Is she okay? Is anyone with her?” She took a breath, thinking out loud. “Mr. Moseley will probably want me to go over there again and offer to help with arrangements.”

  “She must be Mr. Moseley’s client, then,” Ophelia said quickly. “I suppose she consulted him on the divorce.”

  Lizzy was surprised. “You know about that? How did you find out?”

  “She told me herself, last week,” Ophelia said. “We had to go to Monroeville on an errand for the Ladies Guild. She drove her new car—that gorgeous pumpkin-colored Dodge she bought from Kilgore’s.”

  Her new car? “Ah,” Lizzy murmured, remembering. She had glimpsed that car in the Whitworth’s garage that morning. But she hadn’t known it belong to Mrs. Whitworth.

  Ophelia went on. “Anyway, she wanted to talk about the divorce when we stopped for root beer. I got the impression that she was looking forward to a new life, maybe even to getting out of Darling.” She frowned. “But it was odd, Liz. When I mentioned the divorce in front of the sheriff, she denied it. Heatedly.”

  “That is odd,” Lizzy said. “I wonder why she did that.” She bit her lip. Maybe she shouldn’t be discussing this with Opie. But now that Mr. Whitworth was dead, there wouldn’t be a divorce. Maybe Mrs. Whitworth was no longer a client. If that was true, was the subject still covered by client privilege? Anyway, Ophelia seemed to know all about it.

  “That’s exactly what I said.” Ophelia was emphatic. “She’s wrong—or more accurately, she’s lying.” She added, “If you ask me, she didn’t want the sheriff to suspect that she might have a motive.”

  “A motive for what?” Lizzy asked blankly.

  Ophelia gave her a defensive look. “Well, her husband did die rather suddenly.”

  “But you said it was an accident,” Lizzy pressed. “An automobile crash. Crashes tend to happen suddenly, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but—” Ophelia waved a hand. “Accidents do have a cause, you know.”

  Lizzy frowned. “Are you accusing Mrs. Whitworth of causing her husband’s accident?”

  “Well …” Ophelia sat back, looking deflated. “Not really, I suppose. I just thought maybe—I mean, I have a feeling that …” Her voice trailed away.

  “What?” Lizzy asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Opie said testily. “But there’s another thing, Liz. It turns out that Mr. Whitworth was in partnership with Bodeen Pyle, which certainly doesn’t make him look good.” She took a breath. “Regina Whitworth was pretty upset about that. I had to wonder if that was her reason for wanting the divorce. She surely wouldn’t be happy if word got around that she was married to a bootlegger.”

  “Bodeen Pyle?” Lizzy frowned. She was surprised by this, for Mrs. Whitworth hadn’t said anything about a partnership with Pyle in last week’s interview with Mr. Moseley. Perhaps she hadn’t known it at the time. But the woman had told Mr. Moseley something else about her husband, something equally illegal and incriminating—something that had spurred her to consider divorce—and Lizzy thought about it now.

  Regina Vautier had been just nineteen when she married Whitney Whitworth. “I was a wide-eyed innocent,” she’d said, “just a baby, really, and all alone in the world.” She had known next to nothing about financial matters—and cared even less. She was far more interested in romance. In fact, she had believed that her new husband—older than she, experienced and romantic—was a wealthy man, and that he was paying all their bills with his money. She had simply assumed that hers was still in the bank and she could take it out and spend it whenever she wanted.

  But recently, she had discovered to her dismay that this was not the case. All this time, they had been living on her inheritance, not his income. When she learned this, she had begun to think about divorce.

  And there was another part to the story, which Regina Whitworth had told Mr. Moseley only because he had warned her that she had to tell him everything or he couldn’t represent her. She said she had always wanted to learn to drive but Mr. Whitworth wouldn’t let h
er. Women were too scatterbrained to drive, he’d told her, and anyway, the Pierce-Arrow was too large an automobile for her to manage. He would drive her where she needed to go.

  Finally, in an act of rebellion, she had gone to the bank to withdraw the money to buy a new car. That’s when she discovered that her husband had nearly depleted her account. Angrily, she had taken what was left and bought a car for herself. Frank Harwood, the Kilgore salesman, was teaching her to drive—and she had fallen in love with him.

  “We are not having an affair,” she had said quickly and insistently, as if anticipating Mr. Moseley’s question. “I could never do such a thing. But Frank wants me to marry him, and I’ve told him I will consider it, after Whitney and I are divorced.”

  That was the full story, and as Lizzy thought about it, she could see why Regina Whitworth hadn’t wanted Sheriff Norris to know that she had been planning a divorce. If there were any questions about the cause of that car wreck, she would be the first one to fall under suspicion.

  “Well, then,” Lizzy said quietly. “I think I’d better call Mr. Moseley and fill him in on what’s happened. The fact that Whitworth was involved with Bodeen Pyle raises some other questions.”

  “I’m sure it does.” Ophelia got up, smoothing her dress around her hips. “Well, I’d better get downstairs and give Charlie what little I’ve got for his story.” She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip. “I wonder …” She fell silent.

  “Wonder what?” Lizzy asked, reaching for the telephone on the corner of her desk.

  “About that car,” Ophelia said. “Regina Whitworth’s new car, I mean. I’ll bet it’s in the Whitworths’ garage, Liz. Do you suppose we should go over there after dark tonight and take a look at—”

  “No,” Lizzy said emphatically. “We should not.” If Mr. Moseley asked her to check out that car, that was one thing. Going there with Ophelia was quite another.

  Opie sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Well, see you later, Liz. Enjoy your flowers.”

  The minute she was gone, Lizzy lifted the receiver. She was about to dial the Exchange to place a long-distance call to Mr. Moseley’s Montgomery office when the telephone rang.

  “Law offices,” she said pleasantly. “How may we help you?”

  The woman on the other end of the line was shrill and imperative. “Your Mr. Moseley can keep Mr. Dunlap from going to jail, Elizabeth. That’s how you can help!”

  “Mama?” Lizzy felt chilled. “Mama, is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me,” Mrs. Dunlap snapped. “I want you to send Mr. Moseley over to the Five and Dime right now, Elizabeth. Right now, do you hear me? That sheriff’s deputy is back there in the office right now, questioning my husband!”

  Trying to be calm, Lizzy said, “Mr. Moseley is in Montgomery, Mama. He won’t be back for a day or two.” She hesitated. “The deputy is questioning Mr. Dunlap about what? What’s happened?”

  “About killing Mr. Whitworth, that’s what! And if somebody doesn’t do something, he is going to haul my dear Mr. Dunlap off to jail.” She took a breath. “And it’s all because of Leona Ruth Adcock, that wretched old busy-body! When I get my hands on her, I’m going to—”

  “Killing Mr. Whitworth?” Lizzy was aghast. “But why, Mama? I understand that Mr. Whitworth died accidentally, in a car wreck. What could Leona Ruth possibly know that—”

  “She doesn’t ‘know’ anything, Elizabeth.” Her mother’s voice dripped acid. “She is making it all up.”

  “Well, of course she is,” Lizzy said, trying to be comforting. “I’m sure Mr. Dunlap won’t be going to jail.”

  “Well, I’m not,” her mother snapped. “If you’re not interested in helping us, I will call Gerald Cankron. He did some legal work for Mr. Dunlap last summer. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see that Mr. Dunlap is released.”

  Lizzy sighed. She had learned through long, frustrating experience that there was no use in trying to argue with her mother, who was very good at twisting what people said to make them think that they were in the wrong. And as far as Leona Ruth Adcock was concerned—well, that old woman made it her business to put people in the wrong, all for the momentary glory of feeling herself in the right.

  “Whatever you think, Mama,” Lizzy said quietly. Gerald Cankron was one of Darling’s other two lawyers, and not a very good one. At least, that was Mr. Moseley’s opinion, and it must be accurate, since he regularly bested Mr. Cankron when they ended up on opposite sides of a case.

  “Well, then, goodbye, and no thanks to you, Elizabeth,” her mother retorted angrily, and banged down the phone.

  Lizzy sat for a moment, thinking. She knew her mother well enough to discount her dramatic exaggerations. Nothing was ever as bad (or as good) as her mother said it was. But if Mr. Dunlap was being questioned, the sheriff must think there was something to Leona Ruth’s accusation. What was it?

  She couldn’t reveal what she knew. That would be to violate Mr. Moseley’s confidentiality rule. But the rule didn’t have to keep her from learning more, if she could. And she felt that to be an obligation, now that Mr. Dunlap was somehow involved.

  She pulled the phone toward her and dialed the Exchange. First, though, she had to tell Mr. Moseley that Mr. Whitworth was dead, and find out what further instructions he might have.

  Charlie Dickens walked confidently into the Darling Savings and Trust, expecting to see Alvin Duffy sitting in his glassed-in office, keeping an eye on the goings-on in the lobby. Charlie knew for a fact that while Al might look like your ordinary mild-mannered banker, he was a crack shot and kept a loaded revolver in the top drawer of his desk. It was just a common-sense precaution, Al insisted, given the rash of bank robberies that had plagued the nation since the beginning of the Depression.

  “Nobody’s going to rob my bank,” he said, whenever the subject came up. All of Darling believed him and felt a little safer when they took their money out from under the bed and entrusted it to Mr. Duffy’s bank.

  But Al Duffy was not at his desk when Charlie went in. “He’s in Atlanta this week,” Alice Ann Walker explained. She had recently been promoted from teller and was now Mr. Duffy’s secretary. “Can I do something for you, Mr. Dickens?”

  Charlie hesitated. What he had come for was a look at Fannie’s canceled checks, to see if he could figure out who (or what) JC was and why his wife was sending this person (or company or organization) fifty dollars every month. Al was a friend of his, so he figured that—man to man—he could ask that little favor.

  But Alice Ann and Fannie were both Dahlias, and they were pretty friendly. Even if she let him have a look, she might very likely tell Fannie about it. Charlie was planning to keep his little investigation out of sight. So no, on balance, he didn’t think Alice Ann could help him.

  “He’s out all week?” he said. “When will he be back?”

  Alice Ann tapped her pencil on the calendar on her desk. “Well, he originally said Friday. But then he mentioned going down to Jacksonville after Atlanta. I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t tell you exactly when.” She smiled pleasantly. “Speaking of travelers, have you heard from Fannie yet? When is she due to get to New York?”

  “Tomorrow,” Charlie said, glad that he hadn’t mentioned his errand to Alice Ann. “It’s a long trip, with a couple of changes.”

  “Well, when you talk to her, tell her I’m thinking about her. I had a peek at some of her hats before she packed them up. I know she’ll do very well.” Alice Ann wrinkled her forehead. “Are you sure I can’t help you, Mr. Dickens?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Charlie said. “But thanks.”

  It looked like he was going to have to live with his puzzle a little while longer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SHERIFF AND THE BOOTLEGGER

  When Mrs. Adcock had gone, Buddy Norris went into Wayne’s office and told him what she had said about the bad blood between Dunlap and Whitworth.

  “I don’t think it amounts to anything much,” Budd
y said. “Leona Ruth is bad about getting things mixed up. But Dunlap lied to me this morning when I talked to him about Whitworth. So we need to check it out.”

  “I’ll do it.” Wayne pulled a page out of his battered Royal typewriter. “Here’s what I’ve got on the accident.” He nodded toward the stack of photos. “And there are Dickens’ photos.”

  Buddy took the report and picked up the photographs. “Thanks. Bodeen Pyle lives with his mother on the other side of town. I’m headed over there to see if I can talk to him. I want to find out where he was last night, and who was with him.”

  Wayne arched an eyebrow. “With his momma?”

  “Yeah. The Pyle boys may come down on the wrong side of the liquor laws, but they take good care of their own. Bodeen was supporting two grandmothers up until last year, when both of them died.”

  Wayne nodded. “How about a sandwich before you go? Got some baloney in the icebox if you’re hungry.” He grinned. “Bottle of cold beer, too.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Buddy said, thinking again that he’d hired himself the right deputy.

  Bodeen Pyle lived with his mother and his brother Beau on Pleasant View, which was anything but. The red-dirt street, ankle-deep in red mud when it rained, was lined with junky front yards, dilapidated houses set on piles of bricks, and scrawny trees. The small gardens and chicken yards were unsuccessfully fenced against rabbits, deer, and the neighborhood boys, who made a habit of snatching ripe sweet corn, watermelons, and fresh eggs. The Pyles’ house was as ramshackle as the rest, its white-painted wood siding weathered to a defeated gray, with a sagging front porch and a rusty tin roof.

  Inside, though, it was a different story. Buddy had been there a time or two and had seen the new Frigidaire and Magic Chef gas range, the chrome kitchen dinette set with shiny red chairs, and the plush sofa and matching armchair in the parlor. Bodeen’s momma refused to move out of the old house where she’d lived her whole life, but she allowed her son to use his moonshine profits to make things easier and more comfortable for her.