The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover Page 20

  “So you weren’t here last night?” Buddy said, watching him. “Or out on the Jericho Road?”

  “Nope,” Bodeen said promptly. “Pokey over there”—he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the old man—“Pokey was out here all night, minding the fires. Gotta keep the heat steady, you know. Can’t let the fire go out, can’t let the pots boil dry.”

  Buddy leaned back against the tree, remembering Wayne’s report—and thinking of what Mrs. Whitworth had told him. “You said Bragg was there, from the prison farm. What time did he leave?”

  Bodeen frowned. “I don’t know. Pretty early, I reckon. He played one game and then quit.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “I’d still like to know—”

  “How come I’m asking,” Buddy said evenly, “is because Whitney Whitworth went off the Jericho Road at the foot of Spook Hill last night. When he was found this morning, he was upside down under his Pierce-Arrow. Dead.”

  “Whitworth? Aw, hell.” Bodeen’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “You’re kiddin’.”

  “Not,” Buddy said. “You didn’t know?”

  “Naw. First I heard. I was over in Monroeville all morning, gettin’ supplies.” Bodeen pulled the red bandana off his head and threw it on the ground. “Bad news.” He sucked on his cigarette. “Damned bad news,” he muttered.

  “Why?” Buddy asked. “What’s Whitworth got to do with you?” When Bodeen didn’t answer, he made his voice hard. And loud.

  “What’s Whitworth got to do with you, Pyle? Come on—let’s have an answer.”

  Somewhere, a crow squawked. The boy stopped splitting wood, and the old man turned around to look. After a moment, Bodeen said, “Look, sheriff, you and me, we’re partners now, so I’ve got no reason not to level with you. I got a business to run. I’ve got markets down in Mobile and up in Montgomery, asking—begging—for more. I need experienced haulers. I need cars.” He made a sweeping gesture that included the entire clearing. “I need more boilers and condensers. I need more boys out here workin’ for me. And I can’t get any of that unless I got more capital. Without capital, I’ll always be just a damned two-bit backwoods operation. That’s what Whitworth was to me. The damn goose that laid the golden egg.”

  If that was true, it pretty much canceled Bodeen out as a suspect, Buddy thought. He looked around the camp. “So how long had he been in on this?”

  “He was one of my earliest investors,” Bodeen said. “Came in with some cash three-four years ago. Last week, he told me he was ready to come in with more. I was counting on him.” His voice was bleak. “Nobody else in this county has money that he’s willing to invest in the bootleg business. With Whitworth gone, I’m back to where I was, operating on a shoestring.”

  “You didn’t see Whitworth yesterday?” Buddy asked. “Did he have any reason to be coming out here?”

  Bodeen shook his head. “Ain’t seen him since the middle of last week. And no, he was only out here a time or two. He didn’t like me visiting his house, neither. Didn’t want his wife knowing what he was up to, I guess. So we met out by the old airfield to do our business.” He pulled down his mouth, looking glum. “Hate to say it, Sheriff, but if you were thinkin’ to make some extra money out of our partnership, you’re gonna be disappointed. Would’ve been a whole lot more for you if Whitworth was still around.”

  Buddy couldn’t argue with that. Anyway, he had the feeling that Bodeen had said all he was likely to say. He stood up. “I guess that does it for me, then. At least for now.”

  Bodeen got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, Sheriff. Always glad to help a partner out, when I can.”

  Partner. Buddy had a sour taste in his mouth, but he managed to dredge up a small smile as he shook Bodeen’s hand.

  He thought it was a good time to leave.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LIZZY TAKES PICTURES

  The Exchange operator couldn’t connect with long distance, and it was past three by the time Lizzy was able to reach Mr. Moseley in Montgomery. He listened to her report, expressed dismay at the news of Whitworth’s death, and said, “Let me think about this for a few minutes, Liz—and make another call. You stay there at your desk. I’ll get back to you as quick as I can.”

  When he did, he began with a request for the Exchange operator, in his most sugary voice (the one he used with difficult female witnesses). “Mabel, honey, I need to talk to Miss Lacy private-like, if you don’t mind. I’d appreciate it if you’d get off the line now.”

  When they heard the audible click, he spoke briskly. “Liz, I’ve just spoken to Wayne Springer, over at the sheriff’s office. He says they have evidence that another vehicle might have been involved in Whitworth’s crash.”

  “Another vehicle?” Lizzy was surprised. “But what—”

  “It’s not clear, but Springer thinks there may have been a rear-end collision somewhere on that hill, and it could have sent Whitworth’s car out of control and down the embankment. With that in mind, I need you to do something. I would do it myself, if I were there, but I’m not won’t be there until tomorrow. I want it done right away, before the sheriff thinks of doing it. Are you game?”

  “Of course,” Lizzy said. And then added, more cautiously, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Good. My Brownie camera is my right-hand desk drawer, along with an extra roll of Kodak film. I want you to get it.”

  Camera? Lizzy frowned. Now what?

  But when Mr. Moseley had explained, she felt a little better. She looked down at her notes and said, “This thing that you want me to do—it sounds like we’re assuming that Mrs. Whitworth is still our client. Is that right?”

  “She’s our client until she tells me otherwise—in writing,” Mr. Moseley replied firmly. “She may be upset when you tell her what I’ve asked you to do, so make sure she understands that we’re doing it to protect her interests. As her attorney, I need to know the extent of her culpability in this case—and she may not be willing to tell us everything.”

  “It sounds like you don’t trust her,” Lizzy hazarded.

  “Every client has something to hide.” His voice was flat. “I don’t trust Regina Whitworth to tell us everything I need to know to defend her, if it comes to that.”

  Lizzy was startled. “Defend her against—”

  “At worst, against a charge of vehicular homicide. There are no witnesses. We don’t really know what happened on that hill.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lizzy whispered.

  “Hang on,” Mr. Moseley said. “I don’t believe she’s a suspect—yet. But Norris and Springer may get around to that, after they’ve had a while to think about it. I have to know everything there is to know, just in case.” He added, more sharply. “You keep your lip buttoned, Liz, especially when it comes to that young sheriff. He’s easy to talk to, and you may have to guard against being too chummy with him. Client privilege, remember.”

  “I will,” Lizzy promised. She hesitated, wondering if she should tell him about DessaRae’s note and the meeting with Fremon that Sally-Lou had arranged for that evening. But there wasn’t anything to tell, not really. She would wait until after she’d heard what Fremon had to say—if anything.

  “Good girl. You go on and do what I said, then call me and let me know what you find out.” His voice softened, warmed. “I’ll be home tomorrow. But in the meanwhile, it’s awfully good to know I can count on you, Liz. You’re always right there when I need you.”

  Pleased, Lizzy found herself smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Moseley. I appreciate that.”

  He cleared his throat. “But when I get home, we’re going to have to talk about your hours.” He sounded uncomfortable and unhappy. “I took another look at the office accounts this morning. We’re owed a quite a bit of money by a lot of people, with no way to collect, given the economic situation. We obviously have a problem, and I’m afraid it’s much worse than I thought.”

  Hearing the unhappiness in his voic
e, Lizzy felt suddenly cold. Was he trying to tell her that she would have to leave? She didn’t have many bills, but she didn’t have many savings, either. Nadine Fleming had made it clear that she couldn’t count on royalties from her new book, which was likely to earn her almost nothing. Every job in Darling was already taken. Where could she find work? How would she manage without a regular salary coming in? Would she have to move somewhere else to find another job?

  But she kept her apprehension out of her voice. “I understand,” she said. “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry.” She said goodbye, hung up the phone, and went into Mr. Moseley’s office to get the camera.

  She was trying not to think what her life would be like if she no longer worked for Benton Moseley.

  The front door of the Whitworth house was already draped in black crepe, the usual symbol of mourning for the homes of the Darling bereaved. Lizzy knocked and DessaRae opened the door. She had changed her white apron for a black one, and her white maid’s cap now bore a black ribbon.

  “Why, Miz Lizzy,” she said, surprised. “Wasn’t expectin’ to see you back again so soon.”

  “I’m here for Mr. Moseley,” Lizzy said. “I need to speak to Mrs. Whitworth. Is she … is she seeing company?”

  “No, but she’ll see you,” DessaRae said. She stepped back, holding the door open. “She layin’ down right now, but I’ll tell her you’re here.” Discreetly, she dropped her voice. “You an’ Fremon gone git together, like I said?”

  “Tonight,” Lizzy replied in a near-whisper. “Sally-Lou is bringing him over to my house after supper.” She frowned. “Really, DessaRae, I do wish you’d tell me—”

  “You jes’ talk to him,” DessaRae said. She raised her voice cheerfully. “You go on into the parlor. I’ll fetch Miz Wentworth.”

  Lizzy sat down on the garnet loveseat in the darkened parlor, took the Brownie out of her handbag, and put it on the walnut coffee table. When she got it from Mr. Moseley’s desk drawer, she saw that the film in the camera was completely exposed—she could tell by the red number in the camera’s little window. So she had stepped into the closet and loaded the new film, hoping she was fitting it properly into the take-up spool. Brownies were easy to manage, but it sounded like these photos might be terribly important, and she didn’t want to make a mistake.

  She waited for ten minutes or so, listening to the canary singing cheerfully in the neighboring room. The faint fragrance of rose potpourri hung on the still air. In the corner of the room was a piano, with a piece of sheet music—“Stormy Weather”—open on the rack. Lizzy remembered that Mr. Wentworth had been one of the Lucky Four Clovers, and that she had heard them sing “Stormy Weather” just the week before. Who would replace him in the quartet, she wondered. It would be a challenge, especially with the barbershop competition coming up in just a few days.

  Finally, Regina Whitworth came downstairs. She had changed into a black dress that emphasized her slimness, with long sleeves, a bit of lace at the cuffs, and a simple lace collar. It made her look fragile and vulnerable and young—too young to be a grieving widow. But beautiful, like a rose that has been crushed by an early frost. Her dark brown hair was still worn down to her shoulders and pulled forward. Presumably, Lizzy thought, to conceal the bruise, and she wondered again how it had happened.

  Mrs. Whitworth sat in the upholstered club chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. DessaRae came in with a tea tray—a china pot, two cups, sugar and lemon—and went out again, careful not to glance at Lizzy.

  Mrs. Whitworth poured tea and handed a cup across the table. “DessaRae says you have something important to talk to me about, Miss Lacy.”

  Lizzy added sugar to her tea and stirred. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said sympathetically. “I know this is a difficult time, and you must have a lot on your mind. However, I’ve been in touch with Mr. Moseley, and he’s asked me—”

  But Mrs. Whitworth didn’t let her go on. “There’s not going to be a divorce,” she interrupted, “so I’ve decided I don’t really need a lawyer.” She picked up her teacup and sipped. “I can ask Mr. Duffy, over at the bank, to help me go through my accounts, so I won’t need Mr. Moseley for that, either.” She put her cup down again. “He’s been very kind. But please thank him for what he’s done and ask him to send me a bill for his services.”

  Lizzy had been expecting this. “I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to tell him,” she said. “In writing. Until he receives that notice, he’s still your attorney. And because that’s the case, he feels duty-bound to look out for your welfare.” She paused. “In fact, that’s why I’m here, Mrs. Whitworth.” She set her cup on the table. “He spoke with the deputy sheriff this afternoon. He asked me to tell you that it’s likely that the sheriff will come here and ask to take a look at your car. The one you recently bought from Kilgore’s,” she added, just so there was no misunderstanding.

  “My car?” Mrs. Whitworth stared at Lizzy. “But why in the world would the police want to look at my car?”

  “Because the sheriff has reason to think that another vehicle might have been involved in your husband’s accident,” Lizzy said gently. “Perhaps even caused it.” She gestured toward the camera on the coffee table. “Mr. Moseley has asked me to take a few photographs of your car. He feels that we should document the fact that it hasn’t been involved in an accident. That there is no damage.”

  “No … damage?” Mrs. Whitworth’s eyes widened and she shrank back into the cushions of her chair. “But I’m afraid there is … I mean, I … Well, to tell the truth …” Her voice trailed away.

  Lizzy frowned. “Mrs. Whitworth, do we have a problem?”

  There was a tense silence. “I hope not,” the other woman said at last. She hesitated, then pulled her hair back, exposing the bruise and abrasion on her cheek. “Actually, I did have a bit of an automobile accident yesterday, I’m afraid.” She spoke apologetically. “That’s how I got this horrible scrape on my face.” She rubbed her left sleeve. “And on my shoulder and arm, too, so I’m wearing long sleeves. I’m still a little sore.”

  Uh-oh, Lizzy thought. So that was the explanation behind the mysterious abrasion. Mr. Moseley would not be pleased to hear this. Aloud, she said, “What kind of accident, exactly?”

  “Well, I … I’m not a very good driver, you see. I’m still learning. Frank says I was very lucky not to be hurt worse.”

  “Frank?” Lizzy asked blankly.

  “Mr. Harwood.” Coloring, Mrs. Whitworth hastily corrected herself. “Perhaps you’ve heard that Kilgore’s has been offering free driving lessons with the purchase of a new car. I bought mine several weeks ago.” She shifted uneasily in her chair. “Mr. Harwood is my driving instructor. He was in the car with me when the accident happened.”

  Lizzy stared at the woman, suddenly remembering the confession in her interview with Mr. Moseley—the one she had typed just that morning. Frank Harwood, who was as good-looking as Mrs. Whitworth was beautiful, was more than just her driving instructor. When pushed, she had admitted that she had fallen in love with him and was thinking of marrying him after she and Mr. Whitworth were divorced. No doubt that was why (as Ophelia had noticed) she hadn’t wanted the sheriff to know about the divorce, and why she was so uncomfortable right now. But was there something else?

  Lizzy took a breath and confronted the question straightforwardly. “Mrs. Whitworth, I hope you’re not telling me that you were involved in your husband’s accident—you and Mr. Harwood.”

  Mrs. Whitworth pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head violently. “Oh, no! No, really, Miss Lacy! Please believe me—I don’t know anything about that what happened to Whitney! But my car …” She swallowed. “What I’m trying to say is that … well, I’m afraid it’s damaged. Yes, it certainly is, and I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t intend to … It was an accident, really. And it has nothing to do with Whitney, I swear!”

  “I see,” Lizzy said evenly. “Well, why don’t you just t
ell me what happened.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Frank—Mr. Harwood, I mean … Last night, Mr. Harwood and I were out on the Monroeville Road, on that long, straight stretch just past the old sawmill.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes. I … I’m afraid I didn’t quite tell the truth, before. I didn’t go right to bed after Whitney left. I went out with Mr. Harwood. I was practicing driving, and probably going just a teensy bit too fast.” She smiled, then realized she was smiling and stopped. “But it felt so good, you know? Just so good. The top was down and the wind was blowing my hair. I felt freer and happier than I’ve felt since before … well, since before Grandmamma made me marry Whitney. When I was young and still had everything to look forward to.” She glanced up at the portrait of her autocratic grandmother, staring down her patrician nose. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Forget I said that, please. I shouldn’t have.”

  Lizzy was remembering that Regina Whitworth had been just a teenager when she married the much older Whitney Whitworth. It was understandable that she would like to recapture some of her earlier freedoms. The car, her car, may have represented that. But what was this business about her grandmother making her marry Mr. Whitworth? She was tempted to ask, but Mrs. Whitworth was hurrying on with her story.

  “Anyway, it was dark, and I was maybe going a little too fast. A deer ran across the road and instead of trying to stop, I swerved to miss it. I fell against the door—it’s one of those silly things that have the hinges on the rear. It flew open, and I tumbled out onto the road. That’s how I got this scrape on my face.” Mrs. Whitworth gingerly touched her cheek. “And on my left shoulder and arm. The sweater I was wearing was completely shredded.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lizzy said. “Mr. Harwood is right. You were lucky.” That is, if she was telling the truth. Lizzy wanted to believe her, but Mr. Moseley’s doubt was still fresh in her mind.