The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree Read online

  “Forbidden love,” said Leticia with a longing sigh. “What a sad, sad story.”

  “Which is why we’ve never heard it, I reckon,” Bessie said drily. “Because it was forbidden.”

  “Meaning ... ?” Maxine asked.

  “Meaning that the Cartwright friends and family—if they knew it—would never permit it to be talked about,” Bessie said. And of course, the fact that the relationship (if it had existed) was secret made it likely that all sorts of fictional embellishments would be added to the story. As an amateur historian, she had encountered many such tales and knew that they were usually 20 percent fact, 80 percent fancy. There was a ghost, so there had to be a sad story. There was a sad story, so it had to be forbidden love.

  “How did the baby die?” Leticia asked.

  Roseanne shrugged. “Babies jes’ die. Happens ever’day.”

  “And then she died?” Leticia persisted. “Cornelia Cartwright, I mean.”

  Roseanne nodded wordlessly.

  “How?” Maxine demanded.

  “Consumption,” Bessie said. That was what Dahlia had told her.

  Roseanne didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “Kilt herself, whut my mama tol’ me. She dead an’ buried by the time Miz Dahlia come back from Mobile. Everybody was tol’ it was consumption, but it wa’n’t.”

  “What happened to Adam?” Leticia asked. “Mrs. Cartwright’s lover?”

  Roseanne’s face became stern. “Whut y’all think?”

  “He went north with the Union soldiers,” Miss Rogers said.

  “He died of grief,” Leticia hazarded.

  “He was ... he was strung up,” Maxine guessed, in a low voice.

  “In the cucumber tree,” Roseanne said starkly. “The one at the back of Miz Dahlia’s garden. The col‘nel, he come home after the war an’ done it hisself, one dark night.”

  They all fell silent. Bessie wasn’t sure she believed what Roseanne was telling them. But she shivered, thinking of the many times she and Mrs. Blackstone had stood beneath that very same tree, looking up into its branches, laden with beautiful blossoms—too beautiful to be the site of so much ugliness. Did Dahlia know the story? Could it be true?

  Well, of course it could, and Bessie knew it. If Colonel Cartwright had gotten wind of illicit goings-on between his plantation manager and his wife, he would have ordered the man hanged without a second thought and felt perfectly justified in doing so. The fact that his wife was already dead might even have given him some secret satisfaction: she had paid for her terrible crime with her life. And of course, he would have gone to great lengths to keep his daughter from finding out what he had done. But you couldn’t keep a secret from the servants.

  “And the baby is buried out there somewhere?” Maxine asked.

  “In a little wood box,” Mrs. Sedalius said with relish. “That’s what the ghost is looking for. The baby’s coffin.”

  “Under the cucumber tree,” Roseanne said unexpectedly.

  “Really?” Leticia and Maxine asked, in wide-eyed unison.

  Bessie made up her mind. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said. The story was interesting—more than that, it was fascinating. But it had nothing whatever to do with whoever was digging out there in the garden. “I’m going out there and get rid of that trespasser, for once and all.”

  “Oh, no!” Roseanne wailed desperately. “Oh, Miz Bessie, you gots to leave that po’ lady be! She lookin’ for her chile!”

  Without a word, Bessie went back into her room. She put on her shoes, then went to the closet and found what she wanted. While she was there, putting on her shoes, she heard it again—the clank-clank of a shovel. She went back out into the hall.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t,” Miss Rogers said faintly, seeing what she was carrying.

  Roseanne whimpered.

  “A shotgun?” Maxine asked, both eyebrows going up. “My gracious, Bessie.”

  “My daddy’s favorite duck-hunting gun.” Bessie held it out for them to see. “Browning twelve-gauge pump. He taught me how to shoot it. I’ve bagged many a bird in my day. I’m out to bag a ghost.”

  “You can’t kill a ghost,” Mrs. Sedalius said firmly.

  “Who said anything about killing him?” Bessie retorted. “All I want to do is scare him. The gun is loaded with bird-shot, and I’m going to fire over his head.” She grunted. “Anyway, it’s not a ghost. It’s somebody dressed up like the Cartwright ghost.”

  “Maybe it’s the escaped convict,” Miss Rogers ventured timidly.

  Roseanne whimpered again.

  “That’s it!” Leticia exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “The convict!”

  This had not occurred to Bessie, and it gave her momentary pause. A convict might not scare easily. A convict might—

  But then she shook her head. “I don’t think so. Why would an escaped convict dress up like the Cartwright ghost and dig in the Dahlias’ garden? Doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Doesn’t make sense for anybody to be doing it,” Leticia pointed out, and Bessie had to agree.

  “Okay.” She narrowed her eyes at the ladies. “You can go to the windows and watch. But keep out of sight, and don’t say a word. I’m going to sneak up on him. I’d like to be close enough to see his face.”

  “Her,” amended Mrs. Sedalius, still clinging to her belief that this was a ghost. “She’s wearing that same dark cape she wore the other night.” She paused, considering. “I guess ghosts don’t have much choice in what they wear.”

  “You’re going to look pretty silly out there yourself, Bessie,” Maxine remarked critically. “Pink ruffles on your curler cap, Ponds on your face, pink pajamas, and shoes. And that shotgun.”

  “I don’t care how I look,” Bessie retorted. “And neither will that intruder, when I get through with him. Now, you stay here. And keep still.”

  Carrying her shotgun cradled in the crook of her arm, she went down the back stairs, out through the kitchen, and onto the back porch, silently shutting the door behind her. The only streetlights in town were on the courthouse square, and they were turned off at ten o’clock every night to save on electricity and because nobody was on the streets at that hour. There was a moon, but its silver face was covered with a curtain of racing clouds, and the garden was bright, then shadowed, then black as pitch. On the other side of the street, Mrs. Hamer’s dog, General Lee, was barking fitfully, but that didn’t seem to bother whoever was digging, for Bessie could hear the intermittent metallic clanking of the shovel against stone.

  She crept through the gap in the hedge and into the Dahlias’ back garden and down the path. She had come this way so often over the years that she knew the path without seeing it. She was breathing faster than usual, though, and in spite of her bravado in front of the others, she knew she was afraid. But she hadn’t lied when she’d said she knew how to handle the gun. She hadn’t fired it for a while, but it felt like an old friend.

  She could see the figure in the dark cape, digging away under the cucumber tree, in the same place where she and Mildred and Ophelia had noticed the newly turned earth. The form was ghostlike, yes. But the sound of the shovel was very real, and Bessie crept closer, until she was within twenty yards of the figure. As she watched, he dropped the shovel, fell to his knees, and began digging in the dirt with his bare hands.

  At that moment, the curtain of clouds parted and the moon came out, flooding the entire garden with its white brilliance, almost as bright as daylight. Whether by accident or because Bessie made some sort of small movement, the kneeling figure turned and saw her. With a menacing curse, he scrambled to his feet and half-turned in her direction, grabbing up the shovel and holding it in front of him like a weapon, as though he might be going to charge her.

  Afterward, Bessie couldn’t describe exactly what happened next, or why. Was she afraid she was being attacked? Was she acting by instinct? All she could remember was jerking up her gun and firing—well over the man’s head, she was sure.

/>   But he stumbled and fell forward and the curse became a loud, pained howl.

  She gasped. Somehow, she didn’t know how, she must have hit him!

  But not fatally, obviously. In the space of a breath, he was back on his feet, turning, hopping, lurching, running toward the woods at the bottom of the garden, his cape flying out like the wings of an injured bat.

  Bessie had bagged her ghost.

  TWENTY

  Ophelia Takes Bold Action and Lucy Takes Charge

  Wednesday, May 21, 1930

  It was Wednesday morning, the time Ophelia often set aside for sewing. She was studying her old yellow pique sundress with the idea of cutting it down for Sarah. There was a stain on the skirt, but she could cut around it. Sarah was growing so fast, but if she used red rickrack on the hem, letting it down for next summer would be easy.

  And then her glance strayed and a totally different idea occurred to her. She had stopped at the dress goods counter in Mann’s the day before and bought a cute short-sleeve Butterick blouse pattern for herself, to make up one of the cotton plaids she’d been saving, either the yellow or the green.

  As she looked at it now, she thought that the green plaid would be lovely with Lucy’s stunning red hair. Wouldn’t it be a friendly gesture to take the pattern and the material and her sewing basket out to Ralph’s place and show Lucy how easy it was to sew up a blouse? Emma had a Singer—she had kept it in the bedroom, in front of the window, with an embroidered cloth over the top. It was certain to be there. Ophelia could show Lucy how to lay out the pattern on the material (it was always tricky to match a plaid) and cut it out. They would spend a companionable day sewing and chatting. By the end of the day, they would have two very nice blouses to show for their effort and they’d be fast friends.

  Not stopping to wonder whether this really was a good idea, Ophelia changed into a clean cotton dress, brushed her hair, and put on her third-best hat, since the road was bound to be dusty. She packed the two bolts of material, the pattern, and her sewing box into a large basket. Then she went to the kitchen pantry and got a loaf of Florabelle’s soda bread as a gift for Lucy (Ophelia’s mother had taught her that it was rude to go anywhere without taking something to eat) and a dozen oatmeal cookies for the boys. While she was there, she picked up a pint jar of red raspberry jam made from berries that grew in the big patch behind Lizzy’s house. The jam was extra good on slices of Florabelle’s soda bread, buttered and toasted in a skillet. The boys would enjoy it for breakfast. She put the bread and cookies and jam in her basket.

  Florabelle was finishing the ironing she hadn’t done the day before. Ophelia told her that she didn’t expect to be home for noontime dinner, and would she please see to Mr. Snow’s and the children’s meals. She would’ve called Lucy to let her know that she was coming, but Ralph’s house was at the end of the road and the telephone didn’t go out that far. Anyway, Ophelia knew that Lucy—who was certainly lonely out there by herself all day—would be grateful for the company and happy to be surprised.

  Ophelia set off gaily, thinking that it was such a pretty morning for a drive into the country, the late-spring flowers blooming along the road, the sun bright with the eager promise of summer to come. When she noticed a particularly lovely patch of flowers not far from a noisy creek rippling through the woods, she pulled off to the side of the road. She got out and picked a large handful of orange butterfly weed, white Queen Ann’s lace, yellow coreopsis, and purple verbena, with some bright green ferns for foliage. Smiling, she pictured Lucy’s delight when she saw the flowers. They would brighten her kitchen windowsill. Hurrying a little now, she got back in the car and drove on.

  But the Model T didn’t quite make it all the way. Ophelia came around a corner and over the low-water crossing about a quarter-mile from Ralph’s place. The front left wheel hit a hole and the tire blew out with a sharp bang.

  “Oh, drat!” Ophelia said aloud, exasperated, and then realized that she was in trouble. This was the third blown tire on the Ford in the past month, the second in a week. There was a spare wheel on the back of the car, but she knew she’d never be able to put it on all by herself. At breakfast that very morning, Jed had told her that he had ordered a pair of new tires and suggested that she not drive the car until they arrived. But she had been so taken by the idea of treating her new friend Lucy to a pleasant day of sewing that she had forgotten all about it.

  Well, now what? Ophelia sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The nearest telephone was at the Spencers’ house, a good half-mile behind her and uphill all the way. She could walk back there and call Jed, who would send somebody out to change the tire—although of course he would lecture her sternly about not paying attention when he told her not to drive. Or she could go on to Lucy’s, spend the day, and when the boys got home from school, send them to make the telephone call.

  The walk to Lucy’s was shorter—only a quarter-mile-and definitely easier, since it was all downhill, and she wouldn’t have to listen to Jed’s lecture. So she left the Ford where it was, one wheel in the ditch at the side of the dirt road, picked up her basket and flowers and began to walk toward Lucy’s. She stayed in the shade of the pine trees, but by the time she got to the bottom of the hill, she was sweaty and tired and very much wished that she hadn’t worn her pumps. Her everyday flat-heeled oxfords would have been much better suited to walking over this uneven ground.

  When she had driven up on Monday, Ophelia had tootled the horn at the gate—always the polite thing to do, so the people in the house would know they had company and could come out on the porch to see who it was. But by the time she had reached the gate at Ralph’s place, her mouth was too dry to even summon up even a weak shout. All she could think about was getting something cold to drink.

  Ophelia opened the gate and trudged up the rock-bordered path to the porch. Lucy had washed this morning, and sheets and towels—nicely white, Ophelia noticed with approval—were pinned to the clothesline. Three fat hens were catching bugs in the flower bed under the watchful eye of a rooster, perched on the arm of the wooden porch swing. The white goat had finished nibbling the leaves off Emma’s rosebush and was now working on the large althea beside the fence.

  The morning was warm, and the front door stood open. Ophelia went up the steps and rapped with her knuckles on the screen door. “Lucy,” she called. “Yoo-hoo, Lucy. It’s me, Ophelia. Thought I’d come and keep you company.”

  Inside, back in the kitchen, Ophelia heard a barely stifled shriek and the scrape of a chair across the bare floor. There was the sound of a muttered curse in another voice. A shriek? A curse? Something was wrong!

  Alarmed, Ophelia yanked the screen door open and stepped inside. “Lucy? Lucy, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Lucy called breathlessly. “Don’t come in, Ophelia. Please! You just wait right where you are. I’ll be right out. I—”

  But it was too late. Ophelia had reached the doorway to the kitchen, where she saw Lucy, backed up against the wall, her eyes wide with fright. And just getting up from eggs and ham and grits and biscuit and coffee on the kitchen table was a strange young man, someone Ophelia had never seen. He was dressed in regular clothes—a blue work shirt and bib overalls—but Ophelia recognized him anyway, for his head was shaved bald.

  The escaped convict! He had forced Lucy to cook breakfast for him. He must be holding her hostage!

  And then Ophelia—who was not by nature a bold person—did something she had never done before, had never thought of doing, had never even imagined herself doing. She took bold action.

  She reached into the basket she was carrying, grabbed the pint jar of red raspberry jam she had brought for the boys’ breakfast, and flung it with all her strength at the escaped convict, exactly as David might have flung the rock at Goliath, except that David used a slingshot and Goliath was larger—except that, at this moment, this fellow seemed as big as a bear and twice as menacing.

  The jam jar hit him right square
between the eyes. He stood stock-still for a moment, eyes wide-open and slightly crossed. Then his knees crumpled and he pitched forward, knocking the table over, the eggs and ham and grits and coffee cascading onto the floor. The convict fell facedown into the mess and lay there unmoving.

  And then Lucy did an entirely unexpected thing. Instead of flinging her arms around Ophelia and crying, “Oh, thank you, Opie! Thank you for saving my life!” she shrieked “Oh, no! Oh, my God, Opie, you’ve killed him!” Frantically, she ran to the man’s side, knelt down, trying to roll him over.

  “I certainly hope so,” Ophelia said defensively. “He was holding you hostage, wasn’t he? Why, the man could have raped you!” A horrifying thought struck her and she felt her knees go wobbly. “He didn’t, did he?” she asked, in a trembling voice. “The kids are all right, aren’t they?”

  Then another thought. She forced herself to be brave, to take more bold action. “Quick, Lucy, we need some rope! We have to tie his hands and his feet before he comes to.”

  “We do not need rope,” Lucy said, in a scathing tone. “The kids are in school, and no, he didn’t rape me or hurt them.” She made a disgusted noise. “Look at him, Opie, for crying out loud. He’s only a boy. He’s barely fifteen.” She scrambled to her feet and went to the white enamel water bucket on the shelf beside the door. She grabbed a towel, the dipper, and the bucket and carried them back to the man. “Help me roll him over.”

  “A boy?” Ophelia asked uncertainly. She knelt beside Lucy and together they rolled him onto his back. The jam jar had left a three-inch gash on his forehead. It was oozing blood, but he was beginning to open his eyes.

  To Ophelia’s dismay, she saw that Lucy was right. She had not knocked down a towering Goliath but a slight, pale boy, not much older than her own son, Sam. No beard yet, his features as shapely and delicate as a girl’s.

  Lucy dipped the dipper into the pail and splashed cold water on his face. “Come on, Joey,” she commanded urgently. “Wake up. Wake up, please!”