The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush Page 5

  Cupcake batted Raylene on the head with The Little Engine That Could. “Baby read choo-choo,” she asserted firmly, and Myra May smiled. There was no stopping that child. Maybe she would grow up to be a famous writer.

  “Thank you for watching her, Ray,” Violet said gratefully. “I’m on the Exchange this afternoon and it’s hard to keep an eye on the baby when I’m trying to manage the switchboard.”

  “Absolutely thrilled,” Raylene murmured against Cupcake’s hair, and took the little girl into the kitchen.

  Myra May poured a mug of coffee, black, for Charlie Dickens. Judging from the bags under his eyes and the lines around his mouth, he needed it. “Meat loaf, pork chop, or fried chicken livers,” she said. “With mashed potatoes, canned corn or green beans, and coleslaw.”

  Charlie picked up the mug and drank. “Fried chicken livers,” he muttered, wiping his mouth. “I was figuring on a pork chop plate, but those livers sound good. Green beans, too.”

  Myra May was not surprised. Where people’s food choices were concerned, her mother got it right 100 percent of the time. She scribbled Charlie’s ticket and slid it through the pass-through. Taking two silverware wraps, a pair of mugs, and a pot of coffee, she went to the table in the corner, not far from Mr. Kinnard’s table. Mayor Snow and Mr. Duffy, their heads together, their voices lowered, were already deep in a serious conversation.

  “Something’s gotta be done,” Jed Snow was saying worriedly. His face was grayish and strained. “This bank closing, Mr. Duffy—it’s a crisis, that’s what it is, on top of the layoffs at the bottling plant and the sawmill. By the middle of next week, it’ll be a catastrophe. Nobody can buy anything, nobody can sell anything. We was ready when President Roosevelt shut down the banks, so we made it through. But this was sudden, unexpected-like. We wasn’t ready. And without money, this town just plain can’t function.”

  Myra May put one mug and one silverware wrap in front of Jed, whom she knew well, for they’d grown up together. Right out of high school, he had married Ophelia, Myra May’s friend and fellow Dahlia, and they had two young children. He had inherited his daddy’s business, Snow’s Farm Supply, a block west on Franklin, across from the Savings and Trust and downstairs from the jail. He’d been Darling’s mayor for three years now.

  But times were hard for the Snows, Myra May knew, because while being mayor took a lot of time, it didn’t pay a nickel. Worse, the Farm Supply depended on the local farmers—and the farmers had been in serious trouble for a decade or more, between the boll weevil and the rock-bottom farm commodity prices and the stock market crash, which made it a lot harder to get a farm loan. In fact, Myra May knew for a fact that if Ophelia hadn’t gotten that job as a Linotype operator and reporter at the Darling Dispatch, the Snows would be in hot water up to their chins. Jed had gotten all high-and-mighty about Ophelia working for money, but the minute he figured out that she would be bringing in eleven-fifty every week, he changed his tune.

  “Well, you can stop worrying, Mayor Snow,” Mr. Duffy replied confidently. “I have come up with an idea.” He didn’t look up as Myra May put the mug and silver wrap in front of him. He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You and I are going to fix it so that everybody’s got the money they need to buy what they have to have.”

  Myra May poured Mr. Duffy’s coffee, her ears perking up. Mr. Duffy was the new vice president at the Savings and Trust, and while he’d been in Darling for a couple of months now, he wasn’t in the habit of frequenting the diner. She’d heard that he was living at the Old Alabama Hotel, where he undoubtedly took his meals. He was an attractive, dark-haired man, slender and well dressed with a thin, dark mustache that made him look like Douglas Fairbanks Jr., and when Myra May came around the table, she got a whiff of an expensive aftershave. She put him somewhere in his late thirties, forty tops. A bachelor, he was quite naturally interested in seeking out female company, and the local wives had made it a point to invite him to their dinner parties so that he could meet the local widows—at least, that’s what Myra May had heard over at Beulah’s Beauty Bower, where everybody caught up on the local news while they were being shampooed and set. Reportedly, Mr. Duffy had accepted every invitation and attended to his companion of the evening with such a chivalrous gallantry that her heart flamed with a passionate hopefulness. But while Mr. Duffy had invited two or three of the Darling widows to take in a movie or have dinner at the Old Alabama, no spark had ever ignited the corresponding flame in his heart.

  To the deeply disappointed Darling ladies (who like nothing better than a sweet romance—unless it is a scandal) this was an enormous mystery. What kind of woman was Mr. Duffy looking for? A beautiful girl, a brainy girl, an “It” girl—or (mostly likely) someone who was all three? He was clearly a magnificent catch, but were his standards so high that no Darling female could measure up? What did one have to do to capture and hold the man’s attention? The Darling ladies were beginning to suffer terrible feelings of inadequacy.

  There was another mystery about Mr. Duffy, too. To be precise, how in the world did he manage to become the Savings and Trust vice president? His predecessor, old Mr. Conklin, had been the Savings and Trust vice president for some twenty years, every bit as long as Mr. Johnson had been president. When Mr. Conklin retired, everyone in Darling expected that Sam Stanton would be promoted up the ladder from head teller to VP. After all, it was in the natural order of things to move from teller to head teller and from head teller to vice president, and Sam Stanton had been next in line for close to a decade. When Mr. Conklin announced that he was hanging up his green eyeshade, Sam Stanton was so sure that the vice presidency was his that he traded in his 1922 Lincoln on a snazzy 1932 olive green DeSoto.

  But instead, Mr. Alvin Duffy had arrived in Darling on the very day Mr. Conklin vacated his desk, and to everyone’s astonishment was introduced as the new vice president. Some said he had come from New Orleans, others said Atlanta. Some speculated that Mr. Johnson had hired him because he didn’t trust Sam Stanton, others guessed that Mr. Duffy was an old family friend who needed a job. But Mr. Duffy wasn’t telling, and nobody dared to ask Mr. Johnson, so there was no way to find out for sure. Of course, poor Sam Stanton had been so shocked by the news that he’d had to sit down quick before he keeled over. But at least he still had his job as head teller—until yesterday, that is. As of yesterday, the bank was closed and nobody knew what was going to happen to the people who worked there, including Sam Stanton and Mr. Duffy. Would they have a job when it reopened? Would it reopen?

  Jed gave a skeptical laugh as Myra May poured his coffee. “You and me are gonna fix it so everybody’s got money?” he asked sarcastically. “That’s a whale of an idea, Mr. Duffy. But you’ll have to explain to me just how you plan to pull that one off. You got a vault full of money tucked away?” He picked up his coffee mug. “Or maybe you’re fixin’ to go in and rob the Savings and Trust now that Mr. Johnson is out of the picture.”

  Out of the picture? What did that mean, exactly? Myra May was dying to linger and hear more, but it was time to remind the men that she was there and ready to take their order. Until this moment, she had been totally invisible, as far as they were concerned. No reflection on her—that was just the way it was. Waitresses were just another piece of the furniture, like that chair over there.

  She took her order pad out of her apron pocket, her pencil out from behind her ear, and cleared her throat. “Ready with your order?” she asked.

  Mr. Duffy didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s not a matter of robbing anybody.” He chuckled slyly. “More like counterfeiting.” When Jed didn’t return his smile, he sobered. “But I don’t have to tell you what this means for this town, Mr. Mayor. Without a supply of money, it’ll dry up and blow away.”

  Myra May felt her skin prickle. Counterfeiting? Surely she hadn’t heard that right.

  “What I’ve got in mind is dicey, I’ll be the first to admit tha
t,” Mr. Duffy went on. “And we’ll have to get a few key people on our side or folks’ll never go for it. But that’s where you come in, you see? You and Amos Tombull and Verna Tidwell.” He jerked his head toward Charlie Dickens, sitting at the counter. “And that fellow over there. The one with the printing press. I’ve already mentioned it to him and he’s in. He doesn’t seem to like it much, but as the editor of the town newspaper, he knows something’s got to be done and he’s gutsy enough to try it.”

  “Fool enough is more like,” Jed muttered.

  Verna Tidwell? Myra May didn’t know about Charlie Dickens—in her opinion, he was a rogue and a rascal, and to prove it, you didn’t have to look any further than the way he had two-timed sweet little Fannie Champaign. And Amos Tombull, the chief county commissioner, was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg and as sneaky as a bull snake. But not Verna Tidwell. Her friend Verna was a straight arrow. She would never get involved in anything illegal.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Mr. Duffy said. “Maybe we’re all fools.” His smile was crooked. “But you’ve got a better idea, I guess. So let’s hear it.”

  Jed shook his head, admitting defeat.

  Urgent now, Mr. Duffy leaned forward. “But you do know that the only thing that’ll keep this town afloat is liquidity. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, Mr. Mayor. So what we’ve got to do is print ourselves some money.”

  Print some money? So she had heard right, after all. Myra May’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened. The vice president of the Darling Savings and Trust was proposing to go into the counterfeiting business with the mayor of Darling and the editor of the town’s newspaper? And he wanted to get the acting county treasurer (that would be Verna) in on the scheme?

  Myra May was suddenly so fumble-fingered that she dropped her pencil. She bent over to pick it up and when she straightened up again, she saw that she had gotten their attention.

  Startled, Jed looked at her. It took a beat or two, but finally his eyes focused. “Hey, Myra May. Didn’t notice you were there. We keeping you waiting?”

  “That’s okay,” Myra May said. She poised her pencil over her pad. “What’ll you have, Jed?”

  “What’ve you got?” Jed asked automatically.

  “Meat loaf, fried chicken livers, and pork chop plate,” Myra May replied, equally automatically. “Mashed potatoes with green beans or canned corn. Coleslaw on the side.” She began writing, knowing that he was going to order—

  “Pork chop plate,” Jed said. “Corn.” Myra May finished writing and turned to Mr. Duffy.

  “And you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the meat loaf,” Mr. Duffy said. “Green beans for me. And another cup of java.” He forgot her immediately and leaned toward Jed. “You heard what I said. Now, are you in on this with me, Jed, or do I have to go to one of the other town councilmen to find somebody that’ll help me get the town behind the scheme?”

  “I don’t like it,” Jed said slowly. He picked up his coffee mug, drank, then swallowed hard, as if he’d gotten a piece of corn pone stuck in his throat and he was trying to get it down. He set the mug back on the table. “But as my daddy used to say, there’s not much difference between a hornet and a yellow jacket if he’s crawling under your shirt. I reckon I’d better hear the rest of what you’ve got in mind before I nix it. So go ahead, Mr. Duffy. Say what you’ve got to say.”

  Myra May was dying to hear, too, but now that she had their orders, she didn’t have any reason to linger. She saw that Mr. Kinnard had finished and was leaving, too, and she stepped over to his table to pick up his dishes and the coins he had left. Then she went to the kitchen to turn in the food order, then picked up Charlie Dickens’ plate and put it on the counter in front of him.

  Not bothering to look up, he muttered a thank-you, picked up his fork in one hand, and pushed his coffee mug toward her with the other. As Myra May filled it, something strangely mean and perverse came over her. If she had been in a forgiving mood, she might not have done it. But hearing that Charlie Dickens was in on a scheme to print counterfeit money made her feel downright rotten and she wanted to share the feeling. So she opened her mouth and let the words come out.

  “I suppose you’ve heard that Fannie Champaign is back in town.”

  The effect was instantaneous. Charlie’s head jerked up. His mouth was open in anticipation of the fried chicken liver on the end of his fork, and his eyes were suddenly bleak and dark and empty. He closed his mouth and dropped his fork with a clatter.

  “You . . . saw her?” His voice was as jagged as a piece of broken crockery.

  “Sure did.” Myra May spoke with a careless contempt for his obvious suffering. She picked up a rag and swabbed the counter. “Saw her yesterday, in fact. She came in to say hello and tell us that she had opened up her hat shop again.”

  Two stools away, J.D. looked up from his empty plate. “Fannie Champaign?” He squinted accusingly at Charlie. “Now, there’s a looker. Never could figger how come you were fool enough to let that little girl get away, Charlie.”

  Charlie ignored J.D. “Did she say where she’s been?” he asked plaintively. “What she’s been doing?”

  Myra May folded her arms and leaned on the counter, giving him a teasing smile. “Why, where else? She’s been staying with friends over in Atlanta ever since she left here, which was—what? Last July, was it? About the time Lily Dare came to town?” Lily Dare, the beautiful Texas Star, the famous, high-flying aviatrix whom Charlie Dickens had squired around, flaunting her in Fannie’s face.

  Charlie swung his dark gaze to her face. “July.” He barely croaked it out. “Fannie left in July.”

  Something like pity eroded a corner of her contempt, and Myra May understood that the date of his desolation was etched in his memory like the date of a death carved in a gray granite headstone. But there was no getting around the fact that he had humiliated Fannie in front of the whole town. It was time he got his comeuppance.

  She said, “Yeah, July. Well, from the looks of her, I’d say that the city was just real good to her. New dress, new hat, and prettier than ever.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Charlie muttered. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, really?” She chuckled again, and that perversity pushed her to shove the knife in and twist it, hard. “She said she’d had a real swell time with her friends there. Even got herself engaged.”

  It was true, although Fannie had also said that she’d immediately thought better of the engagement and broken it off the day after she’d agreed to it, with no hard feelings on either side. But Charlie Dickens didn’t need to know that. Not right now, anyway. What he needed was to chew on her being engaged. And after he’d digested that, a good big piece of humble pie.

  “Engaged.” He fumbled for his fork. “Engaged,” he said again, dismally. He sat there like a heavy lump inside his clothes, as wooden as the carved wooden Indian that used to sit on the bench in front of Mann’s Mercantile until one day some boys took him out to the fairgrounds and set him on fire. His eyes were the only things that moved, and his lips. “Who’s she engaged to?”

  “Engaged?” J.D. crowed at Charlie’s discomfiture. “Serves you right, Charlie boy. Serves you damn right.”

  “Who’s she engaged to?” Charlie repeated in a sepulchral voice, his eyes fixed on Myra May.

  “She didn’t say.” Myra May straightened up, beginning to halfway repent. She made it a point never to meddle in other people’s business. What had provoked her to do it this time? “Look here,” she added, “it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’re making out just fine.” The taste of the words in her mouth restored her contempt. Yeah, Mr. Charles Dickens was making out, all right. He was making money. Making counterfeit money with Mr. Alvin Duffy to save the town from drying up and blowing away. “What do you care what Fannie Champaign does or doesn’t do?”

  His mouth twis
ted and he pushed his full plate away. “I don’t care,” he gritted. “I don’t give a good goddamn, and don’t you dare tell her I do.”

  He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a quarter and two nickels, and slapped them down on the counter. He got off the stool and went to the door, fumbling to get it open, then remembered his hat and fumbled it onto his head before he managed to get the door open again and went out, slamming it behind him. Myra May looked after him. She still felt contempt, but at the same time she was feeling sad and sorry for what she’d done.

  J.D. leaned over, hooked Charlie’s plate with a gnarled right hand, and slid it toward him. “No point in lettin’ good chicken livers and mashed potatoes go to waste,” he said. “Seein’ as how they’re areddy paid for.” He picked up his fork and dug in.

  “Order’s up,” Raylene called from the kitchen. Still thinking about Charlie Dickens and Fannie Champaign, Myra May went to the pass-through, put the plates and a full coffeepot on a large tray, and headed back to the corner table, where Jed Snow and Mr. Duffy were continuing to talk, their heads together.

  She set the plates on the table and was about to refill Mr. Duffy’s coffee mug when the nearby door to the Telephone Exchange opened and Violet came out. She glanced around as if she was looking for someone, until she saw Jed. Then her eyes went to Mr. Duffy, and she came toward the table.

  “Are you Mr. Alvin Duffy?” she asked tentatively.

  Mr. Duffy looked up. His eyes lightened when he looked at Violet. “I am. And why are you asking, pretty little lady?”

  Pretty little lady? Myra May almost snorted. What kind of flattery was that? Violet knew how to put that jerk in his place.

  But to Myra May’s surprise, she saw that Violet had lowered her head and was blushing. “Because you’ve got a telephone call at the switchboard. It’s long distance, from New Orleans. I guess the person who’s answering your telephone at the bank knew you were coming here for lunch.”

  This sort of thing happened often. Myra May herself had once tracked Doc Roberts to the billiard parlor, where he’d had to finish his game in a hurry and deliver Sadie Frey’s twins. And just last Monday, she had called Levinia Frost on behalf of Mrs. Hancock at the grocery store, who wanted to know if Levinia would go next door and ask Mr. Biggens (who had no telephone) if he had any early strawberries he wouldn’t mind selling. Mrs. Burden, who was on Levinia’s party line, picked up the phone and volunteered that her daughter had some and would be glad to bring them in. The Telephone Exchange kept everybody in touch, one way or another.