The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Charlie felt that this was all very interesting, but what could it have to do with Fannie? Why was she donating so much money every month to Warm Springs?

  So this morning, Charlie had taken what he hoped was a definitive step toward finally solving the puzzle. He had telephoned the foundation office at Warm Springs and asked to speak to J. C. Carpenter. The girl on the switchboard seemed to be new, though. She said she didn’t know who that was and everybody was off for the day at the annual Christmas party. Someone would call him back. He was still waiting.

  With a sigh, Charlie put his glasses back on and went back to his work. He was setting page five, which contained Liz Lacy’s Garden Gate column, news from the women’s clubs, and ads. He was already finished with the Mercantile’s Christmas toy sale ad brought in that morning by Archie Mann’s wife, Twyla Sue. (Puzzles and games, 9–19 cents; fire-engine red scooter with roller bearings, $1.19; Shirley Temple doll, $2.99.) The Mercantile ad was on the same page as the announcement for the new bakery, The Flour Shop, which was having its grand opening on Saturday, featuring “delicious fresh-baked” bread at 11 cents a loaf. He pulled the copy Mrs. Hancock had brought in for her grocery ad and scanned it. Wonder Bread was only 9 cents a loaf—two cents cheaper than the new bakery. He was just getting started on it when he was interrupted by a voice.

  “Yo, Charlie—got some time to talk?” It was Buddy Norris, the sheriff. He was leaning against the counter that divided the front part of the Dispatch office from the working area and pressroom.

  Charlie was about to ask him if the conversation could wait until tomorrow, but he changed his mind. He’d been at the makeup table for a couple of hours. It was time for a cigarette break. He took off his ink-stained denim apron and went toward the editor’s desk.

  “Come sit for a spell, Buddy,” he said. “Let’s have a smoke.”

  Buddy came around the counter and took a chair. Charlie sat down behind his desk, put his feet up, and pulled a crumpled pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket.

  “Don’t mean to interrupt,” Buddy said.

  “No problem,” Charlie said, lighting his cigarette. “I’m ready to take a load off.” He had never hit it off with the former sheriff, Roy Burns, who (as Burns himself had vividly put it) didn’t “have no truck with them goldurn newspapermen. They ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of muckrakers.” Charlie had cheerfully acknowledged himself as Darling’s chief muckraker and a thorn in the sheriff’s side.

  But he and Roy Burns’ successor shared the common pragmatic view that, under the right circumstances, law enforcement and the press could work together for the advantage of both. Charlie reserved the right to keep his sources confidential, and Buddy reserved the right to conceal important details of an investigation—although Charlie’s sources were hardly private and Buddy admitted that “investigation” was a pretty fancy word to describe what he usually did.

  Now, Buddy dropped his knitted wool hat on the floor, unbuttoned his jacket, and tilted his chair against the wall, hooking his heels on the rungs. Unlike Roy Burns, he didn’t favor uniforms or even a sidearm. “Darling ain’t the wild West,” he’d say. “It’s the civilized South.” (Which was not entirely true. Bootleggers created their own kind of lawlessness.) But he did go so far as to pin a badge on his khaki shirt, and his blue jeans were pressed.

  “Chilly out there?” Charlie asked, glancing out the front window. It had been cold and gray all week, with an occasional drizzle, and he’d built a fire in the woodstove at the back of the workroom.

  “Yeah. Heard on the radio that it’s snowing up in Montgomery. Probably not here, though. Just cold enough to make you think it’s gonna. Windy, too.” Buddy fished in his coat pocket and took out a pack of Lucky Strikes and a matchbook. “Got something for you, Charlie. A tip, you might call it.” He struck a match with his thumbnail and put it to his cigarette. “But you got to promise to keep it under your hat until I say you can print it.”

  “I can do that, I reckon,” Charlie said, but added cautiously, “What do I have to trade for it?” The sheriff was usually fair, but cagey. He wouldn’t give you anything unless you gave him something in return.

  Buddy hesitated. “What I’m looking for is kinda out of the ordinary. Maybe even a little . . . well, dangerous. If you don’t feel up to it, I’ll understand. You can keep the tip regardless.”

  Dangerous? Which meant that Charlie was immediately ready to do it, whatever it was. But all he said was, “Let’s hear what you got.”

  Buddy tipped his chair back down and leaned his elbows on his knees. “What I’ve got is a report from a crime lab run by the Chicago Police Department. Goddard—the guy who directs the lab—is an expert on firearms, and specifically on bullets. He’s got this idea that every bullet has a kind of a fingerprint on it, from the gun that fired it.” He gestured with his cigarette. “Well, not a fingerprint, exactly. See, guns are made with little grooves inside the barrel, to put some spin on the bullet. When a round is fired, it gets marked by the grooves. Every gun is different, so somebody who knows what he’s doing can tell whether a particular bullet has come out of a particular gun.”

  “I’ve read about Goddard,” Charlie said. “Invented a microscope that lets him look at two bullets side by side and tell whether they came from the same gun.”

  Buddy looked disappointed, as if he’d just lost his punchline. “Yeah. That’s the guy. Goddard.”

  Charlie blew out a stream of smoke. “So what’s this report you’ve got? Something new you’re working on?”

  If it was, Charlie had no idea what it might be. Darling had been characteristically quiet over the Thanksgiving holiday. Witness the fact that a new bakery and a puzzle tournament were big news.

  Buddy pulled on his Lucky Strike. “You remember Jimmie Bragg?”

  “Sure,” Charlie said. Back in October, he’d been a headline in the Dispatch, following on the heels of the story that had reported Whitney Whitworth’s fatal wreck on the Jericho Road. “Bragg was the warden’s fair-haired boy, out at the prison farm. He ran Mr. Whitworth off the road, felt guilty about what he’d done, wrote a suicide note, and shot himself. Used an old Colt six-shooter, if I remember right. His fingerprints were on the gun.”

  Charlie had written the story himself, and details like that six-shooter stuck in his mind. It was odd, though. He had encountered Bragg at the scene the morning after the accident happened, and the man had acted like it was all news to him. What’s more, he had shown no remorse at all, at least not then.

  “That’s Bragg,” Buddy agreed. “And yes, his prints were on that Colt. But before Noonan sent him off to Monroeville for burial, I had Doc Roberts dig out the slug. Then Wayne went out in the back yard and fired a test round from the Colt. We sent both bullets to Goddard. That’s the report I just got.” He looked around for an ashtray and Charlie shoved an empty Bush’s hominy can toward him. “Turns out that only one of the bullets was fired from the Colt.”

  Charlie blinked. “Want to run that by me again?”

  Buddy tapped his cigarette ash into the can, dragging out the suspense. “Goddard says that the only bullet that came from the Colt was the one Wayne fired. The test round. The bullet that killed Jimmie Bragg came from a different gun.”

  “Ahhh,” Charlie said, beginning to understand.

  “What’s more, when we got the Colt, there was one round left in the gun. But no spent cartridge.” He pulled on his cigarette. “It’s a revolver, Charlie. The spent cartridge stays in the chamber until it’s ejected.”

  “Which Bragg couldn’t do because he was dead,” Charlie said quietly. He could feel the goosebumps rising on the back of his neck—familiar goosebumps. They had always been a reliable indicator that he had just run right smack into a real story and it was time to saddle up and do something about it.

  “Yes,” Buddy said. He had the grace to add, “Wayne is the one who knew about Goddard and came up with the idea of comparing bullets.” He gave a rueful grin. �
��He keeps up with this stuff better than I do.”

  “Springer is a good man,” Charlie said. And experienced in ways Buddy wasn’t, which made him a smart hire. He thought for a minute.

  “So now you’ve got a dead man, but not the gun that killed him. Which means that you’re looking for the murder weapon—and the fella who pulled the trigger.” He shook his head. “That’s a tall order. All the action, as I understand it, took place at the prison farm.”

  The Jericho State Prison Farm was several miles south of town. Its nearly fifteen hundred acres of open pastures and farm fields spread out far beyond the fenced and guarded central compound. It ran by its own rules, under the by-the-book management of Warden Grover Burford, who knew everything that went on in his prison. Charlie seriously doubted that Burford would be hospitable to inquiries about Bragg’s death by lawmen from the outside—especially because whatever had happened out there had happened under Burford’s watch. Likely, with his consent.

  Which led to the puzzler: What did Buddy want from him?

  “A tall order is right,” Buddy said with a lopsided grin. “And like I say, it could maybe be a bit dangerous. But there’s a story in it. A big story, potentially. Which is why I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Charlie was about to find out what the sheriff had in mind. But not right away. The door opened, and Mildred Kilgore came in, a wool cap pulled down over her ears, her coat belted tightly around her.

  “Hey, Charlie,” she said. “I’ve got a job printing order for you—the new flyer for our new bakery.” She saw Buddy Norris and added pleasantly, “Oh, hello, Sheriff. How are you today?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to Charlie. “I need two hundred copies this afternoon, please. For The Flour Shop.”

  Charlie got up from his desk and went to the counter. “Earliest, Saturday morning, nine o’clock. I can’t get to it until I get the Dispatch out of here.”

  Mildred pulled down the corners of her mouth. “That long? But we need it tomorrow, Charlie! We’re having our grand opening on Saturday and we planned to distribute the flyers to the merchants around the square on Friday.”

  “That long,” Charlie said firmly, resisting the urge to say take it or leave it. He hated the job printing part of the business. People always put off getting their printing done until five minutes before they had to have it, then pitched a hissy fit if he couldn’t produce it on the spot. “If you want something on Friday, you need to bring it in on Tuesday. I have a newspaper to publish, you know.”

  Mildred heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, if that’s the best you can do, I guess we’ll just have to live with it.” She pushed a sheet of paper, handwritten, across the counter. “Here’s what we want. The name of our bakery on the front in big letters. The list of items we’re selling and the prices are all on the inside.”

  Charlie scanned the page, then went back to the top, reading it aloud to make sure it was correct. “Bread, eleven cents a loaf. Scones, seven cents. Gingerbread, five cents. Cinnamon buns, two for nine cents. Cupcakes, two for fifteen cents. Assorted Christmas cookies, fifteen cents a dozen.” He looked up. “Sounds good—but the bread seems a bit pricey. Mrs. Hancock sells it for . . . what? Eight cents a loaf?”

  “Nine,” Mildred said, puffing out her cheeks. “And it’s already two or three days old by the time she puts it on the shelf. Our bread is freshly baked every day. Except on Sundays,” she added. “We have to have one day off.”

  Charlie scanned the list again. “Is this all you’re going to sell? What about Danish? Apple Danish would be good in the morning.”

  “And shoofly pie,” Buddy put in helpfully. “I’ll bet you could sell a lot of shoofly pie at breakfast time. But not doughnuts. Folks get their doughnuts at the Diner.” He smacked his lips. “Raylene Riggs makes the best doughnuts. Jelly doughnuts, too.”

  “We’ll be adding items as we go along,” Mildred said stiffly. “This is just for our opening week. And we wouldn’t think of competing with Raylene.” She gave a brief smile. “We want buttercup yellow paper, please, Charlie. And we’d like the flyer folded in thirds.”

  Charlie bent down to look under the counter at the paper supply. Straightening up with a sheet of paper, he said, “All I’ve got is this pale green. And far as folding is concerned, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The folding machine stopped working a couple of days ago. I’ve ordered the part,” he added, “but it has to come from Chicago, and it isn’t here yet.”

  “Oh, drat.” Mildred narrowed her eyes at him. “Really, Charlie. Green?”

  “You could take it over to Pitter Pat’s Print Shop, in Monroeville,” Charlie suggested helpfully. He pushed Mildred’s handwritten sheet back toward her. “Pat might have yellow. And he’d be glad to fold it for you.”

  “I am not driving to Monroeville,” Mildred muttered, pushing the sheet back to Charlie. “We’ll take the green paper. And we’ll fold it ourselves.”

  Five minutes later, she had left and Charlie returned to the chair behind his desk. “Now, about that proposition,” he said, picking up where he and the sheriff had left off. “Let’s hear it, shall we?”

  Buddy lit another cigarette. “Okay, here it is.”

  With increasing apprehension, Charlie listened to what the sheriff had to say. Yes, that was dangerous! Worse than dangerous, it was an easy way to get himself dead.

  But Charlie had been an investigative reporter for decades. He had an unerring nose for news, and he knew a story when it popped up in front of him. This one could be big. Big enough to keep his mind off the sad job of replacing Ophelia. Big enough to make the wire services. Big enough to put the Dispatch on the map, maybe. Not big enough for a Pulitzer—but you never knew about that, did you?

  Yes, it could be a big story, he thought. If he lived to write it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “WHAT ABOUT BREAD?”

  “Not until Saturday?” Earlynne cried, pushing the hair out of her eyes with a floury hand, leaving a wide white streak across her forehead. Her white apron was streaked with chocolate and what looked like peach juice. “But we’re opening on Saturday morning! Didn’t you tell Mr. Dickens that?”

  “Yes, I told him.” Mildred took off her coat and wool cap and hung them on the hook beside the back door. The oven had been on all morning, and the kitchen felt pleasantly warm after her chilly walk across the square. It smelled good, too—a rich, yeasty fragrance, warmed by scents of orange and cinnamon. And fresh-brewed coffee. The electric percolator on the shelf beside the gas stove was bubbling merrily.

  “But Saturday was the best he could do,” she added. “And the flyer is going to be green, not yellow, because that’s all the paper he has right now. If we want another color, we have to order it, and it won’t come in on time. What’s more, his folding machine is broken, so we’ll have to fold it ourselves.” She scowled. “You know, if you’d given me your list when I asked for it, we’d have the flyer today.”

  “Oh, stop lecturing, Mildred,” Earlynne said irritably. She broke an egg into her mixing bowl. “I couldn’t give you the list until you told me how much money each item is going to cost to make.”

  “And I couldn’t tell you how much each item would cost until I knew what items we were talking about, could I?” Mildred demanded in a reasonable tone. “And then I had to calculate all the prices, which was not an easy job. Don’t forget, Earlynne, we are not in this for fun. It would be nice if I could get some of my money back, which can only happen if we make a profit.”

  She glanced at the new floor-to-ceiling shelves they had installed along one of the kitchen walls, now stocked with several trays of baked goods. On the warming shelf over the gas range, two bowls of yeasty dough were rising under damp dishtowels. There were new lights hanging from the ceiling, fresh shelf paper lining the shelves in the pantry, and the linoleum was clean as a whistle. They had put several long days into getting the kitchen spruced up and functioning again—which had also meant getting Scooter D
ooley, Darling’s handyman, to fix the drippy faucets in the old porcelain sink and make sure the large gas oven was working right.

  Mildred nodded toward the shelves. “Cinnamon buns and scones. Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  “I came in early to practice,” Earlynne said, breaking another egg into the bowl and giving the batter an energetic stir. “I have to get used to the equipment and to working in this kitchen. I’ve been practicing at home, too, but every oven is different. And I need to get a routine worked out, so we can have a nice variety of baked goods in the display case all day long.” She added, “The stuff on the shelves is just practice, but you can take some home for you and Roger, if you like. I’ve arranged to donate the rest to the orphanage out on Schoolhouse Road. I thought the children would enjoy them.”

  “The orphanage is a nice idea,” Mildred conceded, filching a scone. “But if you had donated to the Ladies Guild, you might have created some customers.” Sampling it, she added, with genuine enthusiasm, “Earlynne, this is delicious! So flaky, too.”

  Earlynne smiled. “Scones are easy. Just flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar in a big bowl. Chop cold butter into little pieces and rub it into the flour with your fingers until it feels like cornmeal.” She put her mixing bowl under the new Sunbeam electric Mixmaster and turned it on. “Add the wet stuff, eggs and milk,” she said, over the noise of the mixer. “Roll it out and cut it into wedges. Voilà!”

  “That certainly looks easy,” Mildred said. She watched as the twin beaters whirred busily, whipping every lump out of the batter. Electric mixers for the home kitchen had been around for fifteen years, but the Mixmaster was the first to be reasonably priced—if you had a job and could afford eighteen dollars (more than half a week’s average paycheck). “And just think of the work it saves.”