The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  And remote. It was some twenty miles outside of town, down a bad road. The compound was surrounded by a sevenfoot chain-link fence topped with curls of razor wire, with a twelve-foot-high wooden tower at each corner. If anybody was foolish enough to try to escape, he’d be gunned down by the watchful guards.

  But there was no point in attempting an escape. The farm’s far-flung pastures and fields were bordered on the west by the muddy Alabama River and the notorious Briar Swamp on the south, both forbidding barriers. What’s more, Warden Burford was often heard to say that if he had to go to the trouble of sending out trackers and dogs, they should let the dogs have the escapee for lunch rather than go to the trouble of bringing him back. Most prisoners preferred a bed, regular meals, and a roof over their heads to swamp gators, copperheads, and Burford’s dogs. Jericho had the lowest escape rate in the state.

  Seen from the point of view of the Alabama Board of Prison Administrators in Montgomery, Jericho was a model prison, and Grover Burford was a model warden. The BOA judged the state prison farms on their profitability as well as their self-sufficiency and their ability to manage prisoners. The bigger the profit the better, and under Warden Burford, Jericho generated an impressive profit from its cash crops—lumber, corn, sorghum, cotton, cattle, pigs, and chickens. And prisoner labor, which was also a cash crop. One admiring BOA official had been heard to remark, “If all our wardens had Burford’s management skills, our budget problems would be solved.”

  In recognition of his stellar contributions to the state’s bottom line, the BOA paid Warden Burford a sizable bonus for productivity and efficiency. He had recently collected the check and an imposing gold-colored trophy at the annual banquet of prison officials in Montgomery. And now Charlie was on his way to interview him for an article in the Dispatch. At least, that was his cover story.

  What else he was there for . . . well, that wasn’t quite so clear. Buddy had told him that the bullet that killed Bragg wasn’t fired from the gun that had been found with his body, which meant that Bragg had been murdered. The sheriff’s instructions, such as they were, were comprehensive but sketchy.

  “Get whatever you can about Bragg’s death. And then get some more. But for God’s sake, don’t get yourself killed in the process.”

  Friday morning’s pale December sun came out briefly as Charlie climbed into his old green Pontiac and started south on the Jericho Road, past the Cypress Country Club, the county fairgrounds, and Darling’s unused airfield. As he drove, he saw that the gaudiness of a few weeks before—the burnished golds and coppers of the maples, the rich bronze of the bald cypress, the regal red and purple of the sweet gums—had faded. The hills and river bottoms were clad in somber browns and grays, as though they had repented themselves of their October flamboyance and were determined on a more puritan course for December. But still, the landscape was beautiful, and its muted shades matched Charlie’s uneasy mood.

  By the time he reached the compound, the sun had ducked back into its shelter of clouds, the sky was the color of dull pewter, and a cold north wind was snapping the Alabama flag that flew over the gate. He was stopped by a swarthy, broad-shouldered guard who curtly ordered him out of the car, frisked him, and sneered at his press card. The guard made a telephone call, then directed him to the administration building with a jerk of his head and a warning.

  “Second building on the right, fifty yards down the road. But don’t park in the warden’s space, or you will get your butt nailed.” The guard gave him a hard look. “And don’t go no further without an escort. You got that?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Charlie said with barely suppressed sarcasm, and shifted into gear.

  The administrative offices were in a single-story wood-frame building on the north side of a neatly mowed quadrangle. It was painted forest green with brown trim. Other frame buildings—the prisoners’ and guards’ barracks, the mess hall and kitchen, a recreation building, and a hospital—were painted the same colors and arranged around the east and west sides of the quad. On the south were sheds for shops, equipment repair, and vehicle maintenance, as well as the power plant and a small furniture factory. In the dull light, the place looked exactly like what it was: a prison.

  Charlie parked on the gravel apron in front of the administration building, noting that the warden’s spot was empty. He got out of his Pontiac, pulling his overcoat closer around him against the whipping wind and jamming his felt fedora on his head so it wouldn’t blow off.

  The front door opened into a small, chilly lobby that intersected with a hall running the length of the building, painted a poisonous green. Charlie walked past a Negro prisoner on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a brush and a bucket of soapy water that smelled strongly of lye. Another, on a ladder, was slapping more green paint on the already painted wall. Both returned Charlie’s greeting with sullen stares.

  The door to the warden’s outer office was closed. Charlie opened it tentatively. At a desk sat a slight, thin-shouldered young man with gingery hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses, typing rapidly. The name tag on his khaki uniform shirt pocket identified him as Corporal Casey, and Charlie remembered that the guards held quasi-military rank.

  The young man looked up when Charlie came in. “Mr. Dickens?” he asked with an eager smile.

  “That’s me.” Charlie returned the smile, wondering where he had seen Corporal Casey—who seemed hardly more than a boy, really—before. Without being asked, he lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk and pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Dickens, from the Dispatch.”

  “The warden had to go out to the barns to deal with a problem with one of the tractors,” the corporal said. “He just left, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back. I hope you don’t mind waiting.” He pushed his chair back. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Coffee would be swell,” Charlie said, thinking that the boy looked glad to have some company. He probably felt as out of place as he looked. “Black. And hot.”

  “Hot and black.” Casey smiled. “Coming right up, Mr. Dickens.” He was back in a moment with two mugs.

  Charlie unbuttoned his coat, grateful for the heat—such as it was—coming from the small oil heater in one corner of the room. As he leaned back in his chair, chilly hands wrapped around his coffee mug, it came to him.

  “Say, I think I recognize you. Aren’t you Hamp Casey’s boy, Wilber?”

  Hamp Casey owned a gravel pit near Darling and had just finished a term as county road commissioner. He farmed part of the old Delaney plantation—and he swung a lot of weight in Cypress County. Which might be why his nephew had this job.

  “Hamp is my uncle,” Wilber said, his freckled face brightening. “I’m Melton’s son. Maybe you knew my dad.”

  “I did,” Charlie said, adding, “Sorry about the accident.” Melton Casey had died the previous Fourth of July when, emboldened by Bodeen Pyle’s tiger spit, he’d thought he could beat an L&M locomotive across the tracks. “Your dad was a fine man. Straight as an arrow.” Well, apart from the occasional bender.

  “He sure was,” Wilber said gratefully. “Him and that train—it was hard to handle, I’ll tell you.”

  “I went to school with both your dad and Hamp,” Charlie went on, which was true. But then he stretched the connection a bit more than the facts warranted. “We used to play hooky and go swimming on Pine Mill Creek.” He shook his head, smiling a little. “You don’t want to know what kind of trouble the three of us got up to when we were young, Wilber. Well, not serious trouble. Just things boys do when they think nobody’s looking. Your dad was one smart kid. And nobody could hit his fast ball.”

  He was making this up as he went along, thinking it might be good to have a friendly connection inside Jericho—given the real purpose of his trip. His story had the desired effect.

  “Dad had a fast ball?” Wilber asked wonderingly, shaking his head. “I never even knew he played baseball. Gee, thanks, Mr. Dickens. It’s a small world, i
sn’t it?”

  “It is. And I’m sure your father would be very proud of you, Wilber.” Charlie put down his mug and nodded at the nameplate on the desk, which identified Corporal Wilber Casey as assistant to the warden. “You’ve got a pretty important job for a young fella,” he added. “You’ve been working out here long?”

  “Three years come spring,” Wilber said, but not proudly. “I was hired right after high school.”

  Charlie did a quick calculation. The boy was twenty-one, then. He didn’t look it.

  Wilber couldn’t suppress an involuntary sigh. “Prison work wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. But jobs are awf ’lly hard to get these days, and like my Uncle Hamp says, you gotta start somewhere, even if it’s not where you want to be for the rest of your life. I was grateful when he found me a job here, in accounting. Otherwise, I don’t know where I might’ve ended up. The gravel pit, maybe.”

  Charlie had seen some of the farmed-out prisoners working in Hamp Casey’s fields and his gravel pit. Wilber’s uncle—as crooked as his brother had been straight—no doubt had an inside track with the warden. In an admiring tone, he said, “Accounting. Say, you must be good with numbers. That’s a swell skill to have. Going to college?”

  “I hope, maybe. Someday.” Wilber gave him a shy smile. “But not in accounting. Journalism is what I want to do. I edited our high school newspaper for three years. I read the Dispatch, every issue, front to back.”

  “Do you,” Charlie said. “That’s good to hear.”

  “I do.” The smile got bigger. “Whenever I run across something that interests me, I write it up like a page one story, the way I would if I was a real newspaperman.”

  “Huh,” Charlie said, now more interested.

  “Sometimes I have to do quite a bit of research to get it right.” The boy took a breath and added, “My real goal is to be a reporter, like you.”

  Charlie stared at him. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in his brain, and he thought of Ophelia’s defection to the CCC camp. Might Wilber do a few of her jobs? But there was more. Sitting where he was, at Jimmie Bragg’s desk, the boy might know a little something about Jimmie Bragg’s death. At the very least, he was eyes and ears inside the prison’s closed shop, which was a good thing. A useful thing that he, Charlie, could exploit.

  “So you want to be a reporter,” he mused. “Well, I’m mighty pleased to hear that. Reporting is a challenging profession. Requires a man with an ability to smell a story and the guts and determination to follow wherever the hell it leads him. If you’re that kind of man, and if you can write, you’ll do well.”

  Wilber sighed wistfully. “Thanks, Mr. Dickens. It means a lot to me to hear you say that. I’ve been saving my money. I was all set to go to college last fall and get started on my journalism degree. But that has to wait, I’m afraid. Now that Dad’s gone, Mom needs me at home.”

  “That’s admirable, Wilber.” Charlie leaned forward. “But you don’t need a journalism degree to work on a newspaper, you know. Not if you’ve got the skills, and the story.” He paused for emphasis. “And the right connections.” He repeated it, just to be sure. “Connections, Wilber. Connections. That’s what’s important.”

  Wilber got the point. “You mean that, Mr. Dickens?”

  “I mean it,” Charlie said. If he felt guilty for dangling a carrot in front of this young eager beaver, he didn’t let that bother him. “A degree is good. I’m not telling you it isn’t, if you’ve got the time and the money. But a man who can write, a man with a nose for news—why, once a man like that has a foot in the door, he can do just as well without college. All he needs is a strong story. A story with legs, it’s called in the biz. Find that story, Wilber, and it’s good as gold. It’s your ticket to wherever you want to go.”

  Wilber let out a long breath. “A story, huh?”

  “That’s right, a story. The bigger the better.” Charlie paused, watching the boy deal with that for a moment. Then he decided it was time to redirect the conversation. He made a point of glancing down at the nameplate on Wilber’s desk.

  “I notice that you’re not clerking in accounting now,” he said approvingly. “You got promoted. To the warden’s office, no less.”

  “Yeah.” Looking pleased, Wilber ducked his head. “When Warden Burford found out I could type and spell pretty good, he moved me over here. There are three hundred thirty-two men in this prison, but most of ’em can’t read, let alone type. The guards can’t, either.”

  “The warden made a good move. Congratulations, Wilber.” Charlie took out his Camels, shook several cigarettes loose, and leaned across the boy’s desk, holding out the pack with a manto-man gesture. “Smoke?”

  Wilber brightened and leaned forward. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Mr. Dickens.” He took a cigarette and Charlie flicked his lighter to it, then lit his own.

  “So you’ve got Bragg’s old job,” Charlie said conversationally, leaning back in his chair and drawing on his cigarette. “The guy who shot himself a few weeks back, I mean. Jimmie Bragg. He was assistant to the warden, wasn’t he?”

  Wilber looked troubled. “Yeah. I’ve got his job,” he said. “Matter of fact, this was his desk.” He cleared his throat. “Matter of fact, I was there that afternoon. When it happened.”

  Charlie felt his stomach muscles jerk. Of all the things he might have expected to hear, this was the most surprising. “You were, huh?” He lowered his voice. “You saw Bragg shoot himself? You were an eyewitness?”

  The word startled the boy, and Charlie wished he could take it back. But there it was, blinking in the air between them like a neon sign.

  “Well, I—” Wilber swallowed. “Not exactly.” He dropped his eyes and his voice flattened out. “I happened to come along a minute or two after Sergeant Richards found Mr. Bragg behind the maintenance shed. Mr. Bragg was dead, and there was the gun, right there, on the ground.”

  “Just a minute or two?” To Charlie’s ear, the report sounded rehearsed, as if Wilber had given it several times before. To the sheriff, maybe? To the warden?

  Wilber flashed him a sidelong glance. Charlie saw the apprehension in it, and the desire, and waited, hoping there would be more. But there wasn’t.

  The boy hesitated. “Yeah. A minute or two. That’s right. Mr. Bragg was dead.”

  Charlie stared at him. He knew the boy was lying. There was more to the story than he was letting on. But this wasn’t the time or the place to prod him. So he only said, in a mild tone, “Holy moly, Wilber. Must have been quite a shock, stumbling across a dead body.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it was, all right. A shock. Real unexpected.” Wilber hesitated. And where a competent liar would have ended the matter and let it rest, he couldn’t resist adding, “Kinda crazy, too. At least, that’s what people are saying.”

  “Crazy?” Charlie asked. “You mean, it didn’t make sense?”

  “Yeah.” Wilber pulled too hard on his cigarette, then coughed and sputtered. When he could talk again, he said, “Mr. Bragg was . . . well, he was cocky, swaggering, you might say. He liked being the boss’s right-hand man, and he always had to let everybody know it. He liked to swing his weight. People—guards, I mean, and the prisoners who were acquainted with him—are saying he didn’t seem like the type to kill himself.” There was a noise out in the hall and he paused warily, as if he expected the door to open. When it didn’t, he went on, in a lower voice, “That’s the scuttlebutt, anyway. The fellas around here like to gossip. There’s not much else to do.”

  “That’s interesting, Wilber.” Charlie leaned forward confidentially “I have to agree with the scuttlebutt. I ran into Jimmie Bragg myself, just a few hours after the accident that killed Whitworth. He certainly didn’t act like a guilty man at that point—much less like somebody who would be so overwhelmed with guilt that he would shoot himself the very next day. I’m still asking myself about that.” Pointedly, he added, “I just keep thinking there’s a story here somewhere.”

 
“You . . . do?” Wilber asked uncertainly, tilting his head to one side.

  “I do,” Charlie said with an emphatic nod. “If you had actually seen it happen, of course, the story would be bigger. Eyewitness accounts are the heart of any piece of reporting.”

  He let that sink in for a moment, then leaned back again and smiled encouragingly at the boy. “Actually, I envy you, Wilber. Working in the warden’s office puts you in the catbird’s seat. Gives you a chance to see how the system works when nobody’s looking, I mean. Am I right? Is that pretty much the case?”

  “Pretty much,” Wilber said, clearly flattered. “I handle the warden’s mail, type his letters, fill out his reports. A lot of things you’d never in the world think about come over this desk every day.” Lowering his voice, he added, in a troubled tone, “To tell the truth, Mr. Dickens, stuff goes on in this prison that you couldn’t guess in a million years. Things aren’t always what they seem—to folks on the outside, I mean.” He glanced apprehensively toward the door. “I suppose that’s true for most prisons, but somehow this . . . Well, it seems like a special case.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet,” Charlie said sympathetically. “Jericho is tough, and here you are, right in the thick of it.”

  Bragg had been in the thick of it, too, he remembered, and a different thought occurred to him. Maybe that’s why he was dead and Wilber was sitting behind his desk. Had the boy considered that possibility, he wondered. Was the threat of it keeping him awake at night?

  But he only smiled. “Tell you what,” he said easily. “This conversation is giving me an idea. Like I said when I called to set up the appointment with the warden, I’m here to interview Burford for an article about that award he got for running a tight shop.” He gave the boy a thoughtful look. “But now I’m thinking that I should get your perspective as well, Wilber. You could give me a better idea about the way things really work here—an inside look at the bigger picture, so to speak. No need to go on the record if you don’t want to,” he added reassuringly. “You’d just be filling in the background, so I wouldn’t quote you. Unless you tell me to, that is.” He met Wilber’s eyes. “If you’re willing to go on the record, there could even be a story in it for you.”