The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “What’s more,” Bodeen went on, “if I know anything about this business, Burford ain’t intendin’ to just make liquor for Jericho. He’s growin’ his own corn out there, and he can buy sugar through the state system and truck it in without anybody the wiser. Plus, he’s got all the free labor he needs, and he don’t have to worry about somebody stumbling on his operation and turning him in to the law. In fact, he’s got so much muscle, he might even buy off Agent Kinnard. Even easier, he could sic him on me.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Give Burford a month to get up to full production, and he’ll be the biggest operator in this part of Alabama.” He paused and added emphatically. “And because he can make it cheap, he’ll undersell me—undersell us—everywhere.”

  “Ah,” Buddy said, still trying to grasp the situation. “And you’re telling me this because . . .”

  “Because I expect you to close Burford down.”

  Buddy just managed not to cough again. “Close him . . . down?” If this was a test, it was a damned dangerous one. Burford had all the power he needed to break a local sheriff. Slice him up into little pieces and grind him under his boot heel.

  “Yeah. What I said. Close him down. Arrest him. Break up his still. Whatever it takes to put him out of business and keep him there.” Bodeen’s voice became sarcastic. “You think you can do that without asking Kinnard to help? We don’t want the feds coming into the county and nosin’ around. Kinnard might take it into his stupid head to come after me, and I can’t buy him off.”

  Buddy swallowed. Even if this was true (and maybe it wasn’t), now was not the time to make a move on Burford’s bootleg operation. He had to get the Bragg murder settled first. “Well, I hear what you’re saying, Pyle, but I—”

  “Something else here, too, Sheriff,” Bodeen cut in. “When Whitworth died in that car crash a few weeks back, it was Jimmie Bragg who ran him off the road. Right?”

  Buddy was taken aback by the change of subject. But yes, if there was one thing he was sure of in all this confusion, it was that Bragg had been responsible for running Whitworth off the road and killing him. He could be confident of that because a witness had seen what had happened and identified Bragg as the driver. And it was no surprise that Pyle knew this, because it had been in the Dispatch.

  “Right,” Buddy said. “So?”

  Bodeen leaned forward, his face intent through the smoke that curled out of his cigarette. “So my guy says that the scuttlebutt out there at the prison is that Bragg didn’t kill himself, the way everybody thinks.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Buddy said cautiously.

  “You mean, you know that?” Bodeen asked, narrowing his eyes again.

  Buddy thought of the ballistics evidence Wayne had assembled, and weighed his answer. “Yes,” he said finally. “I won’t tell you how, but I pretty much know that.”

  Bodeen straightened his shoulders. “Well, if you know so damn much, Sheriff, maybe you know who killed him.” There was a sullen look on his face. “And why.”

  “I’d rather hear the information you’ve got,” Buddy said quietly. He let the challenge come into his voice. “Maybe you have a name?”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” Bodeen said. “And since we’re partners, I’m going to tell you who it is. When you go out there to question him, you can bust that still. I intend to keep on supplying that farm,” he added belligerently. “I don’t want no competition from Burford.”

  Buddy gave him a fixed look. “The name?”

  “Richards. Sergeant Horace Richards. He’s a guard out there.”

  “The man who claimed he found the body,” Buddy said. The man who claimed to have found the fatal gun. The gun that had not shot Bragg.

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Bodeen said. “And I reckon, if the guard did it, it’ll be hard as hell to prove. There weren’t any witnesses. Just rumors is all.”

  Buddy didn’t reply to that. “You got any information about why Richards might have killed Bragg?”

  “Only that he did it on the warden’s orders. Rumor is that Burford thought Bragg was too rough on Whitworth, like he didn’t need to do what he did. Or maybe Bragg was just getting’ too big for his britches.” Bodeen grinned mirthlessly. “Burford don’t like nobody workin’ his side of the road.”

  Buddy considered that. Both were possible. Also possible, and perhaps more likely: that Bragg—who had been the warden’s assistant—knew too much about what was really going on out there at Jericho, which now appeared to include an illicit distillery. Maybe he had asked for something in return for his silence. What he got instead was a bullet. Yes, Buddy thought. That was more likely.

  Pyle levered himself out of his chair, put his hands palms down on Buddy’s desk, and leaned forward, thrusting out his lower jaw like a bulldog. His breath smelled of cigarettes and garlic. “I’m paying you good for your protection, Sheriff. You close down Burford’s still, I’ll pay you better. We’ll double the per-haul payment to ten dollars. You like that?”

  Buddy stood up, thinking that those who danced with the devil invariably ended up with singed eyebrows and a real bad burn. “Thanks,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll get in touch with you later.”

  Bodeen straightened up. “Make it sooner, not later,” he said. “Make it real soon.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and turned to leave. “Partner.”

  Buddy stood by the window, watching, as Bodeen strode down the path to the street, pulling his black cap down over his ears. He got into his black Ford, parked out front, and drove off, spinning his wheels.

  Without turning or raising his voice, Buddy said, “You there, Wayne?”

  Buddy’s office had two doors, one that was open to the waiting area. The other, closed, led to the kitchen. That door opened, and Wayne stepped in, carrying a notebook.

  “Here, boss,” he said.

  Buddy turned. “Did you get it all?”

  “Pretty much word for word,” Wayne said, raising the notebook. “I’ll type it up and we can both sign it.” He paused. “How much did he hand you this time?”

  Buddy opened the drawer and took out the wad of bills Bodeen had given him. “You count,” he said, pushing them across the desk.

  The deputy peeled them off. “Looks like two hundred fifty.” He chuckled. “The wages of sin.”

  Buddy was not amused. He rummaged in his desk drawer and found an envelope. “Interesting that Bodeen’s worried about competition from Burford.”

  “Now that was a surprise,” Wayne said. “A working still, out there on the prison farm.”

  “Maybe.” Buddy picked up the bills and put them into the envelope. “But when you stop to think about it, it makes all kinds of sense. They’re producing everything else they need. Why buy corn whiskey when they can cook it themselves? Burford’s got thousands of acres of wilderness, as many acres of corn as he can grow, and the men it takes to run his moonshine operation around the clock. And it’s all off the books. When he sells his liquor, the money goes right into his pocket. He’ll make a mint—and he’ll buy off anybody who’s tempted to spill the beans. He’d even buy off Kinnard, if he could. He’s got the perfect setup.”

  “You said it.” Wayne crossed his arms. “It’s going to be kinda hard to shut him down, don’t you think? When it comes to doing what has to be done, I’ve got as much guts as the next guy. But a couple of local lawmen walking into that prison out there—” He shook his head. “We could wind up dead real easy.”

  Buddy licked the envelope flap and sealed it. “I agree with you. It’s a job for the feds. They get paid a helluva lot better than we do.” He paused. “But it’s complicated, Wayne. Kinnard and his agents are pretty ham-handed. Bringing them in to close down the still could throw a monkey wrench into our investigation of Bragg’s murder.”

  “Where are we on that?” Wayne asked.

  “You heard Pyle. Sergeant Richards sounds like a pretty good bet. And Charlie Dickens went out there this morning to have a look aroun
d. I’m hoping he’ll bring us a lead.” On the outside of the envelope, across the sealed flap, Buddy wrote, $250 received from Bodeen Pyle for ‘protection,’ dated and signed it.

  “You sign it too,” he said, pushing the envelope across the desk to Wayne, and watched while he wrote his name. “When you get your notes typed up,” he added, “we’ll take them to Moseley.”

  Wayne raised an eyebrow. “Both of us?”

  “Both of us. He may have some questions for you, as a witness to this transaction. I’ll call Liz to be sure, but I think she said he’d be back in town today.”

  The office of Cypress County attorney—the same thing as the district attorney in other court systems—didn’t take more than a few hours a week of anybody’s time. So it was rotated among Darling’s three lawyers. Benton Moseley had the job right now. Which meant that if any indictments came out of this case, he would be handling them.

  Buddy had already given Mr. Moseley the envelope containing the first seventy dollars Bodeen Pyle had paid him and explained where the money came from. Now, with Wayne’s notes and the deputy himself as a witness, he felt a hundred percent better about the situation. The earlier conversation had taken place out at Briar Swamp, with nobody but Pyle’s men around. By taking money from a bootlegger (especially one he hadn’t arrested yet) he had put himself in a vulnerable position. Now, with Wayne’s verbatim notes and Pyle’s second payment to hand over to the county attorney, he felt he was in the clear. His judgment might be questioned. But he couldn’t be convicted of corruption.

  The phone rang on Buddy’s desk. “Want me to get that?” Wayne asked.

  But Buddy had already picked up the receiver. “Sheriff’s office,” he said. He listened a moment, then said to Wayne, “It’s Dickens. I’ll handle it. How long will it take you to type those notes?”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Wayne said, and left.

  Buddy sat down behind his desk. “How did it go out at Jericho this morning? You still in one piece? Got any holes in you?”

  “No shots fired.” Charlie chuckled mirthlessly. “Big news: I’ve found somebody who has an inside track out there and might be willing to talk about it. He’s a kid, really, but he seems to have a pretty good head on his shoulders. I’m hoping to ask him some questions and get some answers—at nine tonight, over near Monroeville, at the Cotton Gin Dance Hall. I’d invite you, but he’s got ants in his pants. Understandably so, given where he works.”

  “That’s swell, Charlie,” Buddy said enthusiastically. “Anything I can do?”

  “There might be,” Charlie said. “I’ll know more after I’ve talked to this guy. What are you doing first thing in the morning—say, around eight?”

  “Meeting you,” Buddy said promptly. “Where?”

  “The apartment,” Charlie said. “Fannie will fry you up some griddle cakes to go with your bacon and eggs.”

  Buddy hung up with a smile. Griddle cakes, bacon, and eggs for breakfast—something to look forward to, maybe served with a side of answers to some important questions.

  Maybe.

  * * *

  *For example, in The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O’Clock Lady, where Charlie’s connection with a spy at the CCC camp put a clever swindler out of business.

  *For the story of Buddy’s unsettling discovery, read The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “SOMEBODY IS THREATENING TO STEAL OUR CUPCAKE?”

  On Friday morning, Lizzy was awakened by the lusty crowing of Mrs. Freeman’s rooster, who supervised his harem of colorful hens a few doors down the block. Rowser (the rooster’s apt name) made it his duty to ensure that, as soon as the morning sun peeped over the eastern hills, the entire neighborhood rolled out of bed and welcomed the day as enthusiastically as he did.

  Lizzy snuggled deep into her down-filled comforter, hoping to get just a little more sleep, but she knew it was futile. Daffy was already awake, patting her cheek with his paw and inquiring about his breakfast. Mr. Moseley was due back in the office this morning, and the day was going to be busy—and complicated. It was time to get up.

  But the air outside her warm nest was frosty, and the goosebumps popped up on her arms as she got out of bed. She pulled her winter flannel nightgown over her head and hurriedly put on her brassiere—a “bra,” as the Ladies’ Home Journal was calling it now. The flapper era was over, thank God, and women were allowed to have breasts again. She had even read that one company was proposing to make bras in different cup sizes—A for small and D for very large—so they would fit better. But Lizzy had the feeling that it would be a while before an innovation like that made it to Mann’s Mercantile, or even the Sears, Roebuck catalog. Like tampons. She’d read that a doctor had patented a tampon with a cardboard applicator, but how long before you could actually buy one was anybody’s guess. Until then, it was Kotex and an elastic belt.

  Shivering, she quickly stepped into a fresh cotton and wool knee-length union suit with sleeves to her elbows and buttoned it up the front. The women’s magazines might consider it an old-fashioned, even amusing undergarment. But there was only one coal stove in Mr. Moseley’s office, and when the winter wind blew, the old building was downright frigid. Lizzy appreciated all the extra warmth she could get, so she pulled a white flannelette slip on over her head. Then she went to her closet and took out the warmest outfit she owned: a navy pinstriped wool mohair one-piece dress with a pleated skirt. Over that, she added a navy sweater and a string of pretty white beads. She felt like dressing up a little. Mr. Moseley had been away for a week. She wanted to look nice.

  With that in mind, she sat down at her dressing table and deftly applied an eyebrow pencil and a soft pink lipstick. Firehouse red was smart these days for lips and nails, and her darkhaired friend Verna wore it dramatically. But Lizzy preferred a more feminine look, framed by the soft brown hair that rippled around her face.

  Which didn’t mean that she was a softie, she reminded herself, studying her reflection in the three-panel mirror. She saw a face with wide-spaced, steady gray eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a resolute mouth—not quite pretty, by the standards of the Hollywood movie magazines. She tilted her chin, giving her reflection a small smile. She liked to think it was the face of a woman who knew her mind and stood her ground.

  But her smile faded as she thought of Grady’s telephone call the night before, inviting her to dinner this evening at the Old Alabama Hotel. The Old Alabama was widely acknowledged as Darling’s most fashionable dining spot, which only made it more fashionable than the Darling Diner, where you had your choice of a seat at the lunch counter or a table. Or the Dine-and-Dance, where you stood in line for spareribs or pulled pork sandwiches, then found your own table.

  But Lizzy had not been at all tempted by the prospect of dining on a snowy white damask tablecloth with ice cubes in her water glass and Mrs. Vaughn playing dinner music on the grand piano in the lobby. And Grady sitting on the other side of the table, being sweetly nice and doing everything he could to win her over. Surely it was better not to put either of them in that uncomfortable position.

  But instead of saying “No, thank you, and don’t ask me again, please,” she had said “I’m sorry, Grady. I have other plans.” Which was true. She and the other Puzzle Divas were getting together that night to try to improve their teamwork on the new puzzle she’d rented from Mr. Lima at the drugstore—this one, a complicated poinsettia puzzle with 750 pieces.

  But true or not, the other truth—that she didn’t want to give Grady any reason to believe she might consider a serious relationship with him—was far more important. She should have told him that, instead of making her voice sound almost regretful. She had been soft and spineless. As she often was when she had to confront her mother’s demands, she had been weak.

  But Daffy was twining himself around her ankles, reminding her that breakfast was on the menu, and the sooner the better. With one last frown at herself in the mirror, she stood
up and went downstairs. The morning was chilly, and she was looking forward to a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, with a bowl of warm Cream of Wheat and a hot cup of coffee.

  And when she got downstairs, there was something to make her smile: that lovely red poinsettia on the kitchen table, and the note from Ryan Nichols.

  Not that Mr. Nichols’ poinsettia—or Mr. Nichols himself, for that matter—had anything at all to do with her refusing Grady’s invitation. Her relationship with Mr. Nichols was entirely professional, and their meeting two months before had been very brief and businesslike. At least until the end, when he’d handed her the four-leaf clover he found in the grass in her front yard.

  “When I got out of the car in front of your house,” he’d said, “I happened to look down and noticed this.” His voice had softened. “It was growing in your yard, so it belongs to you. But since I’m the one who found it, maybe it means good luck for both of us.” Lizzy had pressed it between two small squares of wax paper and stuck it in the corner of her dressing table mirror, where she saw it every day.*

  Ryan Nichols was with the WPA—the Works Progress Administration, the New Deal’s answer to America’s enormous unemployment problem. He had dropped in to let her know that the WPA was developing a new program called the Federal Writers’ Project. The program aimed to support teams of writers and editors who would publish travel guides for each of the forty-eight states, as well as other things. For instance, writers might also be assigned to record local history and folklore or do social research. At this point, the program seemed fluid and open ended. But most importantly, it would employ women, something that the current WPA programs (the Civilian Conservation Corps and the many road and bridge construction projects) couldn’t easily do. Mr. Nichols had come to see her because—once it was funded—the project would need program directors and administrators, some of them part time, others full time. And Lizzy’s agent and editor had both recommended her!