The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “You will be,” the sheriff said. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Moseley.” He grinned and added, with unexpected frankness, “A county attorney who knows his way around sure makes this job a lot easier.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Mr. Moseley said matter-of-factly, but Lizzy thought he sounded pleased. “Deputy Springer, that was good forensic work on that weapon. That’s going to be persuasive evidence when we get to court. If we get to court,” he amended. “We’ve still got a long row to hoe.”

  When they had gone, Mr. Moseley wrote his name and the date on the envelope containing the money that had come from Bodeen Pyle and handed it to Lizzy. “This goes into the safe,” he said. “When you get your notes typed up, add them to the report Buddy submitted, and put them into the safe, too.” He regarded her curiously. “Well? What do you think?”

  “I guess I’m pretty surprised,” Lizzy confessed. “I always believed that Sheriff Burns was an honest lawman. And I never suspected that a prison warden and a guard might be implicated in something like bootlegging—or murder.”

  Mr. Moseley stuck his hands in his pockets. “What was that I was saying just this morning? Nothing exciting ever happens in Darling?” He chuckled. “Watch me eat my words.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “HAIR-RAISING IS MORE LIKE IT”

  It was almost two o’clock on Friday afternoon when Mildred realized that she was never going to bake her way out of her dilemma and thought of someone who might help. She brushed the flour out of her hair, put one of the loaves from her final batch into a bag, and set out for her destination, which was only a couple of blocks away.

  Aunt Hetty Little’s small frame cottage on Cherry Lane was painted a rosy pink, its shutters and front porch a sprightly apple green. All through late spring and summer, spires of old-fashioned gladiolas, hollyhocks, foxgloves, and larkspur brightened the small front yard, and sweet peas and moonflowers festooned the fence. Aunt Hetty collected old-fashioned flowers the way some people collect teapots.

  But the summer flowers were taking their winter nap, and the border was alight with pots of the scarlet poinsettias that Aunt Hetty always “darkened off” (as she put it) in her bedroom closet. From early October until a couple of weeks before Christmas, she kept them in the dark for at least twelve hours every day. This period of extended darkness stimulated the plants to produce their brilliant red flowers—which were really not flowers at all, but modified leaves called bracts. (The actual flowers were the inconspicuous yellow blooms in the center of each red leaf cluster.)

  “Why, Mildred, hello!” Aunt Hetty exclaimed, when she opened the door to Mildred’s knock. She was wearing a red apron over a blue cotton dress printed with tiny red strawberries. A bright red sweater set off her silvery hair. Her blue eyes were sharp and piercing behind silver-rimmed glasses. Aunt Hetty didn’t miss much.

  “You’re just in time to give me a hand, dear,” she added. “I was on my way to bring the poinsettias indoors. They’re originally from Mexico, you know—in the tropics. This chilly wind makes them want to drop their leaves. Will you help, please?”

  “Sure thing,” Mildred said warmly. So she put down the bag she had brought, and for the next little while, she helped Aunt Hetty bring in the potted poinsettias and line them up on the window sills. By the time they were done, the little house had a distinctly Christmassy appearance.

  “I’m curious,” Mildred said, looking around the small parlor, where Aunt Hetty’s loom took up an entire corner. “How did you get so many poinsettias? You must have—” She turned, counted the window sills, and did a quick calculation. “Why, you must have a dozen!”

  “Thirteen, actually. There’s one in the bathroom.” Aunt Hetty pointed to a particularly brilliant plant. “That’s the mama. Isn’t she splendid? Bessie Bloodworth gave her to me for Christmas years and years and years ago. Every spring, I’ve taken cuttings and rooted them, so these are all her babies. I give several away every Christmas.” She tilted her head, her eyes bright. “Maybe you and Earlynne would like two or three for that grand opening of yours.”

  “We would love that,” Mildred said promptly. “I’ll use them in our Christmas window. I’ve been working on that window—I really want to win the contest.”

  Aunt Hetty was smiling. “Well, then. Let’s sit down and have a hot cup of tea and you can tell me how you girls are getting on with your bakery. It’s really quite exciting, you know. Darling’s very own bakery!”

  “Exciting isn’t the word for it,” Mildred said ruefully, picking up her bag and following Aunt Hetty down the hall. “Hairraising is more like it.”

  Aunt Hetty laughed. “That’s always the way with new things, isn’t it? A surprise around every corner, and some of them not so pleasant.”

  A few moments later, the two of them were seated in Aunt Hetty’s charming old-fashioned kitchen. The room was dominated by the wood-fired cast iron kitchen range that took up most of one wall, its gleaming stovepipe making a sharp elbow bend and disappearing into the wall a foot below the ceiling.

  Most Darling women had begun cooking with gas after the Great War, because gas stoves were much cooler in the summer. And when Darling got its newfangled electrical system in the early 1920s, the rest began using modern electric stoves, like the one Mildred had at home. She had been thrilled when she could give up the old-fashioned iron range, which she thought was a monstrosity.

  But while Aunt Hetty kept a small electric stove on the back porch for cooking in July and August, she refused to part with her kitchen range. On this December day, its radiating warmth was as comforting as a favorite woolly sweater. A cast iron kettle steamed on its cooktop, and a bowl of rising dough, covered by a yellow-checked cloth, sat on the wall shelf behind the range. Against the opposite wall stood a gleaming white Hoosier cabinet, with a sifter-bin for flour, another bin for sugar, and shelves that held jars of dried herbs from Aunt Hetty’s garden, all neatly labeled. A dark oak icebox with polished brass fittings stood next to the old-fashioned porcelain sink. The oilcloth-covered table was set with a pair of delicate porcelain cups and saucers, a small white china teapot, and a cherry-red glass plate laden with slices of warm gingerbread. Mildred put her bag under a chair, feeling herself relaxing and thinking how good it was to take a step back in time. And if the electricity went down for a day or two or more (as it often did, especially in the winter), Aunt Hetty could carry on as usual.

  Aunt Hetty picked up the teapot and poured cups of fragrant mint tea. “Now tell me,” she commanded with a twinkle, “how you and Earlynne are getting along with your project. I walked past this morning on my way back from the post office and saw your Christmas window, with the cookies and those gingerbread houses. It’s very attractive, Mildred. I’ve been telling all my neighbors about the grand opening, and everyone is looking forward to it. Are you ready?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Mildred said fervently. “We’ve been working practically night and day. The shop is cleaned and painted, and we installed a big glass display case and fixed the oven in the kitchen. Scooter Dooley repaired the leaky faucets, and I drove to Mobile and bought a load of baking supplies. And Earlynne is baking up a storm. All kinds of pastries—scones and croissants and sticky buns and tarts and cookies and—” She stopped. “Too many, if you ask me.”

  “Earlynne has always been a first-rate baker.” Aunt Hetty stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea, glancing at Mildred over the tops of her silver-rimmed glasses. “And you’ve got a good business head on your shoulders. Between the two of you, I’m sure the bakery will be a great success.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Mildred said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “There’s just one little thing—” She stopped, feeling quite foolish, and busied herself putting sugar into her tea. “Well, I suppose it isn’t really a little thing, Aunt Hetty. Actually, it’s probably pretty important.” She took a breath. “To tell the truth, it turns out that neither of us is very good at baki
ng . . . well, bread.”

  “You’re not very good at baking—” Aunt Hetty gave an amused chuckle. “I really must look into getting a hearing aid, Mildred. I thought I heard you say that you and Earlynne aren’t very good at baking bread.”

  Mildred sighed. “That’s what I said, I’m afraid. When it comes to bread, we are absolute duds, both of us.” She took a deep breath, feeling her cheeks growing warm. “I’ve brought a loaf from one of the batches I baked this morning. My best loaf, actually.” She took her bag out from under her chair, pulled out a misshapen loaf of bread and set it on the table. “Do you have a knife?”

  Aunt Hetty eyed the lopsided loaf warily, but she got up and took a knife out of a drawer. “This is the one I use to slice my bread. The serrations make it easy.”

  “Nothing will make this easy,” Mildred said grimly, and demonstrated. Sawing hard, she finally managed to cut a slice from the brick-like loaf and handed it to Aunt Hetty.

  Aunt Hetty gazed at it in surprise. “This is your best loaf?” She wrinkled her nose, broke off a corner, and put it into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, then made a wry face. “Tastes like sawdust. I don’t think your customers would come back for seconds.”

  Mildred nodded regretfully. “You’re right. I only brought it to show you where we are. Earlynne and I should have planned better. We should have discussed who was going to do what—in detail.”

  “But you didn’t.” Aunt Hetty pushed the loaf away.

  Mildred shook her head. “Unfortunately, I just assumed that Earlynne was as expert with bread as she is with carrot cake and meringues and scones and such. In fact, I didn’t find out about the bread until yesterday afternoon. She baked some loaves for me to sample and they were . . . well, pretty awful. I couldn’t eat them. She’s giving them to Liz for her chickens.”

  “Oh, dear,” Aunt Hetty murmured. She pushed the plate of gingerbread toward Mildred. “Have a slice, do. It’ll make you feel better. This is AdaJean LeRoy’s gingerbread. She sent me her recipe and told me to tell you that you and Earlynne could use it for your shop.”

  “Thank you.” Mildred took a slice of gingerbread and nibbled on it, then took another bite. It was certainly tastier and had a nicer texture than the gingerbread they’d been making. She’d be sure to get the recipe.

  But she felt she had to tell the whole story, so she hurried on. “When I understood the problem, I knew I had to do something. So I got to work this morning and—” She sighed. “But it turns out that when it comes to bread, I’m no better than Earlynne. I paid attention to the recipe and did everything it said, as carefully as I could. But it was an utter fiasco. I made a mess of everything, including the kitchen—and the neighbor’s cat.”

  “The cat, too? Gracious sakes alive,” Aunt Hetty said softly. “I am sorry to hear that, child.”

  Now close to tears, Mildred clenched her fists. “Aunt Hetty, bread is a bakery’s staple item. If we can’t sell a decent loaf at a reasonable price, all the splendid scones and Danish and fruit tarts in the world won’t save us. The Flour Shop is doomed!”

  To Mildred’s ears, her words sounded a bit . . . well, melodramatic, and she feared that Aunt Hetty would think she was exaggerating. But she meant every single syllable. She was panicked.

  Aunt Hetty pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I totally agree with you, my dear. But I can certainly see why you’re upset.” She picked up a slice of gingerbread. “And I’m wondering. Why have you come to me?”

  “Who else would I go to?” Mildred demanded passionately. “Everybody knows that you bake the very best bread in Darling. You always win blue ribbons at the Cypress County Fair. So I was . . .” She gulped. “Well, I was hoping you might bake a few loaves for our Saturday grand opening. Just a few,” she added hurriedly. “Maybe five or six loaves. Or a few more,” she said in a lower voice. She bit her lip. “As many as possible, that is.”

  Aunt Hetty put down the gingerbread. “But that won’t solve your problem, Mildred,” she said sternly. “You’ll surely need more than a few loaves for the opening. And if you plan to operate a bakery, at least one of you ought to be able to bake a decent loaf.”

  “I know,” Mildred said wretchedly. “But what can we do?”

  “You can stop being such a namby-pamby. You can learn, for pity’s sake.” Aunt Hetty’s sharp voice softened a bit. “But I’ll help. I’ll bake a couple of batches for your Saturday grand opening, and I’ll see if I can round up a few other ladies who can pitch in.”

  Mildred let out her breath. “Oh, Aunt Hetty, that’s wonderful! You are an angel!” She leaned forward eagerly. “You’re an answer to our prayers. You’ve saved us!”

  “Not yet.” Aunt Hetty held up her hand. “I’ll do this—but on one condition.”

  “Anything,” Mildred said. “Anything.” She paused and added apprehensively, “What is it?”

  “You and Earlynne agree to come over here right after church on Sunday. I’m going to teach you how to bake a decent loaf of bread.”

  Mildred pulled her brows together. “It won’t help,” she said. “Neither of us have the knack.” At the look on Aunt Hetty’s face, she added, “I’ll come. But I can’t speak for Earlynne.”

  Aunt Hetty folded her arms. “Both of you, or you’ll get no bread from me. And don’t be so down in the mouth. Mrs. Noah was baking bread on the ark, and she didn’t have a modern oven like mine. And heaven only knows how she managed, with all those animals in the kitchen.” There was a smile in her blue eyes, and her voice lightened. “Of course you can learn, Mildred. There’s no mystery to baking bread. Anybody can learn, with the right teacher.”

  “If you say so,” Mildred replied, still unconvinced. She was sure that Earlynne would balk. But at the moment, she didn’t see any alternative. “Well, okay. I’ll be here on Sunday morning. And I’ll do my best to see that Earlynne is here, too.” Hesitantly, she added, “So you’ll bring a few loaves to The Flour Shop early Saturday morning?”

  “What time do you open?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “Look for me at eight forty-five.” With a benign smile, Aunt Hetty picked up the teapot. “Are you ready for another cup of tea, dear? And I’ll get a couple of pots of poinsettias for you. They’re just what you need to brighten up that window of yours.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “DON’T LEAVE WITHOUT YOUR COOKIES”

  A dusky winter twilight was falling on Friday evening when Lizzy started out for Magnolia Manor, where she was meeting the Puzzle Divas for another practice session. The brisk wind, flavored with fragrant woodsmoke from neighborhood chimneys, had a wintry bite to it. But Lizzy was wearing her warm wool coat and green knitted cap, muffler, and mittens, and the unaccustomed chill only stirred her blood and made her alert to everything around her.

  The trees stretched their bony arms up to the dark gray clouds while fallen leaves danced and whirled around their feet. In a driveway, two little girls were skipping rope, and a small boy wearing a striped engineer’s cap and red mittens was riding a tricycle, ringing the bell on the handlebar and shouting “Choo-choo!” In the windows of several homes, lighted Christmas trees seemed to symbolize a perennial faith in the enduring tradition of giving and sharing. In others, lamps glowed with a golden warmth, and Lizzy caught sight of mothers and fathers and children sitting down to dinner—a reminder that while the Depression had fractured so many American hopes, it also pulled families closer together in their brave efforts to hold onto today and create a brighter tomorrow.

  A few blocks down Robert E. Lee, Lizzy ran into Verna, who was on her way to the same destination. At the next corner, they turned right and walked down Camellia Street to Bessie Bloodworth’s Magnolia Manor, a large, two-story white-frame residence, not quite so elegant now as it had once been.

  They went up on the front porch and Verna rang the doorbell. It was one of the old-fashioned ones with a brass handle that you twisted—probably, Lizzy thought, originally installed
by Bessie’s paternal grandfather, the much-admired local doctor who had built the house sometime before the War Between the States. Bessie (who was also Darling’s local historian and knew all the old stories) enjoyed pointing out that the bullet holes in the painted wooden porch pillars had been put there by the Union troops that stormed through Darling in the last days of the War. If you seemed interested, she would also show you the hidey-hole behind the fruit jars in the cellar, where her grandmother had hidden the Bloodworth silver to keep the damn Yankees from carrying it off.

  Back in those days, however, the Bloodworth house was not called Magnolia Manor. Bessie (who had never married) gave the house its current name after her father died and she had to go into the boardinghouse business in order to keep the place.* She had been afraid that people might start calling it Bessie Bloodworth’s Home for Old Ladies (like Mrs. Brewster’s Home for Young Ladies on West Plum or Mrs. Meeks’ Rooms for Single Gentlemen over on Railroad Street)—which would not do at all!

  So she put a wooden sign in the front yard and an ad in the Darling Dispatch: “Wanted: Older unmarried and widowed ladies of refinement and good taste, to occupy spacious bedrooms at the Magnolia Manor. Fine meals and pleasant parlor (with radio) included.” And then she was in business.

  It was true that the bedrooms were spacious and the meals were exceptionally fine (thanks to Roseanne, the Manor’s colored cook and housekeeper). The parlor was pleasantly convivial, especially during the long winter evenings, when Bessie’s boarders gathered to play cards or knit or listen to the radio. The ladies loved the The National Barn Dance, the A&P Gypsies, and The Major Bowes Amateur Hour. They especially enjoyed the Amateur Hour because the host, Major Edward Bowes, chatted with the contestants and they got to hear their personal stories. And because the show encouraged its listeners to believe that any ordinary somebody—even your average Darling Joe or Jane—might have a remarkable hidden talent that would one day be discovered and make them famous. (Just look at little Shirley Temple, for instance, who was only three years old when she was discovered at her dancing school!) In a time of national gloom, the possibility that anyone could become a rising star buoyed everyone’s spirits.