The Darling Dahlias and the Poinsettia Puzzle

by Susan Wittig Albert

  The Manor, however, was not what you’d call a profitable business, for while the ladies were certainly refined and genteel, none of them had much money to speak of. In fact, all were enthusiastic supporters of FDR’s idea for “social security”—pension payments to retired people over sixty-five. They only wished the president would stop shilly-shallying and make Congress vote it into law, effective immediately. If he didn’t, they thought Huey P. Long would make a better president. They had gathered around the radio when the senator gave his famous “Every Man a King” speech, and they were all in favor of his plan for “sharing the wealth.” Bessie even had a little red, white, and blue sign—“Huey P. Long for President in 1936!”— taped to the front window, and she kept a copy of his speech in the drawer of her bedside table, where she could take it out and read it when she felt downhearted.

  Currently, there were four boarders, with room for one more. Mrs. Sedalius was better off than the other Magnolia Ladies (as they liked to call themselves), for her son was a doctor in Mobile. He was too busy to visit but sent a monthly check for his mother’s room and board—whenever he (or his secretary) managed to remember. Leticia Wiggens had a widow’s pension of thirty dollars a month from her late husband’s service as a Confederate company commander in the War Between the States, but the pension was paid by the state of Alabama only when there was money in the state treasury. Miss Dorothy Rogers earned six dollars a week as the Darling librarian. The Darling City Council was usually a month or two late with her salary, however, and for the past two months, hadn’t paid her at all.

  The situation was a little better for Maxine Bechtel, who owned two rent houses over in Monroeville. But her renters didn’t always pay with cash money. Recently, for example, they had brought four fat hens that Roseanne cooped up in the garage and turned into chicken and dumplings every Sunday for a month, with the carcasses served up as a tasty chicken and vegetable soup on Wednesday night. Bessie would have preferred the cash—the property taxes were due at the end of December and she wasn’t sure where the money was coming from. But it all came out in the wash, she reminded herself, or nearly so. The chickens saved on the bill at Hancock’s Grocery, and everybody enjoyed their Sunday dumplings and Wednesday soup.

  Verna (always the impatient one) gave the Manor’s doorbell another hard twist. “Bessie knows that we’re meeting here tonight, doesn’t she?” she asked.

  “Yes, she’s expecting us,” Lizzy said. She turned as someone came up the path behind them. “Oh, hello, Aunt Hetty. Glad you could make it tonight.”

  “Cold enough for you?” Aunt Hetty asked, clutching her brown felt hat to her head. Her cheeks were pink. “That wind fair takes your breath away, don’t it?”

  At that moment, the door opened and Bessie said, breathlessly, “Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies. I was talking on the telephone. It looks like I’m going to have another boarder!” She stepped back and held the door open. “Come on in, please. You must be frozen!”

  “It’s a bit on the chilly side tonight,” Lizzy agreed, as the three of them went into the pleasant front parlor. She saw that Bessie had set up the card table for their puzzle practice in front of the fireplace, where a bright fire was burning. Under a draped pine swag, the mantel was hung with decorated Christmas stockings for everyone in the house, a tradition at Magnolia Manor, Lizzy knew. And there were holiday refreshments—an antique china platter with a selection of Christmas cookies and a silver chocolate pot filled with hot cocoa and wrapped in a red and green quilted cozy, set up on the library table against a wall.

  “Another boarder?” Verna asked.

  Bessie clasped her hands ecstatically. “Isn’t it wonderful? Just when I was wondering how I was going to pay the property taxes! She’s moving in next week.”

  “Where is she from?” Lizzy asked, taking off her coat. “Is she anybody we know?”

  “How old is she?” Aunt Hetty asked, taking off her hat and unbuttoning her coat. “Is she a widow? A spinster?”

  Bessie pulled her brows together. “Her name is Emma Jane, and she’s from Birmingham. I didn’t think to ask about the rest, I was just so excited by the idea of another boarder to help pay the bills.” Her expression cleared. “But she sounded very nice on the telephone. I’m sure we’ll find out all about her when she’s settled in.”

  Verna looked around. “Where are the Magnolia Ladies? I was expecting to see them this evening.”

  “It’s bingo night at the Oddfellows Hall,” Bessie said, taking their coats. “The neighbor from across the street drove them. So it’s just the four of us.” She pointed to the sideboard. “There’s some hot chocolate over there. It’ll warm you up.”

  It was just as well, Lizzy thought, that the other ladies were gone. She and Verna had something to talk over with the others, and it would be better if it were kept confidential—at least until they were ready to put their plan into action.

  “Here’s the puzzle I rented from the drugstore,” she said, taking the box out of the bag she’d been carrying. She put it, unopened, in the middle of the table. The picture on the cover showed a large poinsettia in a ceramic pot, decorated with a silver ribbon against a variegated blue background.

  “Poinsettia!” Aunt Hetty crowed, bending over the box. “My favorite winter flower! Did you know that the Aztec Indians used to make a red dye from this plant? It was also medicinal—they treated fevers with the sap.”

  “Really?” Bessie asked curiously. “I wonder how they made the dye. It would be fun to try, don’t you think, Hetty?”

  “We could experiment after the holidays,” Aunt Hetty replied. “Let’s do it, Bessie.”

  Verna glanced down at the puzzle box. “This one is seven hundred and fifty pieces. Do you think we can do it all tonight, Liz?”

  “We can try,” Lizzy said. “I decided to get a bigger one because we did so well with the five-hundred-piece puzzle we practiced with the other day. I thought this might stretch us a bit.”

  “That’s a smart idea,” Bessie said approvingly. She moved the floor lamp to one corner of the table. “If we can finish this one in less than four hours, the contest puzzle ought to be easy. That one is supposed to be just five hundred pieces.”

  “But we don’t have to actually finish it tonight,” Lizzy said. She looked at the grandmother clock on the wall beside the door, its gold pendulum swinging steadily back and forth. It was seven o’clock. “At the contest, we’ll have just two hours, you know. So why don’t we work until nine o’clock and see how far we get.”

  Bessie adjusted the lamp so it cast a bright light over their working surface. “I wonder what the contest puzzle will be.”

  “Why don’t you ask Miss Rogers?” Aunt Hetty said with a teasing smile. “She’s your boarder, Bessie. Can’t you get it out of her?”

  “Not a chance,” Bessie said. “The contest is the most important thing that’s happened in her life for months and months. She’s not going to give me a single clue.”

  “Mr. Lima knows, too,” Lizzy replied, “since he’s helping Miss Rogers collect the puzzles. But it wouldn’t be right for him to tell me.” She took a chair to the left of Aunt Hetty. “Divas, if you’re ready, we can get started turning the pieces face-up and sorting them. Who wants what colors?”

  “I’ll take red and yellow,” Aunt Hetty said promptly, putting her elbows on the table. “Those red petals are bracts, you know. They’re really leaves, not petals.” She pointed at the box cover. “And that little yellow thingy in the center is really the flower.”

  “The ceramic pot for me,” Bessie volunteered, from the other side of the table. “And the silver ribbon. But there’s a lot of red, Hetty. I’ll help you with that.”

  “I’ll do the blue background,” Verna offered, taking the empty chair to Lizzy’s right.

  “Which leaves the frame for me,” Lizzy said, opening the box and dumping the puzzle pieces in the middle of the table. “If you see any straight-edged pieces, push them in my dir
ection. The sooner we get the frame in place, the better.” She hesitated. “But I wonder—can we sort and talk at the same time? Verna and I have something we need to discuss with you.”

  “Can we sort and talk?” Aunt Hetty repeated, turning pieces right-side up. “That’s like asking if we can chew gum while we’re baking an apple pie. Nothing to it.” She pulled a red piece into the little pile in front of her. “What are we talking about?”

  Lizzy pulled two border pieces out of the pile. “It’s about Cupcake. Violet and Myra May’s little girl.”

  “Oh, that precious child,” Bessie said with a smile. “Have you seen her dance? Why, she is as good as little Shirley Temple. Here, Hetty—two red pieces for you. And a blue one for you, Verna.” She glanced apprehensively at Lizzy. “What about our Cupcake? She’s not sick, is she?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Verna said, pushing a straight-edged piece to Liz. “But she’s in a very difficult situation. We’re afraid it could even be . . . dangerous.”

  “‘Dangerous?’” Bessie rolled her eyes. “Verna, you always dramatize everything.”

  “Look! I’ve found a blue corner,” Aunt Hetty exclaimed. “Here you are, Liz. I think it goes at the top right.” She scowled at Verna. “What on earth can you mean, Verna? ‘Dangerous’?”

  “Well, if you’ll give us a chance, we’ll tell you,” Verna replied, fitting two blue pieces together. “You begin, Liz. You’re the one who got the phone call from that lawyer.”

  So, while they turned and sorted and began assembling their individual sections, Lizzy and Verna told them how Violet had brought Cupcake home to Darling after her sister’s death—and then about Neil Hudson’s appearance at Cupcake’s dance recital, the lawyer’s telephone call from Los Angeles, and Raylene’s belief that Hudson (a vaudeville song-and-dance man) wanted to take Cupcake to Hollywood.

  “Hollywood!” Bessie exclaimed excitedly. “Well, if you ask me, our little Cupcake could give Shirley a run for her money. Have you heard her sing ‘Baby Take a Bow’? I would love to see her in the movies. Wouldn’t you?”

  “But Hollywood wouldn’t be any kind of life for Cupcake,” Aunt Hetty objected. “Not for any child, in my personal opinion.” She sniffed. “Nothing goes on out there but the three Ds.”

  “The three Ds?” Lizzy asked.

  “Dancing and drinking and divorce,” Aunt Hetty replied with a sniff. “Hollywood marriages are finished faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Why, just take Joan Crawford and Douglas Fairbanks, Junior. They were married for less than three years! Whatever happened to until-death-do-we-part? How can you bring up a child in a place like that?” She moved a section of several red pieces into the puzzle frame Lizzy was constructing. “I think this goes about here, Liz, but you can move it if that’s not right.”

  “Hollywood or no Hollywood,” Verna said firmly, “none of us want Neil Hudson to take Cupcake away from Violet and Myra May and Raylene. That would be criminal. Aunt Hetty, please hand me that box cover.”

  “Mr. Moseley is looking into the matter from the legal angle,” Lizzy said. She had completed the top of the puzzle now, with only two or three short gaps on the right side. “He thinks Mr. Hudson doesn’t have a very strong claim to the girl.”

  “It must be a very weak claim,” Verna replied decidedly. “After all, the man was ready to give his brand-new baby to an orphanage, wasn’t he? How can he possibly think that all he has to do is show up and demand her and she’ll be handed over?” She stood up. “Why don’t we trade places for a few minutes, Liz? That’ll give me a different view of this.”

  “How do we know that he’s the child’s father?” Aunt Hetty asked, working busily at her red puzzle pieces.

  “Violet says so,” Lizzy replied, moving into Verna’s chair.

  “But how does Violet know?” Bessie asked, arching both eyebrows. “It’s easy to tell who the mother is—unless the baby is born in a hospital and accidentally gets switched. But sometimes not even the mother knows who the father is.”

  “Bessie!” Aunt Hetty was scandalized. “Really! The things you say!”

  “Well, it’s true, Hetty,” Bessie replied evenly. “Remember when Tom Benson said he was the father of Billie Jean Winkler’s baby and Roy Parkins stepped forward and claimed he was? They never did get that one figured out. Nobody knows what goes on in people’s bedrooms—married or not.” She looked around. “Who’s got the box lid? I need to see the picture again.”

  “And you can’t go by peoples’ say-so,” Verna said, handing the box cover to Bessie. “Do you remember when Maisy Lipcock declared that Bernie Jamison was the father of her little boy, and he swore on his grandmother’s Bible that he wasn’t and refused to marry her, even when Maisy’s father got his shotgun and went looking for him? To this day, the Lipcocks and the Jamisons won’t speak to one another. And Maisy married Larry Tombull and now has another little boy who is the spit and image of his older brother. They could be twins.”

  Lizzy nodded. “Mr. Moseley says it’s hard to make a paternity case that can stand up in court. They can do blood tests, but they’re not reliable. He says Mr. Hudson likely wouldn’t risk going before a judge.” She paused and looked around the table. “He might just try to kidnap the child.”

  “Kidnap her?” Aunt Hetty cried, horrified. “Take her away from Darling? Oh, no!”

  Bessie’s eyes widened. “What can we do, Liz? We have to do something. We can’t let anybody steal our Cupcake!”

  “At Mr. Moseley’s suggestion,” Lizzy said, “I discussed this with Violet and Myra May this afternoon, and we came up with a plan. Here’s what we think.” She leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table, and outlined the scheme.

  “Sounds like it’ll work,” Aunt Hetty said when she was finished. “I’ll certainly be glad to do my bit. Won’t you, Bessie?”

  Bessie agreed warmly, adding another two pieces to the part she was working on. “I’m sure the ladies will be absolutely delighted to help.” She sat up straight. “There! Just one more piece and the pot is finished!”

  “Count me in, too, Liz,” Verna said. “Weekends are the best for me. Earlynne and Mildred are probably too busy with their bakery to volunteer, but you might ask Ophelia and Lucy.” She grinned. “Everybody will want to do her bit, you know.”

  Bessie began assembling the ribbon pieces. “When do you want to start?”

  “The sooner the better,” Lizzy said. “We don’t know when he’ll show up—or even if he’ll show up. He might leave everything in the hands of his lawyer, and this could be entirely unnecessary. But just in case . . .”

  “All you have to do is tell us what and when and where, and everybody will be glad to chip in,” Aunt Hetty said.

  “Thank you,” Lizzy said, greatly relieved. looking around with a big smile. “I knew we could count on you. I’ll draw up a schedule and let everybody know. But remember, not a word to anybody outside of the Dahlias. We can’t risk the secret leaking out. I don’t think anybody in Darling would intentionally give us away. But it might happen inadvertently, if Mr. Hudson shows up and starts asking questions.”

  There was a moment’s silence, as everyone thought about that. Then Bessie pushed back her chair and stood. “There’s more chocolate,” she said, and brought the pot to the table to refill their cups.

  “Speaking of helping,” Aunt Hetty said, as they went back to their puzzle sections, “I’m sorry to report that Mildred and Earlynne have baked themselves into a corner with that new enterprise of theirs.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Verna said dryly.

  “I love the name they chose for their shop,” Lizzy said. “The Flour Shop. For a pair of Dahlias, it’s perfect.”

  “And they have a very nice display of cookies and sweet little gingerbread houses in their window,” Bessie added, assembling several more pieces. “So tempting. It’s a first-rate advertisement.” She glanced up at Aunt Hetty. “You said they’ve baked themselves into a corner. What
’s their problem, Hetty?”

  Aunt Hetty chuckled. “You won’t believe this, girls, but their problem is bread.”

  “Bread?” Lizzy blinked. “How in the world can bread be a problem?”

  “They’ve run out of flour and need some more?” Bessie guessed. “Here at the Manor, we buy by the fifty-pound sack. I’ll be glad to loan them a few pounds.”

  “Or maybe they’ve figured out that they can’t make it cheaply enough to compete with store-bought,” Verna conjectured. “Mrs. Hancock sells Wonder Bread for nine cents a loaf. And every loaf is perfectly sliced—wrapped and sealed to keep it fresh. People like that, you know.”

  “But not everybody thinks Wonder Bread is so wonderful,” Bessie objected. “It doesn’t taste anything like home-baked. At least, not like Roseanne’s bread,” she added with a little smile. “She bakes eight loaves a week for us—more, if we have French toast on the weekend instead of pancakes. The ladies love it.”

  “Your ladies are lucky to have Roseanne,” Lizzy said.

  “And don’t we know it,” Bessie replied comfortably. She put four more pieces into the puzzle. “She’s a treasure.”

  “Mildred and Earlynne haven’t run out of flour,” Aunt Hetty said. “And they understand that they can’t compete with Mrs. Hancock on price. They’re selling their bread for eleven cents a loaf.”

  “I’d be more than glad to pay an extra two cents for The Flour Shop’s bread,” Lizzy said, filling in a section of the puzzle’s blue background. “If I didn’t bake my own,” she added. Lizzy usually baked two loaves every Saturday, enough to make breakfast toast and sandwiches for herself all week. But she had to admit that while Wonder Bread was a little too soft-textured (some might call it doughy), its perfect slices were . . . well, perfectly uniform. They couldn’t be beat for sandwiches.