The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “When the Crash happened, you mean?”

  “No. Before. That bank has a problem. There are a couple of unsecured loans to Mrs. Johnson’s father and brother. Loans that Mr. Johnson should never have made. I told him he’d be in trouble the next time the bank examiner came,” she added crisply. “At which point he tried to fire me for sassing him.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I quit first. Told him what he could do with his old job.”

  “Then you bought this place?” Myra May asked.

  Miss Rutledge nodded. “Mama sold her house and I had made a little money in the market.” She smiled crookedly. “I didn’t make much, but I was lucky to get it out before everything came crashing down in October. Mama and I pooled what we had and bought this house. I took my savings out of the bank and bought a car, too—although maybe I shouldn’t have. We could have used that money to get the roof fixed.” She opened a drawer and began to hunt. “I don’t have forty cents here. I’ll look in my purse.” She left the room.

  Myra May glanced around the room. She had already begun to revise her opinion of Imogene Rutledge. She liked her frankness and her independent spirit and felt she was not at all the stealthy, conniving person Miss Rogers had pictured. Maybe the librarian was jealous of what she imagined to be Miss Rutledge’s freedom, not to mention her success in the stock market.

  The bookshelf was right by her elbow and Myra May began idly to browse the titles on the spines. There were several of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s mysteries, a book on gardening, and another on dressmaking, along with several Ladies’ Home Journals and—

  Myra May pulled in her breath. And Further Chronicles of Avonlea, by Maud Montgomery.

  She leaned forward and took the book off the shelf and opened it. It was clearly stamped Darling Public Library and had one of those little envelopes glued to the inside back, with a library check-out card in it, the kind where you write your name and the due date and give it to the librarian for filing in her calendar file so she’ll know when the book is overdue and she can start charging you with the fine.

  But this one wasn’t overdue. It was stolen. Miss Rogers might have given the wrong impression about Miss Rutledge in some ways, but she had her story straight about this. Myra May frowned. Somebody who stooped so low as to steal a book from a public library might not balk at stealing money from the bank—especially when she thought it was badly managed.

  Myra May was still holding the book when Miss Rutledge came back into the room and put three dimes and two nickels on the desk—and saw what Myra May was looking at.

  “You’re a fan of Maud Montgomery?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. “I loved all the Green Gables books—so delightful to watch Anne grow up in those wonderful stories.” She sighed. “It’s such a shame about that one.”

  “Really?” Myra May turned it over in her hands, now very curious. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The publisher put it out without Miss Montgomery’s permission,” Miss Rutledge replied. “The book has stories in it that the author decided she didn’t want published, so she’s suing.”

  “Suing?” Somehow, Myra May had never thought that an author might actually sue a publisher. It was a new idea to her.

  “Yes. The case is still in the courts. That’s why I took the book back.” When Myra May frowned, she added, “I donated it to the library when it was first published, you see. That was back in 1920 or ’21. Last year, I learned that the stories were published without permission. So I told Miss Rogers that I thought the book should be withdrawn from the library—at least until the lawsuit was resolved.”

  “Ah,” Myra May said, beginning to understand.

  Miss Rutledge chuckled. “Of course, she didn’t agree. She never agreed with me, no matter what. We argued about it several times, and when I saw she wasn’t going to give in, I took it back. Since I donated the book in the first place, I felt perfectly justified.” Miss Rutledge gave a rueful smile. “Poor Miss Rogers. I don’t think she has ever forgiven me.”

  “I think you’re right,” Myra May murmured, and replaced the book on the shelf.

  Miss Rutledge scooped the coins off the desk and handed them to Myra May. “You’d better give me a receipt. Just in case Miss Rogers forgets to cross me out of her little black book.” She found a scrap of paper and wrote Rcvd of Imogene Rutledge 40¢ for library fine, and handed it to Myra May.

  Myra May signed and dated the receipt and gave it back. “I wonder,” she said, pocketing the coins. “If I told you that Alice Ann Walker was suspected of embezzling money from the bank, what would you say?”

  “I’d say that’s crazy, that’s what I’d say!” Miss Rutledge hooted. “Alice Ann is as honest as the day is long. And I’d tell whoever ‘suspects’ her to look a little higher up in that bank. At the man at the top. The man who made those bad loans and thinks he can move money around to cover up the losses.”

  Myra May gave her a straight look. “There’s a bank examiner in town right now. Would you be willing to tell him what you know about those loans?”

  A smile spread across her face. “Would I be willing to tell? You bet I would. Any day of the week.” She eyed Myra May. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  Myra May told her.

  Lizzy’s experience as a Dispatch reporter was mostly confined to the Darling Flower Show and the Peach Festival that took place at the Cypress County Fairgrounds every year. In addition, Charlie always had her cover the Watermelon Roll and the Tomato Fest and the Garden Tour—and of course, there was her weekly column. But Dr. Harper didn’t need to know that she mostly wrote garden pieces.

  Now Lizzy stood on the street in front of the dental office, with its sign: DR. A.V. HARPER, D.D.S., GENERAL DENTISTRY. There was a light inside, and a man—a patient, she thought—had just come out, slamming the door behind him and jamming his hat on his head with a pained expression. It was late in the day, but Dr. Harper must still be there. She checked to be sure that she had her notebook in her purse, took a deep breath, opened the door, and went inside.

  The room was small, with only a couple of straight chairs for people who were waiting to see the dentist and an empty receptionist’s desk with a chair behind it, a small vase of wilted flowers on one corner. A man wearing a white coat came through a door in the back and into the waiting room. He was in his forties, thin-faced and slightly balding, with gold-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose and a droopy dark moustache on his upper lip. Behind his glasses, his eyes had a red-rimmed, squinty look, as if he had been rubbing them.

  “We’re closing now, miss.” His voice was oddly high-pitched. “Miss Thomas, my receptionist, has gone home for the day. Please come back tomorrow. Or you can leave your number, and Miss Thomas will call you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Dr. Harper,” Lizzy said breathlessly. “But I’m not here to make an appointment. My name is Elizabeth Lacy. I’m from the Dispatch, over in Darling, and Mr. Dickens—Charlie Dickens, he’s our editor—sent me to see you.”

  This was a lie, of course, but Lizzy thought it was justified, under the circumstances. Anyway, she could write up something from the interview and give it to Charlie. He might find a way to use it.

  “Oh, he did?” Dr. Harper asked, raising his eyebrows. “About what?”

  “He wants to run a human-interest story about what happened on Saturday night. About your car being stolen, I mean, and that poor young girl dying in it. Would you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

  Under his moustache, Dr. Harper’s mouth tightened. “That was a bad thing,” he said. “A real sad situation. I could hardly believe it when Fred telephoned me yesterday to tell me what’d happened. My brother was so distressed, poor fellow, that he couldn’t give me any of the details.”

  “It must have been terribly upsetting for both of you,” Lizzy murmured. He didn’t seem to notice that she had taken her notebook and a pencil out of her purse.

  “Oh, it was. Yes. Very,” he said fervently. He frowned
a little. “Miss ... Lacy, you say?”

  “Yes. Elizabeth Lacy. The girl stole it from your brother’s house, the way I understand it,” Lizzy said. “That was Saturday night, around midnight. On Monday afternoon, the car was found in the ravine at Pine Mill Creek, where the bridge had washed out.”

  “She crashed right through a barricade, my brother said.” He looked away, chewing on his moustache. “Drinking. Killed in the wreck.”

  Not true. Bunny had been shot—murdered. But since Dr. Harper didn’t seem to know this already, Lizzy didn’t think she’d tell him. Not just yet, anyway.

  “A sad situation,” Dr. Harper said again, shaking his head gloomily. “I feel very sorry for my poor brother.”

  But not for the poor girl who was dead? “You loaned the car to him, I understand,” Lizzy said.

  “Well, yes. I suppose you could put it that way.”

  Put it that way? That was the way Fred Harper had put it to the sheriff.

  “We shared the car, you see,” the dentist added. “When he was living here with me.”

  “Of course.” Lizzy tilted her head. Well, that wasn’t so unusual. Lots of people—sometimes whole families—shared cars. “When he was living here,” she repeated. “That was ...”

  “Last year. I don’t drive the automobile very often these days—my eyes, you know. When I need to go out of town, Fred takes me. We went to Montgomery two weeks ago. He wanted to keep it, and I agreed.”

  Lizzy wondered briefly how, if Dr. Harper couldn’t see well enough to drive a car, he could see well enough to fix somebody’s teeth. She wasn’t sure she’d want him poking around in her mouth. But she only nodded sympathetically.

  He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to think about getting another car, though. The Pontiac is a total wreck, my brother tells me. The frame is bent. Can’t be repaired.”

  “That’s too bad,” Lizzy said. She put her pencil to her notebook. “You purchased it here in Monroeville?”

  “No, from the Pontiac dealer in Mobile. I’ve always been partial to Pontiacs. Every car I’ve ever owned has been a Pontiac. It’s that Indian on the hood. It appeals to me.” There was a gleam in his eyes. “You can put that into the story if you like. When I was a boy, I wanted to be an Indian fighter. I suppose that’s human interest, isn’t it?”

  She nodded and wrote that down. Wanted to be an Indian fighter, “Did you know the girl?”

  “The girl who stole the car? No, of course not.” He sounded slightly indignant, as if an acquaintance with a common thief was beneath him. “My brother said she worked in Darling. I don’t get over there very often.” The way he said Darling made it sound as if the town was beneath him, too.

  “You’re sure you didn’t know her?” Lizzy asked, managing to sound just a little doubtful.

  “Of course I’m sure.” Now he was definitely indignant. He eyed Lizzy. “Why are you asking? How would I know a girl in Darling when I don’t go over there?”

  “I’m asking because—” Lizzy opened her purse and took out the photograph of a smiling Bunny perched on the hood of the car. “Because the Dispatch came into possession of this photo.” She held it out. “Your car, Dr. Harper. The date on the license plate is 1930, so the photo was taken earlier this year. And the young lady sitting on the hood is the one who was reported to have stolen the car. The one who died.” She paused, and then repeated her question. “You’re sure you don’t know her?”

  He took the photograph and bent over it, squinting. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe—” He closed his eyes and passed his hand across his forehead. “This is the girl who—?” His voice squeaked and he gulped, trying again. “It’s ... it’s Eva Louise! She’s ... she’s dead?”

  “Yes, she is,” Lizzy said very politely, withholding censure from her tone. “So you do know her, then?”

  He nodded dumbly. He was still peering at the photograph.

  “And that is your car?”

  He nodded again.

  “Did you take the photo?”

  “Oh, no!” Another squeak. “I’ve never seen ... I wouldn’t—” He swallowed hard, making an effort to control his voice. “I’ve never seen her wearing ... whatever that thing is called.”

  “It’s a teddy,” Lizzy said quietly. “It’s her underwear.”

  “Oh.” He was still looking at the photo, hungrily, Lizzy thought. “Her underwear,” he repeated. He licked his lips.

  She gently took the photo away from him and put it back in her purse. “Eva Louise was a friend of yours?”

  He sank down in one of the straight chairs and put his head between his hands.

  “She was a friend?” Lizzy asked again.

  “A ... friend.” His voice was muffled. “Yes. We ... we went out to dinner sometimes. We used to go to Mobile, until my eyes got too bad to drive.” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Beautiful. She was a beautiful girl. She loved pretty things.”

  Lizzy felt she was taking advantage of him, but she did it anyway. “Did you give her gifts? A pair of pearl earrings, maybe?”

  He nodded, sniffling. “She looked so beautiful in those earrings.” He sat up, putting his glasses back on, hooking them over his ears. “But I never expected to see her sitting on a car—my car—in her ... in her underwear!”

  Lizzy was beginning to get an idea of what might have happened. “Could it have been your brother who took the photo?”

  “My brother?” he repeated incredulously. “No! Of course not! Fred knew that Eva Louise and I were seeing each other. He wouldn’t—”

  “Well, then, who else drove the car?”

  “Nobody! Nobody else! Just—” He stopped.

  “Then it must have been your brother who took the photo, don’t you think?”

  The idea was beginning to sink in. He stared at her. “I—I suppose—”

  She took a chance. “Tell me, Mr. Harper. Do you own a gun?”

  “A gun? Well, yes. A twenty-two revolver. But I can’t see to use it now. Anyway, it’s not here. I ... I gave it to—” He broke off.

  “You gave it to your brother?”

  “Yes. Fred said he wanted it for target practice, so I gave him the gun and the ammunition. Why? Why are you asking? Why—”

  “Because Eva Louise wasn’t killed when your car went into the ravine, Mr. Harper. She was shot in the head. The bullet was a twenty-two caliber.”

  “Oh, no!” he cried. “Oh, no!”

  When she left, he was still sobbing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Dahlias Clear up a Mystery or Two

  Thirty minutes later, Verna, Lizzy, and Myra May gathered in front of Buzz’s Barbeque, an unpainted, tin-roofed wooden building on a dusty street across from the Monroeville railroad depot. Hungry people getting off the train—especially city folks—might turn up their noses at the idea of sitting down to a meal in a place that looked like a good puff of wind might blow it over. But they changed their minds when they caught the enticing fragrance wafting from behind the shack: the pig Buzz was roasting over a hickory fire in a brick barbeque pit.

  “Ah,” Myra May said appreciatively, taking a deep sniff. “Doesn’t that smell wonderful?”

  “Heavenly,” Verna agreed, raising her voice over the loud huff-and-puff of the just-arrived steam locomotive, which was taking on the mail, goods, and passengers for the evening run to Montgomery and points north. The same railroad spur that served Monroeville also served Darling, built to connect with the Pine Mill Creek sawmill outside of Darling. The spur joined up with the main L&N line twenty miles to the east at Repton.

  Just at that moment, a black Ford sedan came around the corner and pulled up in front of the depot, across the street from where they were standing.

  Verna frowned, looking at it. “Hey, take a look, girls. Isn’t that the Snows’ Ford?”

  “It sure is,” Lizzy said, surprised. “And that’s Ophelia behind the wheel. Who’s that with her? That redhead—I don’t recogni
ze her.”

  “That’s Ralph’s wife, Lucy,” Myra May said. She grinned. “I heard that Ophelia went out to her place and brought her into town to get groceries—Ophelia’s way of scotching a few nasty rumors. Ophelia said she was going to ask Lucy to join the Dahlias now that we’ve lowered the dues, so I guess we’ll get acquainted with her.”

  “Who’s that with them?” Verna asked curiously. “I don’t recognize her.”

  Clambering awkwardly out of the Ford’s rear seat was a tall, gangly woman in a faded cotton dress and an old-fashioned green slat bonnet—the kind that allowed a woman to shield her face and neck from the hot sun while she worked in the garden. This one completely hid the woman’s hair and most of her face, so it was impossible to tell whether she was young or old. She turned back to the auto and took out a small cardboard suitcase.

  “I don’t think she’s anybody from Darling,” Lizzy said, studying her. “Maybe one of Lucy’s family. Or a relative of one of the neighbors.” Out in the country, when somebody was driving to Darling or one of the nearby towns, they always asked if the neighbors needed a ride or something from the grocery or the hardware or the feed store. “Let’s see who it is.”

  “Yoo-hoo!” Myra May put up her hand and waved. “Hi, Ophelia! It’s us! The Dahlias!” And she started across the dusty street, with Verna and Lizzy right behind her.

  And then something odd happened. Lucy and the strange woman turned, put their heads down, and hurried toward the depot. Lucy had her arm around the woman’s shoulders. The woman was leaning on Lucy, walking with her ankles turned out, clumsily, as if she wasn’t accustomed to wearing pumps.

  Ophelia greeted them beside the Ford with an oddly nervous smile. “Lucy’s cousin is hurrying to make the train.” The breeze had come up again and she put a hand on her straw hat to keep it from blowing off.

  “Where’s she going?” Lizzy asked conversationally.

  Ophelia frowned. “Uh, to ... to Memphis, I think.”

  “Been here for a visit?” Myra May tilted her head, studying Ophelia.