“Nice to see you again, Tallulah,” Aunt Hetty said briskly. “I trust you’re keeping well these days.”
“Well as can be expected, Hetty,” Miss Tallulah replied. “I must say, you look like you’re keeping in good health. Tell me what you’re up to these days.”
And so it went, with idle social chatter. Minding their manners, neither Verna nor Aunt Hetty said a word about business until Miss Tallulah had poured tea and handed around slices of tea cake. Then, holding her cup in one hand and her saucer on the other, the old lady said crisply, “Well, ladies, shall we get on with it? What brought you all the way out to LaBelle? I don’t suppose you’ve come for a casual bit of chitchat, have you?”
Verna was a little taken aback by the abruptness, but not Aunt Hetty. She put down her cup and saucer, looked Miss Tallulah squarely in the eye, and said, “It’s the Darling Savings and Trust, Tallulah. We’re in danger of losing it, and if we do, it won’t be pretty.” She turned to Verna. “Verna, you tell her. You know more of the details than I do.”
Verna took a deep breath and began. It took only a few moments to sketch out the situation, and she didn’t pull any punches. “So as you can see,” she concluded, “Darling is in a pickle. What we need is somebody to buy half of the bank shares from Delta Charter. Of course, we’re not asking for a commitment right now. But we hope you might be willing to talk to Mr. Duffy. Alvin Duffy. He’s the new bank president.”
Miss Tallulah pulled her brows together. “The new president?” she asked sharply. “What happened to George?”
“Mr. Johnson has . . . retired,” Verna said, not wanting to go into an extended explanation, especially since she didn’t know the details. “He’s left the bank.”
Miss Tallulah sat for a moment, silent. Her face was very still, and Verna could not read her expression. “So it’s as bad as all that,” she said softly, as if to herself. “Poor, poor George. That bank was all he had to live for, all these years. Giving it up will kill him.” She turned to Aunt Hetty and said, briskly, “You agree that something has to be done about this, Hetty?”
“I purely do, Tallulah,” Aunt Hetty said, with emphasis. “I wouldn’t be sitting here in this chair if I didn’t.” She paused. “In all honesty, I can’t guarantee that it would be the best investment you’ve ever made. You might be pouring money down a rat hole. And I know that dollars don’t grow on trees. I’m sure you have plenty of places to plant your money.” She coughed delicately. “All I can say is that us rats need you, Tallulah, and we need you now. If you can help, Darling would surely appreciate it.”
Pushing her lips in and out, Miss Tallulah regarded her polished nails. At last, she looked up, frowning. “Well, tell your banker friend to come and see me. I don’t know that I can go as far as buying half the shares, but maybe I can do something.”
She cut off Verna’s and Hetty’s “Thank you” by leaning forward and picking up the knife. “Now, may I cut you another slice of cake?”
* * *
Back at the office, Verna had not even had time to take off her red newsboy’s cap and say hello to Sherrie and Melba Jean when the door opened and Alvin Duffy stepped in. He was carrying an old brown leather satchel plastered all over with travel decals.
“Got it!” he exclaimed triumphantly, and set it on her desk. “And it’s all here! You’ll be able to get your payroll out on time.”
“That’s wonderful,” Verna said. “Where did you find it, Mr. Duffy? Who took it?”
He grinned. “I’ll tell you if you’ll drop ‘Mr. Duffy’ and just call me Al.” There was a glint in his eye. “Okay . . . Verna?”
Feeling as clumsy as a schoolgirl, she ducked her head and replied shyly. “That’s fine, Al.”
His grin got wider. “Well, then. According to Purley Mann, an angel left it for him in the alley next to the back door of the Dispatch last night. He decided he would do the Lord’s work and dole out his find to friends in need, starting with old Ezekiel, who needed to play six games of pool at Pete’s Pool Parlor. Which is how Pete got the dollar he gave to Miss Mosswell.”
Verna couldn’t help but laugh. “I wonder how much of Mickey’s moonshine that angel had to drink.”
Al’s grin faded. “Speaking of moonshine, it was Purley Mann who sent the federal agents out to the still on Dead Cow Creek.”
“Uh-oh,” Verna said softly. “He told you this?”
Al nodded. “I’ve just come from a little talk with Purley and his father about what happened—and the consequences. I’m afraid things are going to be rough for Purley for the next few weeks, if people start blaming him for the young boy’s shooting.” His mouth tightened. “Although the one to blame is the agent who pulled the trigger. That shouldn’t have happened.”
Verna shook her head. “Regardless of who actually shot the boy, it will be hard for Purley. There are people in town who are going to be very angry at him.” She paused, thinking of Mrs. Hancock, the leader of Darling’s temperance crusade. “And those who will see him as a hero, I suppose.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Al said, “but I’m sure you’re right. Listen, before we begin on the payroll, I have something else to tell you.”
“And I have news for you,” Verna said. “I don’t know how this is going to turn out, but I’ve talked to somebody who might be willing—and able—to buy some of the bank shares. I don’t know if she can go as high as fifty percent, but I really think you should talk to her.”
“No kidding? That would be swell, really swell, Verna! And it’s down to twenty-five percent now, so—” His face darkened. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Johnson died early this afternoon.”
Verna gasped. “Mr. Johnson died! But how? Was he—”
“A massive heart attack, according to Dr. Roberts. He died at home, in his library.”
Verna let her breath out, relieved. “Thank God. I was afraid for a moment that—” She bit it off, not wanting to say what she had been thinking. It would have been absolutely horrible if the poor man had been murdered by a disgruntled depositor.
“I know,” Al said gravely. “That was my first thought, too, Verna. But Dr. Roberts says he’d been cautioning Mr. Johnson to slow down, and Mrs. Johnson was nagging him to sell the bank so he could get some rest.”
“But he just kept plugging.” Verna hadn’t known him well, but she had respected him. He’d had the best interests of Darling at heart throughout his decades at the bank. Since the Crash, things had been so difficult, with bank failures everywhere. It must have been very hard on him. She frowned. “You just said that you’ve found another possible buyer?”
“Yes. Bent Moseley called Mrs. Johnson up in Montgomery to tell her the bad news. It turns out that she’s willing to buy back twenty-five percent of the shares, if another buyer can be found.” He gave Verna a quizzical look. “So you’re saying that you know someone else who might be able to help?”
Verna nodded. “Hetty Little and I had a talk with Miss Tallulah LaBelle. She owns a plantation outside of town and—to all appearances, anyhow—is a wealthy woman.” She held up her hand, warning him against getting too hopeful. “I really have no idea how serious she is, or how well qualified. But she’s willing to listen to a proposal.”
Al’s glance lingered on her face. “You are a lifesaver,” he said quietly. “I owe you, Verna.”
“Don’t say that until you know how it’s going to turn out,” Verna cautioned, but she felt her pulse quicken and the color rise in her cheeks, which made her a little angry. It was silly to let this man affect her in this way.
With a determined look, he straightened his shoulders. “There’s no time like the present, strike while the iron is hot, and all that. Do you have Miss LaBelle’s telephone number? I’ll make an appointment to talk to her as soon as she’ll see me.”
Verna shook her head. “I don’t have her number
, no. But if you call the Exchange and ask the operator to put you through to Miss Tallulah, you’ll reach her. It’s a small town, remember?”
The hard lines of Al’s face softened into a smile. “Oh, yes. A small town. And that is very, very nice.” He pushed the satchel toward her. “You take out what you need to meet your payroll. I’ll go make that phone call.”
* * *
As things turned out, Miss Tallulah was willing to see Mr. Duffy that afternoon, and since the roads to the plantation weren’t marked, Verna volunteered to go along, so he wouldn’t get lost. At least, that was the reason she gave, although if she had been completely honest with herself, she might have confessed to another reason. And it wasn’t just that she wanted a ride in his late-model Oldsmobile, either, although that might have been a factor.
When they reached the LaBelle plantation, Verna went inside with Al to introduce him to Miss Tallulah, then excused herself and went back out to the car so that the two of them could talk privately. Wishing she had brought her Ellery Queen mystery, she lit a cigarette and settled down to wait, wondering what was going on inside. As the acting county treasurer, she was used to dealing with money—and accustomed to working with strong-minded people, like Mr. Tombull and the other county commissioners. But she had never before asked someone to buy a bank, and the fact that she had had the temerity to do that half astonished her. She hoped Mr. Duffy and Miss Tallulah were getting along all right. He could be charming—yes, she had to admit that. But could he charm the old lady into opening her purse? And even if he could, did she have enough money to actually do the deal?
Ten minutes grew into fifteen, and then into a half hour, and Verna found that she had smoked three cigarettes all the way down to a tiny butt, and she was feeling the nicotine. To keep from smoking another, she stuck her pack in her pocketbook and her pocketbook under the seat. She was relieved when, ten minutes later, Al came out, walking jauntily and with a broad smile on his face.
“It’s all settled,” he said jubilantly, sliding under the wheel. “Miss Tallulah is going to do it! She’s buying twenty-five percent of the shares in the bank—and she has the available cash to do it with.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “Add that to Mrs. Johnson’s twenty-five percent, and we’ve met Delta Charter’s fifty percent requirement! Thanks, Verna, for this.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” Verna protested. “Miss Tallulah is Aunt Hetty’s friend.”
“You thought of her,” he said. “And I’m grateful.”
“Well, it’s grand news.” Verna was surprised by how relieved she felt. She stole a sideways glance at him as he turned the key in the ignition and started the Oldsmobile. “Now that you’ve got that straightened out, when do you think the bank will reopen? Soon, I hope.”
“We’re a lot closer than we were.” He shifted into first gear and they were off. “I hope the Darling Dollars will take some of the urgency out of it. Pumping what amounts to ten thousand extra dollars into our local economy will help people buy what they need—which will help the merchants. It’s all tied together, you know.” He grinned. “Basic economics.”
“True,” Verna agreed, “although I don’t think most people understand the process.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe you should have Charlie write a story about it for the Dispatch. Better yet, you could write it yourself.” Somehow, she imagined that he would be a pretty good writer.
He gave her an appreciative look. “Actually, I’m doing that, for Friday’s paper.”
“That’s swell,” Verna said enthusiastically, getting into the spirit of the thing. “And maybe Charlie could write a front-page story about the new ownership of the bank. That way, people will know that the Darling Savings and Trust doesn’t belong entirely to an out-of-town owner. Two local people—two women, in fact!—now own half of it. That’s going to be important to the locals.” She wasn’t exaggerating, either. Knowing that Mr. Johnson’s widow and the legendary Miss Tallulah owned a big share of the bank would give people confidence. For something that had started out so badly, the ending—this part of it, anyway—couldn’t have turned out better.
“We need to wait on that part of the story for a week or two,” Al said in a cautious tone. “It’s going to take a while to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Charlie is going to run Mr. Johnson’s obituary on Friday, and that will take up a full page.” He paused, considering. “But you’re certainly right that people will feel better if they know what’s in the works. So I’ll ask him to include a paragraph about future plans. Without going into specifics, he can say that a deal for local ownership is pending and an announcement will be made soon. That will quiet some of the apprehension”
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Makes sense.” She sighed. “I’m so sorry that Mr. Johnson has died—it’s nothing short of tragic. In a way, it feels like the end of an era, and I’m sure that the townspeople will see it that way, too. But with Miss Tallulah and Voleen Johnson becoming partners in the bank, it almost feels like the beginning of something new and . . . well, exciting, really. Don’t you agree?” But that was silly. Al Duffy was new to Darling. He wouldn’t be able to sense a change in direction in the same way a native would.
But he did, or rather, he understood it in his own terms. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “It feels like an entirely new ball game. It’s as if the Boston Red Sox have been bought by new owners in the middle of the season—and they suddenly discover that they have a new fastball pitcher and two new .300 hitters and as good a chance at the league title as anybody else.” He chuckled. “Well, not quite. But you get the point.”
She laughed at that, since the Red Sox had been at the bottom of the American League standings the previous year. But he had understood what she meant in a way she hadn’t quite grasped herself, which she found quite surprising. And Walter, with all his indisputable facts and known quantities, had never been able to surprise her. What would it be like to be surprised every now and then—or even dazzled by someone’s brilliance, as she was by Ellery Queen?
He was concentrating on the road ahead. “Speaking of new beginnings, I wonder if you remember what’s happening tonight.”
“Tonight?” she asked, puzzled.
“Yes, tonight. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. We’re having prime rib at the Old Alabama, on a white tablecloth with flowers and candles.” He slid her a grin. “And out in the lobby, Mrs. LeVaughn will play ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’”
Verna hooted. “Mrs. LeVaughn won’t play that! She plays Chopin and Debussy. Dinner music.”
“She will if I ask her,” Al said confidently. “In honor of our new team. But it’ll be our secret, and we’ll smile and drink a toast—in cider, of course—to the success of Mrs. Johnson and Miss Tallulah. What do you say, Verna?”
Verna shook her head. “Prime rib, candles, flowers, a white tablecloth, and Mrs. LeVaughn.” And perhaps a surprise or two. “I can only say yes.”
“Good.” Al chuckled. “There’s one condition, though.”
Uh-oh, she thought. Here it comes. “Okay. What’s the condition?”
He reached over and gently tugged at the brim of her newsboy’s cap. “You have to wear that red hat all during dinner.”
SEVENTEEN
The Dahlias Get Beautiful
Wednesday, April 19
“I swear.” Bessie Bloodworth pushed herself out of the shampoo chair and allowed Beulah to wrap a dry towel, turban-style, around her wet hair. “I cannot recall a week in living memory when so much has happened. Feels like we’ve been hit by a hurricane.”
“That’s the Lord’s truth,” Beulah said cheerfully, drying her hands. “Makes me tired just to think of it, Bessie. Now, you go on and sit in my cutting chair and I’ll be right with you, soon as I see how Aunt Hetty is coming along under that hair dryer. Oh, and Bettina put your plate of sour cream cookies on the
table, and there’s tea in the pot.”
Bessie had brought cookies to share with Beulah’s and Bettina’s regular Wednesday morning clients—Aunt Hetty, Fannie Champaign, Earlynne Biddle, and Alice Ann Walker—who were discussing the latest local events. They might not add up to a hurricane, but there was a lot to discuss, including a jail break, two funerals, a wedding, the just-released Darling Dollars, and Liz Lacy’s exciting new job up in Montgomery.
“How long did you say Liz is going to be gone?” Alice Ann Walker asked from the chair where Bettina was cutting her hair. “A little shorter over the ears, please, Bettina,” she added. Alice Ann kept her hair cut short and simple so she didn’t have to fool with rollers and pin curls. That was because of her job at the bank, which kept her busy. She was going back tomorrow, when the bank was scheduled to reopen—to everyone’s great relief. It seemed that the crisis was over.
“She’ll be back at the end of July is what Charlie told me,” Fannie said. “Earlynne, do you want clear, or this pale pink?” She held up a bottle of nail polish. “Or maybe red?”
Fannie and Earlynne were seated on opposite sides of the manicure table next to the window, doing each other’s nails. When Fannie finished Earlynne’s, Earlynne would do Fannie’s. The manicure table was a new service, free and complimentary—Bettina’s idea, and a good one, too. All it took was a few bottles of inexpensive nail polish, some emery boards, and a little jar of cuticle cream, arranged on a small table with a vase of pretty flowers from Beulah’s garden. It would make a visit to the Bower that much more fun.
Bettina turned around, shears poised over Alice Ann’s damp hair. “Fannie, did I hear you mention Mr. Dickens? Are you seeing him again?”
Shyly, Fannie nodded. “But don’t ask me anything more, Bettina.” She pantomimed turning a key to lock her lips. “Charlie made me promise not to talk about . . . us.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush Page 26