The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I have something to tell you.” Her voice was apprehensive, and her round face was flushed and worried. “Something serious, I mean.”

  “Really? What sort of something?” Bessie was surprised at the anxiety she heard, for in her experience, Audrey usually preferred to put on a show of being firmly in control. “Apprehensive” was not a word you would naturally think of when you thought about the large and domineering Audrey. Bessie suspected that something serious really was going on.

  “You know Mr. Whitworth, I’m sure.” Without waiting for Bessie’s answer, Audrey went on, almost breathlessly. “Well, he came over to our house yesterday evening, late, to talk to Mr. Dunlap—about the Clovers, he said. Mr. Whitworth sings bass, you know, and Mr. Dunlap sings tenor, and the two of them are on the arrangements committee for the Dixie Regional competition next week.” She took a breath. “But that wasn’t what they talked about.”

  “It wasn’t?” Bessie asked. Now that she understood that this was about Mr. Whitworth, she was deeply curious. It sounded as if Audrey wasn’t aware that Mr. Whitworth hadn’t made it home last night. That he had been kidnapped.

  “No,” Audrey said, in a wavering tone. “It was about their partnership!” Her voice rose and her lips trembled. “They were downstairs in the parlor and I was in the bedroom upstairs. The hot air register in the bedroom floor is as good as an open window, you know, and I couldn’t help hearing everything they said.”

  Privately, Bessie suspected that Audrey probably went upstairs on purpose so she could listen to what the men were saying. Audrey always liked to be fully informed. But she only said, “It’s too bad that they upset you.” Impulsively, she added, “I didn’t know they were partners.”

  It was true. As Darling’s unofficial town historian, Bessie had written an article for the Dispatch a few years back, on the history of the businesses around the courthouse square. As she remembered it, Mr. Dunlap had opened the Five and Dime in 1912, the same year that Woodrow Wilson beat President Taft and Teddy Roosevelt for president. And as far as she knew, Mr. Dunlap had been the store’s only owner ever since.

  “I didn’t know it either, Bessie!” Audrey said. Her eyes widened and her heavy jowls quivered. “That’s what’s so alarming about all this! I thought Mr. Dunlap owned this store free and clear. In fact, I asked him, point blank, before we got married.” Defensively, she added, “I mean, it’s something a wife should know, isn’t it? Of course I asked him what kind of business obligations he had. You wouldn’t expect me to jump into marriage blind, would you? At my age?”

  “No,” Bessie replied slowly. She had never been married, but she could see the wisdom in that. “On the other hand—”

  “But there’s more, Bessie,” Audrey went on. “Mr. Whitworth says that Mr. Dunlap signed a paper saying that he got one thousand dollars from Mr. Whitworth—something called a limited partnership. And for that paltry amount, Mr. Whitworth gets half the profits, forever.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Bessie frowned. “Isn’t that a rather unusual—”

  “Of course it’s unusual,” Audrey said, with an impatient wave of her hand. “The problem is that Mr. Dunlap has to buy a new oil heater before winter sets in, because the old one has completely quit. And it’s not just the heater, but the heat pipes, too. They have to be replaced.” She gestured toward the ceiling, where an overhead duct ran the length of the store. “The whole thing is going to cost over fifteen hundred dollars. Mr. Dunlap was asking Mr. Whitworth to split the cost with him.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Bessie said. “Shoppers expect—”

  “They expect to shop in comfort,” Audrey snapped. “But Mr. Whitworth said he wasn’t going to give Mr. Dunlap any money, and there was this huge argument.” She shook her head. “A fight, actually.”

  “A fight?” Bessie was shocked. “You don’t mean it, Audrey!” Mr. Dunlap might be a tiger in certain circumstances, but he was not a large man—not nearly as large as his wife—and he didn’t look very strong. Bessie could not imagine him trading blows with Mr. Whitworth, who outweighed him by forty or fifty pounds.

  “Well, pushing and shoving, anyway,” Audrey said. “And lots of shouting. Mr. Dunlap got mad—really mad, I mean—and told Mr. Whitworth to get out. When Mr. Whitworth left, he banged the front door so hard that he broke the glass. And my poor husband—” Her chin quivered. “Mr. Dunlap was so upset that he had to go for a long drive, just to calm himself. He wouldn’t let me go with him, either. He didn’t come home until nearly midnight, and when he did, he was still terribly upset. He paced around the house for half the night and he refused to eat any breakfast this morning, not even Sally-Lou’s apple pancakes, which are his favorites. This is terribly hard on him, Bessie. Terribly hard. If he doesn’t get the money, we might have to close the store!”

  “Audrey, I am so sorry to hear all this,” Bessie said. “I wish I could help, but—”

  “It gets even worse,” Audrey went on. “Sheriff Norris came into the store this morning. He had this very serious look on his face, and he and Mr. Dunlap went into the office and talked for nearly half an hour. When he came out, he asked me what happened after Mr. Whitworth left last night, and I said that Mr. Dunlap went out for a drive. And then he asked what time he got home and I said midnight. And then he told Mr. Dunlap not to leave town!” She pulled in a ragged breath. “I don’t understand what this is all about, Bessie, but I have the feeling that the sheriff thinks my husband is guilty of something. And Mr. Dunlap won’t tell me what it is!”

  Bessie suspected that Audrey was frustrated because she was being kept in the dark. She would probably feel better if she knew that none of this had anything to do with her husband.

  In a comforting tone, she said, “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Audrey. I imagine this is about what happened to Mr. Whitworth.”

  Audrey frowned. “Something happened to Mr. Whitworth?”

  “Apparently,” Bessie said. “People are saying that he’s been—”

  But at that moment, Leona Ruth (who had moved from Brooms and Mops to Stationery and Greeting Cards, beside the big front window) exclaimed with great excitement, “Well, I swan. Just look at that, will you, Bessie! What d’you reckon …” Bessie hurried to stand at the front window beside Leona Ruth and saw an odd cavalcade of vehicles parading slowly along the street. The black Ford roadster at the head of the procession was driven by Mr. Springer, the new sheriff’s deputy, with a raincoat-clad fellow in the rumble seat—a drunk, Bessie guessed, the way his head was bent forward. Behind the deputy’s car clanked a heavy, steel-wheeled tractor, pulling an ivory-colored automobile with a smashed-in roof. And behind that came a black Ford sedan, bearing the Alabama insignia and the words Jericho State Prison Farm.

  Audrey came to the window and pushed herself between Bessie and Leona Ruth. “Why, I recognize that wrecked car they’re towing!” she exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Whitworth’s Pierce-Arrow! He was driving it when he came to our house last night. He—” She pressed her hand to her heaving bosom.

  “Gracious sakes alive, it is his Pierce-Arrow!” Leona Ruth’s voice was rising. She was so agitated that the peacock feathers on her purple hat quivered. “And that fellow in the deputy’s car, in the rumble seat—” By this time, she was practically screeching. “Why, I’ll be blessed if it isn’t Mr. Whitworth himself! He must have had too much to drink and wrecked his car and—”

  “But he isn’t drunk,” Bessie said, drawing in her breath. She was dizzy with the understanding that Mr. Whitworth had not been kidnapped, after all—or maybe he had been kidnapped and then he had wrecked his car when he tried to speed away from the people who had snatched him. “Just look at all that blood on his head! Why, Mr. Whitworth is—”

  “Bessie, I do believe you are right,” Leona Ruth shrilled excitedly. “Mr. Whitworth is dead. He is dead!”

  Between the two of them, Audrey let out her breath. Bessie turned to see that her eyes were as big as coat
buttons and her face was white as a hanky. “Oh, no, Mr. Dunlap, you didn’t!” she cried.

  Leona Ruth stared at her. “Didn’t what?” she demanded. “Audrey Dunlap, you are surely not thinking your husband had anything to do with Mr. Whitworth being dead, are you?”

  But Audrey’s eyes had rolled up into her head so that only the whites were showing. Before Bessie could grab her, her knees had buckled and she was flat on the floor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHARLIE IS BUFFALOED

  While Bessie and Leona Ruth were getting Audrey back on her feet, Charlie Dickens was rushing into the Dispatch office, his tie pulled loose, his fedora pushed to the back of his head, his Rolleiflex in his hand.

  Ophelia looked up from her typewriter in surprise. “My goodness,” she said. “What’s happened to you?”

  “I’m not the one it happened to,” Charlie said breathlessly. The deputy had wanted his photos in a hurry, so he had driven as fast as he could from the accident scene back to town. But he’d had to stop at the Standard station to pick up that flat tire. He shrugged out of his seersucker jacket and hung it beside his desk.

  “It’s Whitney Whitworth,” he added, turning around. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Ophelia stared at him, shocked. “Oh, my golly. Dead—really?” She leaned forward over her typewriter. “How did it happen? When? Are you writing the story?”

  “Unmistakably, undeniably dead. Car wreck. Accident. Ran off the road at the bottom of Spook Hill sometime last night. And yes,” he added firmly, “I am writing the story.” Ophelia was always eager to cover events outside her usual women’s page stuff and he tried to accommodate her when he could. But there was no way he was giving her this story. It was his, along with those photographs.

  She was frowning. “Spook Hill? What in the world was he doing out there? He didn’t have business at the prison farm, did he? That’s the only thing on that road.”

  Charlie shrugged. “No idea,” he said. He wasn’t surprised by the question—it was what everybody would want to know.

  “Was he alone?” Her frown intensified. “His wife wasn’t with him, I hope.”

  “Nope. He was the only one in the car.” Charlie raised his camera. “Gotta get this film developed and over to the sheriff’s office right away.” He was more than glad to be of service. If you did a favor for the sheriff, you could claim a favor in return: next week, next month, next year. That’s how a real newspaper reporter operated—cashing in on favors when payoff time rolled around.

  “Oh, dear,” Ophelia said sadly, shaking her head. “Oh, poor Mrs. Whitworth. I hope she has a friend with her when she learns about the accident. She’s sort of … well, she’s fragile right now. I’m afraid she’s going to feel guilty.”

  Halfway to the curtained-off corner he used for a darkroom, Charlie turned. “You know Whitworth’s wife?”

  “Yes, of course I know her,” Ophelia replied. “She and I have been on the decorating committee for the Ladies Guild for a couple of years. On Friday, it was our turn to put up decorations at the Retirement Haven, the old folks’ home over on Rayburn Road. We needed some orange and brown crepe paper and some red construction paper to make autumn leaves, and Mrs. Dunlap had used everything the Five and Dime had on her window display. So Mrs. Whitworth and I drove over to Monroeville to get it. Or rather,” she added, “she drove.” She gave a delicate shudder. “To tell the truth, it was pretty nerve-wracking. She’s been taking driving lessons in her new car, but she needs a lot more practice.” She blinked. “Gosh, was that the one that got wrecked? Mrs. Whitworth’s new car?”

  “No. The one that got wrecked was the Pierce-Arrow. The car Whitworth always drives around town. Drove, I mean,” Charlie corrected himself. He turned to regard Ophelia. “Wait a minute. You said she’s going to feel guilty.” He frowned. “Why? Why should Mrs. Whitworth feel guilty about her husband getting killed in an automobile accident?”

  Ophelia sat back in her chair. “Forget I said that.” She held out her hand. “Please, Charlie. I shouldn’t have. I’m just guessing, really.”

  “But you did say it.” Charlie leaned toward her, scowling. “Come on, Ophelia. Out with it. Why in the hell should the wife feel guilty about the husband’s accident?”

  Ophelia didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she sighed. Obviously reluctant, she said, “Because she’s planning to get a divorce. That’s why she bought the car. She wants to be independent.”

  Charlie stared at her, mystified. “And that makes her feel guilty?”

  Ophelia rolled her eyes. “You know, silly,” she said, as if she didn’t understand why he was asking. “It’s because she was thinking of getting rid of him and now—” She turned up her hand. “Well, now she’s a widow. Wouldn’t you feel guilty, under those circumstances?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Charlie said. Really, he thought, he would never understand women, especially when it came to this independence thing. He paused. “She told you about the divorce?”

  “Yes, she did.” Ophelia sounded a little defensive. “We stopped for a couple of root beers on the way home and she told me why she bought the car. I think she just needed somebody to talk to, and I happened to be handy.”

  “Did she tell you why she wanted a divorce?” Charlie asked curiously. “Was he seeing another woman, maybe?” Whitworth hadn’t struck him as the type who would keep a sweetie on the side, but you never could tell. Even the most conventional people sometimes did unconventional things. He once knew a pastor and a church secretary who ran off to Mexico together, leaving five children and two bewildered spouses behind. On the other hand, a woman of Mrs. Whitworth’s social status and pedigree wouldn’t consider a divorce unless she had a substantial reason. The guy must have been getting up to something.

  “Well, did she?” he demanded.

  Ophelia lifted her chin. “No, she didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. A divorce is a very personal thing. It was none of my business.” She looked him straight in the eye and added, quite firmly, “It isn’t any of your business, either, Charlie Dickens. It doesn’t belong in the Dispatch, especially now that Mr. Whitworth is dead.” She shook her head sympathetically. “Oh, poor Mrs. Whitworth! She’s going to feel just dreadful. And she has no family to lean on. Her parents are dead and she has no brothers or sisters. No support at all.”

  Charlie was thinking fast. Ophelia was certainly right on one score. He couldn’t include anything about a possible divorce in his story. The Methodists and Baptists went up in flames whenever they saw the word in print. And as Ophelia said, the issue was moot anyway, now that Mrs. Whitworth was a grieving widow—or a guilty widow, although the logic of that still escaped him. But the divorce angle aside, maybe he could soften up the story with a little human interest.

  He gave Ophelia a long look. “So far as I know, Mrs. Whitworth hasn’t been notified yet. What would you think about going with the sheriff to break the news? Are you that kind of friend?”

  “I don’t know exactly what you mean by ‘that kind of friend,’” Ophelia said cautiously. “But if Buddy Norris thinks I can help, I’ll be glad to go along.” She glanced up at the clock. “Of course, if I do that, I won’t be able to cover the meeting of the Share the Wealth Society, but—”

  “There’ll be another meeting,” Charlie cut in. “This is more important. I’ll call Norris right now.” He went to the phone on his desk and asked the Hello Central girl to speak to the sheriff’s office. A few moments and a brief conversation later, he hung up the receiver.

  “The deputy has taken Whitworth’s body to Noonan’s Funeral Parlor,” he said. “Noonan will need time to clean him up before the widow sees him. Buddy Norris is leaving for the Whitworth house now. He says he’ll be glad to have a woman go along—especially a friend of Mrs. Whitworth. He’ll pick you up on his way over there.” He frowned. “Where’s your notebook?”

  “My notebook?” Ophelia stared at him “You mean, you want me to—”


  “You’re damned right I do,” Charlie said impatiently. “You’re going as a friend, but don’t forget—you’re a reporter. If you pick up any details about the accident or about Mrs. Whitworth’s reaction to it, make a mental note and write them down as soon as you can. Bits of human interest will go a long way to soften the story of the accident. My story,” he added quickly, in case Ophelia might be getting ideas.

  “I don’t know if I like this,” Ophelia muttered. “It isn’t the kind of situation where I can just whip out my notebook and—”

  “Doesn’t matter whether you like it or not,” Charlie said flatly. “I’ll say it again, Ophelia. You’re a reporter. This is your job. Got it? Be a friend and help Mrs. Whitworth get through this, but stay objective, listen hard, and keep your reporter’s eye on the situation—on everything that goes on. Remember, human interest is what you’re after. Don’t get involved. It’ll be a good test for you.”

  With a sigh, Ophelia picked up her notebook and dropped it into her bag. “What sort of things are you looking for?” Frowning, she shrugged into her pink sweater. “Is something going on here that I need to know about, Charlie?”

  Charlie had been asking himself that very same question. “I don’t think so,” he said, pursing his lips. “But that business about the divorce has got me thinking. And the deputy was pretty definite about getting photographs. I’m wondering if he spotted something that—” He broke off.

  “Spotted what? Didn’t you say it was an accident?”

  “That’s what I said.” A car horn sounded on the street outside. “There’s the sheriff. You pay attention, you hear? And you’re a reporter, looking for human interest. A reporter. Don’t get involved. Remember that, while you’re busy being a friend. Don’t get involved!”