“I would,” Nichols said, stepping inside. “I had a swell supper of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and gravy at the diner—good down-home food. Another cup of coffee would hit the spot. And I promise not to take up too much of your time.”
Ryan Nichols looked no smaller sitting down. For the next twenty minutes, he occupied a good half of Lizzy’s small parlor sofa. Over coffee and a plate of Chocolate Crunch cookies, he talked with energy and excitement about Project One. When it was in full operation, he said, it would eventually employ some six thousand workers—three-quarters of them women—across the United States. Field workers, most of whom would have done white-collar work, would be drawn from the local unemployment lists. They would be trained and managed by an editorial staff, people (again, mostly women) with experience in writing and management. For the editorial staff, there would likely be some regional travel, overseeing fieldworkers and attending meetings with other managers.
Nichols leaned forward, gesturing, his face animated, its lines eased. “Our biggest goal, of course, is to put people to work—get them a job, put money in their pockets, give them a future to hope for. But we’re also expected to produce useful projects that will help local communities and states. Not buildings or roads, but a better understanding of their local landscape, a clearer sense of local history.”
“Mr. Nichols,” Lizzy said carefully, “here in Darling, we are steeped in history. Sometimes I think we are drowning in it. This is the South, you know. The Confederate South.”
“Yes, of course it is. And that’s why it’s important.” He set his coffee cup down and reached for another cookie. “Once the project is up and running, we’ll be collecting oral histories from citizens who haven’t yet told their stories—older citizens, especially, who remember what life was like in the old days, before our modern times. People whose parents and grandparents settled an area. Immigrants from foreign countries. Colored citizens, too, some of whom may have slave stories to tell.”
Slave stories? Uh-oh, Lizzie thought wryly. This Yankee doesn’t know what he’s getting into. But she only said, “Well, there are plenty of those stories around here.”
“We’re also hearing from the folklorists,” he added. “Some of them are interested in documenting local folklore.” He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Say, this is good.”
“That one happens to be a Yankee recipe,” Lizzy said with amusement. “But we have plenty of wonderful Southern cooks here. Maybe the government would be interested in compiling a book of Alabama recipes.”
He regarded her with mock sternness. “Don’t laugh, Miss Lacy. That might just happen. Food and drink can tell the history of an area, can’t it? I’m sure the food here in Darling is part of Darling’s story.”
Suppressing a chuckle, Lizzy thought of the secret ingredient in Aunt Hetty’s pecan pie and wondered what Mr. Nichols would say if she told him about it. But he was going on.
“Federal One will also include projects on music, theater, and art and handicrafts. Just last week, I met Harriet Clinton, who directs our WPA program in Milwaukee. She’s planning a work project that will employ women to make and sell toys, dolls, furniture. They’re even setting up a weaving studio to make rugs. She says it’s a way to preserve traditional crafts while creating jobs for people—for women, mostly.” He grinned. “You can bet that Mrs. Roosevelt is interested in that one. In fact, she’s behind the whole thing.”
There was a current of excitement in Ryan Nichols’ voice, and Lizzy found herself studying him closely. He was a Yankee, which certainly made him different from the other men she knew. He was also very good-looking, with an easy manner that was at once friendly, engaging, and confident. And he was clearly enthusiastic about what the federal government was doing: creating jobs for people who needed them, jobs that would put money in their pockets and raise their sense of self-worth. What’s more, he obviously believed that this was the right thing for the government to be doing in the current desperate situation.
There were people who didn’t like the idea of the government making work for people, but Lizzy wasn’t one of them. Over the last year, she had seen how Darling had been helped by the CCC camp. The boys from Camp Briarwood spent their pocket money in Darling stores, and people in Darling who worked at the camp or sold their farm produce to the camp spent their money in town, too. Darling was more prosperous and Darling folk were beginning to feel better. She wanted to believe that the federal arts programs would have a similar impact.
“As I said, we don’t have the funding right now,” Nichols went on. “But we’re asking for five billion dollars, with the money to come as soon as we get congressional approval. FDR is a man in a hurry, as you probably know. He’s told us that he wants us to be ready to hit the ground running as soon as the money is available. I’m starting now. I’m lining up people who might be available to work as program administrators, full or part-time.” He gave her a serious look. “I know it’s too soon to ask for a commitment, Miss Lacy. And I understand that you’re currently employed. But people’s situations change, especially these days. And if the position is out of the question for you, perhaps you can recommend someone—someone local—who might be available.”
And then, suddenly, it all came together for Lizzy. She had been fortunate so far, but times were hard right now, and she couldn’t count on keeping her full-time job with Mr. Moseley. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have a part-time job. And while she might very well decide that she loved Grady, it would be wrong to marry him just because she had lost her job and he still had his. Really, she ought to be ashamed of herself for even thinking of it! This proposal from Mr. Nichols—it was like a bolt out of the blue, and a very lucky bolt, at that. It might be exactly what she needed, at exactly the right time.
She leaned back in her chair and spoke as evenly as she could. “To tell the truth, Mr. Nichols, things are a little rough in the office right now. I work for a lawyer here in town, and the people who need him can’t afford to pay him. He’s been talking about reducing my hours. If things don’t improve, I’m afraid he might have to let me go altogether.”
The words were a hard slice at her heart. But hearing them, she felt suddenly, surprisingly relieved. Spoken out loud, in that even, factual tone of voice, they didn’t seem nearly as menacing as they had when they were screaming in the dark corners of her mind.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Nichols said gravely. “Unfortunately, I’ve been hearing that all too often. And I’ve felt the pinch myself. It’s hard to make plans when you can’t see past the end of the week.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But if you’re facing a layoff—or worse—maybe I came along at the right time.”
She managed a half-smile in return. “Maybe so. Anyway, please do put my name on your list, and when you’re ready to get started, let me know. If I can help, I will.” She gave him the office number and her home number too, and added ruefully, “If you can’t reach me at the law office, it probably means I don’t work there any longer, or that my hours have been reduced. I’ll be here at home, working on my book.”
Mr. Nichols wrote down her numbers on a card. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m grateful to Miss Fleming for giving me your name. And to you for giving me your time tonight—and coffee and cookies, too. Even a Yankee cookie.” There was that grin again. “You’ll be hearing from me as soon as I have news.”
He slipped the card into his suit jacket pocket, then paused and took something out. “Hey, I almost forgot. When I got out of the car out in front of your house, I happened to look down and noticed this. It was growing in your yard, so it belongs to you. But since I’m the one who found it, maybe it means good luck for both of us.”
He was holding out a four-leaf clover.
When Mr. Nichols had gone, Lizzy took their coffee cups to the kitchen, where she refilled the plate of cookies. She had just set the plate on the kitchen table when there was a soft knock at the kitchen door. It was Sally-Lou, with Fremon behind her. S
ally-Lou was wearing a dark cotton skirt and blouse and a dark brown sweater, clutched around her against the October night chill. Fremon was dressed in bib overalls and a blue cotton work shirt, and a striped denim railroad cap.
“Hi, Sally-Lou,” Lizzy said, smiling. “Gosh, Fremon, it’s good to see you again.”
Fremon looked down at her. When they were kids, she’d been the tall one. He was taller than she by a full head now, and broad-shouldered rather than skinny. But he still had that quick, shy grin. “Same here, Miz Lizzy. You still go fishin’ down at Spook Creek?”
“No, but I remember when we used to do that, on hot summer days.” Lizzy matched his grin. “You still have Myrtle the turtle?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Took her out to the swamp and turned her loose so’s she could find some friends. But my kids got a goat name of Gen’ral Grant. They go fishin’ at Spook Creek ever’ chance they get.”
Lizzy laughed. “I guess kids don’t change much, do they? Shall we take our coffee and go into the parlor?” She gestured toward the plate of cookies. “We have something to munch on, too.”
Sally-Lou frowned. “We ain’t stayin’ long, you know. This ain’t exactly a parlor call.” She pointed to the table. “Y’all can sit right here and have your talk. I’ll go out on the po’ch.”
“Spoken like a big sister,” Lizzy said.
“Yeah,” Fremon said, sounding disgruntled. “Sally-Lou, she jes’ can’t stop orderin’ people around. Come here, go there, git those chores done.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “But this here’s good enough for me. And if I know Sally-Lou, she’ll put her ear to the do’ if she goes out on the po’ch. Far as I’m concerned, she can sit right here and listen.” He gave his sister a pointed look. “Long as she don’t talk too much or try to act like she smarter ‘n’ us.” He turned the look on Lizzy. “And long as somebody tells me how come I’m here.”
Sally-Lou sat down, too, and Lizzy poured coffee. “Sally-Lou didn’t tell you?”
“Uh-uh,” Fremon said, shaking his head. “She just told me I gotta come see you.”
Lizzy reached into the pocket of her slacks and took out DessaRae’s penciled note. Tell Sally-Lou you need to talk to Fremon right away. Tell him I told you to ask him what he saw last night. And don’t take no for an answer.
She handed the wrinkled paper to Fremon. “I was at the Whitworth house this morning, and DessaRae slipped me this note. Do you know what it means?”
Fremon read it silently, pushing his lips in and out. “Don’t take no for an answer, huh?” He scowled. “Means you all are fixin’ to get me in trouble.”
Sally-Lou frowned. “You got to tell what you seen, Fremon,” she said firmly. “If you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, you won’t get in trouble.”
“Oh, yeah?” Fremon was caustic. “Lots you know about it, Sister.”
Lizzy pushed the plate of cookies across the table. “Does it have something to do with Mr. Whitworth’s accident?”
Fremon took a cookie. “Less said, the better,” he muttered.
“Uh-uh, Fremon.” Sally-Lou narrowed her eyes. “What you know, you gotta tell. So get to it.”
Fremon looked at his sister as if he were measuring her authority. Finally, reluctantly, he gave in. “Well, for starters, wa’n’t no accident. Doobie and me, we was there. We seen it.”
“Doobie?” Lizzy asked. “Who’s he?”
“A no-count scallywag is what he is,” Sally-Lou muttered, taking a cookie.
Fremon frowned at his sister. To Lizzy, he said, “Doobie Jenkins. We go fishing together, some Sundays. He works some for Mrs. Forenberry, tidying up her garden. He had to run an errand over to the Whitworths’ house this mo’ning. We’d agreed we wasn’t goin’ to tell, but I reckon he could’ve said something to DessaRae. She got a nose about as long as a rake-handle.” He sounded disgruntled. “Doobie, he likes to brag on hisself. Shoulda known I couldn’t trust him to keep his goldurned trap shut.”
Sally-Lou scowled. “Fremon, I want you to stop talkin’ ‘bout Doobie. Tell what you saw. Straight out, right now. And we don’t need none of your cursin’. You hear?”
Fremon put both hands flat on the table, and for a moment, Lizzy thought he was going to get up and march out. But Sally-Lou had practically raised her younger brother, and her old command over him was too strong. He sighed, sat back in his chair, and gave in. With an obvious reluctance, he began his story.
He and Doobie Jenkins had spent Sunday afternoon and evening fishing underneath the railroad bridge over Spook Creek. The fish were biting—each of them had a hefty string of catfish and stripers—and they hated to leave. But it would be dark soon and they were on foot, so they thought they’d better head back to town. They were halfway up Spook Hill when they saw Mr. Whitworth’s Pierce-Arrow, coming over the top.
“He was comin’ right smart,” Fremon said, “and the road is kinda narrow right there.” So he and Doobie jumped the ditch on the uphill side and climbed a little way into some trees. They were waiting to let him pass when they saw another car—a black Ford—coming down the hill behind him, fast. The Pierce-Arrow was halfway down the hill when the other car rammed it in the rear.
“Pow!” Fremon said, smacking his right fist into the flat of his left palm. “Just like that. And then pow! Damned fool revved his engine and did it again.” He slid a glance at Sally-Lou, who was narrowing her eyes at him. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Wait.” Startled, Lizzy held up her hand. “You say the Ford hit Mr. Whitworth’s car twice? On purpose?”
“On purpose?” Sally-Lou echoed. “Lordy me!”
“Yes, on purpose.” Fremon’s face was grim. “That hill was muddy, and once could’ve been an accident. Not twice. Made two big, loud clangs, like a freight car couplin’. Doobie and me, we ‘bout jumped out of our skins.”
“And then what?” Lizzy asked.
“And then that old Pierce-Arrow, it sailed down the hill like a big bird and flipped off the road at the bottom.” Fremon illustrated a somersault with his hands. “And then went flyin’ down that big steep bank.”
“And the car that hit him? The Ford? What did the driver do?” Lizzy asked excitedly. “Did he stop? Did he get out?”
“Nope.” Fremon shook his head. “He speeded up and jes’ kept on going down the road. Didn’t get out, didn’t even stop. Jes’ kept on drivin’ like nothin’ had happened.”
“He left the scene,” Lizzy murmured. Even if it couldn’t be proved that he deliberately caused the accident, it was a crime to drive away. One of Mr. Moseley’s clients had gotten into some pretty serious trouble doing just that.
“Lord sakes, Fremon,” Sally-Lou said, leaning forward. “So that bad man jes’ up and drove off? What did you and Doobie do?”
“Us? Why, we dropped our fish and our poles and we run fast as our legs’ud carry us down the hill to see if we could do anything for poor old Mr. Whitworth. But the good Lord done took him—or the devil, one.” Fremon’s eyes went to Sally-Lou, as if he was expecting her to correct him. When she didn’t, he went on. “I’m here to tell you there was no way on God’s little green earth that me and Doobie could’ve got that car back on its wheels, the two of us. And even if we could’ve, there was nothin’ at all we could do for that man. He was squashed flat as a bug under that car. He was dead.”
Sally-Lou regarded her brother fixedly. “So then what did you do?”
Fremon looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes. “Me an’ Doobie?” he said innocently. “Why, we picked up our poles and our fish and we hot-footed it back on home, fast as we could.”
Lizzy frowned. “You didn’t call the sheriff?” No, of course he didn’t. That’s why nobody knew what had happened until well into the next morning, when the wreck was discovered.
“Don’t got no phone,” Fremon muttered.
Sally-Lou’s voice oozed sarcasm. “You two grown-up men couldn’t find a phone? Or walk across the courthouse lawn to the sheriff’s office
and tell him face to face what you seen?”
“I guess maybe we could’ve.” Fremon twisted his mouth. “But you gotta take the whole situation into account, Sally-Lou. Doobie’s been arrested twice, see. He’s scared of the law. And we …” He ducked his head. “Well, we had us a bottle of shine down there under the bridge, and—”
“So you was drunk.” Sally-Lou’s tone was withering.
“Not very,” Fremon protested. “Not by that time, anyway.” He turned to Lizzy, his hands out. “Miz Liz, I swear, I was sober enough to see what happened. And so was Doobie. We jes’ wa’n’t sober enough to tell it to the sheriff. At least, that’s how Doobie saw it. He made me promise.”
“Sure he did,” Sally-Lou growled. “And then he done went and told it hisself, to DessaRae. So you can forget that promise.”
Doggedly, Fremon shook his head. “Sis, I give Doobie my word that I—”
“Fremon,” Lizzy said, “you witnessed a crime. Not an accident, a crime. If the person who did it isn’t caught and punished, he could do it again. A man is dead. It’s your duty to help Sheriff Norris get to the bottom of if.” She could see the dogged expression on Fremon’s face, but she took a breath and plunged ahead. “The car that hit Mr. Whitworth’s car—did you recognize it?”
Fremon hesitated. His eyes were half shut and he was pushing his lips in and out. He wasn’t looking at Sally-Lou, but that didn’t stop her.
“If you know that car, Fremon,” she said grimly, “you gotta tell. You got no choice.”
Fremon laced his fingers around his coffee cup.
“You hear me, little brother?” Sally-Lou raised her voice, and Lizzy recognized the tone. She had heard it often enough herself when she was a girl. Sally-Lou wasn’t a big person, but she had a big voice and a way of making you do the right thing, whether you wanted to do it or not.
Fremon pulled at his bottom lip. “It was the warden’s car from the prison farm,” he muttered. “The one that’s got the state seal painted on the side.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover Page 22