The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

That was the good part. The other part was rather unfortunate, for Lizzy had developed a fierce adolescent crush on Mr. Moseley. She suffered the pains of unrequited love in silence, always half worried that she might slip and blurt out, “Oh, Mr. Moseley, I love you!” Heartened by the goose-bump-raising thrill of a stray glance or an accidental touch of his fingers, she had even imagined that Mr. Moseley might care for her, too.

But that was silly. Romances like that happened only in the novels Lizzy liked to read. And then it all became academic, anyway, for Mr. Moseley married a beautiful blond debutant from Birmingham, who quickly became one of Darling’s acknowledged social leaders. When Mr. and Mrs. Moseley hosted a dinner party or attended a function at the country club, everybody oohed and ahhed and said what a perfect couple they were.

A perfect couple, that is, until Mrs. Moseley took their two pretty little girls and went back to her parents. Lizzy couldn’t decide whether to be sorry or glad about the divorce. She’d grown up with the idea that marriage was forever, and she hated the thought of Mr. Moseley being lonely and the little girls missing their father. But she had to admit that it was downright silly for people to stay in a marriage that didn’t make both of them happy. And now that Mr. Moseley was single again, perhaps—

But that wasn’t a thought that Lizzy allowed herself to think very often, and certainly not on this bright Monday morning, when she was in charge of the office. She unlocked the door and let herself in. She hung her felt hat on the peg she usually used, then with a little smile, moved it to the peg where Mr. Moseley always hung his fedora. She put her handbag and lunch into her bottom desk drawer and looked around the room, feeling quite a wonderful sense of belonging. She loved the office, the polished wooden floors and the worn but still pretty Oriental rug, the glass-fronted bookcases filled with thick leather-bound law books, the diplomas and certificates and awards of three generations of Moseleys that hung on the wood-paneled walls.

And when she went into Mr. Moseley’s office to adjust the venetian blind, she stood still for a moment as she always did to admire the view of the Cypress County Courthouse across the street, where the American flag hung on one pole and the Alabama flag on the other. Lizzy’s spirits always lifted at the sight, for the courthouse seemed to her to represent all that was good about the America in which she lived. It stood for law and order and justice. And not justice only for some but for all, whether you were rich or poor, male or female, a resident or just passing through—like the hungry boy who had stolen Earl Ayers’ green peaches. Lizzy wasn’t naive enough to think that the law was always right in every single instance. But as she had learned right here in this office, the law could be trusted to stand up for the innocent and right the wrongs done to them.

Leaving Mr. Moseley’s door open, she went back to the reception room. She raised the windows to let the cool morning breeze freshen the air, then made coffee in the electric percolator, used the feather duster on the bookshelves and furniture, and ran the carpet sweeper over the rug. Usually, she checked the court calendar and Mr. Moseley’s appointment book and got out the case files he would need. But Mr. Moseley wouldn’t be coming in this week and she had caught up the office billing and filing on Friday. Lizzy was at loose ends.

So she poured a cup of coffee, put the bag of doughnuts on the desk, and sat down in front of her typewriter, thinking that she ought to work on her “Garden Gate” column. But she would have her coffee and doughnut first. That was when she heard the hurried footsteps coming up the wooden stairs.

Quickly, Lizzy opened the drawer and dropped the doughnut bag into it, thinking that since she had booked no appointments for Mr. Moseley this week, this must be a new client. Who else would be coming so early on a Monday morning? And if this was a new client, how would she handle the situation, now that she was in charge? If the matter could wait until Mr. Moseley got back, there would be no problem. But what if it were urgent? What if—?

But it wasn’t a client. It was Verna. She was wearing her usual working outfit of dark skirt, dressy-but-practical blouse, and low heels. But she wore no makeup and her hair, usually neatly combed, was uncharacteristically disheveled. She looked distraught.

Startled, Lizzy glanced at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall. It was nearly eight thirty. Verna should be in the courthouse across the street, settling into the day’s work at the county probate clerk and treasurer’s office.

“Why, Verna,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you—”

She stopped, remembering what Myra May had said (or rather, what she hadn’t said) at the diner earlier this morning, and the strained expression on Myra May’s face when she looked over Lizzy’s shoulder at Verna’s boss. And Coretta Cole fidgeting on the edge of her chair while Mr. Scroggins and Mr. Tombull had their heads together. Obviously, something was going on. Something serious.