The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Verna heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “That sounds good, Liz. Actually, that sounds swell. I’m so grateful. I don’t know how I can thank you.”


Lizzy raised her hand. “I can’t promise anything, of course. But Mr. Moseley is very good at straightening things out for people.” She paused, thinking how proud she felt when she said that. Mr. Moseley really was a very good lawyer. “In fact,” she added reassuringly, “I’ve never seen him tackle a case that turned out to be too tough to handle.”

Verna’s face darkened. “Have you ever seen him tackle an embezzlement case?”

Lizzy was jolted. “Embezzlement?” She had been thinking that Verna might be involved in a minor property dispute or even a disagreement over an unpaid bill. But embezzlement? Why, depending on the amount, that could be a felony! But of course even if she were arrested and charged, Verna wouldn’t be convicted. Mr. Moseley would get her off, because she was innocent. Steal money? She would never in the world do such a thing. In fact, this whole thing was beginning to seem like some sort of unfunny prank.

“You’ve got to be kidding, Verna,” she said at last. “This is a joke. Isn’t it?”

“I wish it were, Liz.” Verna’s voice was grim. “But I’m afraid I’m in serious trouble. Come on. Let’s get started.”

Still half disbelieving, Lizzy reached for her steno pad and a pen. Ten minutes later, she had to agree. If even half of what Verna feared was true, she was in very serious trouble.





FIVE

Myra May



Myra May got up early every morning to make the first batch of biscuits and start the grits. Mrs. Hancock, at the grocery store down the street, stocked a new-fangled quick-cooking grits for people who were in a hurry. But for pure down-home flavor, Myra May preferred the stone-ground white cornmeal she bought from a gristmill at the north end of the county. It took longer, about forty minutes, and you had to cook it just at a simmer and stir the pot every time you walked past it, or it would scorch. But whether you ate your grits plain with a chunk of butter or smothered in red-eye gravy or sliced and fried in bacon grease, or even topped with honey or molasses (which in Myra May’s opinion was just plain wrong), it tasted like grits was supposed to taste. Like corn, real corn, not like library paste.

Myra May glanced into the Exchange to see Henrietta on the job, then went to turn on the lights and the Philco that sat on the shelf behind the counter. This morning, station WODX in Mobile led off with “I Got Rhythm” and “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” which made Myra jig a little as she slipped on her apron over her trousers and plaid blouse. Then she stirred up the big copper pot of grits, started the coffee, and rolled and cut out the yeast doughnuts that had been rising overnight. She remembered to light the fire under the fat kettle so Euphoria could fry up the doughnuts after they’d had another rise. Then she made three dozen biscuits (that was all that would fit into the oven at one time) and checked to see that the tables were set up and the cream pitchers and sugar bowls filled. There were lots of little details involved in putting breakfast together, and Myra May always felt best when she could stay on top of everything, even if it meant getting up very early in the morning.

About the time that the first batch of biscuits came out of the oven and the radio was playing “Them There Eyes,” Euphoria arrived to take over her kitchen, where she was queen. Euphoria was famous across Cypress County for her fried chicken, meat loaf, meringue pies, and doughnuts. Without her, the diner would be in serious trouble, and she knew it. Myra May and Violet knew it, too, and made a point of never crossing Euphoria, especially when she was in a bad mood. She was likely to take off her apron, stalk out, and go on home. She tied on her capacious red and blue apron, rolled up her sleeves, and began frying doughnuts, stirring up pancake batter, and slicing ham, so everything would be ready for the early crowd. It would be all men at that hour, railroaders and sawmill hands and workers at the small Coca-Cola Bottling Plant on the south end of town, mostly single men with no woman to cook breakfast for them at home.