The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“She didn’t say,” Mrs. Wilson replied, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that Roy Burns might not have come calling to ask Verna to contribute to the county employees’ welfare fund. She sat back in her rocking chair and picked up her current granny square and her crochet hook. “Is it impo’tant, Sheriff?”


“I reckon it is,” the sheriff said with heavy irony, “or I wouldn’t have this here warrant in my pocket, would I? And I wouldn’t be wastin’ my time bangin’ on this here door, neither.”

A warrant? “Well, now, I don’t reckon you would,” Mrs. Wilson replied thoughtfully. “You have a good day, Sheriff.”

“I’ll do that,” the sheriff said. “You happen to hear from Miz Tidwell, you tell her that I was here. And that I’m lookin’ to talk to her jes’ as soon as she gets back.” He stomped to his Model A and drove off, trailing a cloud of dust.

Mrs. Wilson put down her crocheting and puckered her forehead in a frown. Verna had told her to telephone Miss Lacy in Mr. Moseley’s office if anybody came calling. But Mrs. Wilson was thinking that she was on a party line and maybe Verna wouldn’t want everybody in town to know that the sheriff had dropped by to see her with a warrant in his pocket, which they certainly would, if the Newmans or the Ferrells or the Snows happened to pick up the receiver.

Mrs. Wilson was still considering the possible ins and outs of this when she looked up and saw Old Zeke trudging slowly down Larkspur, pulling a rusty red wagon with wooden slat sides. The wagon was empty. She had seen him earlier, when the wagon was full of groceries and he was on his way to make deliveries. He was likely on his way back to Hancock’s for another load.

“How are you today, Mr. Zeke?” she called out pleasantly.

Old Zeke wore bib overalls and a sweat-stained brown felt hat mashed down on his grizzled head. He’d been a middleweight before the Great War, traveling around the Southern circuit, fighting any fool who would climb into the ring with him. Now, he was bent and frail, his nose misshapen, his face as leathery as a piece of old cowhide hanging on the side of a barn. He lifted his head and shaded his eyes, as if the bright sunshine was too much for him.

“I’s right po’ly,” he replied in his cracked voice, “but I sho’ do thank’ee for askin’, Miz Wilson.”

Mrs. Wilson understood. Old Zeke was known to indulge in the local moonshine and was a frequent overnight guest at the county jail on the second floor of Snow’s Farm Supply. He always felt poorly after a riotous weekend.

She pushed herself out of her rocking chair. “Would you mind doing a little something for me? I need to send a note to Mr. Moseley’s office.” The office was next door to the grocery store, so it wouldn’t be out of his way. “I don’t happen to have any spare change right now, but I’d be glad to give you some cookies. Would that be all right?”

“Cookies.” Old Zeke grinned toothlessly. “Cookies is allus good. Ol’ Zeke likes cookies.”

And that’s why, ten minutes later, Old Zeke, hat in hand, was standing like a battered Western Union delivery boy beside Lizzy’s desk and Lizzy was opening an envelope with her name written on the outside. She took out a note, seeing that it came from Verna’s next-door neighbor.

“Thank you for bringing this, Zeke,” she said, and reached into the drawer where she kept the office petty cash. She took out a dime and gave it to him. He pocketed it eagerly and looked around.

“You got ’ny jobs Old Zeke might could do?” he asked hopefully. “Sweepin’? Fixin’? Totin’?”

“Not here in the office,” Lizzy replied. “But could you mow the front yard at the Dahlias clubhouse? It’s looking a little shaggy.” The Dahlias managed the garden, but Zeke kept the grass looking nice.

He brightened. “Sho’ thing, Miz Lacy.” He put his hat on his head and saluted. “I’ll do it this evenin’.”

When Lizzy read the note, she was glad that Mrs. Wilson had had the presence of mind to write down what she had seen, rather than go to the telephone. It would not have been a good idea to let everyone in Verna’s neighborhood know that the sheriff was knocking at her door. She frowned apprehensively. He’d said he had a warrant. Was it a search warrant, or a warrant for her arrest? Either way, he had to have some sort of probable cause before the judge would sign off on it. Probable cause—what was it?