The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“So do I,” Mr. Biggs muttered, as he tried to hang on to a flailing arm. “I just wish I knew what ails her. She’s been like this for a couple of days now. It’s like she’s goin’ crazy. She’s drivin’ me crazy, anyway.” He put his arm around his wife’s ample waist. “Come on, now, sweetheart. Settle down. Settle down, and we’ll get you home to bed.”


“Bed!” Mrs. Biggs shrieked. “Don’t you talk to me about bed, you philanderer! You Don Juan, you!” She turned on Charlie Dickens. “And you, you . . . you Casanova!”

It required the combined efforts of both men to wrestle Mrs. Biggs down the stairs and get her headed back toward the hotel, lurching along between them like a drunk on the way home after a thirsty night on the town. Lizzy watched from the office window, shaking her head at the sight, which would have been funny if it hadn’t been so sad. Mrs. Biggs had always seemed like a quiet, thoughtful person. What in the world was making her act this way?

She was about to turn away from the window when she saw Beulah Trivette hurrying across the courthouse square toward the trio. The group paused while Mrs. Biggs struggled against the men’s restraint and Mr. Biggs listened, at first impatiently and then with growing seriousness, to what Beulah had to say. Then Beulah joined them and the quartet hustled toward the hotel as Lizzy puzzled over what it all meant. She’d have to ask Beulah for an explanation, first chance she got.

The rest of the day went by in the same first-one-thing-then-another manner, although without any more exciting whirling dervish episodes. By the time the old-fashioned grandfather clock had struck five, Lizzy was more than ready for the long work day to end. She had hoped to get a free hour to finish her “Garden Gate” column, but that hadn’t happened. So she walked hurriedly past the window of the Dispatch office, not wanting to catch Charlie Dickens’ glance. If she’d looked in, she might have seen Charlie bent over a library book instead of his typewriter, turning the pages with a rapt attention.

When Lizzy got home, she went straight to her bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes, unfastened her garter belt, and peeled off her stockings. As she did nearly every day after work, she washed them in the bathroom sink with a sprinkle of Ivory soap flakes. These were rayon service-weight stockings, reasonably sheer, and at fifty cents a pair at the Mercantile—forty-eight cents postage paid from the Sears catalog—you learned to take care of them. For another dollar, you could buy chiffon-weight silk stockings with the new slenderizing French heels. But Lizzy had only one pair of those, which she saved for very special occasions, like the monthly dances at the country club. Rayon was plenty good enough for the office—but then, it had to be, didn’t it? And anyway, she was lucky to have what she had. Some women couldn’t even afford rayon.

Stockings washed and dripping over the towel bar, Lizzy stepped into the blue cotton wrap dress with the white pique V-necked collar that she liked to wear around the house and padded barefoot into the kitchen. There, she poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher in the refrigerator and took it into the grassy backyard, where Daffy was having his afternoon nap under a rosebush. He opened one eye, saw Lizzy, and closed his eye again.

When she’d first moved into her house, Grady had built a wooden garden swing, painted it white, and hung it from the limb of the live oak. Lizzy had made a seat cushion and covered it with orange and blue oilcloth. That’s where she sat now. She sipped her cold drink, pushed herself back and forth with one bare foot, and thought over all the things that had happened that day, especially Myra May’s report of Alice Ann Walker’s story about what happened at the bank and the sheriff’s subsequent appearance—with a warrant—at Verna’s house. Obviously, Verna was on Roy Burns’ wanted list. There was apparently enough money in her bank account to make her a suspect in the fifteen-thousand-dollar theft from the county treasury. Lizzy knew that Verna would never have stolen anything from the county treasury—but where had she gotten that money? Could she explain that to Roy Burns’ satisfaction?

Lizzy frowned and sipped her lemonade. She was wishing she had been able to talk to Mr. Moseley about this and wondering if she had done all she could when she heard a woman’s husky voice, a bit tentative, calling from the side-yard gate.

“Yoo-hoo, Liz. Liz Lacy. Do you, um, have a minute to talk?”

Lizzy stood up from the swing. “Hi. But who—”

Then she caught sight of her visitor, standing beside the gate. It was Coretta Cole, still wearing the same gray suit and red hat and heels that she’d had on that morning, when Lizzy had seen her having breakfast with Mr. Scroggins and Mr. Tombull.

“Coretta!” Lizzy exclaimed in great surprise. “What are you doing here?” And then, realizing that she sounded less than gracious, she added, “Push up the latch and come on in.”

Coretta did as she was told, walking across the grass on her toes so that her stylish three-inch heels wouldn’t sink into the earth. She was glancing around in a covetous way.