The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Lizzy shifted uneasily in the swing. This wasn’t going the way she wanted it to. “I don’t understand. What makes you think she hasn’t—”

“Because,” Coretta broke in, “I telephoned Mr. Gilmer, over at the depot, and asked him if Verna Tidwell was on the noon spur train to Monroeville. That’s the train she’d take if she was going to Nashville. But she didn’t. Mr. Gilmer says he hasn’t seen her.” Coretta gave Lizzy a penetrating look. “Of course, if it occurred to me to check out her story, Liz, it could occur to the sheriff as well.”

That was true, Lizzy thought, with a cold feeling in her stomach. Maybe Sheriff Burns had already talked to Mr. Gilmer. But she tried to parry.

“Well, then, maybe she got a ride to Monroeville with Mr. Clinton. She does that sometimes, when she goes shopping. She could have caught the train at the L and N depot.”

Mr. Clinton drove an old red Ford two-seater back and forth between Darling and Monroeville, twenty miles away. Two trips in the morning, two trips in the afternoon. He charged fifteen cents for a one-way trip, a quarter if you wanted to go both ways. It might be a little crowded, since Mr. Clinton was known to put as many as four riders in the backseat, along with all their packages. Sometimes people had to sit on other people’s laps.

“Uh-uh.” Coretta shook her head. “On my way here, I happened to see Mr. Clinton letting people out at the diner. He said he definitely didn’t give Verna a ride today. So if she didn’t take the spur train and she didn’t ride with Mr. Clinton, she’s still here. In Darling, I mean. Hiding out.” Her voice tightened. “And you know where she is.”

Lizzy stared at her, torn between two perplexing possibilities. It was possible, just possible, that Coretta really wanted to help Verna find out what was going on and that she was willing to take a big risk to find out who had taken that money. On the other hand, she could just as easily be working for Mr. Scroggins, and she wanted to learn Verna’s whereabouts so she could turn her in to the sheriff. She had said she needed money—maybe she had been promised a reward. Or maybe she figured that she could put Verna out of the way permanently, and she would get Verna’s job. Which was it? Was Coretta telling the truth, or was she lying?

Coretta stood up. “Look, Liz, all I want to do is to help Verna out of this tight spot. Honest to God, I truly do. But to do that, I have to talk to her. I want to show her the auditor’s report—that’s why I smuggled it out of the office.” Her voice became more demanding. “Are you going to help or not?”

Lizzy sat limp for a moment, not knowing how to respond. She had always had a way with words. But for once in her life, she didn’t know what to say.





THIRTEEN

Charlie



When Lizzy walked past the Dispatch office on her way home from work, Charlie Dickens didn’t look up and wave at her for the simple reason that he had his nose in a book—a library book. Or to be more precise, a scrapbook, one that he had borrowed from the library.

Charlie had not been thrilled that morning when Bessie Bloodworth had handed him that transcription of the indecipherable symbols and numbers some little old lady had embroidered on a pillow, wondering whether it might be some sort of “secret code.” In fact, at first, he had thought the whole thing was pretty silly. He had even teased her a little about it, but she hadn’t been offended. And when she smiled, he’d noticed the laugh wrinkles crinkling around her mouth. It occurred to him that Bessie Bloodworth was an attractive lady—for her age, of course. She had gone to school with his sister Edna Fay, he remembered, which made her just three or four years younger than himself. While Charlie preferred his women even younger (around the age of Fannie Champaign, for instance) he had to admit that Bessie had taken a lot better care of herself than had Angelina Biggs. At the thought of Angelina Biggs, he had shuddered and made himself stop thinking of women. Women could get a man in trouble.

After Bessie left, Charlie had given her paper another skeptical look. Secret code? He seriously doubted it. He’d had considerable experience working with codes and ciphers when he was in France during the Great War. And when the fighting was over and he’d been sent back to Washington, he’d been interested enough to do some historical research on the topic. In his experience, people just didn’t go around embroidering secret codes on pillows. As for the symbols and numbers on that piece of paper, well, yes, he supposed they might look to the untrained eye like some sort of cipher. But more likely, it was only some sort of silly female exercise. Some Southern lady showing off her fancy needlework skills. A strange sort of sampler, nothing more.