The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

The Murphy place was about four miles outside of town, heading south. Earlier, Lizzy had taken the quickest way, straight out Jericho Road. But that wasn’t the route she took now. She drove out to the north side of town, weaving from one street to another, until she got to Sherman’s sawmill. The freshly sawn pine boards had a distinctive odor, and somebody was running the sawmill, getting out a big order of sawn boards. If Coretta had a lick of sense, she would recognize the smell and the sound and think that they were heading for a destination north of town.

They weren’t. Lizzy circled around and drove back into Darling, making a right turn onto Franklin, past the courthouse, then turning left on Rosemont. By that time, she figured that Coretta must be thoroughly confused, so she took the next right and headed south on Briarwood Road, past the Dance Barn, until she got to Jericho Road. When they reached the Murphys’ place, Lizzy brought Bertha to a stop and turned off the motor. She climbed out and opened the passenger door.

“Can I take this off now?” Coretta asked plaintively, reaching for the blindfold.

“Nope,” Lizzy said, and escorted Coretta up the dirt path to the porch. The old frame house was unpainted and needed some repairs, but after Lucy joined the Dahlias, each member of the club had given her several plants and volunteered to help fix up the yard, badly neglected since the death of Ralph Murphy’s first wife. The weeds had been replaced by a row of rosebushes in front of the porch, some azaleas, and even a few camellias. They had planted gladiolas along the fence and fancy-leaved caladiums and gloriosa lilies under the big trees. Out back, Lucy planted a large vegetable garden, and behind that, she and Ralph had put in an orchard of young green peach trees. Lucy hoped to make a little extra money by selling peaches at the market.

When Lucy answered Lizzy’s knock at the door, Lizzy held her finger to her lips. Lucy stepped back with a conspiratorial nod, a scruffy gray tabby cat winding himself around her ankles. Lizzy was sure that Coretta had never met Lucy and wouldn’t recognize her voice, but there was no point in taking that risk. She led the blindfolded woman inside.

In the front bedroom, Verna was sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading a book. She looked up. “Well, Coretta,” she said pleasantly. “Did you and Lizzy have a nice ride out here?”

“It was a long way,” Coretta said in a complaining tone. “This place must be ten or twelve miles out in the country.” She reached for the blindfold again. “Can I take this off now?”

“Uh-uh,” Lizzy said. “We’ll just leave it on. You don’t need to see Verna to talk to her.” She steered Coretta to a rocking chair near the bed, then opened Coretta’s handbag and took out the manila envelope. “Here, Verna. Take a look at this. Coretta says it’s the auditor’s report.”

Verna spread the pages out on the quilt and spent several long moments looking at them.

“Mmm,” she said, half under her breath. “Fifteen thousand in the red. My, my.” She looked again at the figures, turned a page, and then another. “I think I’m seeing a pattern,” she said after a little while. “And it’s giving me an idea of where else I might look—if I can sit down for an hour or two with a couple of the office ledgers.” She glanced at Coretta, who was sitting stiffly in the rocking chair, her lower lip pushed out like a pouty child. “Liz told me your idea, Coretta. But are you really sure you want to get involved in this? It could be risky.”

“I don’t mind taking a few risks,” Coretta said, almost defiantly. “I just don’t think it’s right that the blame is being pinned on you.”

There was a jagged edge to Verna’s laugh. “I guess it’s dangerous to have money in the bank.” She looked at Lizzy. “Want to know where I got the ten thousand dollars that’s in my account at the Savings and Trust, Liz?”

“If you want to tell,” Lizzy replied quietly, knowing that Verna always kept her private business to herself.

“My aunt Mildred died and left a piece of property to me—an orange grove in Florida. That was six or seven years ago, after the Florida real estate bubble burst. Back then, you couldn’t unload Florida property if you paid somebody to take it off your hands. As far as I knew, it wasn’t worth a plugged nickel.” She tilted her head. “But to my surprise, a buyer came along a few months ago and offered me ten thousand dollars. I sold the orange grove and put the money in the bank.”

“Ah,” Lizzy said, and smiled. “I’m sure you can prove that to the sheriff, when he asks. And to Mr. Scroggins. So maybe we don’t need to worry about you getting arrested. We can all go home and—”

“Proving it might be a little difficult,” Verna broke in. Her face was dark. “The deed was lost years ago, and I had to get Aunt Mildred’s lawyer to research the title before the sale went through. I don’t have all the paperwork yet. Anyway, even if I could prove it, they would suspect me as long as they feel like it.” Her voice was determined. “I have to find out what happened to that missing money.”