The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

Grady’s voice was hard. “Lizzy Lacy, I swear. You are the stubbornest woman God ever put on this green earth. Get in the damn car.”


They stopped at Lizzy’s, where she picked up her Kodak and turned it over to Charlie. Back in the car, she sat as far over against the door as she could, but it was a tight fit and she could almost feel the heat of Grady’s thigh and the angry thrust of his muscled arm when he shifted gears. What’s more, she could still feel the heat they had generated in this very same car on Saturday night. Neither of them spoke for the five-or six-mile drive.

Pine Mill Creek lay at the bottom of a wooded, steep-sided ravine, some thirty feet deep. The muddy waters had run high during the April rains, and the worst of the floods, laden with downed trees and other debris, had taken out the wooden pilings that supported the rickety wooden bridge. There wasn’t enough money to replace it with a modern structure, and the county commissioners hadn’t yet figured out what to do. In the meantime, the local residents were driving ten miles out of their way to cross the creek farther from town, and the county had put a couple of yellow-painted sawhorses across the road, with a sign that said BRIDGE OUT.

Now one sawhorse had been shoved aside and the other was splintered, where the Pontiac had smashed through the barricade. Sheriff Burns met them, a big wad of tobacco tucked in one cheek. His Model A was parked across the road, and Buddy Norris, his arm in a sling, was at the bottom of the ravine, with a young man dressed in overalls. The two of them were conducting a search around the wrecked car, which lay, wheels up, twenty feet down, at the edge of the running water. It had somersaulted at least once before it landed, and pieces of automobile wreckage—a bumper, a fender, a wheel, a headlamp—were scattered across the hillside. Carrying Liz’s Kodak, Charlie started down the bank.

The sheriff looked at Lizzy and his eyebrows went up.

“Miss Lacy thinks she might know the dead woman, Roy,” Grady said in an even tone. “Okay if she goes down and takes a look?”

The sheriff grunted and spit a string of tobacco juice. It splatted into the dirt. “Not a pleasant sight, Miz Lacy. That gal down there is tore up purty bad. Squashed flat when the car landed on her.”

“I want to do it,” Liz insisted.

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Think you can handle it?”

Now that she was here, Lizzy wasn’t so sure. But she nodded, not trusting her voice.

“All right, then.” He looked at her shoes. “Not goin’ to be an easy climb down an’ back, neither.”

Lizzy pulled herself up. “I can do it.”

The sheriff twisted his mouth skeptically, but his desire to get the victim identified won out. “Well, then, let’s get on with it”

It wasn’t an easy climb. It had rained the previous afternoon, and the clay hillside was wet and slick. Lizzy’s feet and legs were muddy by the time she reached the car, and she was out of breath and a little dizzy. Even dizzier when she saw what was lying under the car.

The dead woman wore a lipstick-red silky rayon dress. Her peroxided head was turned away from them, dried blood crusting her pretty blond hair. One braceleted arm was flung out, red-enameled nails clawing at the ground as if to seize the last glimmering instant of life as it slipped away from her. The bracelet was made of geometric silver-plated links, with rhinestones.

“Well?” the sheriff demanded. “Know who it is?”

“Bunny Scott,” Lizzy said numbly. Her lips were cold and she began to shiver. “Eva Louise Scott. She works at Lester Lima’s drugstore, in cosmetics. We eat lunch together most days.” Grady’s arm went around her, and she leaned gratefully against him.

Charlie went around the Pontiac to snap a photograph. The sheriff took out a notebook and a pencil and wrote down Bunny’s full name, spelling it aloud. “E-v-a L-o-u-i-s-e Scott. Not married?”

“No. Not married.”

“Any near kin around here?”

“Her mother’s dead. Mrs. Bledsoe is her cousin, I believe. Bunny lives—lived—at Mrs. Brewster’s boardinghouse.” The sheriff licked the tip of his pencil and wrote this down.

“Is that her car, Lizzy?” Grady asked softly.

“She doesn’t have a car,” Lizzy said. “I didn’t even know she could drive.”

“Oh, she c’d drive, all right,” the sheriff said, with what sounded like satisfaction. He spit tobacco juice. “That there car is stolen. Reported stolen late Satiddy night”