The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

Ophelia looked up from her hand. “Is there something wrong? If anybody knows anything, tell me. Jed was dropping mysterious hints tonight, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying, except that I’m not supposed to worry.” She made a face. “Which is what he always says when he’s worrying.”


Verna shrugged. “Haven’t heard a word. But the bank is right across the street from my office window, and I noticed a fair amount of traffic in and out of there today.” She glanced at Myra May. “Did I see you go in there this morning? Looked like you from a distance, anyway.”

Myra May kept her eyes fixed on her cards. After a moment, she said, “Voleen Johnson canceled her hair appointment at Beulah’s this morning.”

“She did?” they all chorused, wide-eyed, immediately seeing the significance of this surprising event.

“Oh, golly,” Verna said, in an awed tone. “Whatever is going on, it must be serious. Really.” She took three cards out of her hand and passed them to Myra May, who was sitting on her left.

Ophelia looked around the group. “All right. I want to know what’s happening. Does anybody know? Please tell me!”

“It’s a mystery to me,” Verna replied.

“Me too,” Lizzy said.

Myra May put her cards down. The time had come to tell her friends what she knew. Which wasn’t much, but just enough.

“Have you ever heard of a bank examiner?” she asked.





ELEVEN





Ophelia Learns Some Surprising Facts


Tuesday, May 20, 1930





Bright and early on Tuesday morning, as soon as she had got Jed off to the Farm Supply and the kids off to school, Ophelia put on her gardening clothes (green twill pants, a long-sleeved blouse, and old shoes), took her floppy straw hat and a basket of garden implements, and walked to the Dahlias’ clubhouse, up Rosemont and around the corner on Camellia Street. She and Mildred Kilgore had volunteered to help Bessie Bloodworth in the overgrown back garden, pulling weeds and clearing underbrush. It was a beautiful morning, with the bluest of blue skies and a mild breeze, a perfect morning for working outside, as long as you were out there early, before eight o’clock, before the sun climbed high into the sky.

Mrs. Blackstone’s gardens had been a paradise of flowers, fruits, and vegetables for many years. Even in her mother’s day, back in the 1840s and ’50s, the gardens around the Cartwright mansion had been a sight to behold, according to all reports. Bessie, who was Darling’s unofficial town historian, had once shown the Dahlias several old photographs of the mansion’s gardens—every flower bed managed and maintained by slaves, of course.

Those days were gone, thank goodness, and everybody was free and equal. (At least, that’s how Ophelia liked to think of it.) But there was no money, and even if the Dahlias could find a few dollars, it would have to go to repair the roof. If they wanted to resurrect their part of what had once been that lovely garden, they were going to have to roll up their sleeves and do the work themselves.

When Ophelia came around the corner of the vacant lot, Bessie Bloodworth was standing out in front of the clubhouse, her hands on her hips. In her early fifties, Bessie was a tall, energetic-looking woman with thick, dark eyebrows, silvery-gray hair, cut short, and square, capable hands. She was wearing bib overalls and a hat and she had a rake in one hand.

“Looks to me like we don’t have a lot of work to do out here in front at the moment,” Bessie said, surveying the wisteria and the weigelas. “That snowball bush seriously needs cutting back, but most of the pruning here in front can wait until late fall or early spring. I think we ought to concentrate on the back garden. You agree?”

“Beulah’s sign still isn’t up,” Ophelia said, pointing to the painted sign that was leaning against the cucumber tree.

“That’s Zeke for you.” Bessie chuckled. “Lizzy asked him to dig a hole for it, but he does things on his own calendar. I suppose he’ll get around to it sooner or later.”

“Maybe we should do it ourselves,” Ophelia suggested. “Wouldn’t take long.”

A horn tootled and they turned to see a blue 1929 Dodge four-door sedan slow to a stop. It was Mildred Kilgore, an avid camellia collector. If there was a camellia anywhere that she didn’t have, she’d move heaven and earth to get it, even if she had to pay good money for it. She could do that, though. Her husband, Roger, owned Kilgore Motors, just off the courthouse square. It was a Dodge dealership, and Mildred always drove the latest model.

“Sorry to be late,” Mildred said, getting her gardening implements out of the car. She was dressed in a neat khaki skirt and plaid blouse, and looked so natty that Ophelia immediately felt grubby—but then, Mildred always had that effect on her. “Today’s ironing day, and I had to get Jubilee started on Mr. Kilgore’s shirts. Have I missed anything important?”

“We were just discussing what to do about the sign,” Ophelia told her.