The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

Lizzy Learns Some Dismaying Facts


While Myra May was finishing up with the diner’s breakfast crowd and Ophelia was working with Bessie and Mildred in the Dahlias’ garden, Lizzy was standing outside the bank with three or four other people, waiting for it to open—waiting nervously, for the usual opening time of ten a.m. came and went, and the doors remained shut.

While she waited, Lizzy was going back over all the recent excitement in Darling. The escaped convict, Bunny’s death in that stolen auto, and now some sort of trouble at the bank. She swallowed hard, remembering what Myra May had told the Dahlias the night before, when they were playing hearts.

Bank examiner. After reading about so many bank failures all around the country in the past few years, Lizzy shivered at the words. What if the bank examiner had come to Darling yesterday, studied the bank’s account books, counted the bank’s money, and ordered it to be closed? Overnight, her fifty dollars (which she hadn’t thought was very much money, compared to what she had already spent on the house), had ballooned into what seemed like a huge amount. It was all she had, besides her paycheck. If she lost it, she’d be sunk.

But far, far worse, everybody in town would lose their money. The businesses, the people, everybody. They’d all be sunk!

The group grew larger, and people began to whisper anxiously. But when the doors of the Savings and Trust opened at last (and only eight minutes late), it seemed that the worry was for nothing. There was the usual bouquet of Mrs. Johnson’s flowers on the table just inside the door. Mr. Johnson himself greeted Lizzy pleasantly, asking after her mother’s health as if everything was perfectly normal, as perhaps it was.

But Lizzy knew what she needed to do. She returned Mr. Johnson’s smile, straightened her shoulders, and headed for Alice Ann Walker’s window. When she saw it was closed, she turned to the chief cashier’s window, presenting her deposit book and saying, in a clear voice, “I’d like to withdraw my savings, please.”

“How much?” asked the chief cashier, Mr. Fred Harper. Verna’s description had been accurate. He was thin and pale, with pale hair and pale, thin eyebrows behind steel-rimmed glasses. His fingers were long and thin, with well-manicured nails. If he was worried about the bank, he didn’t let on.

“All of it, please.” Lizzy wanted to ask him to tell her exactly what it was that he had seen on Saturday night when he reported a woman and a man stealing his brother’s car. But now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to get her money, in case the bank—She made herself stop.

Mr. Harper looked into a drawer, then stepped away from the window and came back with a packet of bills. While she watched, he counted out the money—fifty dollars in fives—put it into an envelope, and passed it to her through the window.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied crisply. He looked over her shoulder at the line of silent, nervous people behind her. “Next,” he called.





Her withdrawal secure in the office safe, Lizzy worked through the usual Tuesday morning tasks, typing, sorting, filing, and paying the bills that had arrived in the mail the day before. Mr. Moseley phoned at ten thirty to tell her that he would be late. Mrs. Moseley phoned (from Birmingham), demanding to talk with her husband and all but accusing Lizzy of lying when she said he wasn’t in the office. There were several other calls—one from Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson, another from Mr. Riley, the accountant, and a third from a Mr. Matthew Bogard, who didn’t identify himself. Then another call from Mrs. Moseley. And then, just after eleven, a call from Grady.

“I need to talk to you.” He sounded urgent. “Are you busy? Is it okay if I come to the office?”

“Well ...” Lizzy said hesitantly, looking at the half-finished page in her typewriter. “I guess I can take a little break. But I’m supposed to meet Verna at noon.” The two of them were going to the Palace Theater to ask Don Greer if he remembered seeing Bunny with anyone on Saturday night. “When do you think—”

“In about three minutes,” he said. “I’m next door, at the diner.”

It took him less than three minutes.

Lizzy nodded toward the percolator on the hot plate. “There’s coffee. Shall I pour you a cup?”

He shook his head. “Just had some.” He took off his fedora and dropped into the chair beside her typewriter table, stretching out his long legs. “I was at the diner when Doc Roberts came in a few minutes ago. He had just turned in his autopsy report on the girl’s death.” He looked straight at her, his eyes dark. “It wasn’t the car wreck that killed her, Lizzy.”