The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

“I’m sorry,” she said again, now thoroughly confused. She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean ... I wasn’t—”

“Listen to me, Lizzy.” He gave his words an abrupt staccato emphasis. “I did not know that woman. Do you understand me?”

She blinked, speechless. Her heart was pounding. After a moment, she whispered, “Honestly, Mr. Moseley, I really didn’t think—”

“Then don’t,” he snapped, striding toward his office. “You’re not paid to think.” He opened the door and went in, closing it behind him, not quite slamming it, but almost.

Lizzy sat for a moment, almost in shock, feeling bruised and swollen, as if he had hit her. Mr. Moseley had never spoken to her like that before. He had always been courteous, respectful, even attentive, as if he cared what she thought, how she felt, even if she was only his secretary. He had helped her handle the purchase of her house and offered her advice on the remodeling work. He had given her time off when her mother was sick. He had never— She stopped.

All of that was true. And all of it made what had just happened entirely inexplicable, another of the entirely inexplicable things that seemed to be happening in the past couple of days.

But it wasn’t inexplicable, was it? If Mr. Moseley had been secretly seeing Bunny Scott— She pushed her chair away from the typewriter, feeling a sharp stab of anger that she might have recognized as jealousy, if she had been a little more experienced in that emotion. Well, to hell with him. She hadn’t meant anything by what she said. The thought of Mr. Benton Moseley and Bunny Scott had never once come into her mind—not until he had put it there himself, just now, with all those denials.

She took a deep breath. The world might be going to hell in a handbasket, but there was work to be done. And work was the sheltering wall behind which Lizzy Lacy had always taken refuge when things became difficult. She reached for the stack of mail Mr. Moseley had brought from the post office and began to open the envelopes, slitting each one with careful precision, taking out and unfolding the contents and neatly paper-clipping everything to the envelope before putting it in the appropriate stack, concentrating on this task as if it were really important, pushing everything else out of her mind.

There were two checks from clients, and she set them aside to be entered in the office accounts ledger. There was the six-month invoice for the lease payment for the office space, to be paid to Charlie Dickens, who owned the building. There was a bill for the repair of Mr. Moseley’s automobile, which she would pay from his personal account, and another from— Dismayed, she stared at the envelope she had just opened. It was from Ettlinger’s Fine Jewelry, in Mobile.

In it was an invoice for twenty-six dollars.

For a rhinestone bracelet, engraved with the initials ELS.





FOURTEEN


Verna and Lizzy: On the Case When lunchtime came around, Verna was still trying to deal with the upsetting news she’d gotten from Myra May and Ophelia’s surprising revelation about Bunny and Mr. Lima. She closed and locked the office and went outside, pausing to admire the summer annuals—zinnias, marigolds, and petunias—that were beginning to bloom in the sunny strip along both sides of the walk. She bent down to pull a couple of volunteer weeds. The Dahlias had planted the beds six weeks before. They’d be blooming most of the summer and would strike a bright and cheerful note in the courthouse square—something the whole town would need, if the unthinkable happened and the Darling Savings and Trust failed.

She went to the usual lunchtime spot beneath the chinaberry tree and sat down. When Lizzy crossed the street and sat down beside her, Verna looked at her friend in surprise.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, as Lizzy pulled a paper bag out of her purse and took out a sandwich and boiled egg. She had so much to tell, but the look on Lizzy’s face made her hold her tongue.

“What’s wrong?” she repeated urgently.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Lizzy replied in a high, unnatural voice. She cleared her throat and repeated it. “Nothing’s wrong. Whatever makes you think that?” She unwrapped a ham-and-sliced-tomato sandwich, laid it on its wax paper, and began peeling the egg. The shell flecked off unevenly, pulling chunks of egg with it.

Verna grunted. “Then why are you looking like somebody just socked you in the stomach? And the way you’re attacking that poor, defenseless egg—there won’t be anything left by the time you finish butchering it.”

Lizzy didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she put down the egg and pulled in a ragged breath. “Grady came to the office this morning to tell me that Bunny didn’t die in the car wreck, Verna. She was shot. In the head. Point-blank.”