The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

“I’m not saying anything, Lizzy. We don’t have enough facts to draw any conclusions.” Nevertheless, Verna moved Lester Lima to the top of her suspect list. “But I like your idea about the convict taking Bunny hostage and forcing her to help him steal the car. It makes sense, Lizzy.” Mentally, she moved “escaped convict” to the Number Two position. Which left Mr. Moseley at Number Three.

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” Lizzy said gloomily. “Nothing makes much sense to me. We know where the bracelet came from, but what about those pearl earrings? And the deposit book you saw in the drawer—where was she getting the money? That’s all part of the puzzle, too. I have the feeling that Bunny Scott wasn’t the person we thought she was. There are just too many mysteries floating around. We don’t know enough about her.”

Those pearl earrings. Verna felt a wrench of guilt. They were in her purse at this moment, in that little wooden box. She had been worrying about them since yesterday, wishing she hadn’t foolishly taken them out of Bunny’s dressing table drawer. Of course, Bunny was dead now and it wasn’t likely that Mrs. Brewster or her girls were aware of them. If they had been, the pearls probably wouldn’t have stayed in the drawer. Still, what she had done was stealing, and Verna knew it. She had to put them back, if she could only figure out how.

But there wasn’t any point in bringing that up. What she said was, “I agree, Liz. There are too many mysteries, and more are popping up all the time. What’s worse, we don’t know if what we don’t know about Bunny has anything to do with her being in that car.”

Lizzy looked confused, but nodded.

Verna got up and brushed off her dress. “We have to clear up the mysteries. So I vote that we pursue our investigation, starting with the Palace. Maybe Don Greer will remember who Bunny was with on Saturday night.”

“I’m with you,” Lizzy said, getting to her feet. “Let’s go.”



The movie house was a long, narrow building fronted by a fancy marquee, with the words The Palace in pink neon and dozens of lightbulbs studding the canopy. The marquee also displayed the name of the movie, Alfred Hitchcock’s Blackmail, which would be showing for the next two weeks.

The ticket taker’s glass booth was empty and closed, but the theater’s double doors were propped open. Verna led the way inside, into a thick dimness that smelled of dusty carpets, stale popcorn, and toasted peanuts. The ceiling was painted dark blue, with glittery silver stars pasted to it. The foyer walls were plastered with movie posters from recent shows: Charlie Chaplin’s The Circus; The Wind, with the beautiful Lillian Gish; and the Buster Keaton comedy, The Cameraman. Verna had seen every one of them at least once.

Off to the right was the candy counter, where Mrs. Greer sold Mounds and Milky Ways and Milk Duds, as well as red-and-white-striped paper bags of popcorn out of the Butter-Kist electric popcorn machine and bags of hot peanuts out of the peanut toaster. Beside the counter stood a red Coca-Cola cooler, where customers could put in a nickel and get a bottle of icy-cold Coke. Mrs. Greer had been heard to say that they made as much money from candy, popcorn, peanuts, and Cokes as they did from movie tickets. It didn’t seem to matter that some people were too hard up to buy groceries. They still came out to see the picture show, share a bag of hot peanuts, and escape for a couple of hours from the harsh reality of the world.

From somewhere inside the movie house, Verna could hear the sound of a vacuum sweeper running. She went to the leather-covered door that led into the auditorium and pushed it open. There were two narrow sections of red-plush seats, with a center aisle that led to a low wooden stage. On the wall at the back of the stage hung the silvery movie screen, now covered with a heavy red drape. A few dim lights in candelabra brackets shone along the walls, and in their dusty glow, she saw Don Greer pushing the vacuum over the carpet, down at the front, near Mrs. LeVaughn’s black upright piano. He looked up when he saw them coming down the aisle toward him and switched off the Hoover. It shuddered into silence.

“Hello, Mr. Greer,” Verna called.

“Hullo, gals,” he said jocularly. The air was warm and stuffy, and he took out a handkerchief and rubbed it over his forehead and his nearly bald head. “We’re closed on Mondays. Don’cha know that by now?” He refolded the handkerchief. “Blackmail opens tomorrow night. Come back then and bring your friends.” He added, confidentially, “But don’t bring any Baptists.”

This was a standing joke in town, because Baptists weren’t supposed to go to the picture show, where they could see people drinking and smoking and misbehaving—although of course they went anyway.

He stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket, chuckling. “Y’all ain’t Baptists, I reckon.”

“Not this week,” Verna said, matching his tone. “But we’re not here for the movie. We’re looking for some information. About a friend of ours.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I can help. What friend? What’s her name?”