The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

“Scott. Eva Louise Scott. The blonde who worked at Lima’s Drugstore.”


“Oh, her.” Mr. Greer narrowed his eyes. “The girl who stole that Pontiac from that fella at the bank and drove it over the cliff into Pine Mill bottom.” There was sharp disapproval in his tone. “Dunno why Lester ever hired that one. Dead, ain’t she?”

Verna and Lizzy exchanged glances, and Lizzy spoke up. “Yes, she’s dead, Mr. Greer. And we’re very upset about it. But nobody seems to know what really happened on Saturday night. We’re hoping to get some information that might help to answer some questions.”

“Well ...” Mr. Greer hesitated. “Yeah, I did see her Saturday night, come to think of it. She was sittin’ close to the back, where she allus sits. That purty yella hair of hers—it shines real bright when the projector’s on.” He grunted. “Had her head on some young fella’s shoulder. Reckon he’s feelin’ kinda low about what happened.”

“Oh?” Verna asked eagerly. “Who was the fella, Mr. Greer? Who was she with?”

“Dunno.” Mr. Greer shrugged. “Didn’t see who he was, or if I did, it didn’t register. Them boys all look purty much the same when you see ’em from the projection booth. Anyway, she’s with a diff’rent one ever’ time she comes. Sees ever’ movie more’n onct, too. Bet she saw Applause three, four times. Real tearjerker.”

“Do you remember anybody she saw it with?” Lizzy asked.

He furrowed his forehead, thinking. “Well, I think it was Willy Warren one night. Hank Crawford’s oldest boy, Pete, another night. Other’n that, I don’t rightly remember. You might ask Mrs. Greer—she sells candy to purt’ near ever’body who comes in. Or Gladys.” Gladys was the Greers’ daughter, who was still in high school. “Yeah, that’s right. You come back tomorrow night when we’re open and ask Gladys. She sees folks under the marquee lights when she sells ’em their tickets. Got a real good mem’ry, too.”

“We’ll do that,” Verna said.

Mr. Greer grinned thinly. “O’ course, people don’t allus come in with the ones they sit with. You’d be mighty surprised to know how many folks come in by theirselves and just happen to end up cuddlin’ with somebody in the back row. A tryst is what it’s called, y’ know.” He enjoyed the word so much that he said it again, his grin broadening. “A secret tryst. At least, they like to think it’s secret.”

“And what time did the picture end on Saturday night?” Lizzy asked.

“Well, lessee.” He rubbed his chin. “It was a double bill, Applause and Tarzan, Reckon it was all over by nine thirty.” He frowned. “How come y‘all wantin’ to know?”

Verna didn’t answer his question. She only said, “Thanks very much.”

“Sure thing.” Mr. Greer switched the Hoover back on and Verna led the way up the aisle, disappointed.

“I know both Willy Warren and Pete Crawford,” she said, when they were outside the theater. “If you ask me, neither of them has the gumption to steal a car, much less shoot a girl. Especially Bunny. They’d a whole lot rather take off her clothes than shoot her.” At that, she paused, struck by a thought. Turning to Lizzy, she asked, “When Grady told you about the way Bunny was shot, did he say anything about an assault?”

“Assault?” Lizzy asked, frowning.

Really, Verna thought. Sometimes Lizzy was so innocent. “You know. A sexual assault. A—”

“Oh, you mean rape,” Lizzy said. “No, he didn’t, so I guess there was nothing like that.” She tilted her head. “Although maybe the doctor didn’t do that kind of autopsy? Or maybe he couldn’t tell? And even if the doctor had mentioned that, Grady might not have said anything to me. It’s ... well, you know.”

“I know,” Verna said, and sighed. Men didn’t discuss things like that with women. At least, not Southern men.

“If she was raped, Charlie Dickens wouldn’t print that in the newspaper,” Lizzy said. “But I agree, Verna. I don’t think either Willy or Pete could have anything to do with Bunny’s death. Those kids are as lazy as all get-out. Anyway, no matter who she was with at the picture show, the movie was over by nine thirty. The car wasn’t reported stolen until midnight. If she felt like dumping her date, she had plenty of time to get rid of him and go off with somebody else—somebody she couldn’t be seen with in public.”

“Exactly,” Verna said. Somebody like Benton Moseley, she thought. Or Lester Lima. “Lizzy, let’s go over to the drugstore and talk to Mr. Lima.”

“Talk to him about what?” Lizzy asked. “He sure as shootin’ wasn’t with Bunny at the movie. And if he knows anything about how she died, he’s not dumb enough to tell us about it.”

“I don’t mean question him,” Verna replied. “I just mean ... Well, we could just sort of casually ask if he noticed anybody talking to Bunny while she was at work. You know—probe a little. See how he reacts.”