The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

“Lemonade in the fridge. Glasses on the first shelf in the cupboard. Oh, and while you’re at it, pour some milk in a saucer for Daffy.”


“Your fridge is a lot bigger than mine,” Verna said enviously, taking out the pitcher of lemonade and a bottle of milk. “This Monitor-top is really a beauty. Quiet, too. My Kelvinator works fine but it growls.” She opened the cupboard and took two glasses off the shelf.

“I lived with Mother’s icebox for too many years,” Lizzy replied. “Somehow, I was the one who always got to empty the pan, because it was too heavy for Mother, and Sally-Lou always spilled water all over the floor. So when I moved in here, I got the best fridge I could afford, figuring I’d have it for a while.” She put a plate of corn muffins on the table and took the cover off the butter dish. “We could ask Mrs. Bledsoe about Bunny. They were cousins. She’d know.”

Verna poured the lemonade and Daffodil’s milk. “We can’t ask Mrs. Bledsoe because she’s up in Nashville with a new grandbaby.” She put the glasses on the table and the saucer of milk on the floor. With a rumbling purr, Daffodil began to lap it up. “Looks like there’s nothing further we can do as far as the Limas are concerned,” she added. “So what would you think of going over to Monroeville to do a little snooping? I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to locate somebody who knew Bunny. She’s not exactly the shrinking violet type, you know. Probably everybody knew her.”

Lizzy opened Sally-Lou’s home-canned peaches and spooned them into two bowls. “Monroeville,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, I guess we could. But it would have to be after work.” The two sat down. Lizzy took some salad and passed the bowl to Verna. “And how would we get there?” She occasionally rode her bicycle to work, but neither she nor Verna had a car.

“How about going tomorrow? We might could ask Myra May to drive us, if she can get away from the diner and the switchboard. Maybe stop for supper at Buzz’s Barbeque?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.” Lizzy felt in the pocket of her dress for her hankie and pulled out something else.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “It’s Bunny’s photo. And the deposit book.” She put it on the table between them. “I guess I had these in my hand when we heard Mrs. Brewster coming and we had to hide in the closet. I must’ve stuck them in my pocket.”

Verna chuckled. “Well, I don’t suppose anybody is going to put you in jail for stealing a photo, Lizzy. And now that Bunny’s dead, she’s not going to be withdrawing that money.” She picked up her fork and took a bite. “Hey, these are good scrambled eggs.”

“I get eggs from Mrs. Freeman, down the street,” Lizzy said. “Her rooster wakes me up in the morning, so I figure the least I can do is eat his hens’ eggs.” Fork in one hand, she looked down at the photo, then picked it up and held it closer, studying it. “You know, this car looks a lot like—” She put down her fork, frowning. “Oh, my gosh! You’re not going to believe me, Verna, but I would swear that this is the same car—”

“Yeah?” Verna added another couple of tomato wedges to her salad. “The same car as what?”

“The same car that I saw wrecked in the ravine yesterday.” She took a deep breath. “With Bunny in it.”

“It can’t be the same one.” Verna took the photo, looking at it closely. “The car she was in was stolen, Lizzy. It was reported stolen hours before she turned up in it, dead.”

“But it is! I’d swear it is, Lizzy! Look. It’s a Pontiac—there’s the Indian hood ornament. The one I saw was green, and this one might be, too, although you can’t tell from this photo.” She pointed with her fork. “And it’s got an Alabama license plate. See there? Alabama 10-654. White numbers on black. Big as life.”

“Well, there you go. If it’s the same license plate number as the one in the ravine, you’ve got a match. Is it?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzy said regretfully. “There was no reason for me to notice that plate. I’m sure the sheriff did, though—he had already matched it with the one that was reported stolen.” She paused. “I don’t want to ask Sheriff Burns, but Charlie Dickens was there, too, taking pictures and making notes. He might’ve written it down.”

Verna gave her an intent look. “Lizzy, I think you should call Charlie right now. He’s probably still at the newspaper. The sooner we get this question settled, the sooner we’ll know for sure.”

“You’re right about that.” Lizzy was already on her way to the telephone on the wall. She rang the exchange—one short ring. “Myra May, this is Lizzy. Would you ring the Dispatch office for me, please? I need to talk to Charlie.”

“Sure thing,” Myra May said. “Listen. I need to talk to you. I’ll call you back after you’re through with Mr. Dickens. Okay?”

“Sure,” Lizzy said. “Anyway, Verna’s here and she’s got the idea that maybe we should all drive over to Monroeville tomorrow evening.” She laughed. “She’s playing detective.”