The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

Myra May found herself liking this woman. She was leading the way into a room behind the parlor, just large enough for a neat little writing desk and chair, a wooden filing cabinet, a bookshelf, and a straight chair. On the wall over the writing desk hung a plaque from the Monroeville Chamber of Commerce, welcoming Rutledge’s Residence for Genteel Ladies to the roster of outstanding Monroeville businesses, and a large framed photograph of Miss Rutledge and an older woman (who must be her mother, Myra May thought) cutting a ribbon across the front porch. There was another photograph, too: Miss Rutledge high on a ladder with a brush and a bucket, painting the shutters on a second-story window.

Miss Rutledge followed her glance to the plaque and the photographs. “It’s not exactly a genteel life for me,” she said wryly. “Managing Mama and the rest of these old ladies takes just about all my strength. My patience, too. Sometimes I tell them if they don’t behave, I’m going to run away and join the circus.” She shuddered. “But it’s better than the bank, I’ll tell you. Mr. Johnson was never an easy man to work for, and when the money situation got worse, he got to be a real bear.”

“When the Crash happened, you mean?”

“No. Before. That bank has a problem. There are a couple of unsecured loans to Mrs. Johnson’s father and brother. Loans that Mr. Johnson should never have made. I told him he’d be in trouble the next time the bank examiner came,” she added crisply. “At which point he tried to fire me for sassing him.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I quit first. Told him what he could do with his old job.”

“Then you bought this place?” Myra May asked.

Miss Rutledge nodded. “Mama sold her house and I had made a little money in the market.” She smiled crookedly. “I didn’t make much, but I was lucky to get it out before everything came crashing down in October. Mama and I pooled what we had and bought this house. I took my savings out of the bank and bought a car, too—although maybe I shouldn’t have. We could have used that money to get the roof fixed.” She opened a drawer and began to hunt. “I don’t have forty cents here. I’ll look in my purse.” She left the room.

Myra May glanced around the room. She had already begun to revise her opinion of Imogene Rutledge. She liked her frankness and her independent spirit and felt she was not at all the stealthy, conniving person Miss Rogers had pictured. Maybe the librarian was jealous of what she imagined to be Miss Rutledge’s freedom, not to mention her success in the stock market.

The bookshelf was right by her elbow and Myra May began idly to browse the titles on the spines. There were several of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s mysteries, a book on gardening, and another on dressmaking, along with several Ladies’ Home Journals and— Myra May pulled in her breath. And Further Chronicles of Avonlea, by Maud Montgomery.

She leaned forward and took the book off the shelf and opened it. It was clearly stamped Darling Public Library and had one of those little envelopes glued to the inside back, with a library check-out card in it, the kind where you write your name and the due date and give it to the librarian for filing in her calendar file so she’ll know when the book is overdue and she can start charging you with the fine.

But this one wasn’t overdue. It was stolen. Miss Rogers might have given the wrong impression about Miss Rutledge in some ways, but she had her story straight about this. Myra May frowned. Somebody who stooped so low as to steal a book from a public library might not balk at stealing money from the bank—especially when she thought it was badly managed.

Myra May was still holding the book when Miss Rutledge came back into the room and put three dimes and two nickels on the desk—and saw what Myra May was looking at.

“You’re a fan of Maud Montgomery?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. “I loved all the Green Gables books—so delightful to watch Anne grow up in those wonderful stories.” She sighed. “It’s such a shame about that one.”

“Really?” Myra May turned it over in her hands, now very curious. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The publisher put it out without Miss Montgomery’s permission,” Miss Rutledge replied. “The book has stories in it that the author decided she didn’t want published, so she’s suing.”

“Suing?” Somehow, Myra May had never thought that an author might actually sue a publisher. It was a new idea to her.

“Yes. The case is still in the courts. That’s why I took the book back.” When Myra May frowned, she added, “I donated it to the library when it was first published, you see. That was back in 1920 or ’21. Last year, I learned that the stories were published without permission. So I told Miss Rogers that I thought the book should be withdrawn from the library—at least until the lawsuit was resolved.”

“Ah,” Myra May said, beginning to understand.

Miss Rutledge chuckled. “Of course, she didn’t agree. She never agreed with me, no matter what. We argued about it several times, and when I saw she wasn’t going to give in, I took it back. Since I donated the book in the first place, I felt perfectly justified.” Miss Rutledge gave a rueful smile. “Poor Miss Rogers. I don’t think she has ever forgiven me.”