The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Sorry,” Mr. Duffy said apologetically. “That’s not the way it happened. Looks to me like somebody stole that scrip from the Dispatch office, and now they’re trying to pass it off.”


Myra May straightened up, hands on hips. “Well, it wasn’t Pete Starkey who stole it,” she said firmly. “He’s about the nicest guy you’ll ever hope to meet. He runs that poolroom like it was your grandmother’s front parlor. The boys can gamble, but they’ve got to play clean. No fighting, no swearing, no drinking.”

“Well, Pete got that scrip somewhere,” Verna said reasonably. She turned to Mr. Duffy. “If you can find who gave it to him, you might have the thief. And you might get the scrip back in time for the payroll.”

“Cancel that lunch order, Miss Mosswell.” Mr. Duffy stood up. “I’m going over to the pool hall and see Starkey. That stolen scrip could jeopardize the whole project.”

“How?” Verna asked.

“Because, Mrs. Tidwell, the scrip is intended to be payment for work done,” Mr. Duffy explained patiently. “If the stolen scrip is mingled with the reprinted scrip, it would dilute its value, in the same way inflation does, in the world of real money. When the government prints more, the value goes down. In this case, if we don’t find that scrip and have to reprint, the new scrip would be worth just fifty cents on the dollar.”

“Ah, yes, I see. Inflation,” Verna said, suddenly understanding. It would be just like President Roosevelt telling the Federal Reserve to print an extra dollar bill for every one that was currently in circulation. It might look as if there was twice as much money in the country, but it would be worth only half as much.

“But that’s only if the stolen scrip could be mingled with the reprinted scrip,” she added. “There’s an easy way around this, you know. Charlie—Mr. Dickens—can reprint in different colors.” She nodded at the note on the counter. “Instead of the dollar being yellow, make it red, or green. Any color but yellow.”

“Too complicated,” Myra May said, shaking her head. “Nobody will ever remember what color a dollar is supposed to be. They won’t know whether they’ve got the right or the wrong dollar.”

“I’m afraid Miss Mosswell is right,” Mr. Duffy said regretfully. He took the Darling Dollar off the counter and stuck it in his pocket. “I need to take this for evidence.”

“Hey!” Myra May was indignant. “That’s my money you just put in your pocket. If you’re walking out of here with it, you can fork over the thirty-five cents for Pete’s breakfast.”

“But it’s not real money, Myra May,” Verna protested. “It’s just . . . well, paper. And Mr. Duffy is right—he needs it for evidence.”

“It may be phony as a two-dollar bill, but it’s real to me,” Myra May retorted, folding her arms. “I gave Pete real change for that piece of paper. Those were real eggs and real sausage, too, cooked by my real mother. And Pete ate them off a real plate, which had to be washed in real water.”

Mr. Duffy gave her an approving grin. “You are one hundred percent right, Miss Mosswell.” He pulled a quarter and a dime out of his pants pocket and put it on the counter. Winking at Verna, he said, “Real money, Mrs. Tidwell. If I can run that scrip down, I’ll have it in your office this afternoon. If not—” He pulled his brows together. “The way it’s set up now, Dickens is reprinting the scrip. But given this new development, I’d say that we all need to sit down and discuss our options.”

“Before you go, Mr. Banker, sir, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Myra May’s tone was challenging. “The way I understand it, you’re the new Savings and Trust president. Is that right?”

Mr. Duffy met her eyes. Verna saw that his were twinkling, and there was a smile in one corner of his mouth. “That’s the way I understand it, too, more or less.”