The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Then how come you’re fooling around with this bogus scrip stuff? Mr. Johnson would never mess with anything like that.” She turned down her mouth. “He might not be a very likable guy, but he’s a real banker. He stuck to real money.”


Verna shivered, remembering what Ima Gail had told her about Mr. Johnson’s mismanagement of the bank. Real bankers could make real mistakes with real money, and their mistakes could doom an entire community. Mr. Duffy knew exactly what Mr. Johnson had done, in detail. In his own defense, he was entitled to tell people why the bank was closed and who was responsible. In fact, he would be a fool not to, since none of this was his fault. He shouldn’t be expected to shoulder the blame for Mr. Johnson’s errors.

But Verna was very aware that if he did tell what he knew, the news would rip through the town like wildfire. Mr. Johnson’s reputation, already seriously damaged, would be ruined beyond repair. Last night’s vandalism would certainly be repeated, and worse. There might even be threats on the poor man’s life. And Mrs. Johnson, whose social connections gave meaning to her existence, would never again be able to hold up her head in Darling society. Disaster heaped on disaster.

Verna waited, holding her breath and expecting to hear the worst. But to her surprise—and very much to his credit—Mr. Duffy did not defend himself by attacking Mr. Johnson. Instead, he picked up his fedora, put it on his head, and stuck one hand in his trouser pocket.

“Why am I doing this?” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’m doing this because I happen to like the people in this little town, Miss Mosswell. I think Darling is worth saving. And as a banker—a real banker—I am willing to try just about anything to keep this town and its businesses and its citizens afloat until we can solve our most urgent problem, which is finding somebody willing to buy half the shares in the Savings and Trust. And getting the real money flowing again. I hope you are, too.”

He smiled, although there were hard lines around his mouth and the smile only briefly touched his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’d better go and see if I can chase down that scrip while there’s still some of it left.” He lifted his hat and went toward the door.

“Wait!” Verna said, lifting her hand. “Please.” She realized that she had completely misjudged the man, both personally and professionally, and she was feeling very much ashamed of herself.

“Yes?” Mr. Duffy said, turning.

Verna cleared her throat. “That . . . that buyer for the bank,” she said humbly. “I think I might have a suggestion for you, if you’d stop in at the office sometime this afternoon.”

He looked at her, his face lighting up. “Really? You know somebody who might—”

“Please don’t get your hopes up,” she cautioned hurriedly. “I might be way off base. And I have to do some checking.”

“However it turns out, I thank you, Mrs. Tidwell.” Mr. Duffy squared his shoulders with what Verna thought was a stronger resolve. “I’ll see you this afternoon. In your office.” He strode to the door and was gone.

“Of all the—” Myra May stared after him, then turned to face Verna, scowling. “That guy has got a nerve, if you ask me. And what’s this stuff about a new buyer for the bank? I thought you said it had already been bought by some bank in New Orleans.”

“It was,” Verna said uncomfortably. “But it turns out that Delta Charter has decided not to—”

But she didn’t get to finish her explanation. The door to the Exchange office flew open and Violet burst out. “There’s news!” she cried breathlessly, waving her arms. “News!”

“Good news, I hope,” Myra May said. She glanced darkly at Verna. “I could use some, along about now.”

“No, not good news.” Violet’s eyes were large and her face pale. “I just plugged in an emergency call from Liz Lacy.”

“Liz?” Verna asked with concern. “An emergency? Is she all right?”

“She is,” Violet replied. “She was calling from the Johnson house, asking Dr. Roberts to go over there. But she said there wasn’t any hurry. It’s Mr. Johnson.” Violet gulped. “He’s dead!”





THIRTEEN