The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“What—?” she began, startled.

“Vandals,” Mr. Moseley said. “Last night. Buddy Norris ran them off but they came back.” He took the steps two at a time. But before he could ring the doorbell, Sally-Lou, dressed in a black maid’s uniform with a white apron and collar and cuffs, was opening the front door. She had a stricken look on her face.

“He’s in the liberry,” she said as they went into the front hallway. “He’s took real bad.”

“Taken bad?” Mr. Moseley asked, surprised. “You didn’t say he was ill when you called, did you?”

“He wouldn’t let me,” Sally-Lou replied, wringing her hands. “He wouldn’t let me call Doc Roberts, either. Said jes’ to call you and get you over here, Mr. Moseley, and you’d know what to do.” She opened the library door. “He’s layin’ down on the sofa.”

“Well, let’s have a look,” Mr. Moseley said. “If he’s ill, we’ll need to call the doctor.”

Lizzy followed Mr. Moseley through the door. Mr. Johnson was lying on the brown leather sofa, on his back, eyes shut, mouth open. His face was gray, his lips blue. One hand was clawed at his chest, the other hung loose, fingers brushing the floor.

“George!” Mr. Moseley exclaimed, striding to the sofa. He leaned over, put two fingers against Mr. Johnson’s neck, and after a long moment, straightened up. “Call Doc Roberts and tell him to come over, Liz,” he said quietly. “But no need to hurry. George is gone.”

Lizzy reached for the phone on the desk and rang the operator. When Violet answered, she said, “Put me through to the doctor, please, Violet.” A moment later, Dr. Roberts was on the line and Lizzy relayed Mr. Moseley’s message.

“He’ll come right over,” she said.

“Oh, Lawd,” Sally-Lou moaned despairingly. “I knew I shoulda called the doctor. But he wouldn’t let me!”

“No, please,” Mr. Moseley said. “Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing the doctor could have done. It’s his heart. This is not unexpected.” He put his hand on Sally-Lou’s shoulder. “Be a good girl and get us some tea, please. We’re all going to need it.”

Dr. Roberts arrived, knelt down beside Mr. Johnson, and a few moments later, offered his diagnosis. “A massive heart attack,” he said, straightening up and taking off his glasses. “Looks like it happened fast.”

“The maid says he wouldn’t let her call you,” Mr. Moseley replied.

“That’s George for you,” the doctor said. “Hated doctoring. Worst patient I ever had.” He folded his glasses and put them in his breast pocket with an air of sad finality. Shaking his head, he added, “You know, for months, I’ve been telling this man that if he didn’t retire and take it easy, he was going to work himself into some serious cardiac trouble. Voleen did her best, too. She was frantic about him. Kept trying to get him to take a vacation, go on a trip, go fishing. She finally put her foot down and made him sell the bank. She was convinced it was killing him.”

“She was right,” Mr. Moseley said. “That damn bank has been an albatross around his neck for years. He knew the kind of trouble he was in, but he just kept plugging, working nights and weekends, fretting about things he couldn’t change. And then when Duffy and Delta Charter came along with their buyout, it was a huge relief. He figured that as soon as Duffy took command, he could turn everything over to him and get out from under the load he was carrying. And Voleen was overjoyed.”

Lizzy heard all this with a growing sense of surprise. All this was going on right under her nose, and she hadn’t had a clue. Was it because she didn’t pay attention? Because she didn’t like to look on the dark side of things? Or—