The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Archie Mann hesitated, obviously torn between defending the family honor and wanting to get Darling Dollars into the hands of people who would spend them at the Mercantile.

“Well, I s’pose I could ask him,” he said reluctantly. “When he got religion, he quit working for Mickey. He’s over at the house right now.”

Al looked at his watch. “Tell you what, Mr. Mann. I’ve got some work to do at the office. How about if I come back here, say, in an hour. Do you think you could have that satchel here then?”

“I got a better idea,” Archie Mann said. “How about if I round up the boy and have him bring that satchel to your office. If he don’t have it, he can come and tell you why.”

“Suits me,” Al replied. “But I hear he’s been doing the Lord’s work, passing out dollars to the needy. If he’s given some of them to his friends, it might be good if he could get them back before he comes over.”

“The Lord’s work.” Archie Mann shook his head in exasperation. “The things these kids’ll get up to these days. All right. I’ll get this business straightened out. If he’s got that satchel, I’ll send him over with it.”

“Fine with me,” Al said, and held out his head. “The bank’s closed, but you tell him to knock on the side door and Mrs. Peters will let him in.”

Back in his office at the bank, Al was sorting through a stack of papers when Mrs. Peters burst through the door. She was in tears.

“Oh, Mr. Duffy!” she wailed. “The worst thing in the world has happened! Mr. Moseley’s secretary, Liz Lacy, just telephoned to let us know. Mr. Johnson is”—she gulped back a sob—“he’s dead!”

“Dead?” Al repeated, startled. His first thought was of the death threat that had come with a rock through the window and the sheeted vandals who had attacked the Johnson home. “Was he shot? Stabbed? Did they catch the killer?”

“Nobody killed him,” Mrs. Peters said tearfully. “Miss Lacy says he had a heart attack, at home, in his library. Dr. Roberts came, but it was too late. He was already dead. Oh, this is awful!”

Al came around the desk and patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I am so sorry about this, Mrs. Peters. I know you worked with him for a long time.”

“Forty-two years.” The woman took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “He was my first boss, and the only one I’ve ever had until you. And he was always so good to me. Oh, poor Mrs. Johnson! She won’t know what to do without him. And he did so much for this town—helping people get mortgages on their houses, helping business owners with their credit. As far as Darling is concerned, he was our hero!”

“He will be missed,” Al murmured sympathetically. He hadn’t been in Darling long, but he was beginning to get a sense of how tightly people were connected in the little community. When somebody died or was killed, it left a perceptible gap—unlike the city, where everyone was a stranger, where people came and went and nobody noticed. Where banks were institutions of commerce, designed to make money for their stockholders, not to hold a community together and keep it functioning. Where bankers were anonymous, rather than friends and neighbors—or heroes.