The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Urgent now, Mr. Duffy leaned forward. “But you do know that the only thing that’ll keep this town afloat is liquidity. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, Mr. Mayor. So what we’ve got to do is print ourselves some money.”


Print some money? So she had heard right, after all. Myra May’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened. The vice president of the Darling Savings and Trust was proposing to go into the counterfeiting business with the mayor of Darling and the editor of the town’s newspaper? And he wanted to get the acting county treasurer (that would be Verna) in on the scheme?

Myra May was suddenly so fumble-fingered that she dropped her pencil. She bent over to pick it up and when she straightened up again, she saw that she had gotten their attention.

Startled, Jed looked at her. It took a beat or two, but finally his eyes focused. “Hey, Myra May. Didn’t notice you were there. We keeping you waiting?”

“That’s okay,” Myra May said. She poised her pencil over her pad. “What’ll you have, Jed?”

“What’ve you got?” Jed asked automatically.

“Meat loaf, fried chicken livers, and pork chop plate,” Myra May replied, equally automatically. “Mashed potatoes with green beans or canned corn. Coleslaw on the side.” She began writing, knowing that he was going to order—

“Pork chop plate,” Jed said. “Corn.” Myra May finished writing and turned to Mr. Duffy.

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll have the meat loaf,” Mr. Duffy said. “Green beans for me. And another cup of java.” He forgot her immediately and leaned toward Jed. “You heard what I said. Now, are you in on this with me, Jed, or do I have to go to one of the other town councilmen to find somebody that’ll help me get the town behind the scheme?”

“I don’t like it,” Jed said slowly. He picked up his coffee mug, drank, then swallowed hard, as if he’d gotten a piece of corn pone stuck in his throat and he was trying to get it down. He set the mug back on the table. “But as my daddy used to say, there’s not much difference between a hornet and a yellow jacket if he’s crawling under your shirt. I reckon I’d better hear the rest of what you’ve got in mind before I nix it. So go ahead, Mr. Duffy. Say what you’ve got to say.”

Myra May was dying to hear, too, but now that she had their orders, she didn’t have any reason to linger. She saw that Mr. Kinnard had finished and was leaving, too, and she stepped over to his table to pick up his dishes and the coins he had left. Then she went to the kitchen to turn in the food order, then picked up Charlie Dickens’ plate and put it on the counter in front of him.

Not bothering to look up, he muttered a thank-you, picked up his fork in one hand, and pushed his coffee mug toward her with the other. As Myra May filled it, something strangely mean and perverse came over her. If she had been in a forgiving mood, she might not have done it. But hearing that Charlie Dickens was in on a scheme to print counterfeit money made her feel downright rotten and she wanted to share the feeling. So she opened her mouth and let the words come out.

“I suppose you’ve heard that Fannie Champaign is back in town.”

The effect was instantaneous. Charlie’s head jerked up. His mouth was open in anticipation of the fried chicken liver on the end of his fork, and his eyes were suddenly bleak and dark and empty. He closed his mouth and dropped his fork with a clatter.

“You . . . saw her?” His voice was as jagged as a piece of broken crockery.

“Sure did.” Myra May spoke with a careless contempt for his obvious suffering. She picked up a rag and swabbed the counter. “Saw her yesterday, in fact. She came in to say hello and tell us that she had opened up her hat shop again.”

Two stools away, J.D. looked up from his empty plate. “Fannie Champaign?” He squinted accusingly at Charlie. “Now, there’s a looker. Never could figger how come you were fool enough to let that little girl get away, Charlie.”