The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“What about Mr. Johnson?” she asked. “Did they say anything about him?”


“Only that he’s out of the picture,” Myra May replied. “I don’t know whether he’s in jail or what, but I heard that Mrs. Johnson left town, so it doesn’t sound good for him, one way or the other.” She paused. “I just thought you ought to know that they’re planning to rope you into their little scheme, whatever it is. And I don’t trust that Duffy character any farther than I can throw him. Jed Snow says he’s real slick. When it comes to women,” she added in a flat, hard voice, half under her breath. “‘They just seem to fall at his feet’ is what he said.”

Verna wasn’t sure what being slick when it came to women had to do with counterfeiting money. But obviously, Myra May was upset about what she had overheard. And just why Alvin Duffy thought he ought to involve her—Verna—in his harebrained scheme was a complete and total mystery. But Myra May was sticking to her story, and when they had finished their pie and she got up to leave, Verna gave her a hug.

“Whatever is going on, I’m sure it’ll be okay,” she said reassuringly, thinking that Myra May didn’t look quite her usual self. “My mother always said that a little dirt shouldn’t bother anybody—it all comes out in the wash.”

“Sounds like a lot of dirt to me,” Myra May replied, with great conviction. “And as I say, I don’t trust that fellow Duffy. He’s up to no good. No good whatsoever.” Her vehemence was a little puzzling, Verna thought, since whatever intrigue Alvin Duffy was cooking up, it was no skin off Myra May’s nose.

But Verna was a devotee of true crime magazines, the reading of which she considered to be a good exercise for her inquiring mind and suspicious nature, and she now had something of interest to ponder. She had recently read a story in Best Detective Magazine about a ring of counterfeiters operating their own printing press on Chicago’s West Side, putting thousands of dollars into circulation. They got away with it for months and were taken out of business only when they ran afoul of Al Capone’s gang, over in neighboring Cicero. Capone didn’t take kindly to those who trespassed on his criminal turf.

Verna hadn’t heard of any counterfeiters operating in Alabama, but when people desperately needed money, they weren’t too careful about how they got it. Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that a bank vice president would be fool enough to think he could pull that kind of trick here in little Darling, and get away with it. And even granted that Myra May hadn’t heard it quite right, what in the world was he planning?

Verna had thought about this off and on all afternoon, and she was thinking about it now as she prepared to leave the office. She was about to close the door behind her when the telephone rang. She hesitated, thinking she should simply ignore it—the office was closed, after all. Sherrie had gone to chair a meeting of Keep Our Darling Beautiful, and Melba Jean had left, too.

But then, compelled by that annoyingly strict sense of duty that made her the responsible person she was, Verna went back to her desk and picked up the telephone. She was immediately glad she had. It was Amos Tombull, the chairman of the board of county commissioners—her boss.

“Miz Tidwell,” he said, in his slow, gravelly Southern voice, “would you mind steppin’ across the street to the newspaper office ’fore you go home this afternoon? Mr. Duffy and Mayor Snow are here with me and Mr. Dickens. We’re fixin’ to come up with a way to avoid a shutdown of this entire town. We need you in on it. The front door’s locked but you just knock three times and Mr. Dickens’ll let you in.”

Verna immediately thought of what Myra May had told her, but she didn’t hesitate for a single second.