The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“I reckon it was,” Mrs. Hancock said approvingly. “I saw Agent Kinnard going into the courthouse just yesterday.” She put Bessie’s cardboard box on the floor behind the counter. “Tell Roseanne that Zeke’ll bring this over to the Manor this afternoon.”


“Agent Kinnard.” Bessie gave an indignant sniff. “You’d think they’d send those federal agents to Chicago and Detroit, where there’s real crooks to catch, now, wouldn’t you?” She picked up her pocketbook and left.

*

Just about the time that Bessie was talking to Mrs. Hancock, Myra May, Violet, and the breakfast bunch at the diner were hearing from Deputy Buddy Norris himself, who had come in for his usual breakfast of two eggs sunny-side up, bacon, grits, and two biscuits, washed down with hot coffee, black with four spoons of sugar.

Buddy rode a 1927 red Indian Ace and wore close-fitting brown leather motorcycle leggings (even in the summer) and a brown leather helmet like the one Lucky Lindy wore. In fact, everybody in Darling said that Buddy looked a lot like the Lone Eagle, although he was usually much more willing to talk about his exploits. Colonel Lindbergh never bragged once about flying all the way to Paris by himself, but when Buddy got started talking, it was hard to shut him up.

All in all, though, Buddy had turned out to be a good deputy, now that he had a little experience under his belt, and the town was rightfully proud of him. Not only was he the only mounted deputy in all of South Alabama (by virtue of his Indian Ace), but he knew how to take fingerprints, identify firearms, and make crime scene photographs, all of which he had learned from a home-study book on scientific crime detection from the Institute of Applied Sciences that he had mail-ordered from a True Crime magazine. He could shoot, too, and was a crack shot with his sidearm and his shotgun, which he carried in a big leather case strapped to his motorcycle. And because Buddy was only twenty-six, he still believed he was immortal, which made him inclined to rush in where nobody else would go, especially Sheriff Burns. The sheriff was old enough (twice Buddy’s age plus ten) to have seen everything twice or three times and knew better than to put himself in a situation where he might have to shoot back. When there was serious trouble, Deputy Buddy Norris was handy to have around.

“It wasn’t the Klan,” Buddy said right off, as Myra May was pouring his coffee. “There’s no reason in the world for the Klan to bother with Mr. Johnson. There was six of ’em and they all came in an old black Ford truck they parked around the corner. They was wearin’ sheets so nobody could get a look at ’em. That’s all it was, plain and simple.”

“Didja recognize the truck?” Mr. Musgrove (from the hardware store) asked, pushing his empty plate away.

“Naw.” Buddy spooned several sugars into his coffee. “Never even got a good look at it. They heard me comin’ and drove off quick.” He looked up and saw Violet standing in the kitchen doorway and winked at her. “Hiya, hon. Anyway, it was dark. Real dark.”

Myra May reached up and turned off the Philco. The market reports were depressing. Anyway, nobody was listening.

“And there ain’t more than two dozen black Ford trucks in this county,” Mr. Dunlap (from the Five and Dime) put in. “Maybe three.” He pushed his mug toward Myra May. “How ’bout some more coffee, Myra May?”

Myra May picked up the coffeepot, catching Violet’s eye and smiling. She didn’t mind Buddy winking at Violet. He was just a big kid who liked to play around, and as far as Violet was concerned, he was like a brother.

“Maybe you should’ve hung around for a while, Buddy,” Violet remarked critically, folding her arms as she leaned against the doorjamb. “They came back after you left. Brought a bucket of red paint.”