The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“I wrote it up,” Charlie said. “Klan look-alikes, red paint on the front porch and sidewalk, plants pulled up in the garden. Page one stuff,” he added dryly.

“And a rock through the window with a death threat tied to it,” Bent said. “Off the record.”

Charlie frowned. “I missed that one.”

“That happened Monday night. He didn’t report it. He didn’t want his wife to know.”

“I put a story in the paper that says she’s visiting her sister.”

Bent crossed one leg over the other. “Right. He sent her to Montgomery. He knew it was going to get ugly and wanted her out of the way. I think you can understand that.”

“There’s a lot I don’t understand about this situation,” Charlie said flatly. He lifted an eyebrow. “Not complaining, just ignorant. Uninformed. Happens all the time.”

“Happens to me, too.” Bent pulled on his pipe. “And ‘uninformed’ is exactly the problem. George is under attack because folks here in Darling don’t understand the situation. Duffy and his bosses in New Orleans haven’t released any announcements about the sale of the bank, which allows people to think whatever they want to think about George’s role in the closure. They can—”

“They can make him out to be the villain of the piece,” Charlie put in. “Which is exactly what they are doing. They want a scapegoat, and he’s within easy reach—and logical. Show me a banker anywhere, and I’ll show you a man who will never win any popularity contests with the hoi polloi.” He paused. “Got an idea who’s behind the vandalism?”

“No, and I’m not sure that makes any difference, at least not right at this moment. What happened was small potatoes—except for the death threat, of course. George has a gun, although I’m not sure he knows what to do with it. But that’s beside the point. We need to stop this from escalating, the way it did over in Harkinville.”

That had been big news the month before. The Harkinville bank had failed, bringing down several local businesses. The banker had been hanged in effigy. Then his house was torched, and a colored maid had died in the fire. A day or so later, the banker had taken his pistol out to the barn and shot himself. The panic had spread to several neighboring towns and counties, with people rushing to withdraw their money as fast as they could. Before the alarm ended, five banks—and five towns—were in deep trouble.

“So what do you want me to do?” Charlie asked.

“We have to change the way people see this situation. Change the emotional climate. Lower the temperature. And you’re the only one who can do that. That’s the story.”

“Well, somebody’s going to have to come clean with a few more factual details,” Charlie said testily. “I’m as much in the dark as the next guy. If I’m going to shed any light, I need to be enlightened first. And I assume that you can assure me that George Johnson isn’t guilty of anything that people suspect him of. Embezzlement, for example. Misappropriation of funds. Malfeasance. All of the above.”

With a bland expression Bent pulled on his pipe. “My clients are innocent. George is no exception.”

“Yeah.” Charlie’s chuckle was sarcastic. “Tell me another.”