The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree (22 page)

“No, I do not think it was Mr. Moseley,” Lizzy parroted in a bitterly mocking tone. “You can give a girl a bracelet without being suspected of murdering her, can’t you? And Mr. Moseley simply couldn’t
kill
anybody. I know him, Verna. He’s not that kind of man.”

Verna didn’t want to say so, but Lizzy was probably still carrying a torch for Mr. Moseley, whether she knew it or not. And the truth was that somebody had shot Bunny Scott and tried to make it look like she had been killed in an accident with a stolen automobile. That required planning ability and intelligence, didn’t it? Mr. Moseley certainly had plenty of both.

And now it was clear that he could have had a motive, too. Maybe he’d had a fancy for Bunny and she was trying to break it off. Or maybe Bunny was threatening to tell his wife. Then she remembered what Ophelia had told her about Lester Lima kissing Bunny behind the curtain. Mr. Lima could have had the very same motive. Mentally, Verna put both of them at the top of the suspect list.

Lizzy finished her sandwich and refolded the wax paper so she could use it again. “Well, if you ask me, Verna,” she said in a definitive tone, “it was the escaped convict who killed her. He’s been on the loose for over a week now, hiding somewhere around here. He’s desperate to get away. He took Bunny hostage, stole Mr. Harper’s brother’s car, and when Bunny tried to escape, he shot her. Mr. Moseley had nothing whatever to do with anything—except that he ... he knew ...”

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “He knew Bunny. I don’t know how well, and I don’t care.” She blew her nose again.

“You may be right about the convict, Lizzy.” Verna patted her hand sympathetically, mentally adding the convict to her suspect list. “And I certainly understand how you feel about Mr. Moseley. But listen, I’ve got some news, too. About Bunny—and about Alice Ann Walker.”

She told Lizzy what Ophelia had told her—that Mildred Kilgore had seen Bunny and Lester Lima kissing behind the curtain at the drugstore—and reported that Myra May had heard Hiram Riley and the bank examiner talking about Alice Ann Walker being questioned as a suspected embezzler.

“Alice Ann, an embezzler?” Like Verna, Lizzy was both incredulous and indignant. “Why, that’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard! The Walkers are poor as church mice. What in the world would she do with that kind of money? She couldn’t spend it around here—somebody would see it and wonder where she got it. And she wouldn’t do anything to endanger the bank, either. She knows how much Darling depends on it.”

She paused, shaking her head sadly. “But Bunny and Mr. Lester—Somehow, that’s easier to believe. Remember what Bunny said the other day?”

“About what?”

“That Lester Lima isn’t the gentleman he’s supposed to be?”

Verna was thoughtful. “And there was Nadine Tillman,” she said slowly, thinking about what Ophelia had told her. “Remember her?”

Lizzy frowned. “She worked at the drugstore last summer, didn’t she?”

“Yes, until she got fired. Nadine told her mother that Mr. Lima got fresh with her and her mother told Mrs. Lima. Mrs. Lima fired her. Nadine left for Chicago and hasn’t been heard from since.”

“Oh, my gosh,” Lizzy said breathlessly.

“Yes. And now there’s Bunny.”

Lizzy’s eyes widened. “You’re saying that Mr. Lester—” She swallowed.
“Both
of them?”

“I’m not
saying
anything, Lizzy. We don’t have enough facts to draw any conclusions.” Nevertheless, Verna moved Lester Lima to the top of her suspect list. “But I like your idea about the convict taking Bunny hostage and forcing her to help him steal the car. It makes sense, Lizzy.” Mentally, she moved “escaped convict” to the Number Two position. Which left Mr. Moseley at Number Three.

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” Lizzy said gloomily. “Nothing makes much sense to me. We know where the bracelet came from, but what about those pearl earrings? And the deposit book you saw in the drawer—where was she getting the money? That’s all part of the puzzle, too. I have the feeling that Bunny Scott wasn’t the person we thought she was. There are just too many mysteries floating around. We don’t know enough about her.”

Those pearl earrings. Verna felt a wrench of guilt. They were in her purse at this moment, in that little wooden box. She had been worrying about them since yesterday, wishing she hadn’t foolishly taken them out of Bunny’s dressing table drawer. Of course, Bunny was dead now and it wasn’t likely that Mrs. Brewster or her girls were aware of them. If they had been, the pearls probably wouldn’t have stayed in the drawer. Still, what she had done was stealing, and Verna knew it. She had to put them back, if she could only figure out how.

But there wasn’t any point in bringing that up. What she said was, “I agree, Liz. There are too many mysteries, and more are popping up all the time. What’s worse, we don’t know if what we don’t know about Bunny has anything to do with her being in that car.”

Lizzy looked confused, but nodded.

Verna got up and brushed off her dress. “We have to clear up the mysteries. So I vote that we pursue our investigation, starting with the Palace. Maybe Don Greer will remember who Bunny was with on Saturday night.”

“I’m with you,” Lizzy said, getting to her feet. “Let’s go.”

The movie house was a long, narrow building fronted by a fancy marquee, with the words
The Palace
in pink neon and dozens of lightbulbs studding the canopy. The marquee also displayed the name of the movie, Alfred Hitchcock’s
Blackmail,
which would be showing for the next two weeks.

The ticket taker’s glass booth was empty and closed, but the theater’s double doors were propped open. Verna led the way inside, into a thick dimness that smelled of dusty carpets, stale popcorn, and toasted peanuts. The ceiling was painted dark blue, with glittery silver stars pasted to it. The foyer walls were plastered with movie posters from recent shows: Charlie Chaplin’s
The Circus; The Wind,
with the beautiful Lillian Gish; and the Buster Keaton comedy,
The Cameraman.
Verna had seen every one of them at least once.

Off to the right was the candy counter, where Mrs. Greer sold Mounds and Milky Ways and Milk Duds, as well as red-and-white-striped paper bags of popcorn out of the Butter-Kist electric popcorn machine and bags of hot peanuts out of the peanut toaster. Beside the counter stood a red Coca-Cola cooler, where customers could put in a nickel and get a bottle of icy-cold Coke. Mrs. Greer had been heard to say that they made as much money from candy, popcorn, peanuts, and Cokes as they did from movie tickets. It didn’t seem to matter that some people were too hard up to buy groceries. They still came out to see the picture show, share a bag of hot peanuts, and escape for a couple of hours from the harsh reality of the world.

From somewhere inside the movie house, Verna could hear the sound of a vacuum sweeper running. She went to the leather-covered door that led into the auditorium and pushed it open. There were two narrow sections of red-plush seats, with a center aisle that led to a low wooden stage. On the wall at the back of the stage hung the silvery movie screen, now covered with a heavy red drape. A few dim lights in candelabra brackets shone along the walls, and in their dusty glow, she saw Don Greer pushing the vacuum over the carpet, down at the front, near Mrs. LeVaughn’s black upright piano. He looked up when he saw them coming down the aisle toward him and switched off the Hoover. It shuddered into silence.

“Hello, Mr. Greer,” Verna called.

“Hullo, gals,” he said jocularly. The air was warm and stuffy, and he took out a handkerchief and rubbed it over his forehead and his nearly bald head. “We’re closed on Mondays. Don’cha know that by now?” He refolded the handkerchief.
“Blackmail
opens tomorrow night. Come back then and bring your friends.” He added, confidentially, “But don’t bring any Baptists.”

This was a standing joke in town, because Baptists weren’t supposed to go to the picture show, where they could see people drinking and smoking and misbehaving—although of course they went anyway.

He stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket, chuck-ling. “Y’all ain’t Baptists, I reckon.”

“Not this week,” Verna said, matching his tone. “But we’re not here for the movie. We’re looking for some information. About a friend of ours.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I can help. What friend? What’s her name?”

“Scott. Eva Louise Scott. The blonde who worked at Lima’s Drugstore.”

“Oh, her.” Mr. Greer narrowed his eyes. “The girl who stole that Pontiac from that fella at the bank and drove it over the cliff into Pine Mill bottom.” There was sharp disapproval in his tone. “Dunno why Lester ever hired that one. Dead, ain’t she?”

Verna and Lizzy exchanged glances, and Lizzy spoke up. “Yes, she’s dead, Mr. Greer. And we’re very upset about it. But nobody seems to know what really happened on Saturday night. We’re hoping to get some information that might help to answer some questions.”

“Well ...” Mr. Greer hesitated. “Yeah, I did see her Saturday night, come to think of it. She was sittin’ close to the back, where she allus sits. That purty yella hair of hers—it shines real bright when the projector’s on.” He grunted. “Had her head on some young fella’s shoulder. Reckon he’s feelin’ kinda low about what happened.”

“Oh?” Verna asked eagerly. “Who was the fella, Mr. Greer? Who was she with?”

“Dunno.” Mr. Greer shrugged. “Didn’t see who he was, or if I did, it didn’t register. Them boys all look purty much the same when you see ’em from the projection booth. Anyway, she’s with a diff’rent one ever’ time she comes. Sees ever’ movie more’n onct, too. Bet she saw
Applause
three, four times. Real tearjerker.”

“Do you remember
anybody
she saw it with?” Lizzy asked.

He furrowed his forehead, thinking. “Well, I think it was Willy Warren one night. Hank Crawford’s oldest boy, Pete, another night. Other’n that, I don’t rightly remember. You might ask Mrs. Greer—she sells candy to purt’ near ever’body who comes in. Or Gladys.” Gladys was the Greers’ daughter, who was still in high school. “Yeah, that’s right. You come back tomorrow night when we’re open and ask Gladys. She sees folks under the marquee lights when she sells ’em their tickets. Got a real good mem’ry, too.”

“We’ll do that,” Verna said.

Mr. Greer grinned thinly. “O’ course, people don’t allus come in with the ones they sit with. You’d be mighty surprised to know how many folks come in by theirselves and just happen to end up cuddlin’ with somebody in the back row. A tryst is what it’s called, y’ know.” He enjoyed the word so much that he said it again, his grin broadening. “A secret tryst. At least, they like to think it’s secret.”

“And what time did the picture end on Saturday night?” Lizzy asked.

“Well, lessee.” He rubbed his chin. “It was a double bill,
Applause
and
Tarzan,
Reckon it was all over by nine thirty.” He frowned. “How come y‘all wantin’ to know?”

Verna didn’t answer his question. She only said, “Thanks very much.”

“Sure thing.” Mr. Greer switched the Hoover back on and Verna led the way up the aisle, disappointed.

“I know both Willy Warren and Pete Crawford,” she said, when they were outside the theater. “If you ask me, neither of them has the gumption to steal a car, much less shoot a girl. Especially Bunny. They’d a whole lot rather take off her clothes than shoot her.” At that, she paused, struck by a thought. Turning to Lizzy, she asked, “When Grady told you about the way Bunny was shot, did he say anything about an assault?”

“Assault?” Lizzy asked, frowning.

Really, Verna thought. Sometimes Lizzy was so innocent. “You know. A sexual assault. A—”

“Oh, you mean rape,” Lizzy said. “No, he didn’t, so I guess there was nothing like that.” She tilted her head. “Although maybe the doctor didn’t do that kind of autopsy? Or maybe he couldn’t tell? And even if the doctor had mentioned that, Grady might not have said anything to me. It’s ... well, you know.”

“I know,” Verna said, and sighed. Men didn’t discuss things like that with women. At least, not Southern men.

“If she was raped, Charlie Dickens wouldn’t print that in the newspaper,” Lizzy said. “But I agree, Verna. I don’t think either Willy or Pete could have anything to do with Bunny’s death. Those kids are as lazy as all get-out. Anyway, no matter who she was with at the picture show, the movie was over by nine thirty. The car wasn’t reported stolen until midnight. If she felt like dumping her date, she had plenty of time to get rid of him and go off with somebody else—somebody she couldn’t be seen with in public.”

“Exactly,” Verna said. Somebody like Benton Moseley, she thought. Or Lester Lima. “Lizzy, let’s go over to the drugstore and talk to Mr. Lima.”

“Talk to him about what?” Lizzy asked. “He sure as shootin’ wasn’t with Bunny at the movie. And if he knows anything about how she died, he’s not dumb enough to tell us about it.”