The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree (35 page)

Lucy’s cousin was as bald as a billiard ball.

They all got their food and sat down together. While they ate, Lucy told the story, with a little help, now and then, from Ophelia. It didn’t take long.

“And that was why I felt I had to take him in, poor boy,” she said at the end. “I simply couldn’t let him go back to that awful place, where the overseers flogged him when he couldn’t work and where the other inmates—” She turned her face away, swallowing tears.

“You should have seen him,” Ophelia put in. “Skin and bones, with open welts on his back.”

Lucy took out a hankie and blew her nose. “I felt I had to get him away from here as soon as he was well enough to travel. I know it was wrong, legally speaking. If the sheriff or the prison people find out, I’ll be in hot water. They’ll put me in jail, too.” She gave them a defiant look. “But you can say whatever you want. I don’t care. It was the right thing to do.”

“It was the only thing to do,” Ophelia said firmly. “I for one am glad that he’s safely on that train and on his way north.”

There was a long silence. The five of them were sitting on wooden benches on both sides of a scrubbed wooden table, Ophelia and Lucy on one side, Verna, Myra May, and Lizzy on the other. Everybody but Verna had a sandwich of Buzz’s pulled pork with white sauce, along with side dishes of cabbage slaw and fried okra. Verna had ordered grilled chicken and poured white sauce over it, too. Before he moved to Monroeville, Buzz had worked for Big Bob Gibson, up in Decatur, Alabama, where he learned how to make the famous white sauce. Everybody raved about it.

“Well,” Verna said finally, “I have to admit that it was quite a sight. That bonnet flying off, and your cousin standing there on the train steps, bald as the day she was born.” She grinned. “Bet those shoes are going to kill her feet before she gets to Memphis.”

Lucy shook her head ruefully. “I had to warn her not to take them off. Her feet will swell so bad she’ll never get them on again. I wanted to give her a pair of Ralph’s but I was afraid a man’s shoes under that dress would be a dead giveaway.” She sobered, looking at them across the table. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

“Tell what?” Myra May asked. “Seems to me that it was really nice of you to buy a train ticket for a cousin who was down on her luck.”

“I think so, too,” Lizzy put in. “I hope she gets where she’s going safely and never has to come back.”

Verna shook her head. “Too bad she had such a terrible experience during her visit here. Couldn’t have been much fun.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said simply.

Ophelia nodded, her eyes nearly filled with tears. “Yes, thank you, thank you! Y’all are the best friends anybody could have.”

“That’s for durn sure,” Myra May said emphatically. She finished her sandwich and wiped her fingers with her napkin. “And now, you two get to hear what the three of us have been up to this afternoon.” She looked at Verna and Lizzy. “Okay if I go first?” When they nodded, she reported on what she had learned from Imogene Rutledge, then summarized her conclusions in one sentence.

“Miss Rutledge thinks that the bank’s money problems were created by Mr. Johnson, who made a couple of unsecured loans to family members. She thinks he’s been moving money around to cover up his misdeeds, and she’s willing to tell the bank examiner what she knows. In fact, she’s agreed to drive over to Darling first thing in the morning and talk to him.”

“Sounds a little vindictive to me,” Verna said critically.

“Who cares?” Ophelia asked. “If she can get poor Alice Ann off the hook, she can be as vindictive as she likes.”

“Anyway,” Lizzy said, “he’s got it coming. Silly man—firing an outspoken woman who knew about those loans. That’s asking for it, seems to me. You’d’ve thought he’d have more sense.” She looked at Verna. “So what did you find out about Bunny?”

“That she lied to Mr. Moseley,” Verna said promptly. “And what’s more, he knows it—now. He was here this morning, asking about her at the house where she and her mother used to live.” She told what she had learned from the soda jerk about Bunny’s time as a cosmetics clerk at the drugstore and from the woman at Bunny’s old house. “The woman kept saying that Eva Louise was a good girl who didn’t have any sense at all when it came to men,” she added. “I guess we can take that for true, can’t we?”

“I sure can,” Myra May said dryly.

“I can, too,” Lizzy said. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “And I can tell you who the man was in that photograph, as well.”

 

 

 

 

 

Lizzy and Verna were waiting for Mr. Moseley when he came into the office at seven thirty the next morning, folding his umbrella, shaking the rain off his hat. They had discussed whether Lizzy should talk to Mr. Moseley alone or whether Verna should be there. Lizzy thought it might be less embarrassing for him if she did it alone, but Verna thought that the two of them might be able to put more pressure on him to do what needed doing. They had finally decided to do it together.

“Strength in numbers,” Verna said, and Lizzy agreed.

“Mornin’, girls,” Mr. Moseley said cheerfully. He had met Verna often, of course—he had regular business at the probate office, and she dropped in to visit with Lizzy every now and then.

Knowing that Verna resented being called a “girl,” Lizzy spoke up. “We need to talk to you, Mr. Moseley. We’re hoping you can help us.”

Mr. Moseley smiled and rubbed his hands. He seemed to be feeling better. Lizzy wondered if his trip to Monroeville had anything to do with it. And perhaps he no longer feared that he was in danger of being targeted as a suspect.

“Sure thing,” he said, in what just missed being a patronizing tone. “What’s up? Did one of your pets run away? Got a little problem with the girls in your garden club?”

Lizzy replied quickly, because it looked like Verna might explode. “Oh, no, nothing like that,” she said, dismissing his offensive remark sweetly. In her experience, even the nicest of men often had lapses. The best thing to do was ignore them. She smiled at him. “But the subject is a little ... well, touchy, I’m afraid. May I get you a cup of coffee? Then we can sit down and talk about it.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Moseley said warmly, returning her smile and proving (in Lizzy’s mind, anyway) that you really can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

“Now, then,” he said, as they sat down in his office, he behind his desk with a steaming cup of coffee, Lizzy and Verna across from him. “How can I help you two pretty ladies?”

Lizzy and Verna exchanged glances, Verna trying not to roll her eyes. Then Lizzy leaned forward and laid Bunny’s photograph on the desk in front of Mr. Moseley. She sat back, not saying a word.

He frowned. “What? What’s this?” He was staring at the photo now, his eyes getting big.

Verna spoke up. “I think you can see what it is. Or who it is, rather. Bunny Scott, posing in her underwear.”

He set his coffee cup down so hard that the coffee sloshed into the saucer. “Yes, of course. But—”

“The car is the Pontiac that was reported stolen by Fred Harper,” Verna went on.

“How do you know?” Mr. Moseley asked sharply.

“It’s the same license plate,” Lizzy said. “You can confirm that with Charlie Dickens. He copied it from the wreck.”

“Her underwear,” Mr. Moseley muttered, still staring at the photo. “Out in public like that. Such a sweet little thing—I wouldn’t have thought she could be so—” He sighed. “But she lied to me. Her whole story was a lie, from start to finish. So I don’t suppose I should be surprised that she’d pose for ... for cheesecake.”

“You are entirely missing the point, Mr. Moseley,” Verna said firmly. “This has nothing to do with underwear or cheesecake. We found the photograph in the drawer of Bunny’s dressing table. It proves that she was associated with that car before last weekend. It was no accident—if you’ll pardon the pun—that she died in it.”

“The car belongs to Dr. Harper, the dentist in Monroeville,” Lizzy said gently. “I’ve spoken to him. It turns out that he knew Bunny quite well—well enough to give her a pair of pearl earrings.”

Mr. Moseley made a noise deep in his throat.

Lizzy gave him a sympathetic look, but went on. “Bunny also knew the owner’s brother, Mr. Fred Harper. He lives here in Darling now. He works at the bank.”

“He’s the man who reported the car stolen,” Verna put in. “He told the sheriff he didn’t know the woman he saw stealing it, even though he described her to a T.” She added, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm, “Harper knew her, all right. In fact, his brother says that’s him.” She pointed to the shadow of the man in the fedora. “The man who took this photo.”

Mr. Moseley raised his eyes from the photo. “You say you found this in Bunny’s room?”

“Yes,” Lizzy replied. She put an envelope on the desk. “The same place we found this letter.”

Mr. Moseley leaned back, breathing out a gusty sigh of relief

“We didn’t think,” Lizzy said softly, “that it was a good idea to leave it where we found it. Since we knew that your connection to Bunny had nothing to do with her death, we thought you ought to have it back.”

Quickly, as if he were afraid that she might snatch the letter away from him, he picked it up and slipped it into his desk drawer. “Thank you,” he said. His glance went to Verna and back to Lizzy. “I know I’ve been ... foolish. I’m grateful for your help.”

“That’s good,” Verna said. “Because we need yours.”

He tilted his head warily. “What kind of help?”

“We think Fred Harper shot Bunny Scott,” Lizzy said, and told him about the .22 revolver Dr. Harper had loaned his brother.

He stared. “How do you ... Why—?”

“We’ll tell you,” Verna said, and when she had finished, he shook his head.

“How in God’s name you managed to find—” He swallowed. “So Dr. Harper is willing to say that his brother was having an affair with Miss Scott? Why would he do that?”

“Because he was in love with Bunny, too,” Lizzy said quietly. “He wants to see that the man who killed her pays for what he did.”

“But even if Fred Harper and Bunny were having an affair, that doesn’t prove he killed her,” Mr. Moseley protested. “What possible motive could he have?”

Verna put the deposit book on the desk. “She was blackmailing him. He was putting money into her bank account. Here’s the proof.”

He picked it up and began turning the pages, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ten dollars a week? On the salary of a bank teller? Where in the world was he getting it?”

“From other accounts at the bank, maybe,” Lizzy suggested. “We think he might have been stealing money. And if the sheriff searches his house, we think he’ll find that gun.”

He looked up. “The sheriff?”

Verna leaned forward. “Sheriff Burns will never listen to Lizzy and me. But he’ll listen to you. If you show him the photograph and the deposit book and tell him what Dr. Harper said about the gun, he’ll have to pay attention.”

“But how am I going to explain all this?” he asked. “Where am I supposed to have gotten this information?”

“That’s easy,” Lizzy said. “Tell him that one of Bunny’s friends brought you this stuff and told you that she was sure that there was something fishy about Fred Harper’s story.”

“If he asks who,” Verna put in, “tell him that’s a matter of attorney-client privilege.” She put a quarter on the desk. “Here’s our retainer. We’d like a receipt, please.”

 

 

Within the half hour, Mr. Moseley was at the sheriff’s office, presenting the photograph and the deposit book, and reporting Dr. Harper’s oral statement about the gun and the car. When the sheriff asked him where all this came from, he said the information was privileged—although his client might be willing to consider revealing his or her identity if the matter could not be resolved in any other way.