The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush (24 page)

“No, not good news.” Violet’s eyes were large and her face pale. “I just plugged in an emergency call from Liz Lacy.”

“Liz?” Verna asked with concern. “An emergency? Is she all right?”

“
She
is,” Violet replied. “She was calling from the Johnson house, asking Dr. Roberts to go over there. But she said there wasn’t any hurry. It’s Mr. Johnson.” Violet gulped. “He’s dead!”

In Which Charlie Dickens Makes Amends

A minute after Verna Tidwell had told him what she thought he ought to hear and left the
Dispatch,
Charlie Dickens pulled on his seersucker jacket, jammed his straw hat hard on his head, and locked the front door behind him. His hair was uncombed, his tie was undone, and his collar was crooked, but he paid no attention. Striding fast, he was in such a hurry that he didn’t take the sidewalks but cut catty-corner across the courthouse lawn to Fannie Champaign’s hat shop, his unbuttoned coat flapping.

As he went, the images raced through his mind like Movietone newsreels, speeded up. The social evenings he and Fannie had shared the year before, the Methodist Ladies pie supper and the Dahlias Valentine party and the St. Patrick’s Day Lions Club’s Irish Stew Supper. The private evenings in the following months: dinner at the Old Alabama one week and dinner in Fannie’s apartment the next, with pinochle or dominoes afterward, the radio softly playing. He remembered the quality of her company, as well, the slyly intelligent wit and quiet good humor, which had so subtly disarmed his ironic cynicism. And the look of her, the curly brown hair with its russet highlights, the expressive eyes, the trim ankles and slim hips. Under her spell, he had entirely forgotten his curmudgeonly ways and had allowed himself to be transformed into something almost . . . well, companionable, especially when their evenings began to end with a few soft kisses that seemed to promise something more. Charlie was enchanted.

But when he heard that Fannie had told her friends that they were engaged, he was shocked into a sudden understanding of his precarious situation. He was teetering on the brink of marriage. Of course, he might have gotten around to proposing, if he had been allowed to come to it in his own way, when he was ready. But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. How
dare
she spread such a ridiculous fiction?

In his pique, Charlie had deliberately—oh, yes, deliberately and quite hurtfully—broken Fannie’s spell. Affronted, he told himself that he had been clever enough to elude marriage all these years, and he would be damned if he was going to be pushed into it now. Why, he could barely support himself on what little money the
Dispatch
brought in, over expenses. He could not begin to support a wife—and what if there were children? He had no patience with children. He had no need of a wife to tell him what to do and when to do it. He much preferred the single life, so that he could drink and play pool and poker with the boys whenever he damned well pleased.

And so he had lied to her, had made up a stupid story about himself and Lily Dare, and had squired Lily (an old flame, long ago extinguished) publically around town, knowingly humiliating Fannie in the eyes of her friends. But when she locked up her shop, rented her apartment, and went away, he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. He had thrown away something priceless, something of such enormous value that he could never recoup the loss. He was a fool, an utter fool.

And so he had done what some men do when they are disappointed in love. He had pickled himself in Mickey LeDoux’s Lightning. He likely would have died there, too, alone and unmourned, if it had not been for Verna Tidwell. A few moments before, she had marched into the
Dispatch
office and read him the riot act, telling him that Fannie still cared and if he had a single ounce of intelligence left in that booze-sodden brain, he would go straight to her and confess that he had been a total and complete idiot and throw himself on her mercy.

And now he had reached the path to Fannie’s shop. He took the two steps up to the narrow porch in a single bound, flung the door open so hard that it banged against the wall, strode inside, and stopped, suddenly aware that he must look like a wild man, not like a suitor coming to plead his case and seek forgiveness.

Fannie was standing on tiptoes at a shelf at the back of the shop, reaching over her head to take down a bolt of red velvet ribbon. Startled, she turned when she heard the door slam violently. She was dressed in something soft and yellow that curved over her bosom and slim hips and flowed with her movement. Seeing Charlie—collar askew, tie undone, hair uncombed—her eyes widened, her lips parted, and the ribbon dropped from her fingers and curled around her ankles.

“Mr. Dickens!” Her voice was urgent, alarmed. “Charlie, what’s wrong? Is something the matter? Are you ill? Are you—”

“Fannie!” In two steps he had reached her and captured both her hands. “Fannie, I—Fannie, I love you. I love you and I am so very sorry. I am an absolute idiot, a scoundrel, a rascal, a liar. There was nothing between Lily Dare and me, not one kiss, not a single embrace, barely a handshake. I made it all up, every last bit of it, out of nothing but pure orneriness and spite. I desperately want to make amends. Can you . . . will you
please
forgive me? Please, Fannie, I beg you!”

But he knew from the sudden light in her eyes that there was no need to beg. And when his arms went around her and he pulled her against him, she came so willingly, so eagerly, that every last, lingering doubt was dispelled.

Mr. Moseley Makes an Offer

After Benton Moseley had tipped his hat to Verna Tidwell at the front door of the
Dispatch,
he
turned and climbed the outside stairs to his law office. He found Elizabeth Lacy at her typewriter, the keys clattering, as usual, at her impossibly fast pace. She was wearing a white dress printed with pink flowers, the sleeves and the collar edged in lace, and her brown hair was tied back with a pink ribbon.

She looked as fresh and pretty as she always did, Bent thought with no little admiration, not at all like a woman whose fiancé—or the closest thing to it—had recently announced that he was marrying someone else. But then Liz had always surprised him with her ability to weather the storms in her personal life—the disagreements with her mother, for instance, who was a holy terror. She probably thought he hadn’t noticed her effort to keep things in the office calm and unruffled, but he had, and appreciated it.

She glanced up from her work. “I’m on the very last page of this document, Mr. Moseley. I’ll have it for you in just a few minutes.”

“I don’t need it until tomorrow,” Bent said, “so there’s no hurry.” He hung his gray fedora on the rack beside the door and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “Phone calls?”

“Two.” She stopped typing and consulted a notebook. “Mr. Farr, in the Birmingham federal office. He said to tell you that he is, and I quote, ‘hauling Agent Kinnard back to Birmingham for a full review. He’s got to stop shooting people.’” She shook her head sadly. “That poor boy. What an awful thing to happen. He was just fifteen. Repeal can’t come too soon, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Repeal isn’t going to put a stop to the moonshine business,” Bent said. “But I am glad to hear that Farr is on it.” He took his pipe out of his pocket and hung the jacket on the rack beside his hat. “Maybe they’ll finally put Kinnard on a short leash. What was the other call?”

“Mrs. Manchester in Judge McHenry’s office said to forget about trying to get Mickey LeDoux and Tom-Boy released to go to the boy’s funeral. She said that the judge put his foot down, hard.”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Bent said. “I told Mickey I didn’t think the judge would go for it, but he wanted me to ask. He’s really torn up about his little brother. He’s going to take this hard.” He paused. “Aren’t you going to go out and get yourself some lunch? I ran into Mrs. Tidwell going into the
Dispatch
office. You can probably catch her if you hurry.”

“I have a sandwich.” Liz hit the carriage return and kept on typing. “I thought I’d eat it here at my desk. I brought a library book that’s due back tomorrow and I want to finish it.”

Bent regarded her. This was unusual, since it was a pretty day, the sort of day on which Liz and her friends Verna and Alice Ann Walker usually ate out on the courthouse lawn. But if she was avoiding them, he couldn’t blame her. She probably didn’t want to risk seeing people who would have heard about the upcoming wedding and would regard her with curiosity and a pitying glance.

She hit the carriage return again, typed three more words, and stopped. “There. That’s done.” She rolled the paper out of the typewriter. “What about you, Mr. Moseley? Aren’t you going out to lunch?”

“I had a late breakfast with Ed McFadden at the Old Alabama this morning. I’ll get something after Charlie Dickens finishes interviewing Mr. Johnson. I’m meeting him there in”—he glanced at his watch—“twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

She added the typed page to the stack on the desk and squared the edges. “An interview?”

“We’ve got to do something to change the way this town is thinking about George Johnson. Yes, he’s made some mistakes with that bank. But he’s not the villain he’s being painted. Charlie’s agreed to write a story that may dispel some of the blame that people are slinging at him.”

She flipped the stack of pages. “Blame can be hard to dispel.” Her head was down, her voice muffled. He knew she wasn’t talking about George Johnson.

He took his tobacco pouch out of his pants pocket, then pulled a chair close to the desk and sat down. “Liz, I want you to know how sorry I am.” He busied himself with filling his pipe and tamping the tobacco. “About Grady Alexander, I mean. I would never in this world have imagined that he would do anything like—”

He broke off, covering his embarrassment by striking a match to his pipe and shaking it out. “I’m not saying this right. But I am sorry.”

And he was. He couldn’t understand why any man could fool around with another woman when somebody like Elizabeth Lacy cared for him. Grady Alexander might be a very smart guy—he was, after all, the county ag agent, so he’d been to college. But he obviously didn’t have a lick of sense.

For her part, Lizzy was embarrassed as well, and she felt the color climbing into her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, wishing she could change the subject but not sure how. To give herself something to do, she opened her desk drawer and took out the paper bag she had brought to work. Her sandwich was in it—peanut butter and grape jelly—and a couple of cookies left from the Dahlias’ party the night before. She got up and took the pot of coffee from the hot plate on the shelf behind her desk.

“Would you like a cup?” she asked, holding up the pot.

“Sure. Pour one for me.” He shifted in his seat. “Look, I don’t quite know how to put this to you, so I’ll just come straight out with it, Liz. A lawyer friend of mine up in Montgomery—Jeremy Jackman—is looking for someone competent to fill in for the next couple of months, while his office assistant is out having surgery. I spoke to him about you, Liz. You would be perfect for the job, since you’d be doing pretty much what you do here, for me. He’s ready to make you an offer.”

Perfect for the job?
Lizzy looked up, startled. Mr. Moseley was suggesting that she leave Darling and take a job in Montgomery?

He frowned at his pipe, which appeared to have gone out. He struck another match and tried again. “The salary is about the same,” he went on, “although I think Jackman would be willing to add on a premium because it’s short-term—and maybe a little extra to cover your board and room, since you’d have to find a place to stay. His wife says she would be glad to help you find something suitable.”

Not looking up, Lizzy began to unwrap her sandwich. Her heart was beating so loud that she was sure he could hear it. Was Mr. Moseley just being kind, or was he unhappy with her work? Maybe he thought she’d be moping around the office because of that business with Grady. Maybe he—

“I’m not saying you should do this, Liz.” Mr. Moseley leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get rid of you. You ought to know by now how valuable you are, and how important you are to the smooth running of this office. But I also have a pretty good idea of just how painful this situation with Alexander is likely to be, especially if he and his wife come to Darling to live. I heard that they are thinking of buying—” He gave her a querying look. “But maybe you know.”

She stirred sugar into her coffee. “If you’re talking about the Harrison house, yes. My mother told me.”

“I’ll bet she did,” he muttered into his coffee cup. He could just imagine the scene. Mrs. Lacy had probably raked Liz over the coals for letting Grady Alexander get away. He looked up. “Yes, the Harrison house. I ran into Joe Lee Manning this morning. He says Grady and the girl looked at the place yesterday. Manning thinks he’s likely to buy it.”

Lizzy bit off the corner of her sandwich. “Then we’ll be neighbors,” she said. “It’s just down the street from me. I go past it on my way to and from work. It’s a nice house,” she added lamely. “Or it will be, with a little work.”

She turned away, not wanting him to see the sudden tears in her eyes. She was reconciled to the marriage now, she thought, but the idea that Grady and his wife were going to be living so close to her—that was much harder to handle. She brushed her hand across her face, catching the tears.

Seeing the gesture, Bent understood and wished, not for the first time, that he could put his arms around her and comfort her. But he knew that was completely out of the question. Working closely the way they did, things could get complicated if he—

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, if you ask me, it doesn’t show very good judgment. As far as his wife is concerned, especially. He should get them a place near her family, where she has friends. She doesn’t know anybody over here. And she’s very young, I understand.”

“Yes.” Liz’s voice was thin and sad. “She’s barely twenty. She’ll be lonely.”

Impulsively, Bent put out his hand, not quite touching her arm, then drew back. “Look, Liz. You’ve lived here all your life. You know what this town is like. People love to talk about everybody else’s business. Alexander’s marriage is likely to be the main subject of conversation for weeks, and after that—” He paused, giving her a wry smile.

Lizzy felt the warmth of his compassion for her and was grateful. She completed his sentence. “And after that, they’ll talk about the baby.” She managed a small smile. “Weddings, funerals, new babies—big topics of conversation in a small town.”

She raised her eyes to his, wanting him to understand and not cast blame. “Grady didn’t try to hide it from me, Mr. Moseley. He told me they’re expecting.” Oddly, she felt defensive, standing up for Grady in the face of Mr. Moseley’s criticism. “It wasn’t something planned, you know. It was a mistake. An . . . an accident. Accidents happen.”

“I understand,” Mr. Moseley said. She saw the darkness in his eyes. “Believe me, Liz, I understand.”

Lizzy wondered if he was remembering that business with Bunny Scott a couple of years ago, when he had gotten into a dangerous situation of his own. A mistake, he had called it then. But if he remembered, it didn’t seem to help him understand that Grady might have made a very similar mistake. He sounded judgmental.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for suggesting that Alexander could have given a little more thought to what he was doing when that particular accident happened.” His jaw tightened. “You know, you really don’t have to put yourself through this, Liz. Jackman needs somebody in his office starting next week. That would give you time to close up your house and find a place to stay in Montgomery. If you like, we could drive up there tomorrow. You could talk to him, see what you think. By the time you come back to Darling, a lot of the talk will have died down. The first installment, anyway.”

The idea was suddenly tempting. Lizzy put her sandwich down on the wax paper. “But what about you, Mr. Moseley? If I went to Montgomery, who would do my job here?”

He gave a little shrug. “I could probably find someone. Ophelia Snow must be a pretty good typist, the way she handles that Linotype machine. She’s working part-time for Charlie Dickens, so I could maybe get her for three or four hours a day. She wouldn’t do everything you do, of course, but—” He looked uncomfortable. “As you know, things are pretty quiet here right now, Liz. I can probably get by with a part-time person.”

That was true, Lizzy thought. A lot of what she was doing right now was catch-up. “But I would have to leave my house,” she said, thinking aloud. “And my cat. And the Dahlias, just when our busy gardening season is coming up.” She looked at Mr. Moseley, not saying the two small words she was thinking.
And you.

Of course, she didn’t mean that in a romantic way. Lizzy had worked very hard to get over the huge crush she’d had on Benton Moseley when she first came to work in his office, when he was a young lawyer and she was just out of high school. But he had married Adabelle, a blond and beautiful debutante from a wealthy Birmingham family. They’d had two girls, blond and pretty like their mother, and had built a fancy house near the Cypress Country Club. Lizzy didn’t see the children with their father very often, but when she did, she noticed that they were flippant, almost disrespectful. She was troubled. She might be old-fashioned, but she felt that children ought to look up to their fathers—although it had occurred to her that perhaps Mr. Moseley wasn’t as attentive a father as he might be. He was often in the office weekends and evenings, while Mrs. Moseley and her daughters spent more and more time with her parents back in Birmingham. And then came the divorce. In retrospect Lizzy knew it had not been any great surprise, at least to her. She didn’t think Mr. Moseley was surprised by it, either.

But of course the divorce made no difference in their working relationship, which had always been relatively formal. Lizzy could happily assure herself that she had outgrown her adolescent crush on him and that her feelings had been securely put away, as people put away clothes they know they’ll never wear again. But still, she felt an obligation toward him, and she had invested too much in this office to leave on a whim. What’s more, she didn’t like the idea that she was running away from gossip, or from the unpleasantness of seeing Grady and his wife in her neighborhood.

“Well, it’s something to think about,” Mr. Moseley said. “I have to drive up to Montgomery tomorrow. If you’d like to go with me, I could call Mr. Jackman and set up an interview.” He wore a very serious look. “I’m not urging you to do this, Liz. But if you want to get out of town while this affair is fresh in people’s minds—and on their tongues—this is a good way to do it. It would be an opportunity for you, professionally speaking.” He chuckled shortly. “God knows, there’s not much opportunity around here. And there won’t be, if Delta Charter leaves the table.”