The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree (32 page)

“And I’ll see if I can track down Bunny’s old neighbors,” Verna said. “I’ll start at the drugstore. She used to work there.” She looked at her watch. “Two hours? Will that be long enough, do you think?”

“If we can’t find out something in two hours,” Myra May replied firmly, “we’re not going to find it out at all.”

“You’re probably right,” Verna said. “How about meeting at Buzz’s Barbeque for supper when we’re done? It’s just down the street, across from the railroad depot.”

“Or we could eat in the Commercial Hotel,” Lizzy put in. “It’s a little more ... civilized, maybe.”

“I vote for the barbeque joint,” Myra May said. “They’ve got good ribs and catfish, fresh out of the river. And there’s nothing better in this world than Buzz’s pulled pork sandwiches.” She grinned. “There’s something to be said for being uncivilized.”

“Buzz’s, then,” Verna said. “Let’s meet in two hours.”

 

 

Dawson’s Drugstore was brighter and more attractive than Mr. Lima’s store, Verna thought, as she opened the door and went in—about the same size, but well lit, the walls painted a light color, and with a nicely arranged front window display of Euthymol, Colgate, and Pepsodent toothpastes, with a big cardboard advertisement for Pepsodent’s new radio show,
Amos ‘n’ Andy,
and a pyramid of bottles of Lavoris mouthwash. The soda fountain counter boasted a half-dozen stools and a pair of patrons, a teenaged couple sharing a milk shake with two straws. They were trading jokes with the soda jerk, a pimply faced, dark-haired teenaged boy in a white apron.

The pharmacy at the back of the store had already closed for the day, but Verna began to casually browse the cosmetics displayed on the shelves opposite the soda fountain, picking up a small rectangular box that held Maybelline Eyelash Darkener for “eyes that glow with enchantment.” She wondered whether her eyes would glow if she used it, but she doubted it. She rarely bothered with makeup, which took a long time and didn’t seem (to her, anyway) to make that much difference in the way she looked. The eyelash darkener cost fifteen cents, so she put it down.

“Gloria ain’t here just now,” called the soda jerk. He was polishing a glass with a white towel. “If there’s anything I can help you with, just holler.”

“Thanks,” Verna called back. She pretended an interest in a dark red Cutex nail enamel until the teenaged couple finished their milkshake and left, trading noisy good-byes. Then she went to the counter and sat down on one of the red leather-covered stools.

“What’ll it be?” the soda jerk asked pleasantly. Behind him was an array of sparkling glassware—glasses for sodas and milkshakes, dishes for sundaes, plates for sandwiches and cake—on glass shelves. A large wall mirror reflected the glassware, the boy’s back, and Verna’s own image.

“How about a cherry Coke?” Verna replied, and fished a nickel out of her coin purse.

“None of that makeup stuff?” the boy countered, obviously eager for a sale. “Make you look real purty.”

“I kinda like myself the way I am,” Verna said with a little laugh. She wasn’t priggish—she just thought it was silly to spend money to paint your face and pretend to be somebody you weren’t. If you were married, what did your husband think when the eyelash darkener came off and your eyes no longer glowed with enchantment? “Just the Coke, please,” she added firmly.

“Comin’ up.” The boy took down a glass and held it under a spigot on the chrome-plated soda dispenser. Dark Coca-Cola syrup squirted out. Another spigot for the cherry syrup. Then a lever for fizzy carbonated water. The boy plopped in a maraschino cherry, added a paper straw, and pushed the glass across the black marble counter. He rang the cash register with a flourish and dropped the nickel into the drawer.

“Nice place,” Verna said, looking around.

“Been here since 1908,” the boy said proudly. “My dad’s place. He wa’n’t much older ’n me when he started it.” He wiped off the counter with a white cloth. “The soda fountain’s only a few years old, though. Dad likes to keep up with the times.”

“He’s smart,” Verna murmured in an appreciative tone. “You’ve been working here long?”

“Off and on since I was a kid,” the kid said, squaring his shoulders. “Want somethin’ to go with that Coke? We got sandwiches. Ham and cheese.” He gestured to a plate of white-bread sandwiches covered with a glass dome. “My mom makes ’em. Real good.”

“No thanks,” Verna said. “I’m meeting someone later. Listen, I’m wondering ... Didn’t a girl named Bunny used to work here? Seems to me somebody told me that.”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy breathed. “She sure did.” From the evident longing in his voice, Verna guessed that he wished she still did. “That was before Gloria,” he added. “She’s our cosmetics girl now.” He grunted disdainfully. “Not much of a girl, though. Gramma’s more like it. Dunno what an old lady like her is s’posed to know about cosmetics.”

“Did you know Bunny very well?”

The boy gave her a crooked grin. “Not as well as I would’ve liked.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But she had bigger fish to fry. Which you can’t blame her for.” Another grin, this one with a cynical edge. “You got it, you better use it—that’s my motto. She had it. And believe you me, lady, she used it.”

Verna couldn’t argue with that. “Big fish?” she asked casually. “Like who?”

The boy shrugged. “Like guys with money. Al, the guy who runs the parts department over at the Ford dealership. The dentist down the street. Salesmen who stayed at the Commercial.” He frowned. “I’m not sayin’ there was anything wrong. Guys like me, she was always real nice. Laughed and teased, flirted, even. But what she really liked was a good time. You couldn’t show her a good time, you weren’t gonna get to first base with her. Bottom line.”

Verna stirred her Coke with the straw, thinking that Bunny hadn’t changed one bit when she moved to Darling. She’d still liked a good time, and she’d still preferred guys with money. “She grew up around here, I understand.”

“Yeah. Went to school with my sister. Lived with her mom over on Oak Street, next to Doc Myers’ animal hospital—‘til her mom died a while back.” The boy cocked his head curiously. “Hey. How come you’re wantin’ to know about Bunny?”

Verna had already guessed that the news of Bunny’s death had not yet arrived in Monroeville. She wondered briefly if she should tell the boy, but decided against it. Bunny had been found late Monday, and today was only Wednesday. He’d find out soon enough, probably when the
Monroe journal
came out at the end of the week.

“Just curious,” she replied, and slurped up the last of her drink. “I met her at the drugstore over in Darling. She was working there.”

“Darling. So that’s where she went. I wondered. She kept sayin’ she was goin’ to Mobile or Atlanta. New York, even.” The boy picked up a glass and began to polish it. “Listen, you see her, you tell her Jerry the soda jerk said hi. She’ll remember me. Tell her she oughtta come back over here and see her friends sometime. We’ll all chip in and buy her a dinner or something.”

Verna stood up, feeling a sudden impulse to tell the boy that Bunny would never come back—hefe or anywhere. That she was dead. That somebody had killed her. She felt a sharp anger rising inside her.

“I sure will,” she lied, thinking urgently that she had better get out before she said more than she intended. “Thanks for the Coke.”

The boy raised his hand. “You bet.”

Verna thought then of giving up the search. The boy had already answered the question she’d come to ask—which of Bunny’s stories about her life was true? Bunny had lived with her mother on Oak Street, not in an old farmhouse outside of town, the brave caretaker of four small children. Anyway, what did that matter now?

But Oak Street wasn’t far away, as Verna learned when she asked directions to the animal hospital, and she had an hour to kill before she was supposed to meet the others. So she began to walk.

The animal hospital—a regular house with a big fenced-in yard, dog houses here and there—was on the corner. The house next door was small, no more than three rooms, and it hadn’t been painted in many years. The front door was open and Verna rapped at the screen. The woman who answered the knock was well past middle age and her dark hair was going gray. Her hands were square and work-hardened, the hands of a farm wife. She didn’t offer to open the screen door.

“Sorry to bother you,” Verna said. “I’m looking for Miss Scott. Eva Louise Scott.”

There was a sudden chorus of barking from the animal hospital next door, and the woman raised her voice. “Eva Louise don’t live heah no more. Her mama died a while back and she moved out. Went over to Darling is what I heard.” She cocked her head to one side. “How come folks’re askin’ ’bout Eva Louise all of a sudden? She gone an’ got herse’f in some kinda trouble?”

The barking stopped. “Folks?” Verna asked. “What folks?”

“Some man, jes’ this mawnin’. Said he was a lawyah from over in Darlin’.” The woman shook her head. “Allus bad trouble when lawyers come ‘round askin’ questions.” She peered at Verna. “Don’t reckon you’re a lawyah,” she said, and then chuckled at her own joke.

Something clicked. A lawyer. “Wouldn’t have been Mr. Moseley, would it?” Verna guessed.

The woman nodded vigorously. “Moseley. Yep, that‘ud be him. You know him?” She made a clucking sound with her tongue, and Verna saw that she was missing most of her teeth. “Eva Louise—her mama raised her right an’ she’s a good girl, down deep in her heart. But she don’t allus use the sense God gave her, ‘speshly where menfolks is concerned.” She laughed. “That lawyah fella—he seemed right surprised to find out she lived heah, her ’n’ her mama. Got it into his head some way that her mama done run off years ago an’ Eva Louise was takin’ care of a big bunch o’ brothers an’ sisters somewheres out in the country. He was gonna stand right theah an’ argue with me ’bout that, ’til I showed him that photo of Eva Louise an’ her mama.”

Verna chuckled to herself, imagining Mr. Moseley’s surprise when he learned the truth. Good enough for him, she thought with a kind of acid pleasure—allowing himself to be taken in by a pretty girl on the make. But why had he come here?

“You’re related to Miss Scott?” she asked, wondering if this woman should be told about Bunny’s death. Obviously, Mr. Moseley hadn’t told her—and she wondered why.

“Not related.” The woman shook her head. “Knew her mama from church is all. She sang in the choir, helped out with Bible School. That picture I showed that lawyah is one that was took last summer at the church picnic.” She frowned. “That girl is in trouble, I reckon,” she said sadly. “Like I said, she’s a good girl, but she’s got no sense.”

“Thank you,” Verna said, and decided against saying anything about Bunny’s death. She hated to be the bearer of bad news. And, like the soda jerk, the woman would find out soon enough.

“No sense a-tall,” the woman muttered, and turned away from the door.

Earlier that day, Myra May had done as Aunt Hetty Little suggested. She had taken a break from the diner after lunch and gone to the Darling library to ask Miss Rogers what she knew about Imogene Rutledge.

The library was located in two small rooms at the back of Fannie Champaign’s milliner shop, Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux, on the west side of the courthouse square. In one room was Miss Rogers’ desk, a rack of wooden drawers that held what she called the “card catalog,” and a table where a person (only one, because there was only room for one chair) could sit and read in front of the window. The other room had shelves on all four walls, from the floor as high as a person could reach. The books were mostly donated, but the City Council set a few dollars aside for new books every year and sometimes people gave a little money. Miss Rogers was frugal. She bought mostly nonfiction. The year before, she had bought
We,
by Charles Lindbergh, A
Preface to Morals
, by Walter Lippman, and (on the lighter side),
Believe It or Not
, by Robert L. Ripley. But she did buy two best-selling novels:
The Bishop Murder Case
, by S. S. Van Dine and
Joseph and His Brethren,
by H. W. Freeman.

When Myra May came in, Miss Rogers had immediately told her what had happened at the Magnolia Manor the night before—or rather, in the backyard of the Dahlias’ clubhouse. Bessie Bloodworth had fired on an intruder and had hit him—accidentally, of course. She had aimed over his head.

“Any idea who he was or what he was doing?” Myra May had asked.

“It was the escaped convict, if you ask me,” Miss Rogers said. “Now, Myra May, what can I help you with today?”

When Myra May told Miss Rogers what she wanted, the librarian frowned. “Imogene Rutledge,” she mused. “Well, I’ll tell you this much. That woman still owes a library fine. It just keeps getting bigger, too.” She opened her desk, took out a ledger, and consulted a page. “It’s up to forty cents.”

“My goodness,” Myra May said, and something occurred to her. “I’m going over to Monroeville late this afternoon, Miss Rogers. Would you like me to see if I can collect?”