The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush (25 page)

Lizzy wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and the idea of professional opportunity didn’t hold much appeal, since she was satisfied with the job she had. But she thought of the ordeal of meeting people who knew about her and Grady. She thought of Mrs. Alexander and her mother, who would never stop berating her about her failure to get married. And Grady and his bride, living in the Harrison house. She knew she was brave, but still—

“Well,” she said slowly, “if you’re driving up there tomorrow, I suppose I could go with you. If you don’t mind my missing a day’s work, that is.”

“Of course not,” he said, and grinned widely. “Tell you what. I’ll get Jackman’s number and you can put in a call to—”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on Lizzy’s desk. “We’re on our lunch hour,” he said. “Let it ring. Whoever it is can call back.”

But Lizzy, who was grateful for the interruption, smiled and lifted the receiver. “Law offices,” she said briskly.

“Miss Lizzy?” a breathless voice said. “Miz Lizzy, is that you? It’s me, Sally-Lou. Mr. Johnson needs some help and he’s askin’ me to call. He says he wants Mr. Moseley to come over. Right now.”

“Help?” Lizzy frowned. “What kind of help does he need?”

“He don’ like me to say on the phone. Jes’ get Mr. Moseley to come. Quick as he can.” The connection was broken.

Lizzy replaced the receiver in the cradle. “That was Sally-Lou, the Johnson’s maid. Mr. Johnson wants you to go over there right now. She says he needs your help, but he doesn’t want to say why over the phone.”

“It’s probably that codicil he’s been putting off.” Mr. Moseley got up and went to get his suit jacket from the hook on the wall. “That’s the way the man operates, I’m afraid. He puts everything off until the last minute, and then it has to be done yesterday. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately, though. I don’t suppose I should criticize.” He glanced at his watch. “You come, too, Liz, and bring your steno notebook. If you take his dictation, we can get this little job finished up before Charlie Dickens shows up for that interview.” He shrugged into his jacket. “Lock up here, and we’ll go in my car.”

“Yes, sir,” Lizzy said crisply. She reached for her notebook and pen and tucked them into her pocketbook. Taking dictation was something she knew how to do. If Mr. Jackman tested her on it tomorrow, she was confident that she would do well.

*   *   *

Mr. and Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson lived on one of the best streets in the oldest section of Darling, just a few blocks from the courthouse square. The street was lined on both sides by leafy green trees whose branches met in the center, and the wide lawns were spread like green shawls in front of the elegant, well-kept houses. Nothing was new here, but it was all beautifully maintained, even in these difficult years.

There wasn’t much in the way of a Darling aristocracy, but if there were, Voleen and George Johnson would have been it. They counted their friends among the town’s professional people—its three lawyers, Judge McHenry and Judge Andrews, Dr. Roberts (Darling’s only physician), and the president of the Darling Academy—several of whom lived within one or two blocks of their elegant, plantation-style white house. They entertained regularly, and lavishly, at least by Darling standards. Mr. Johnson drove the latest model automobile, and Mrs. Johnson had a sumptuous garden of white flowers, maintained by her colored gardener.

Mr. Moseley parked in the circular drive that led up to the wide veranda, and as they got out, Lizzy saw that the front walk and steps were splashed with dark red paint, and the bushes in front of the house were trampled.

“What—?” she began, startled.

“Vandals,” Mr. Moseley said. “Last night. Buddy Norris ran them off but they came back.” He took the steps two at a time. But before he could ring the doorbell, Sally-Lou, dressed in a black maid’s uniform with a white apron and collar and cuffs, was opening the front door. She had a stricken look on her face.

“He’s in the liberry,” she said as they went into the front hallway. “He’s took real bad.”

“Taken bad?” Mr. Moseley asked, surprised. “You didn’t say he was ill when you called, did you?”

“He wouldn’t let me,” Sally-Lou replied, wringing her hands. “He wouldn’t let me call Doc Roberts, either. Said jes’ to call you and get you over here, Mr. Moseley, and you’d know what to do.” She opened the library door. “He’s layin’ down on the sofa.”

“Well, let’s have a look,” Mr. Moseley said. “If he’s ill, we’ll need to call the doctor.”

Lizzy followed Mr. Moseley through the door. Mr. Johnson was lying on the brown leather sofa, on his back, eyes shut, mouth open. His face was gray, his lips blue. One hand was clawed at his chest, the other hung loose, fingers brushing the floor.

“George!” Mr. Moseley exclaimed, striding to the sofa. He leaned over, put two fingers against Mr. Johnson’s neck, and after a long moment, straightened up. “Call Doc Roberts and tell him to come over, Liz,” he said quietly. “But no need to hurry. George is gone.”

Lizzy reached for the phone on the desk and rang the operator. When Violet answered, she said, “Put me through to the doctor, please, Violet.” A moment later, Dr. Roberts was on the line and Lizzy relayed Mr. Moseley’s message.

“He’ll come right over,” she said.

“Oh, Lawd,” Sally-Lou moaned despairingly. “I knew I shoulda called the doctor. But he wouldn’t let me!”

“No, please,” Mr. Moseley said. “Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing the doctor could have done. It’s his heart. This is not unexpected.” He put his hand on Sally-Lou’s shoulder. “Be a good girl and get us some tea, please. We’re all going to need it.”

Dr. Roberts arrived, knelt down beside Mr. Johnson, and a few moments later, offered his diagnosis. “A massive heart attack,” he said, straightening up and taking off his glasses. “Looks like it happened fast.”

“The maid says he wouldn’t let her call you,” Mr. Moseley replied.

“That’s George for you,” the doctor said. “Hated doctoring. Worst patient I ever had.” He folded his glasses and put them in his breast pocket with an air of sad finality. Shaking his head, he added, “You know, for months, I’ve been telling this man that if he didn’t retire and take it easy, he was going to work himself into some serious cardiac trouble. Voleen did her best, too. She was frantic about him. Kept trying to get him to take a vacation, go on a trip, go fishing. She finally put her foot down and made him sell the bank. She was convinced it was killing him.”

“She was right,” Mr. Moseley said. “That damn bank has been an albatross around his neck for years. He knew the kind of trouble he was in, but he just kept plugging, working nights and weekends, fretting about things he couldn’t change. And then when Duffy and Delta Charter came along with their buyout, it was a huge relief. He figured that as soon as Duffy took command, he could turn everything over to him and get out from under the load he was carrying. And Voleen was overjoyed.”

Lizzy heard all this with a growing sense of surprise. All this was going on right under her nose, and she hadn’t had a clue. Was it because she didn’t pay attention? Because she didn’t like to look on the dark side of things? Or—

“She was delighted, all right,” the doctor said. “She told me she thought it would add years to George’s life. But when it began to look like the sale had fallen through—” He let out his breath.

Mr. Moseley nodded. “George took that hard, especially when Duffy ordered the deposits frozen and the bank closed. He knew what a blow that was to the bank’s depositors. He felt responsible, you know. And then there was the death threat, the vandals, the vandalism—and Delta Charter’s decision to pull out. I guess I’m not surprised that his ticker finally quit.”

Lizzy had known about the sale of the bank from snatches of conversation in Mr. Moseley’s office. But she had never guessed that Mrs. Johnson might have been urging her husband to sell, or that the bank and its problems might have had such a terrible impact on Mr. Johnson’s health. He had always seemed so robust, so confident, so fully in charge.

“Delta Charter is actually backing out, then?” Dr. Roberts asked, frowning. “Puts Darling in one helluva situation, doesn’t it?”

“You’re right about that, Doc. And yes, they’re out, according to Duffy. He was trying to put together a deal with a Florida bank but that fell through, too. When George heard the news, it might have been the last straw. If Duffy can’t come up with a buyer—”

The doctor took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “If the bank is finished, virtually every business in town will be bankrupt. Overnight.”

Mr. Moseley nodded. “It’s likely that some sort of federal deposit insurance bill will make it through Congress in the next six weeks. But that will come too late to save Darling. To be honest, Doc, I’m not optimistic.”

“Well, back to this sad business.” Dr. Roberts pocketed his handkerchief and cast a look at the figure on the sofa. “I understand that Voleen has gone to Montgomery. Do you want to call her with the news or shall I?”

“I’ll do it,” Mr. Moseley said with a sigh. “I’ve got her sister’s number. And there are some things she’ll want to discuss. She depended on George for nearly everything. This is going to be hard.”

“I hope she’ll be able to keep this house,” Dr. Roberts said heavily. “Things being the way they are, you never know.”

Lizzy was shocked. The Johnsons had always been looked up to as the pinnacle of Darling society. What would happen to Mrs. Johnson if the house had to be sold? What would she do? Where would she go?

Sally-Lou opened the library door and put her head in. “Mr. Dickens is at the front door and wants to come in. He say he here to do an interview with Mr. Johnson.”

“Send him in, Sally-Lou,” Mr. Moseley said.

A moment later, Charlie Dickens was standing in the doorway. Mr. Moseley went up to him. “Scratch the interview,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re doing an obituary.”

Mr. Duffy Follows a Trail of Dollars

Alvin Duffy left the diner and headed straight to Pete’s Pool Parlor, a ramshackle frame building across the street and down the block from Mann’s Mercantile. The board siding hadn’t seen paint in the last decade, the metal roof was rusted, and the front window—the only window—was grimy with dust and dirt.

He pulled the screen door open and went into the dim interior, where a mixed quartet of Darling’s male senior citizens (that is, both colored and white), were gathered around one of the tables, enjoying a friendly game of pool. The sharp crack of ball against ball punctuated the mutter of voices, and a blue cloud of tobacco smoke hung curled around the hanging lamp over the pool table. There was a counter off to one side, where Pete—a tall, cadaverous man with a gray beard and a cud of chewing tobacco in his cheek—was perched on a stool. The counter displayed candy bars, cigarettes, and five-cent cigars. If you wanted a good cigar, Al knew, you could get them at the Old Alabama Hotel, where they were displayed in a glass case behind the lobby check-in desk. A box of even better cigars was kept in the safe in the manager’s office and produced on the guests’ requests.

“Afternoon, mister.” Pete’s voice was high and thin, almost a squeak. “You lookin’ for a game?”

Al hadn’t always been a banker, and one closed chapter of his life (there were several, all of them different, some rather eventful, others boring) included a fair amount of hustling—which, when you got right down to it, wasn’t that different from the banking game, which required hustling of a different sort. But he wasn’t here to play pool. Not today, anyway.

“Maybe later,” he said. He tipped his hat to the back of his head and pulled out the yellow Darling Dollar Myra May had given him. He propped his elbows on the counter and held it up. “I’m interested in this,” he said mildly.

Pete frowned at it. “Why? Ain’t it no good?”

“Oh, it’s good, all right. One hundred percent good. Got you your breakfast, didn’t it?” Al smiled disarmingly and slipped into a softer, more colloquial speech. “Thing is, see, these weren’t supposed to get out until the end of the week. Nothin’ to get all hot and bothered about, Pete. I’m just . . . well, I’m kinda curious to know how you came by it.”

Pete bent over and spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into a rusty can on the floor. “You’re that banker feller, ain’t you?”

“That’s me.” With an amiable grin, Al put out his hand. “Al Duffy. Moved here from N’Orleans not long back. Happy to meet ya, Pete.”

Pete leaned forward on his stool and shook Al’s hand. His was brown and calloused, clawlike. “What’s happenin’ with the bank?”

Al gave him a direct look. “Dunno yet. Workin’ on it. Hopin’ we can open up again real soon. In the meantime”—he waved the yellow dollar—“reckon this’ll take some of the pressure off. As we was sayin’, one hundred percent good. You get it from one of your customers?”

“Yeah.” Pete jerked his head toward the pool players. “Old Zeke over there give it to me last night, for six games of pool. He’s on his sixth now.”

Al turned and saw an ancient colored man in bib overalls and a faded brown shirt. He had seen the old fellow often on the street, pulling grocery orders for Mrs. Hancock in a little red wagon with wooden slat sides.

“Zeke, huh?” he said. “That’s his name?”

“Ezekiel,” Pete said. “You can tell by his face what game he was in.”

“Boxer?” Al guessed. The old man’s face was scarred, his nose misshapen, one eye half closed, both ears cauliflowered.

“Middleweight. Southern circuit, back in the teens. Good, too, a scrapper. Fight any fool who’d climb into the ring with him.”

Al took a dime out of his pocket. “I’ll have two Snickers,” he said. “Thanks.” He unwrapped one of the candy bars and carried it over to the pool table, where Zeke was racking his cue.

“Good game, Ezekiel?” he asked, and handed Zeke the second Snickers.

“I’s done better,” Zeke said, taking the candy. “Whut’s this for?”

“’Cause I’m hopin’ you can tell me where you got this,” Al said, and held up the yellow dollar.

“Hell.” The old man’s grin showed missing teeth. “I don’t need no candy for that. I got it from Baby Mann. He give it to me last night, out of a satchel he had. Said he was doin’ the work of the Lord, passin’ out them dollars to folks who needed ’em. And I damn sure did.” He unwrapped the bar.

“Baby man?” Al was puzzled.

“Purley. His daddy runs the Mercantile.” He bit off half the bar, chewing enthusiastically. “Folks calls him Baby ’cause he’s simple-like.”

“Ah. Purley Mann.” Al regarded the old fellow. “Baby give you any more of these dollars?”

“Nah.” Old Zeke shook his head wistfully. “Bought me six good games of pool, though.”

Al dug into his pocket and took out two quarters. “Have three more on me,” he said. “And thanks.”

Outside on the street, Al stood for a few moments, hands in his pockets, considering his next move. Then he sauntered over to the Mercantile and went in. It was a large store, high ceilinged, the walls lined with shelves filled with stacks of folded clothing, outerwear and underwear; boxes of men’s and women’s leather shoes and rows of boots; bolts of dress goods; babies’ and children’s clothing; sheets and towels and even mattresses, stacked against one wall; dishes and flatware and cookware; mops and brooms—and just about anything else necessary to outfit a household and most of the people in it. There was even a rack of Ferry Seeds, Al saw, and an array of garden tools.

A woman approached him. “May I help you, sir?”

“Is Archie Mann around?” Al asked.

“He’s back in the tack room,” the woman said. “But I’m sorry to say we’re out. After last night—” She shook her head sadly.

Al frowned, puzzled. “Out of what?”

The woman colored. Flustered, she muttered, “Sorry. I’ll go get him.”

In a moment, Archie Mann appeared. A burly man with a barrel chest and powerful shoulders, he wore a white shirt with green sleeve garters, a green bow tie, and a canvas work apron.

“Ah, Mr. Duffy,” he said cordially. The two of them had met at the town council meeting at which the Darling Dollars campaign had been discussed.

“Afternoon, Mr. Mann,” Al said, as they exchanged handshakes.

“You lookin’ for something specific?” Archie Mann gave an expansive wave. “We got just about anything you might need—except for LeDoux’s Lightning.” His face darkened. “There was a little accident out at Dead Cow Creek last night.”

Suddenly, Al understood. He had heard the news from Mrs. Peters, his secretary, when he got to the bank that morning, and he just now remembered that the dead boy had been a member of the extended Mann clan.

“I was sorry to hear about the shooting,” he said and added, emphatically, “Shouldn’t have happened.”

“No siree, Bob.” Archie Mann’s voice roughened. “No call to kill a boy over a little moonshine. That fella Kinnard better watch his back next time he comes around here. Folks are pretty riled.”

“Kinnard?” Al asked. “Who’s he?”

“The revenue agent. He’s been hot to get his hands on Mickey and the boys for a long time, but he never could find the place. It’s pretty well hid, back up there in the woods.” Archie Mann scowled. “Can’t quite figure out how he found ’em this time, ’less somebody tipped him off. And if that’s how it happened—I pity the man who did it.” He gave Al an inquiring look. “But you didn’t come about that, I reckon.”

“Actually, I’m hoping maybe you can help me straighten out a little problem,” Al said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Looks like your boy Purley might’ve picked up a satchel of Darling Dollars over at the print shop. Any chance you could help me get it back?”

“Purley?” Archie Mann sounded incredulous. “You ain’t sayin’ my boy stole it, are you? He’s a good boy, and anyway, he got religion last week. Got a bad case of it, too. He’s been down on his knees, prayin’. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“I’m not saying he did. I figure he found that satchel sitting around somewhere and thought it was free for the taking.” Al paused. “To tell the truth, Mr. Mann, I don’t give a damn
how
he got it. All I want is to get it back so we can get the scrip in this week’s payrolls. If Charlie Dickens has to reprint, there’s likely to be a delay, which means that some folks won’t have spending money in their pockets this coming week. Which means that nobody will be buying anything from any of the merchants.” He paused to let that sink in, then repeated, “Can you help me get it back?”

Archie Mann hesitated, obviously torn between defending the family honor and wanting to get Darling Dollars into the hands of people who would spend them at the Mercantile.

“Well, I s’pose I could ask him,” he said reluctantly. “When he got religion, he quit working for Mickey. He’s over at the house right now.”

Al looked at his watch. “Tell you what, Mr. Mann. I’ve got some work to do at the office. How about if I come back here, say, in an hour. Do you think you could have that satchel here then?”

“I got a better idea,” Archie Mann said. “How about if I round up the boy and have him bring that satchel to your office. If he don’t have it, he can come and tell you why.”

“Suits me,” Al replied. “But I hear he’s been doing the Lord’s work, passing out dollars to the needy. If he’s given some of them to his friends, it might be good if he could get them back before he comes over.”

“The Lord’s work.” Archie Mann shook his head in exasperation. “The things these kids’ll get up to these days. All right. I’ll get this business straightened out. If he’s got that satchel, I’ll send him over with it.”

“Fine with me,” Al said, and held out his head. “The bank’s closed, but you tell him to knock on the side door and Mrs. Peters will let him in.”

Back in his office at the bank, Al was sorting through a stack of papers when Mrs. Peters burst through the door. She was in tears.

“Oh, Mr. Duffy!” she wailed. “The worst thing in the world has happened! Mr. Moseley’s secretary, Liz Lacy, just telephoned to let us know. Mr. Johnson is”—she gulped back a sob—“he’s dead!”

“Dead?” Al repeated, startled. His first thought was of the death threat that had come with a rock through the window and the sheeted vandals who had attacked the Johnson home. “Was he shot? Stabbed? Did they catch the killer?”

“Nobody killed him,” Mrs. Peters said tearfully. “Miss Lacy says he had a heart attack, at home, in his library. Dr. Roberts came, but it was too late. He was already dead. Oh, this is awful!”

Al came around the desk and patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I am so sorry about this, Mrs. Peters. I know you worked with him for a long time.”

“Forty-two years.” The woman took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “He was my first boss, and the only one I’ve ever had until you. And he was always so good to me. Oh, poor Mrs. Johnson! She won’t know what to do without him. And he did so much for this town—helping people get mortgages on their houses, helping business owners with their credit. As far as Darling is concerned, he was our hero!”

“He will be missed,” Al murmured sympathetically. He hadn’t been in Darling long, but he was beginning to get a sense of how tightly people were connected in the little community. When somebody died or was killed, it left a perceptible gap—unlike the city, where everyone was a stranger, where people came and went and nobody noticed. Where banks were institutions of commerce, designed to make money for their stockholders, not to hold a community together and keep it functioning. Where bankers were anonymous, rather than friends and neighbors—or heroes.

But he was also uncomfortably aware that if Mr. Johnson had lived, it would have been a very different story. The man would have been blamed for what was happening with the bank. He wouldn’t have been Darling’s hero. He would have been Darling’s scapegoat. Now,
he—
Alvin Duffy—would play that role.

Mrs. Peters left the room, still sniffling, and Al sat down at the desk, taking stock. It was a grave situation, and any way you looked at it, he thought, he had pretty much exhausted his options. The Florida bank he’d been talking to—the last one on his list of possible purchasers—had turned him down, even at the rock-bottom price Delta Charter was asking. Today was Wednesday. He had until Friday to come up with somebody who was willing to buy half the shares in the bank. If he couldn’t, the Darling Savings and Trust would be closed, permanently. It would be his responsibility to do the dirty work here: clean up the bank records, sell off the furnishings, discharge the staff, and put the bank building itself up for sale—although he knew, realistically speaking, that it was likely to be years before the building found a buyer. Empty bank buildings stood on the Main Streets of half the towns in the country. Ghosts of a prosperous past, relics of an affluent era, they would be standing, vacant and neglected, for a very long time.

And he? What would he do? He was no longer the golden boy at Delta Charter—anyway, he didn’t want to go back to the city. After the deaths of his first wife and his son and the betrayals by his second wife and his friend, New Orleans held no pleasure for him. He was ready for a new life, a new start, in a quiet little town like Darling, where wives and husbands honored their vows and friends did not betray friends.