The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

But the buildings on the square were not completely dark. For as Charlie looked up at the courthouse, directly opposite the Dispatch office, he caught a glimpse of a dim electric light in one of the second-floor offices, the county treasurer’s office, he thought it was. As he watched, a shadowy shape, a woman’s shape, he thought, moved past the window. A moment later, the light went out and the window was dark—but not quite, for another light had gone on, in an inner room. And then that light disappeared, fast, as if a door had shut.

Charlie hesitated, took another step, thinking that bed was what he really wanted and perhaps a nightcap from the bottle he kept stashed under the loose floorboard in his closet, where Mrs. Beedle wouldn’t find it when she cleaned. But then he stopped, frowning. It was after midnight and the offices in the courthouse were supposed to be locked up tight. The only person who ever worked late over there was Verna Tidwell, who had a habit of staying after hours and coming in on weekends, especially since Earle Scroggins had taken over DeYancy’s job and put her in charge of the treasurer’s accounts.

But Verna Tidwell wasn’t working late tonight. In fact, Verna Tidwell wasn’t working in the treasurer’s office at all now, according to Ruthie Brant, who had dropped that information along with the bombshell about the state auditor’s report into Charlie’s lap that afternoon. Verna Tidwell had been furloughed. At least that was the story. Canned was more like it, Ruthie had said. And Earle Scroggins had changed the locks, so Verna no longer had a key. What’s more, the sheriff had tried to serve a warrant on her, but she had fled to Nashville to avoid being arrested.

Charlie stood for a moment on the sidewalk, swaying just a little, his head cocked, looking up at the black window. It had been a long day. He was ready to head for bed, which now seemed to beckon with an almost seductive charm. The only thing better would be a woman in it.

But somebody was in the treasurer’s office, somebody who didn’t want anybody to know that she (Charlie was sure that the figure had been a woman) was there. He knew it wasn’t Ruthie Brant. Ruthie liked to snoop but she was bone lazy. Once the workday was over, she was on her way home as fast as her feet could carry her. The other employee, Melba Jean Manners, was a stolid, silent woman who had about as much initiative as a snail, as far as Charlie could tell. It wouldn’t be her skulking around up there after hours.

But Coretta Cole—now, Coretta was another matter, and Charlie raised his eyebrows, considering the possibilities. Ruthie had said that Coretta Cole had taken over for Verna. Charlie didn’t know Coretta Cole. Maybe she was like Verna, somebody who doted on work, or was so anxious to do a good job that she was willing to come in after hours, even stay all night if she had to.

And then he thought of something. That story Ruthie had given him. He knew a few things and suspected more, but that was mostly what he had—suspicions. Maybe Coretta Cole would help him out, especially if he caught her by surprise and asked her a few probing questions. Ask in the right way, and she might even let him see that state auditor’s report. And that was what made up Charlie’s mind—the idea of catching Coretta Cole by surprise, at a moment when he might be able to provoke her into telling him what he wanted to know.

Now, if Charlie had been completely, 100 percent sober, he probably wouldn’t have thought this was such a good idea. For one thing, the woman behind that window blind might not be Coretta Cole. For another, maybe Coretta Cole (if that’s who it was) would tell him to go to hell and how to get there, too. Or, if he surprised her and she panicked, she might just bash him over the head with whatever weapon came to hand—and call the sheriff, to boot.

But while Charlie was sober enough to navigate, his judgment was what you might call slightly impaired. So, fueled by his whiskey-soaked idea of persuading Coretta Cole to substantiate Ruthie Brant’s claim, he headed across the street toward the side door of the courthouse, thinking that it was a good thing that he’d held on to that courthouse key.

The previous year, Amos Tombull, the chairman of the county board of commissioners, had asked Charlie to do some historical research for a tourist pamphlet on the old gristmill out on Pine Mill Creek. Before they had run out of money and abandoned the project, Charlie had been given a key to the records vault in the basement, where he had spent several tedious hours looking for details about the mill, which was almost as old as Darling itself. The vault was like a dungeon, musty and foul-smelling, and the records were powdered with decades of dust and mold. Conveniently, the same key opened the building’s north-side door, and Charlie had kept it. No newspaperman ever returns a borrowed key, of course, because he never knows when it might come in handy. Like tonight.