The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

So Charlie tried to put the key into the lock and turn it. When it wouldn’t work, he realized that he was putting it in upside down and corrected the problem. The door, unlocked, gave easily, with only the slightest creak and he stepped inside. At that moment, he thought he heard the dull sound of another door thudding, somewhere upstairs, and furtive footsteps.

Charlie frowned again, his newspaperman’s nose twitching. The treasurer’s office occasionally kept sums of money overnight, if a cash tax payment came in after the bank closed, for instance. It would be easy for somebody, an employee, maybe, to come in and take the money. It was risky, but if that person knew what she was doing and took a moment to doctor the records, she could probably get away with it.

He pursed his lips. He was standing in a long, narrow corridor that ran the length of the building. There were stairs at either end, up to the second floor and down to the basement—not that Charlie could see them, for the place was black as the inside of a tomb and the air was thick and stale, like the air in a closed vault. It settled over his head and shoulders like a heavy caul, making it hard to breathe.

Charlie wouldn’t have admitted it, of course, but there was something more than a little frightening about this dark. It probably had to do with the history of the old courthouse, which had been built back in 1897. The following year, it had been the scene of a dreadful double murder, two women shot to death at the stroke of noon in the courtroom that occupied the center part of the building. The killer had run up the stairs to the bell tower and jumped off, killing himself.

Not the end of the story, of course. The ghosts of the murdered women were said to be pursued through the halls of the building, even during the daylight hours, by the ghost of their murderer. Every year, several people—even people who hadn’t heard about the killings—claimed to have seen them on the stairs or in a hallway. Then, in 1907, on the tenth anniversary of the murders, at the stroke of noon, a violent tornado had reached down out of the sky and ripped off the bell tower. The tornado’s timing was just too coincidental for some folks. The following Sunday, the minister at the Baptist church said it was the good Lord’s retribution for the horrible double murder and suicide. Whatever you thought of this explanation, the ghosts of the two women continued to reappear from time to time after the tower was rebuilt, but the ghost of their killer had disappeared. It was never seen again.

Charlie himself had never encountered the ghosts, of course, not even when he went down to the archives vault to look for the information on the gristmill for the commissioners’ pamphlet. He didn’t believe in ghosts—in fact, Charlie had long ago decided that he didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t see, touch, smell, or hear. But just the same, the dark felt thick and heavy with a sinister presence, and his fingers were trembling slightly when he put out his hand to feel along the wall for the light switch that he knew was to the right of the door.

But suddenly, somewhere in the dark, he heard the scurry of light footsteps, a scuffling sound, and a whisper, a woman’s urgent whisper. “No, don’t come down! Somebody’s here.”

Charlie froze. But this was no ghost, and he recognized the voice.

“Liz Lacy,” he said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. “What the devil are you doing here, at this hour? Who’s with you? Who’s that upstairs?”

The sound of footsteps, coming down the stairs. “Charlie? Charlie Dickens, is that you?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “It’s me.” A flashlight shone suddenly in his face. “Put that thing down,” he said, adding, “Please,” as an afterthought. Liz Lacy turned the light away and set it upright on a stair. Its dim glow provided enough light so that he could see her, standing now in the hallway. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

Liz took a breath. “I could ask you the same question,” she answered, raising her voice and glancing over her shoulder, up the stairs. She was clearly stalling for time. “What are you looking for? Why are you here?”

“Just doing my job,” Charlie replied. “I was working late, across the street. I saw a light upstairs, in the treasurer’s office. I came to investigate.” He grinned amiably. “That’s what a newspaperman does, you know. He investigates. That’s how he gets his stories.”

“Well, you can stop investigating,” Liz said irritably. “It’s only Verna Tidwell. She works here. She . . . she forgot something in her office and came back to get it. I’m waiting for her.” She raised her voice a notch, cautiously. “Verna, it’s okay. It’s just Charlie Dickens.”

“Forgot something?” Charlie chuckled sardonically. “Forgot something? Forgot she’d been furloughed, did she? Forgot that she was supposed to be in Nashville?” He paused and hardened his voice. “Where’d she get the key, Liz? I heard that Earle Scroggins changed the locks so she couldn’t get in.”