The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Charlie Dickens?” another voice asked, and Verna Tidwell came down the stairs, pausing on the last tread. “What are you doing here at this hour of the night?”


“That question has already gone the rounds a time or two,” Charlie said with a chuckle. He leaned one shoulder against the wall. The alcohol that had fogged his brain had evaporated and in his now-sober state, it occurred to him that Verna Tidwell might be a lot more willing to talk than Coretta Cole would have been. And if she’d had the time to go through the records upstairs and find whatever she was looking for, she might know a great deal.

“I suppose you were looking for that state auditor’s report,” he hazarded.

In the silence, Charlie heard Liz pull in her breath. Then Verna said, low and steadily, “Who told you about that?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she raised her voice. “Who told you?”

“Oh, word gets around,” Charlie said carelessly, now very sure. Grinning, he pushed himself away from the wall. “Hey, how would you two ladies like to come over to the Dispatch office for a drink and a little conversation? I think we might be able to do some business. What do you say?”

“I really don’t think we—” Liz began, but Verna stopped her.

“Just what kind of business did you have in mind?” she asked warily.

“You might call it a little trade,” Charlie replied. “I mean, look at it this way, Verna. I’m sure you don’t want Earle Scroggins and the county commissioners to know that you’ve been working late tonight—after you were furloughed and locked out of the office. And when you’re supposed to be in Nashville, where the sheriff can’t get at you.” He raised his hand against the flurry of her protests. “I have some questions I want answered, for a story I’m working on.”

Nobody spoke for the space of several breaths. “A little trade,” Verna Tidwell said at last. “Your silence for my answers.”

“That’s blackmail, Charlie,” Liz said in a reproving tone. “I thought you were above that.”

“Blackmail?” Charlie raised both hands. “Whoa, now, Liz. Watch who you’re callin’ a blackmailer. Me, I prefer to think of it as a trade. I’ve got something you want, you’ve got something I want.”

“You’re writing a story,” Verna said speculatively. “Is it anything like those earlier editorials you wrote about Mr. DeYancy and the county treasurer’s office?”

“Something like that,” Charlie answered evasively. “All I need are a few confirmations and a fact or two. So . . .” He shrugged. “How about it?”

Lizzy looked at Verna. “I guess it’s your call,” she said.

“I’m willing to discuss it,” Verna replied guardedly. “But I won’t make any promises about confirmations. Or facts.” She glanced at Lizzy. “It might be better if we used Mr. Moseley’s office, though. It’s less . . . well, public than the newspaper. Somebody might see me and wonder why I’m not in Nashville. Is that okay, Liz?”

“That’s fine with me,” Lizzy said. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

“Coffee sounds swell.” Charlie opened the door, then stepped aside. “Ladies first.”





TWENTY

Lizzy, Verna, and Charlie



Lizzy plugged in the electric percolator and began making a pot of coffee while Verna and Charlie Dickens sat down on either side of the table in Mr. Moseley’s conference room. Lizzy was glad that Verna had suggested coming to the office, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. And Charlie definitely didn’t need another drink. What he needed was coffee, and plenty of it. She could use some, too. It had been a long day, and from the way things looked, it wasn’t over yet.

Verna must have decided to share at least some of what she knew. As Lizzy came into the conference room and set the mugs on the table, she was saying, “In addition to identifying how much is missing, the auditor’s report pinpoints which bank accounts the money came from. Two of them, actually, both in Monroeville, at different banks.”

“Different banks? Monroeville?” Charlie reached for the coffee. “That’s a little unusual, isn’t it? I would’ve thought that the Cypress County accounts—if there had to be more than one—would be right here in Darling. Monroeville is in Monroe County.”

“Unusual, you bet,” Verna said emphatically. “The county’s accounts—six of them—are held in three different banks in Monroeville, and in the Darling Savings and Trust. If you ask me, I think it was set up that way so the money could be moved around without leaving a clear trail. Just in case somebody asked—although apparently nobody did, until the audit.”