The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Ah, the old short con.” He put his mug down, grinning bleakly. “You never know which cup hides the pea—or even if there is a pea. And usually there isn’t. Usually, it’s been palmed by the operator. And you’re out whatever money you put down. Tough tiddy.”


“Yeah.” Verna put her elbows on the table and cupped her hands around the mug. “The con. Here’s how it went, at least as far as I’ve been able to dope out. On July thirtieth last year, the State of Alabama sent Cypress County a check for fifteen thousand dollars from the state’s gasoline tax account. The money was earmarked for road improvements, bridge repair, and so forth.”

“Like the bridge on Pine Mill Creek,” Lizzy guessed, “where Bunny Scott was killed. It was washed out over a year ago, and hasn’t been fixed yet.” She’d heard a lot of grumbling about that bridge, because people had to make a ten-mile detour to avoid the washout.

“Exactly,” Verna said. “And there are several other projects that have come to a standstill—such as extending electricity out to the county fairgrounds—because the money meant for them was diverted to the road fund instead, to cover emergencies. Only there hasn’t been enough to go around, so even the emergencies don’t get covered.”

Charlie downed another gulp of coffee. “The gasoline tax money came from the state and went . . . where?” His voice was sounding steadier, Lizzy thought.

Verna met Charlie’s eyes with a straight, hard gaze. “What I’m telling you is off the record for now, Charlie. I’ve got to decide what to do with the information—that is, who should take it from here. The sheriff or—” She shook her head, frowning. “There’s a warrant out for my arrest. I’m not sure who I can trust.”

“You don’t see a notebook in my hand, do you?” Charlie countered.

“No, but I want to hear you say it,” Verna said firmly. “Just three little words. Off the record. I don’t want to read about this in Friday’s paper.” She gave him a crooked grin. “The Friday after, maybe, but not just yet. And not with my name on it. You got that?”

Charlie looked disgruntled. “Okay. Off the record,” he growled. “For now. But when I do the story, I’ve got to be able to nail it down with some sort of attribution. I can’t just say anonymous.”

“You could say sources in the county courthouse,” Lizzy suggested helpfully. “Knowledgeable sources, maybe. Informed sources.”

“I’d rather have a name,” Charlie said.

“You’re not going to get it,” Verna replied. “I have to live in this town. And I’d like to hang on to my job.”

Charlie sighed. “You’re a hard lady. Well, go on. What’s the bottom line? Where did that money go? Off the record,” he added. “Damn it.”

“The bottom line,” Verna said steadily, “is that the state’s fifteen-thousand-dollar gas-tax payment went to settle a mortgage on Jasper DeYancy’s Sour Creek Plantation.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and he put his mug down with a thump. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Taken aback, Lizzy stared at Verna. The Sour Creek Plantation was one of the oldest and most revered of all the plantations on the Alabama River. Over past decades, going back to the time of Jasper DeYancy’s father and grandfather, it had been known for its prodigious production of cotton, peaches, and peanuts. But the drought and boll weevils had been hard on the DeYancys, as on all the farmers around Darling, and many of the fields lay flat and fallow, baking under a hot, dry sun, while the price of cotton went down, down, down.

But the Big House remained as lovely and graceful as ever, rising out of the river-borne mists like a romantic vision of the antebellum South. It was painted white as whipped cream, with green shutters and a gabled portico with fluted white pillars, and surrounded by sweeps of green lawn, a gorgeous garden of azaleas, roses, and ancient trees draped with silvery Spanish moss. Lizzy had never been inside the Big House, but the DeYancys entertained frequently, and she had heard tales of crystal chandeliers and Oriental rugs and cases full of leather-bound books and engraved family silver and oil portraits of the DeYancy women framed in gold. The family fortunes were thought to be framed in gold, too.

“Nope, not pulling your leg,” Verna said flatly. “The abstract on the DeYancy place is in the probate clerk’s office, from the earliest land grant claim down to the present. I checked it tonight, after I tracked down the information from the bank accounts.”