The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree (Berkley Prime Crime)

trouble the next time the bank examiner came,” she added crisply. “At which point he tried to fire me for sassing him.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I quit first. Told him what he could do with his old job.”
    “Then you bought this place?” Myra May asked.
    Miss Rutledge nodded. “Mama sold her house and I had made a little money in the market.” She smiled crookedly. “I didn’t make much, but I was lucky to get it out before everything came crashing down in October. Mama and I pooled what we had and bought this house. I took my savings out of the bank and bought a car, too—although maybe I shouldn’t have. We could have used that money to get the roof fixed.” She opened a drawer and began to hunt. “I don’t have forty cents here. I’ll look in my purse.” She left the room.
    Myra May glanced around the room. She had already begun to revise her opinion of Imogene Rutledge. She liked her frankness and her independent spirit and felt she was not at all the stealthy, conniving person Miss Rogers had pictured. Maybe the librarian was jealous of what she imagined to be Miss Rutledge’s freedom, not to mention her success in the stock market.
    The bookshelf was right by her elbow and Myra May began idly to browse the titles on the spines. There were several of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s mysteries, a book on gardening, and another on dressmaking, along with several Ladies’ Home Journals and—
    Myra May pulled in her breath. And Further Chronicles of Avonlea , by Maud Montgomery.
    She leaned forward and took the book off the shelf and opened it. It was clearly stamped Darling Public Library and had one of those little envelopes glued to the inside back, with a library check-out card in it, the kind where you write your name and the due date and give it to the librarian for filing in her calendar file so she’ll know when the book is overdue and she can start charging you with the fine.
    But this one wasn’t overdue. It was stolen. Miss Rogers might have given the wrong impression about Miss Rutledge in some ways, but she had her story straight about this. Myra May frowned. Somebody who stooped so low as to steal a book from a public library might not balk at stealing money from the bank—especially when she thought it was badly managed.
    Myra May was still holding the book when Miss Rutledge came back into the room and put three dimes and two nickels on the desk—and saw what Myra May was looking at.
    “You’re a fan of Maud Montgomery?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. “I loved all the Green Gables books—so delightful to watch Anne grow up in those wonderful stories.” She sighed. “It’s such a shame about that one.”
    “Really?” Myra May turned it over in her hands, now very curious. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “The publisher put it out without Miss Montgomery’s permission,” Miss Rutledge replied. “The book has stories in it that the author decided she didn’t want published, so she’s suing.”
    “Suing?” Somehow, Myra May had never thought that an author might actually sue a publisher. It was a new idea to her.
    “Yes. The case is still in the courts. That’s why I took the book back.” When Myra May frowned, she added, “I donated it to the library when it was first published, you see. That was back in 1920 or ’21. Last year, I learned that the stories were published without permission. So I told Miss Rogers that I thought the book should be withdrawn from the library—at least until the lawsuit was resolved.”
    “Ah,” Myra May said, beginning to understand.
    Miss Rutledge chuckled. “Of course, she didn’t agree. She never agreed with me, no matter what. We argued about it several times, and when I saw she wasn’t going to give in, I took it back. Since I donated the book in the first place, I felt perfectly justified.” Miss Rutledge gave a rueful smile. “Poor Miss Rogers. I don’t think she has ever forgiven me.”
    “I think you’re right,” Myra May murmured, and replaced the book on the shelf.
    Miss Rutledge scooped the coins off the desk and handed them to Myra May. “You’d better give me a receipt. Just in case Miss Rogers forgets to cross me out of her little black book.” She found a scrap of paper and wrote Rcvd of Imogene Rutledge 40¢ for library fine , and handed it to Myra May.
    Myra May signed and dated the receipt and gave it back. “I wonder,” she said, pocketing the coins. “If I told you that Alice