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

of Rosemont, where one or another of their grown children, along with their broods, usually showed up for Sunday dinner or homemade ice cream on Sunday afternoon. Sis was Jed’s youngest sister. She lived out by Jericho. Her twins were only four, much younger than Ophelia and Jed’s two, Sam and Sarah, now thirteen and eleven. There’d been another baby before Sam, their first boy, but he had died at birth. And then Sam came along, robust and squalling, and they had put their loss behind them and got on with what had to be done.
    “That’s good,” Ophelia said with satisfaction. “They’ll eat there, I reckon.” She glanced at the clock—the walnut tambour clock Jed’s parents had given them for a wedding present—on the shelf beside the radio. It was nearly six. “Are you hungry? We had refreshments—you know the Dahlias, plenty to eat. But I can fix you a sandwich. There’s some ham.”
    Jed shook his head, and she saw that his frown was deeper. “Who was that on the phone?” she asked.
    He hesitated imperceptibly. “Roy Burns.”
    Ophelia tilted her head. Roy was the sheriff. He and his deputy, Buddy Norris, kept close tabs on all the criminal elements in Darling. The job didn’t amount to much, though, since the only people who came to Darling were friends and relatives of the folks who lived here or hoboes off the freight trains. Of course, there was the occasional crime of passion, some man getting liquored up and beating his wife, or a knife fight at the Watering Hole or the Dance Barn on Briarwood Road. There wasn’t supposed to be any liquor out there, or anywhere else for that matter, but the moonshiners took care of that. The jail, on the second floor of Jed’s Farm Supply building, had only two cells, which were mostly used to give drunks a place to sleep while they sobered up.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked. Today was Sunday. Why was Sheriff Burns calling Jed on a Sunday afternoon, when families were settling in for supper and Sunday night church afterward and—
    “Some sort of trouble at the prison farm. Dunno, exac‘ly.” Jed went to the row of pegs beside the door and took down his suit coat and his hat. “Reckon I better get on out there, Opie. See what’s goin’ on.”
    She went to help him on with his coat. “Out where?”
    “Ralph’s place.” He jammed his hat on his head. Ralph Murphy was Jed’s cousin on his mother’s side. The two of them went hunting and fishing together as often as they could.
    “But why? Why did the sheriff—?”
    “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, honey-pie.” He bent down and gave her a quick kiss. “Nothin’ for you to be concerned about.” He always said this and she always took it to heart, for Ophelia would rather look on the bright side whenever she could. The way she saw it, wasn’t any sense to go digging up dirt when there was enough of it right under your nose. Same with trouble. And if Jed said there was nothing to worry about—well, there wasn’t.
    “You be careful, now,” she said, and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “What time will you be back?”
    “Look for me when you see me.” He went out the door and clattered down the wooden steps. A few minutes later, she heard the Ford starting up, with its characteristic cough and chug, and Jed drove off.
    Ophelia sat down in her husband’s maroon plush overstuffed chair and turned on the table model Philco that had been the whole family’s Christmas present. Jed liked to listen to Lowell Thomas read the news, and the kids loved to sprawl on the floor and listen to Amos ‘n’ Andy . Ophelia enjoyed music. The musical program that was on right now was the A&P Gypsies half hour on WODX, which broadcast from the Battle House Hotel in Mobile. Ophelia liked the Gypsies’ music. Liked Milton Cross, too, who did the announcing, in tones that were considered “mellifluous.” Frank Parker was singing “Just a Memory,” one of her favorites, although it always made her feel sad.
    She leaned her head against the back of the chair and listened for a moment, trying to imagine the Gypsies and Frank Parker and Milton Cross in a New York studio, playing this beautiful music just for her, sitting right here in Darling, a thousand miles away, with the sound rippling in waves like water, but through the air.
    The music changed to a faster beat, something Latin, and she got up and began straightening things, picking up a stray sock, emptying Jed’s