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

in the adjoining lot, and two beautiful cucumber trees, one in front and one in back.
    As usual, Lizzy started the meeting with the roll call. All twelve of their members were present on this special occasion. Since it was Sunday, the ladies were wearing their church outfits: summery flower-print cotton and crepe and rayon dresses with pretty collars of organdy and pique and dotted swiss and hats with ribbons and flowers. Their skirts were safely below their knees at last, now that the Roaring Twenties had stopped roaring. They were all very tired of the flapper look (especially since most of them had never been flappers) and ready for pleats and ruffles and those cute, perky angel bell sleeves that were (as Ophelia Snow put it) the very dickens to iron. Myra May was the only exception to the summer-dress rule. As usual, she wore trousers, light-colored, with a leather belt and tailored blouse.
    After the roll call, Lizzy moved quickstep through Ophelia’s minutes (adopted, with a correction by Earlynne Biddle, who wanted it known that she had donated a book to the club library) and Verna Tidwell’s treasurer’s report (five dollars and fifty-two cents in the kitty). Bessie Bloodworth reported on the upcoming plant sale, which would be held the next Saturday at the Curbside Market on the courthouse square, and answered people’s questions about where to go and what to bring. She also invited people to volunteer for garden cleanup, which (as they could see from their tour) was going to be a big job. They would need all the help they could get.
    Next, Lizzy took up the most important item of business, which was renaming their club in honor of their founder and benefactress, Mrs. Dahlia Blackstone. Henceforth and forever, they would be known as the Darling Dahlias, and their clubhouse would be called the Dahlia House. Ophelia Snow made the motion, Verna Tidwell seconded it, and there was a loud chorus of ayes.
    “Which is good,” Lizzy said with satisfaction, “because Beulah has already painted our new sign. It’s leaning up against the tree for now, but we thought we’d have a little ceremony.” She reached for her Kodak. “Why don’t we go outside and I’ll take a picture for Friday’s column.”
    For the last five years, Lizzy had written the “Garden Gate” column for the Darling Dispatch, which was edited and published by Charlie Dickens. The paper came out every Friday morning—unless there was a problem with the printing press, in which case it might be Saturday or even Monday, since Charlie would have to send down to Mobile for parts, and the parts would have to come back to Darling on the Greyhound bus. Lizzy loved writing the column, but she had a full-time job as secretary in Mr. Moseley’s law office and had to do it after hours, on the Underwood typewriter at work. She never ran out of things to put in her column, though. There was always something pretty in bloom or something interesting going on in somebody’s garden.
    Outside, the club members gathered under the cucumber tree—so old and large and beautiful that it was one of the town’s landmarks—to witness the unveiling of the freshly painted wooden signboard. Myra May Mosswell did the honors. “Ta-ta-ta-TA-ta-ta!” she cried, imitating a trumpet, and pulled off the bedsheet that Lizzy had brought to drape over the sign. Beaming, she flung her arm around Beulah Trivette. “Didn’t Beulah do us proud, ladies? Just look at that beautiful basket of dahlias!”
    Lizzy peered down into her Kodak, focused, and snapped. Beulah (whose talents as a hairdresser extended to all things artistic) had really outdone herself this time. She had painted THE DARLING DAHLIAS in big fancy letters, in vivid green on a white background, arching the words over a basket of dahlias in every imaginable color: red, yellow, orange, peppermint-striped, purple. It was really too bad that the newspaper photo would be just plain old black-and-white, Lizzy thought. If people wanted to see the sign in full color, they’d have to walk over to Camellia Street for a look.
    “It was nothing, really,” Beulah said in reply to Myra May. She tried not to look too pleased.
    “Nothing?” Verna Tidwell chuckled. “Nothing short of gorgeous, Beulah. Beyond words.” A wordless murmur of assent rippled through the group.
    But Voleen Johnson had words, as usual. “Tad bit gaudy for my taste,” she said, putting her head on one side. “Too many dahlias in that