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

ought to have at least one friend, and the sooner the better.
    “Bunny didn’t come to work today, and she didn’t let Mr. Lima know she wouldn’t be there,” she said crisply. “Now you say that she hasn’t been home for nearly two days. So where is she?”
    “I have no idea,” Mrs. Brewster replied, “and I do not want to know.” She made another move to close the door.
    “Well, then.” Verna removed her foot. “I suppose I’ll just have to go and get the sheriff.”
    The door was four inches open. “The sheriff?” Mrs. Brewster sounded surprised.
    So was Verna. The statement had come, she supposed, of reading detective novels and the occasional true crime magazine. But the door stayed open, so she went on.
    “An attractive young woman is missing. I am her friend, and I want to know where she is. If you can’t help, I’ll ask Sheriff Burns. He’ll probably bring a search warrant and—”
    “A search warrant?” The door opened a little wider. “Why would he do that?”
    “Because we might be talking about a case of foul play.” Of course, Verna didn’t think this for a minute, but characters in true crime stories were always wondering about foul play, and it sounded good. Or bad, depending on how you looked at it.
    She thought of something else, and added, “Especially with that escaped convict still on the loose. We can’t be too careful, can we?”
    These last remarks gave Mrs. Brewster pause. Finally, much put-upon, she heaved a sigh of patient exasperation. “Just what is it you want to do, Mrs. Tidwell?”
    “I’d like to see Bunny’s room.” This was another thing Verna hadn’t thought of before she heard herself saying the words, but now that she had, it seemed like the right thing to do. It was what Lord Peter Wimsey had done in The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club, He had gone to have a look at the dead man’s rooms. What’s more, he had taken a camera. Briefly, Verna regretted not having thought of that.
    “But Miss Scott is not in her room,” Mrs. Brewster protested heatedly. “And if she did not go to work today, it’s because she has left town. She’s been talking about that for weeks, you know. She’s very dissatisfied here.”
    Mrs. Brewster was right about that. Bunny had it in her mind that she would be happier somewhere else—Mobile or Atlanta or even New York. Verna was about to give up and go away, when she thought of one more thing.
    “Did she take her clothes? And her jewelry?”
    “Well ...” Mrs. Brewster hesitated. “No,” she said at last. “That is, I don’t think so.”
    That decided it. Bunny wouldn’t leave town without taking every scrap of clothing and jewelry she owned.
    “I can either see her room or I can bring the sheriff,” Verna said.
    Another sigh, then: “Oh, very well.” Mrs. Brewster stepped back and pointed up the stairs. “Second floor. End of the hall, on the right. The door isn’t locked. I don’t allow any of my girls to lock their doors. They have nothing to hide from one another or from me.”
    The stairs were steep and the second-floor hall was long, narrow, and dark, with a window at the very end that let in a dim light. Verna shivered, thanking her lucky stars that she had her own home with a yard and a garden and didn’t have to live in a boardinghouse. At the end of the hall, she pushed open the last door on the right and stepped into a small dark room that smelled strongly of talcum powder and My Sin. She went to the single window and rolled up the water-stained window blind, which was ripped on one side. There were no curtains. Perhaps the girls were meant to supply their own, Verna thought sadly, like the Victrola recordings.
    The unforgiving light flooded the room. Verna saw a narrow bed made up to look as if someone were sleeping in it, with the coverlet pulled over a pillow. If Mrs. Brewster had opened the door and looked in on Saturday night, she probably thought that Bunny was there, asleep. Verna had to smile at that, because she had played the same trick when she was a young girl living with her parents, although her truancy had never extended to staying out all night, let alone for the weekend.
    Bunny had indeed not taken her clothing with her—or at least, she hadn’t taken much of it. The chair in the near corner was almost hidden under an untidy heap of skirts, blouses, and dresses. Items of gauzy underwear, including a slinky, silky black teddy, littered the floor like dying moths. In