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

of lifetimes. She and Myra May hit it off at once—“It was just like we’d known one another forever,” Myra May said in astonished delight—and for the next six months, they worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the Old Alabama dining room and kitchen. By Halloween that year, Violet had moved into Myra May’s house, and by Christmas, Myra May had decided that she definitely wanted to stay in Darling, at least as long as Violet was there.
    And then there was another piece of luck. Mrs. Hooper, who had owned the Darling Diner for over thirty years, began to have trouble with swelling in her legs and decided it was time to put the business up for sale. It had a fine location on Franklin Street, across from the courthouse, between the Dispatch building and Musgrove’s Hardware. The serving area featured a long linoleum-covered lunch counter with a dozen red leather—covered stools and a half-dozen wooden tables and chairs. Behind the counter was a pass-through to the kitchen, and at the back of the building was the small room that housed the town’s telephone exchange. Upstairs was an attractive, sun-filled apartment with its own porch and private entry, where Mrs. Hooper herself had lived. The building needed some painting and fix-up, but the kitchen equipment was in good shape, and the diner had a reputation for serving good food at fair prices—unlike the Alabama Hotel, where the food was good but the prices were out of sight.
    Myra May and Violet inspected the property and discussed the matter for several days. Then Myra May went to Mr. Manning, Darling’s real estate dealer, and made an offer to trade her house and some cash for the diner, as long as Euphoria Hoyt (who was known as the best chicken fryer in southern Alabama) was part of the bargain. Mrs. Hooper was in the market for a small house where she didn’t have to walk up stairs, and Myra May’s house suited her just fine.
    Euphoria was happy to agree as well. “Whoo-ee,” she said. “I’s real relieved to jes’ keep on fryin’ chicken. That’s whut I does best in this world. That, and make meat loaf. Oh, an’ bake. I do love bakin’ pies, ’specially ones with meringue on top.” It was a fact that Euphoria’s fried chicken and mouthwatering meringue-topped pies—lemon, coconut, chocolate, and especially peanut butter—were spoken of with great fondness as far away as Monroeville. When Myra May chalked up “Peanut Butter Meringue Pie” on the menu board, it was gone lickety-split.
    The papers signed, Myra May and Violet quit their jobs at the Old Alabama and moved into the apartment over the diner. Olive LeRoy, who had worked at the telephone exchange since the system was first installed, taught Violet and Myra how to manage the switchboard, and the three of them, with Olive’s friend Lenore Looper, set up a regular rotation for trading shifts, so that the board was covered all day and all night. Of course, there weren’t many telephone calls at night, but somebody had to stay near the board in case of an emergency, so there was a cot in the room for whoever was working the night shift.
    Myra May herself usually opened the diner at eight and cooked and served breakfast. She always tried to be downstairs by seven, so she had time to stir up a batch of biscuits, cook up the grits and red-eye gravy, and make coffee. Once that was done, all that was left was frying bacon or ham and cooking up eggs, which she did to order, as people came in.
    Business had fallen off a bit lately, but the breakfast trade was still pretty good. She could usually count on filling at least half of the counter stools at any given moment, and one or two of the tables. Of course, not everybody came in at the same time, which was good, because if they did, she’d have to get Violet to come down and help.
    This morning—Tuesday morning—the crowd was the usual. There was Charlie Dickens from the Dispatch, Jed Snow from the Feed Supply, Marvin Musgrove from the hardware store next door, and J.D., Marvin’s helper. All of them sat, as usual, at the counter. Charlie Dickens and Jed Snow seemed glum, but the other two were talking up a storm about the Elk’s Club picnic, coming up on Saturday, and wondering whether Sparky’s arm was going to be in shape for the baseball game. Then the sheriff came in, smoking his usual smelly cigar, and Myra May had to tell him, as she usually did, to leave it outdoors. As usual, he glared at her, but complied, putting it on