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

the outside windowsill where he could pick it up on his way out. Buddy Norris was with him, and the two of them, plus Tom Hinks from the Circuit Court office, took their usual table in the corner.
    When Myra May carried the coffeepot to the table to pour their first cups, the sheriff and Buddy and Mr. Hinks were talking about Bunny Scott, and how she had died, and why they were sure she’d been driving the stolen car when it went into the creek, and drinking, to boot. They still hadn’t figured out who her accomplice was. Buddy thought it was most likely the convict, but the sheriff had a different opinion. He thought the convict was out of the state by this time.
    The men didn’t try to keep their voices down, and Myra May listened carefully and made mental notes. However, they said nothing that she hadn’t already heard from Verna and Lizzy the night before, except that Bunny Scott’s body was over at Doc Roberts’ office this morning, where he was giving her a good looking-over before she was moved to Noonan’s Funeral Home. Mrs. Bledsoe—the girl’s mother’s cousin—was up in Nashville, helping her daughter with a new baby. The sheriff was trying to get in touch with her for the names of other relatives.
    Then the door opened and Hiram Riley came in. Myra May knew him because he’d done an audit of the hotel accounts the year before. With him was a well-dressed stranger. Everybody in the diner turned their heads, watching as they went to the table in the farthest corner.
    Charlie Dickens leaned toward Jed Snow. “Bank examiner,” he said in a low voice.
    “Bad news,” Jed Snow returned, under his breath.
    Hiram Riley and the bank examiner had their heads together, talking in low, serious voices, so that nobody at the counter could hear what was being said, even though they strained their ears. But when Myra May took them their hot plates of ham and eggs and grits and gravy, she heard enough to startle her so that she almost dropped a plate. She hurried back with an extra bowl of grits, and after that, another plate of biscuits, just so she could hear the rest. It was dynamite.
    Impatiently, Myra May bided her time for another hour, until Euphoria came in to start cooking for the dinner bunch and Violet came downstairs to handle the counter. Then she took off her apron and hurried straight over to the courthouse. Luckily, the probate office was empty, except for Verna. She was sorting a stack of documents into alphabetical order, a pencil stuck behind her ear.
    “What’s going on?” Verna asked, riffling through the papers.
    “Have you heard about Alice Ann?” Myra May asked urgently.
    “Alice Ann?” Verna looked up. “Heard what? She was supposed to play hearts with us last night, but she didn’t show up. Is she sick?”
    “No. She’s being questioned.”
    “Questioned?” Verna put her papers down and stared. “Alice Ann? Who’s questioning her? About what? Why?”
    “Mr. Johnson at the bank,” Myra said tersely. “And the bank examiner. About embezzling money. They haven’t brought the sheriff into it, but that’s the next step.”
    “Embezzling? Alice Ann?” Verna was shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous! What in the Sam Hill are those men thinking?” She narrowed her eyes. “How’d you hear about this, Myra May? On the switchboard?”
    “In the diner. Hiram Riley, the accountant, was discussing it with the bank examiner while they were having breakfast this morning.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s a good thing that it never occurs to men that the women putting their food on the table might be interested in what they’re saying. They just go on talking as if we’re invisible.”
    Verna pushed out a long breath. “But I don’t understand how anybody could think that Alice Ann Walker was involved in anything like that. She’s just a cashier, and not even the head cashier at that!”
    “I don’t know the full story, of course,” Myra May said, “but from what I picked up this morning, Mr. Johnson thinks that Alice Ann has been stealing money from people’s accounts. ‘Jiggling the books,’ he calls it. A little bit here and a little bit there, but it’s added up. Almost ten thousand dollars. Maybe more. All in the past five or six months.”
    Verna gasped. “Ten thousand—Why, I don’t believe it, Myra May! If she did it, what’s she done with the money? The Walkers certainly aren’t spending it.”
    “Seems very strange to me, too,” Myra May