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

got evidence against me, Myra May! They say I might could get arrested!”
    “What kind of evidence?”
    “They say it’s in the bank records, although they won’t tell me exactly what records. And Arnold, poor man, he wants so bad to help but he can’t do a blessed thing. Seems like everybody is against us! It’s a terrible, helpless feeling. Why, I’m so discomboobilated that I can’t even think what I’m goin’ to feed poor Arnold for his supper!”
    At last! Myra May had finally found something she could help with. She spoke firmly. “Don’t you bother your head one bit about supper, Alice Ann. I’ll call a few Dahlias and somebody’ll bring y’all some supper. But before I do, I wonder if you’ve given any thought to who might’ve taken that money. I mean, from the way I hear them tell it, it’s really gone, and it didn’t just disappear by magic, poof! If you didn’t do it, who did?”
    Myra May’s question seemed to calm Alice Ann down a bit. “Well,” she said slowly, “there’s only the two cashiers, me and Mr. Harper, but he hasn’t been here very long. There’s the bookkeeper, Mr. Swearingen. And Mr. Johnson. But of course the president of the bank wouldn’t—” She stopped. “At least, I don’t think he would,” she said slowly.
    Myra May frowned, remembering Mr. Johnson’s dramatics. What if that had been an act? What if he had been stealing money from the bank and got scared that the bank examiner was going to find out? It would be all too easy for him to manipulate the bank records so that the trail led to Alice Ann, rather than to him.
    But she had just thought of another possibility. “What about Imogene Rutledge?” she asked. Miss Rutledge was a former cashier who had worked at the bank since Mr. Johnson’s father had opened it, back in 1902. The whole town had been surprised when she left her position as head cashier the previous fall, but she had explained it by saying that her mother (who lived over in Monroeville) needed her at home to help, which was something that everybody could understand. Mr. Harper had taken her place.
    “Miss Rutledge?” Alice Ann sounded hesitant. “Well, we haven’t seen much of her lately. She moved over to Monroeville, to live with her mother.”
    “But she was with the bank for years and years, wasn’t she? She probably knew the accounts better than anybody. And the way I heard it, her mother wasn’t the only reason she left.”
    “Well, that’s true. I didn’t hear what really happened, but there were plenty of rumors flying around. Somebody said she got fired for sassin’ Mr. Johnson once too often.”
    Myra May frowned. “And don’t I remember hearing that she bought a new Dodge from Kilgore Motors right after she quit? Must’ve cost nearly three hundred dollars.”
    “Yes, I heard that, too. But—”
    “And you don’t know for sure why they’re pickin’ on you?”
    “No,” Alice Ann said. “I don’t have an idea in the world about it.” And she began to cry again.
    Myra May could understand why Alice Ann was crying, although she herself made it a personal rule never to cry. When you cried, they (usually some man or another) knew they had you in their power, and she was never going to give them that kind of satisfaction. She said gently, “Now, you just stop cryin’, Alice Ann, honey. Go lie down on your bed with a wet washrag on your eyes and you’ll feel better. The Dahlias are goin’ to take care of your supper. Somebody’ll be round with a basket in an hour or so.”
    Myra May unplugged the call and swung into action. She rang up Beulah’s Beauty Bower, the one place in town where she could expect to find the regular Tuesday afternoon Dahlias gathered together. Bettina answered the phone.
    Myra May said, “I’m organizing a basket supper for Alice Ann and Arnold. If any Dahlias there would like to help out, let me speak to them.”
    As it happened, both customers in the beauty chairs—Bessie Bloodworth and Aunt Hetty Little—were Dahlias, as of course was Beulah. She had just shampooed Bessie and was trimming her, but she interrupted her work long enough to go to the phone and offer a big bowl of stewed hen and dumplings (tonight’s dinner at the Trivettes’) for the Walkers’ supper. Bessie spoke up from her chair and offered some black-eyed peas cooked with fatback and onions and a pint jar of home-canned pickled beets. Bettina was curling Aunt Hetty Little, who offered a garden salad