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

money.” She picked up her fork and took a bite. “Hey, these are good scrambled eggs.”
    “I get eggs from Mrs. Freeman, down the street,” Lizzy said. “Her rooster wakes me up in the morning, so I figure the least I can do is eat his hens’ eggs.” Fork in one hand, she looked down at the photo, then picked it up and held it closer, studying it. “You know, this car looks a lot like—” She put down her fork, frowning. “Oh, my gosh! You’re not going to believe me, Verna, but I would swear that this is the same car—”
    “Yeah?” Verna added another couple of tomato wedges to her salad. “The same car as what?”
    “The same car that I saw wrecked in the ravine yesterday.” She took a deep breath. “With Bunny in it.”
    “It can’t be the same one.” Verna took the photo, looking at it closely. “The car she was in was stolen , Lizzy. It was reported stolen hours before she turned up in it, dead.”
    “But it is ! I’d swear it is, Lizzy! Look. It’s a Pontiac—there’s the Indian hood ornament. The one I saw was green, and this one might be, too, although you can’t tell from this photo.” She pointed with her fork. “And it’s got an Alabama license plate. See there? Alabama 10-654. White numbers on black. Big as life.”
    “Well, there you go. If it’s the same license plate number as the one in the ravine, you’ve got a match. Is it?”
    “I don’t know,” Lizzy said regretfully. “There was no reason for me to notice that plate. I’m sure the sheriff did, though—he had already matched it with the one that was reported stolen.” She paused. “I don’t want to ask Sheriff Burns, but Charlie Dickens was there, too, taking pictures and making notes. He might’ve written it down.”
    Verna gave her an intent look. “Lizzy, I think you should call Charlie right now. He’s probably still at the newspaper. The sooner we get this question settled, the sooner we’ll know for sure.”
    “You’re right about that.” Lizzy was already on her way to the telephone on the wall. She rang the exchange—one short ring. “Myra May, this is Lizzy. Would you ring the Dispatch office for me, please? I need to talk to Charlie.”
    “Sure thing,” Myra May said. “Listen. I need to talk to you. I’ll call you back after you’re through with Mr. Dickens. Okay?”
    “Sure,” Lizzy said. “Anyway, Verna’s here and she’s got the idea that maybe we should all drive over to Monroeville tomorrow evening.” She laughed. “She’s playing detective.”
    “Okay,” Myra May said. “I’ll ring you back.”
    Charlie was at the office, working on Friday’s paper. Yes, he had made a note of the Pontiac’s license plate. Give him a minute and he’d hunt it up. There was the sound of papers rustling. A moment later, Lizzy had her answer. She wrote it down as Charlie read it out of his notebook.
    “How come you’re askin’, Lizzy?” Charlie wanted to know.
    “Just tying up a couple of loose ends,” Lizzy said evasively.
    “Hey, wait a minute,” Charlie said. “If there’s something important here—”
    “Thanks a lot, Charlie. See you soon.” She hung up and went back to the table. “It’s the same,” she said, sitting down at the table. “Alabama 10-654. So it is the same car, Verna.”
    Verna picked up the photograph and studied it. “Which means that Bunny knew the owner of the car she died in.”
    “And she knew him pretty well,” Lizzy put in. “You don’t strip down to your underwear to pose for just anybody.” She paused. “I wonder when this was taken.”
    “Not too long ago, I’d guess,” Verna said. “Had to be a warm day.” She pointed to the photograph. “That’s a man taking the picture. You can see his shadow. Looks like he’s wearing a fedora.”
    “That doesn’t help,” Lizzy said. “Lots of men wear fedoras. Grady, for instance.” She frowned. “The sheriff said that the car belonged to Mr. Harper’s brother, over in Monroeville. That must be the connection.”
    “Makes sense,” Verna said. “But what I don’t understand is why—”
    The phone rang and Lizzy got up. “Probably Myra May.”
    It was. “Lizzy, do you know anything about Imogene Rutledge?”
    “Wait a minute,” Lizzy said, listening for clicks on the line. There were none so she went on, with a little laugh. “Miss Rutledge? Well, all I know is that a lot of people breathed a sigh of relief when she left the bank last year. She had a habit of