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

scandalized, because Miss Rogers had seen an advertisement in Popular Mechanics and knew that it sold for fifty dollars. “See it, hear it!” exhorted the advertisement. “View the refreshing beauty of its solid mahogany cabinet. Watch the stations, written in on the graphic dial, parade before you and usher in their programs with unerring accuracy. Sharpen the reception with the Crosley Acuminators. Release inspiring volume by means of the Cresendon.”
    It took a while for the ladies to learn how to manage the acuminators and the cresendon and to replace the tubes when they burned out. But they persevered, and now they were very glad to have it. Bessie put the radio on the parlor table, and on warm evenings after supper, they liked to sit out on the front porch with the window open, listening to radio shows. The Aldrich Family was a favorite (they all chimed in with Mrs. Aldrich’s “Henry! Henry Aldrich!” and Henry’s quavery reply: “Coming, Mother.”) They enjoyed popular music, too, particularly the older songs: “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” and “I’ll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time” and “Smilin’ Through.”
    While they listened, Leticia and Maxine played games—Parcheesi, pinochle, canasta. Tonight they were playing checkers, betting heavily with pieces of colored cardboard marked as ones, fives, and tens. Roseanne, piecing another quilt, sat on the porch swing next to Mrs. Sedalius, who was knitting caps for the poor children at her church. Since the yarn was donated, it came in wild colors that nobody else wanted, and since Mrs. Sedalius didn’t have much color sense, the caps were even wilder combinations. Bessie always wondered whether even the poor children would wear them. Miss Rogers sat off to one side, reading a library book. Bessie herself brought out a small table and worked on her local history scrapbook.
    It was nice that the ladies were such a companionable lot, Bessie thought as she turned the pages of her scrapbook. Oh, there was the usual good-natured bickering about the checkers game, and Miss Rogers was always imploring someone to Please! Turn the radio down, if you don’t mind, But they had lived together for several years now and they were more like sisters than housemates—although of course, sisters had their differences. Even Miss Rogers (who Bessie knew was disappointed in the way her life had turned out and would have preferred to live alone if she could have afforded it) usually managed to keep her contrary opinions to herself in the evenings.
    So by unspoken agreement, they all sat together on the porch for an hour or two before bed, while the softly scented evening grew darker and the birds sang themselves to sleep in the cucumber tree in front of the Dahlias’ clubhouse next door. It was at this time in the evening that Bessie missed old Dahlia Blackstone very much, for she had often come through the gap in the cherry laurel hedge (Prunus caroliniana, according to Miss Rogers) to listen to the radio with them, bringing along her knitting or crocheting.
    Of all the Darling Dahlias, Bessie herself had probably been the closest to the old lady, which was only right, seeing that they had been next-door neighbors as long as they could remember. Of course, they were more than just neighbors, for they had shared a love of local history and of gardening. Bessie had spent a great many pleasant mornings in Mrs. Blackstone’s garden, listening to her stories about the old days and helping her with various garden chores, until she became so infirm that she couldn’t manage a rake or a hoe or a pair of clippers. Mrs. Blackstone was a good teacher and generous with garden advice.
    Now Bessie always felt sad when she glanced out her bedroom window at Mrs. Blackstone’s overgrown back garden, or out her parlor window at the cucumber tree in front of Mrs. Blackstone’s house. The old lady had loved that tree so much and always looked forward to its blooms. This spring was the first in over eighty years that the cucumber tree would dress itself in all its beautiful blossoms and Mrs. Blackstone wouldn’t be here to see and appreciate it.
    A noisy automobile went past on Camellia Street, coughing out a cloud of oily white smoke. Miss Rogers lifted her head and sniffed the air distastefully. Bessie sighed. It wasn’t just the passing of Mrs. Blackstone that made her sad these days. It was the inexorable passage of time, and the many changes time had brought to