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

the figure. As she watched, he dropped the shovel, fell to his knees, and began digging in the dirt with his bare hands.
    At that moment, the curtain of clouds parted and the moon came out, flooding the entire garden with its white brilliance, almost as bright as daylight. Whether by accident or because Bessie made some sort of small movement, the kneeling figure turned and saw her. With a menacing curse, he scrambled to his feet and half-turned in her direction, grabbing up the shovel and holding it in front of him like a weapon, as though he might be going to charge her.
    Afterward, Bessie couldn’t describe exactly what happened next, or why. Was she afraid she was being attacked? Was she acting by instinct? All she could remember was jerking up her gun and firing—well over the man’s head, she was sure.
    But he stumbled and fell forward and the curse became a loud, pained howl.
    She gasped. Somehow, she didn’t know how, she must have hit him!
    But not fatally, obviously. In the space of a breath, he was back on his feet, turning, hopping, lurching, running toward the woods at the bottom of the garden, his cape flying out like the wings of an injured bat.
    Bessie had bagged her ghost.

TWENTY
    Ophelia Takes Bold Action and Lucy Takes Charge
    Wednesday , May 21, 1930

    It was Wednesday morning, the time Ophelia often set aside for sewing. She was studying her old yellow pique sundress with the idea of cutting it down for Sarah. There was a stain on the skirt, but she could cut around it. Sarah was growing so fast, but if she used red rickrack on the hem, letting it down for next summer would be easy.
    And then her glance strayed and a totally different idea occurred to her. She had stopped at the dress goods counter in Mann’s the day before and bought a cute short-sleeve Butterick blouse pattern for herself, to make up one of the cotton plaids she’d been saving, either the yellow or the green.
    As she looked at it now, she thought that the green plaid would be lovely with Lucy’s stunning red hair. Wouldn’t it be a friendly gesture to take the pattern and the material and her sewing basket out to Ralph’s place and show Lucy how easy it was to sew up a blouse? Emma had a Singer—she had kept it in the bedroom, in front of the window, with an embroidered cloth over the top. It was certain to be there. Ophelia could show Lucy how to lay out the pattern on the material (it was always tricky to match a plaid) and cut it out. They would spend a companionable day sewing and chatting. By the end of the day, they would have two very nice blouses to show for their effort and they’d be fast friends.
    Not stopping to wonder whether this really was a good idea, Ophelia changed into a clean cotton dress, brushed her hair, and put on her third-best hat, since the road was bound to be dusty. She packed the two bolts of material, the pattern, and her sewing box into a large basket. Then she went to the kitchen pantry and got a loaf of Florabelle’s soda bread as a gift for Lucy (Ophelia’s mother had taught her that it was rude to go anywhere without taking something to eat) and a dozen oatmeal cookies for the boys. While she was there, she picked up a pint jar of red raspberry jam made from berries that grew in the big patch behind Lizzy’s house. The jam was extra good on slices of Florabelle’s soda bread, buttered and toasted in a skillet. The boys would enjoy it for breakfast. She put the bread and cookies and jam in her basket.
    Florabelle was finishing the ironing she hadn’t done the day before. Ophelia told her that she didn’t expect to be home for noontime dinner, and would she please see to Mr. Snow’s and the children’s meals. She would’ve called Lucy to let her know that she was coming, but Ralph’s house was at the end of the road and the telephone didn’t go out that far. Anyway, Ophelia knew that Lucy—who was certainly lonely out there by herself all day—would be grateful for the company and happy to be surprised.
    Ophelia set off gaily, thinking that it was such a pretty morning for a drive into the country, the late-spring flowers blooming along the road, the sun bright with the eager promise of summer to come. When she noticed a particularly lovely patch of flowers not far from a noisy creek rippling through the woods, she pulled off to the side of the road. She got out and picked a large handful of orange butterfly weed, white Queen Ann’s lace, yellow coreopsis, and purple