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

problem at the Darling bank? Could she have taken the money Alice Ann is suspected of taking?
    Scanning the list with a critical eye, Verna thought it seemed pretty silly and amateurish and doubted that Miss Silver would approve. It wasn’t very likely that Dr. Harper would tell them anything about Bunny (if there was anything to tell), and it was altogether un likely that Imogene Rutledge would even condescend to speak to them, much less give them any real information. Why should she—especially if it incriminated her? And would anybody tell them anything if all three of them marched up to the person and began clamoring for information?
    But then she had an idea. Instead of all three of them trying to answer all three questions at once, why not split up? She was the one who was most interested in Bunny’s background—she could look into that. Lizzy had brought the photo of Bunny sitting on the car, so she could talk to Dr. Harper. And Myra May had already spoken to Miss Rogers about Imogene Rutledge (at Aunt Hetty Little’s suggestion), so she could look up Miss Rutledge.
    “Well, what do you think?” Verna asked, when she had proposed this division of responsibilities.
    “Sounds good to me,” Myra May replied with a little laugh. “I have a very good reason to knock on Miss Rutledge’s door. I want to see her face when I tell her that Miss Rogers sent met.”
    Lizzy tilted her head to one side. “You know, I’ve done some reporting for the Dispatch. I could pretend to be on assignment from the newspaper, interviewing Dr. Harper for a human-interest piece on the theft of that car. That would give me a reason for having the photograph. I wonder how he’ll respond to it.”
    “And I’ll see if I can track down Bunny’s old neighbors,” Verna said. “I’ll start at the drugstore. She used to work there.” She looked at her watch. “Two hours? Will that be long enough, do you think?”
    “If we can’t find out something in two hours,” Myra May replied firmly, “we’re not going to find it out at all.”
    “You’re probably right,” Verna said. “How about meeting at Buzz’s Barbeque for supper when we’re done? It’s just down the street, across from the railroad depot.”
    “Or we could eat in the Commercial Hotel,” Lizzy put in. “It’s a little more ... civilized, maybe.”
    “I vote for the barbeque joint,” Myra May said. “They’ve got good ribs and catfish, fresh out of the river. And there’s nothing better in this world than Buzz’s pulled pork sandwiches.” She grinned. “There’s something to be said for being uncivilized.”
    “Buzz’s, then,” Verna said. “Let’s meet in two hours.”

    Dawson’s Drugstore was brighter and more attractive than Mr. Lima’s store, Verna thought, as she opened the door and went in—about the same size, but well lit, the walls painted a light color, and with a nicely arranged front window display of Euthymol, Colgate, and Pepsodent toothpastes, with a big cardboard advertisement for Pepsodent’s new radio show, Amos ‘n’ Andy, and a pyramid of bottles of Lavoris mouthwash. The soda fountain counter boasted a half-dozen stools and a pair of patrons, a teenaged couple sharing a milk shake with two straws. They were trading jokes with the soda jerk, a pimply faced, dark-haired teenaged boy in a white apron.
    The pharmacy at the back of the store had already closed for the day, but Verna began to casually browse the cosmetics displayed on the shelves opposite the soda fountain, picking up a small rectangular box that held Maybelline Eyelash Darkener for “eyes that glow with enchantment.” She wondered whether her eyes would glow if she used it, but she doubted it. She rarely bothered with makeup, which took a long time and didn’t seem (to her, anyway) to make that much difference in the way she looked. The eyelash darkener cost fifteen cents, so she put it down.
    “Gloria ain’t here just now,” called the soda jerk. He was polishing a glass with a white towel. “If there’s anything I can help you with, just holler.”
    “Thanks,” Verna called back. She pretended an interest in a dark red Cutex nail enamel until the teenaged couple finished their milkshake and left, trading noisy good-byes. Then she went to the counter and sat down on one of the red leather-covered stools.
    “What’ll it be?” the soda jerk asked pleasantly. Behind him was an array of sparkling glassware—glasses for sodas and