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

about Imogene Rutledge.
    The library was located in two small rooms at the back of Fannie Champaign’s milliner shop, Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux, on the west side of the courthouse square. In one room was Miss Rogers’ desk, a rack of wooden drawers that held what she called the “card catalog,” and a table where a person (only one, because there was only room for one chair) could sit and read in front of the window. The other room had shelves on all four walls, from the floor as high as a person could reach. The books were mostly donated, but the City Council set a few dollars aside for new books every year and sometimes people gave a little money. Miss Rogers was frugal. She bought mostly nonfiction. The year before, she had bought We, by Charles Lindbergh, A Preface to Morals , by Walter Lippman, and (on the lighter side), Believe It or Not , by Robert L. Ripley. But she did buy two best-selling novels: The Bishop Murder Case , by S. S. Van Dine and Joseph and His Brethren, by H. W. Freeman.
    When Myra May came in, Miss Rogers had immediately told her what had happened at the Magnolia Manor the night before—or rather, in the backyard of the Dahlias’ clubhouse. Bessie Bloodworth had fired on an intruder and had hit him—accidentally, of course. She had aimed over his head.
    “Any idea who he was or what he was doing?” Myra May had asked.
    “It was the escaped convict, if you ask me,” Miss Rogers said. “Now, Myra May, what can I help you with today?”
    When Myra May told Miss Rogers what she wanted, the librarian frowned. “Imogene Rutledge,” she mused. “Well, I’ll tell you this much. That woman still owes a library fine. It just keeps getting bigger, too.” She opened her desk, took out a ledger, and consulted a page. “It’s up to forty cents.”
    “My goodness,” Myra May said, and something occurred to her. “I’m going over to Monroeville late this afternoon, Miss Rogers. Would you like me to see if I can collect?”
    “That’s very thoughtful of you, Myra May.” Miss Rogers wrote some numbers on a slip of paper and added them up. “Here’s the fine and a list of the penalties. I doubt if she’ll pay it—she is such a negative individual. But of course it’s worth a try.” She handed the paper to Myra May. “Why are you asking about her?”
    “Because,” Myra May said, and told Miss Rogers that Alice Ann was accused of embezzlement. While some of the Dahlias were thinking of possible suspects, Imogene Rutledge’s name had come up and Aunt Hetty Little had suggested that Miss Rogers might know something.
    Miss Rogers sniffed. “Well, what I know,” she said tartly, “is that Imogene Rutledge has a very sharp tongue and doesn’t mind using it. And in addition to not paying her fine, she stole a book. Took it right off the shelf in the other room.”
    “Stole a book!” Myra May exclaimed. “Oh, my goodness!” She was shocked by the theft, of course, but even more shocked that Miss Rutledge had dared to take the book out from under Miss Rogers’ nose. “How did she manage to—”
    “Simply put it in her bag and walked out the door with it,” Miss Rogers said darkly, and it was clear from her expression that this was an exceptionally malevolent transgression. “I missed it immediately, of course, for I had seen it on the shelf not a half hour earlier. It happened to have been a personal favorite of mine—a book that everyone in Darling enjoyed reading and rereading. Further Chronicles of Avonlea, by Maud Montgomery.”
    “I see,” Myra May said, thinking that somebody who was bold enough to walk past Miss Rogers with a stolen book—and one of the Anne of Green Gables series, at that—was bold enough to embezzle. “Is there anything else that might point to ...” She hesitated. “Well, to Miss Rutledge being involved in shenanigans at the bank?”
    “You mean, anything in addition to that brand-new car and the house she bought for her mother in Monroeville?” Miss Rogers’ tone was acid.
    “She bought a house?” Myra May asked, surprised.
    “She certainly did. Quite a large one, too. New, from what I heard. Must’ve cost a great deal of money. Of course, I have no information about what might or might not have happened at the bank, and whether the car and the house have anything to do with that. I suppose she might have made her little bundle in the market, before the Crash.”
    Miss Rogers pressed her lips together, turning her head, and