The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose by Susan Wittig Albert Read Free Book Online

carefully, not wanting to see an envelope from the state of Alabama but at the same time wanting to see it. The suspense was killing her.
    And to make things worse, she couldn’t talk to anybody about her worries. Definitely not to Melba Jean and Ruthie, for she felt she couldn’t trust either of them not to spill the beans all over Darling. And not even to her best friend, Liz Lacy. A long time ago, she had pledged to herself that she wouldn’t whine about her job, no matter how bad it got. A job was a job was a
job
and you did it, come hell or high water. Complaining was a sign of weakness. Verna had never broken that rule, and she wasn’t going to start now.
    Anyway, as the days went by and no letter arrived, she had more or less convinced herself that things were more or less hunky-dory and she began to feel a little easier—at least as far as the audit was concerned. But she still couldn’t decide how to deal with the bewildering multiplicity of bank accounts. And those awful nightmares just kept coming.
    Now, Clyde lifted his head and licked Verna’s chin as if to reassure her that whatever happened, she could count on him. He would always be around to take care of her and make sure that nothing bad ever happened. She was hugging him gratefully when the telephone on the wall startled her with a brassy
brriingg-brriingg-bring.
Two longs and a short. Her ring. Probably one of the Dahlias calling.
    She put Clyde on the floor and went to the telephone, aware that at the very same moment, Mrs. Wilson next door on the north, Mrs. Newman next door to Mrs. Wilson, the Ferrells next door to the Newmans, and the Snows at the end of the block were all going to their telephones, too. They would cup their hands over the mouthpieces and stealthily pick up the receivers, trying to conceal the fact that they were listening in.
    Which was a pretty silly thing to do, Verna thought, because everybody knew that everybody else always listened in, and monitored what they said accordingly. These days, you could get a private line, which allowed you to say anything you wanted to say without fear of people overhearing. But it was expensive. And anyway, if you weren’t on the party line, you’d have to wait for news until the next time you went to the diner for lunch, or the
Dispatch
came out, or your neighbor came over to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar. Better to be on the party line and get the news straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were.
    Verna picked up the receiver and said hello. But it wasn’t one of the Dahlias calling.
    “Hello, Verna.” The voice was male, and uncharacteristically hesitant. “It’s Mr. Scroggins.”
    Verna’s heart rose up in her throat, then thudded into the pit of her stomach. Mr. Scroggins had never called her at home, not once in all the years she had worked in the probate clerk’s office.
    “H-h-how are you, Mr. Scroggins?” she managed.
    “Doin’ real well,” Mr. Scroggins said. “But I got some bad news for you, Verna. I’m real sorry, but I got to ask you not to come in to work on Monday morning. You jes’ take the week off and stay home. A little vacation, like.”
    Verna gasped. “Not come in to work? But . . . but why?” She was suddenly aware of four listening ears glued to four receivers along Larkspur, between Robert E. Lee and Rosemont Street. She snapped, “All right, you all, I am asking you to get off this party line right now. You hear?”
    There was one quick click, then two, then finally three.
    “Anybody else?” she asked. There was silence, but of course she had no way to tell whether the fourth person was still on the line or had never been there in the first place. She turned her attention back to her caller. “All right, Mr. Scroggins. Now, why is it I’m not supposed to come to work? And who’s going to manage the office if I’m not there?”
    “Miz Cole is coming back full time,” Mr. Scroggins said. “She can manage the place—not as good as