“Money well spent,” Miss Rogers observed. “Nobody can afford to see the doctor these days.” Earlynne Biddle leaned over and gave Miss Rogers’ hand a comforting pat. It was common knowledge that she had invested every cent of her money on Wall Street and lost it all on Black Tuesday, not quite a year ago. Now, she was living on the few dollars a week she earned as Darling’s part-time librarian. Her salary barely covered her room and board at Bessie Bloodworth’s Magnolia Manor, next door to the Dahlias’ clubhouse. She lived in fear that the town council would decide that Darling couldn’t afford to keep the library open and she’d be out of a job. But it wasn’t just Miss Rogers, of course—almost everybody who had a job shared the very same worry.

Aunt Hetty cleared her throat. “We also need to get Mr. Kendrick to come over and clean the stovepipe before it’s time to start building a fire in the stove here in the clubhouse,” she went on. “And we need to pay Sam Westheimer to haul a load of coal for us. I guess we should have a motion. Liz?”

“Liz,” Verna nudged her. “Liz, wake up.”

Lizzy wasn’t asleep. She had been thinking about her mother’s predicament. She had no idea what the motion should be, but she got up anyway. “Do I hear a motion?”

Everybody turned to look at Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson, because the Treasure Fund was in Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson’s bank, the Darling Savings and Trust. “I so move,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Both the stovepipe and the coal.”

“I second it,” Beulah Trivette spoke up briskly. “But be sure and tell Mr. Westheimer to bring us some clean coal,” she added. “We don’t want none of that dirty ol’ smoky stuff he’ll deliver if you don’t especially tell him not to.”

“I agree with Beulah,” Alice Ann Walker said firmly. “More than once, I’ve had to sweep Sam Westheimer’s black coal dust up off the floors before the kids and the dogs tracked it all over.” Everybody (except for Mrs. Johnson, who had a gas furnace) agreed with Beulah because at one time or another most of them had been on the receiving end of one of those dirty coal deliveries and knew about the extra work it caused.

Then it was Mildred Kilgore’s turn, so all the Dahlias took deep breaths and sat up straighter in their chairs. Mildred (who had that effect on people) was in charge of this year’s talent show. She and her husband Roger lived near the Cypress Country Club, where Mildred grew Darling’s most gorgeous camellias. Her garden was always scheduled as the last stop on the annual Garden Tour, because no self-respecting Dahlia wanted visitors to see her garden after they had been ooh-ing and ahh-ing at Mildred’s camellias.

“The show is less than four weeks away,” Mildred said, in her brisk, I’ve-got-everything-under-control voice, “so it’s time to roll up our sleeves and get busy. I’ve been working on the program for the past month, and so far, I have nine acts lined up. You’ll probably recognize most of them.”