The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Arsenic! Her suspicion was confirmed. Back at the Montgomery College of Beauty, she had learned that arsenic—even fairly low dosages, over an extended period of time—could make your hair fall out. Strychnine poisoning, she had read somewhere, could result in extreme agitation, anxiety, and delusions.

Well, that’s exactly how Angelina Biggs had behaved: agitated, anxious, and delusional. The pills were supposed to be safe, of course, and there was such a thing as the Pure Food and Drug Act, which was meant to keep manufacturers on the straight and narrow. But the government couldn’t be everywhere at once, even if it had the best intentions in the world, which it probably didn’t. And mistakes could easily be made in the manufacturing process. For instance, what if somebody dumped too much arsenic into a batch of pills, or too much strychnine, or both? And what if Mrs. Biggs took twice as many as she was supposed to? Or three times as many?

She glanced at Mr. Lima, a tall, thin man in his early fifties, dressed in a long white coat. He was standing behind the counter, recording a prescription in a ledger. She waited a moment, then cleared her throat. At last he raised his head, looking at her over the tops of his gold-rimmed glasses.

“Were you wantin’ to purchase those diet pills, Miz Trivette?”

“No,” she said, and put the package down. “But I’m worried about someone who has purchased them, Mr. Lima. I’m afraid she may be taking too many, and the pills are seriously affecting her health.”

Mr. Lima pulled his brows together. “Who’s that you’re talkin’ about?” he demanded brusquely. “Directions are printed right there on the package—one a day, ever’ mornin’. And I tell all my customers not to take too many. Arsenic and strychnine—” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Well, you gotta be careful, is all. That’s exactly what I tell anybody who buys these things. Follow the directions and be careful.” A frown. “Who’d you say it was?”

“It’s Miz Angelina Biggs,” Beulah said, and looked Mr. Lima square in the eye. She added, “Reason I’m worried, Mr. Lima, is her hair’s fallin’ out. I saw it when I shampooed her over at the Beauty Bower, not a half hour ago. And she’s tellin’ some pretty wild stories about a couple of our menfolks here in town. To tell the truth, she sounds like she’s ravin’.”

With a sigh, Mr. Lima went back to his ledger, running his finger down the page. “Well, it says here that Miz Biggs bought three packages two weeks ago today.” His finger tapped the column. “Three packages, twenty-four pills in each package. I s’pose if you can get a look at those packages, you can count what’s left and tell how many she’s taken. That way, you’d know for sure.”

Beulah frowned, trying to imagine asking the anxious, agitated, and delusional Mrs. Biggs if she could count her diet pills. “And just how do you suggest that I do that?” she asked.

Mr. Lima stretched his thin lips in a bleak and unhelpful smile. “That, Miz Trivette, is your problem, not mine.”





TEN

Lizzy



Lizzy prided herself on her ability to manage Mr. Moseley’s office, but that Monday, things happened that seriously challenged her organizational and management skills. It was one of those days when if it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

For instance, Lizzy was just getting a good start on her “Garden Gate” column (she had written the first two items) when Ophelia dropped in. She came to say that she had delivered Verna and Clyde to the Murphy place and they were comfortably installed in Lucy’s front bedroom. But Ophelia stayed a little longer and then stayed some more, and then finally came out with what was obviously bothering her. She had to find a job.

“A job?” Lizzy had repeated, surprised. “But—”

“Please don’t ask why,” Ophelia said miserably. “I just have to get work. I can type sixty words a minute without any mistakes, and I can spell, and I can take shorthand. Well, I can with a little practice,” she amended. “I had shorthand, back in high school, and I still have my Gregg book and some old steno pads.” She looked around. “I was wondering . . . that is, do you think Mr. Moseley could use another assistant?”

Lizzy thought about her workload, the firm’s bank account, and said, regretfully, “I really don’t think so, Ophelia. I can ask Mr. Moseley, but even if we needed the help, which we don’t, we couldn’t afford it.”

Ophelia sighed. “Well, I had to start somewhere. You were the first person I thought of. Can you come up with any other possibilities?”

Lizzy frowned. “Jobs are pretty scarce just now. I guess if I were you, I’d look in the Dispatch want ads. Or maybe I’d run a work-wanted ad myself.”

Ophelia brightened. “That’s a swell idea, Liz. I think I’ll go downstairs and talk to Mr. Dickens about running an ad. I wouldn’t have to put my name in it, would I?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe something like Excellent typist looking for work. Sixty words per minute, no mistakes, also shorthand. Something like that.”