The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Eight in the morning,” he replied.

“I’ll be here.” She smiled, her eyes lightening. “I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity—”

“Wait,” he said. “Don’t you want to know how much it pays? It’s not very much. Only ten dollars a week to start. You’d have to come in on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, all day. If it works out, we can discuss a raise.”

“Ten dollars!” she said excitedly. “Ten dollars! Oh, my goodness! Oh, my gracious sakes alive, that would be wonderful, Mr. Dickens. Just wonderful!” She straightened her shoulders and tried to put on a businesslike expression, obviously making a special effort to contain her delight. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”

Charlie shook his head as she almost danced out the door.





TWELVE

Lizzy and Coretta Cole



Lizzy hadn’t been back from the post office for very long when she heard footsteps—heavy, lumbering footsteps, this time—coming up the stairs. The office door flew open and Mrs. Angelina Biggs burst through. Although the sun was shining brightly, her hair was dripping wet and her eyes were wild and crazy.

“I want to see Mr. Moseley!” she cried, arms flailing. “I’m going to hire him to sue Beulah Trivette and Charlie Dickens and Artis Biggs! I’m suing all three of them for every penny they’ve got!” She whirled around like a dervish. “Where is Mr. Moseley? When can I see him? Where? When? Where?”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not here,” Lizzy said, blinking at this unusual behavior. People sometimes were a little frantic when they came to consult Mr. Moseley, but she had never seen anything like this. “Please sit down, Mrs. Biggs, so I can take your information. When Mr. Moseley gets back, he’ll call you to schedule a consultation and—”

“I am not sitting down!” Angelina Biggs cried, whirling faster, her arms out, her green dress ballooning out around her pudgy knees. Her ample chins rippled and the flesh under her arms swung like loose sleeves. “No, no, no! If I sit down, the rest of my hair will fall out.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lizzy stared at the whirling woman.

“My hair,” Mrs. Biggs cried. “I have to keep moving or my hair will fall out.” She made a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. “That’s why I am going to sue Beulah Trivette. It’s all on account of her. She’s ruined my beautiful hair.”

Lizzy didn’t scare easily, but the skin on the back of her neck was prickling. Something was very wrong here, and a lawsuit wasn’t going to solve the problem. But what should she do? What would Mr. Moseley do if he were here?

While Mrs. Biggs lumbered around the reception area like a half-crazed circus elephant, knocking over chairs and small tables, Lizzy picked up the phone. Violet Sims, who was working the switchboard, came on the line and she said, very low, “Violet, this is Lizzy Lacy. Listen, I need you to call Artis Biggs at the hotel and tell him to get over to Mr. Moseley’s office as fast as he can. His wife is here, and she’s—well, I can’t tell whether she’s drunk or having some sort of . . . um, seizure, I guess you’d say.”

Her eyes widened as Mrs. Biggs blundered into an end table and toppled a lamp, smashing the paper shade. “Tell him to hurry,” she added urgently. “And maybe he could ask Mr. Dickens downstairs in the Dispatch office to give him a hand. I think it’s going to take two strong men to handle her.”

Lizzy put down the phone. “May I fix you a cup of coffee?” she asked pleasantly, as Mrs. Biggs whirled against the magazine rack, splintering it.

“No, no, no!” Mrs. Biggs cried. “Mr. Moseley! I want Mr. Moseley!”

It seemed like an eternity, but it was only a few moments later when Artis Biggs raced up the stairs, with Charlie Dickens on his heels. At the sight of her husband, Mrs. Biggs began to shriek like a banshee.

“I’m suing you,” she shrilled, waving her arms wildly. “You better not lay your filthy hands on me! You lecherous old coot! You reprobate! I’ll see you in court!” She whirled on Charlie. “You, too, Charlie Dickens! I’m suing you, too, for assault with attempt to molest.”

Mr. Biggs sighed heavily. “Thank you for calling me, Miss Lacy,” he said with a grim look. “Mr. Dickens and I will take it from here.” He glanced around the office, seeing the smashed lampshade and the splintered magazine rack. “I’ll be glad to pay for any damage she’s caused. Just send me a bill.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Moseley, but I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lizzy said. “I just hope Mrs. Biggs will be all right.”