The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

*

While Charlie was shooting pool and taking a nip from Freddie’s flask as it went around the table, Bessie and Miss Rogers were setting things up for the Dahlias’ usual Monday-night card party. People took turns hosting the party. It was open to all the members, but it was a rare evening when everybody could make it.

Miss Rogers didn’t usually play cards, although she allowed herself an occasional game of Rook, which was what they were playing tonight. So Miss Rogers would be there, and Bessie, of course, and Beulah Trivette and Fannie Champaign, who was joining them for the first time. Verna and Liz almost always came, but Liz had called to say that Verna had gone out of town to visit a friend and that something urgent had come up and she—Liz—wouldn’t be able to make it. Lucy Murphy had company (she didn’t say who), and Ophelia had to go to a dramatic recital at the Darling school, where her daughter was giving a dramatic recitation of “Annabelle Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe. Alice Ann Walker and Earlynne Biddle had a quilting club meeting. Myra May Mosswell was on the switchboard. Aunt Hetty Little wouldn’t come unless they played poker, Mildred Kilgore wouldn’t come when they played Rook, and Voleen Johnson never came under any circumstance.

So there would be just the four of them. And since the Magnolia Ladies had traipsed off en masse to play bingo at the Odd Fellows Hall on Franklin Street, Bessie set up the card table in front of the big window in the parlor, saying a fervent thanks to the blessed fate that had exiled Lucky Lindy from their midst. Ophelia had taken the cat out to Lucy Murphy’s place. He would never again launch himself from the top of the curtains into some unsuspecting lady’s lap.

While Bessie fetched the chairs from the dining room, Miss Rogers put out the evening’s refreshments on the cherry sideboard, on top of a white cloth embroidered with roses. There was a delicate china platter filled with a selection of Roseanne’s cookies and a large pressed glass pitcher of lemonade with a pretty garnish of fresh mint from the garden.

Bessie had just set out the fourth chair when she looked out the window and saw Beulah and Fannie walking together up the path to the front porch. When she opened the front door, they were chattering excitedly about what had happened to Angelina Dupree Biggs that day.

“Can you feature that?” Beulah was saying to Fannie. “In fact, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t held her wet hair in my very own two hands.”

“What’s happened to Angelina Biggs?” Bessie asked curiously, remembering her odd encounter with the woman in front of the Dispatch office. “I ran into her this morning, and she seemed . . . well, strange. Very odd.”

“She’s been poisoned!” Fannie Champaign exclaimed, taking off her hat and putting it on the hallway table. This one was yellow straw with a wide, floppy brim and a fine yellow feather band. Fannie owned Darling’s only hat shop and liked to wear her hats as an advertisement. If you admired the one she had on at the moment, she’d be glad to tell you how much it cost and encourage you to try it on in front of the nearest mirror. If you liked it, she’d sell it to you right off her head, with a nice little discount because it was “gently worn.”

“Poisoned!” Bessie exclaimed, taken aback by this news.

“Beulah will tell you all about it,” Fannie added, snatching a glance at herself in the mirror and patting her hair. “She’s the one who figured out what was wrong with the poor thing. Mrs. Biggs, I mean.” She shook her head at Beulah. “Beulah, I am just amazed at the way you put those clues together. I swear, honey, you are the sleuth-in-chief, just like Miss Marple. You know what Miss Christie says. Miss Marple ‘always knew every single thing that happened and drew the worst inferences.’” She laughed, a sweet, tinkling little laugh.