The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Pokeberries and strychnine may be bad, but it was probably the arsenic that made her lose her hair,” Beulah said. “I was giving her a shampoo and it started coming out by the handfuls. By the handfuls, I mean. I’ve read about arsenic making your hair fall out, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.” She sighed heavily. “That was when she threatened to sue me,” she added. “When her hair came out in my hands.”


“Dear me,” Miss Rogers said, pursing her lips and looking distressed. “Oh, dear, dear me.” Miss Rogers disliked litigation of any sort, feeling that people ought to solve their differences outside of the courtroom if at all possible.

“But there’s more,” Fannie said, clasping her hands under her chin and leaning forward eagerly. “Tell them, Beulah.”

“I’m not sure I should,” Beulah said in a hesitant tone. “It’s sort of private. I mean, it’s really not a pretty thing to talk about.”

“Nothing is private in this town,” Bessie replied matter-of-factly. She opened the box of Rook cards and began to take out the twos, threes, and fours. “Pretty or not pretty, we’re all going to hear it sooner or later. Sooner, probably. Word has a way of getting around, you know.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Beulah sighed. “Well, if you really want to know, she was threatening to sue her husband for carrying on an affair in the second-floor bedrooms at the hotel. And Mr. Dickens for trying to kiss her this morning. Assault with the attempt to molest was the way she put it.”

“Molest!” Bessie exclaimed, nearly dropping the cards. “I don’t believe it! Charlie Dickens would never in the world do something like that!” But Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan certainly would, she thought grimly. Was that where Angelina had gotten the idea? From that dreadful romance novel?

“It had to have been her imagination,” Fannie put in, and lowered her eyes. “Mr. Dickens is a complete gentleman. A gentleman through and through.”

Bessie frowned. She wondered how Fannie Champaign knew what kind of a gentleman Charlie Dickens was, but she didn’t want to ask.

Beulah nodded, agreeing with Fannie. “Her husband swears he’s never had an affair with anybody, and I believe him—if only because I am positive that I would have heard about it if he had. You’d be amazed what women say when their heads are in the shampoo sink. I hear about every affair in town, uncensored.”

Miss Rogers tsk-tsked with her tongue.

Beulah gave Miss Rogers an understanding smile. “I know—it’s just awful, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s my opinion that the pills were driving her crazy. Either they weren’t made right or she was taking too many of them.” She paused. “I talked to Mr. Lima at the drugstore this afternoon, and he told me that she bought three packages two weeks ago today. There are twenty-four pills in each package, so when Mr. Biggs counts them, he can tell how many she’s taken.”

“Maybe it was the pokeberries that gave her hallucinations about Mr. Dickens,” Fannie said thoughtfully.

“Or maybe it was Sheik Ahmed,” Bessie said. The others gave her a blank look and she added, “She’s been reading the book, hasn’t she? Maybe she started imagining that she was Lady Diana, and Mr. Dickens was the sheik and he intended to ravish her.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Fannie said doubtfully.

“Books are powerful things,” Miss Rogers said in a cautioning tone. “I often think that it takes a person of high moral standards to resist the ideas that are found in some books.”

Beulah’s sigh was full of compassion. “It’s such a pity. All she wanted to do was lose that weight and get beautiful again. You’ve got to give her credit for that. Beauty is every woman’s birthright.”

“It’s a good lesson for all of us,” Miss Rogers said decidedly. “If someone needs to lose weight, they shouldn’t take pills. And certain books should be read with caution, so as not to inflame the imagination.”

“I’ll say amen to that,” Bessie said, and picked up the cards. Since she was the hostess, she was the dealer for the first round, so she shuffled and cut the deck, then dealt the cards one at a time, dealing a five-card nest of rook in the middle of the table. She was dealing the last card when there was a knock on the door.

“Drat,” she muttered, and got up. “Don’t anybody move. I’ll make short work of whoever it is.”

It was Charlie Dickens, standing at the door with his Panama hat in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. “I wanted to talk to you about that pillow, Miss Bloodworth,” he said. “I have an idea that I’d like to test out, but I—” He looked over her shoulder and saw the group in the parlor. “Oh, sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize you had company. I’ll come back another time.” He turned to go.

“Oh, it’s just the Dahlias,” Bessie said. “It’s our Monday-night card party.” Still holding the doorknob, she considered. “Are you saying that you think there’s something . . . well, interesting about that paper I gave you? Do you think it might really be a . . . a secret code?”