The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“No—at least nobody that I know of,” Ophelia replied. She took a deep breath. “But some of the ladies are saying that thirteen is an unlucky number. And Beulah says she’s heard several people whispering about a ‘witches’ coven’ when they’re waiting to get shampooed and set.” Beulah Trivette owned and operated the Beauty Bower, which was gossip central for the Darling ladies. (The men, of course, preferred to get their gossip—which they liked to call “news”—from their buddies at the Darling Diner. And for shut-ins, there was always the party line.) “Witches’ coven!” Verna repeated incredulously.

“Oh, really, Ophelia!” Lizzy exploded. At a questioning look from Mildred Kilgore, who was standing nearby, she lowered her voice. “That is just utterly ridiculous! Who is spreading such nonsense? We ought to stop it at the source, or it’ll get out of hand.” There were plenty of superstitious people in Darling, and superstitions—even silly ones—could cause trouble.

“I know.” Ophelia sighed. “I asked who it was, but Beulah didn’t want to name names, and of course you can’t blame her. They’re paying customers, after all. She’s probably afraid that if they found out she tattled, they might leave the Bower and go over to the Curling Corner.” Julia Conrad ran Darling’s other beauty parlor, and there was an intense competition between the two shops.

“Well, I suppose the problem is easily remedied,” Verna replied with a shrug. “All we have to do is find another new member, which will get us back to fourteen.”

“How about Violet Sims?” Ophelia asked. “She helps Myra May with that big vegetable garden, and we all know her. She’d be a great addition.”

“She would,” Lizzy replied, “but she’s up in Memphis right now. Her sister died, and she’s taking care of the new baby. Myra May doesn’t know when she’s likely to be back.”

“Maybe Bettina Higgens?” Verna hazarded. Bettina worked for Beulah at the Beauty Bower and was intimately acquainted with all the Dahlias—with their hair, anyway.

Ophelia gave her head a decided shake. “Bettina can’t even grow okra. Whenever the conversation gets around to gardening, she always says that she kills anything she puts in the ground. If Beulah nominates her, everybody’ll know it’s a desperation move on our part.”

“Fannie Champaign, maybe,” Lizzy suggested. Fannie owned Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux, Darling’s only millinery shop, on the west side of the courthouse square, next to the Savings and Trust. Fannie lived above the shop and had a small but lovely garden at the back. “She always says her garden is the inspiration for her hats. Want me to ask her?”

“Yes, do,” Verna said. “We’d better come up with a couple of other possibilities, too, in case we get turned down.”

“And we’d better hurry,” Ophelia said in a warning tone. “Halloween will be here before long, and we certainly don’t need people whispering that we’re witches.”

When the refreshments had disappeared and people were leaving, Lizzy stopped Bessie Bloodworth, who was on her way out the door. “Oh, Bessie, will you be at home for a few minutes? When we’ve finished the cleanup, Verna and I would like to come over for a little talk.”

“Of course,” Bessie replied. Short and stocky, in her fifties, she had thick, dark eyebrows and salt-and-pepper curls that always looked as if she’d combed them with her fingers, which she probably had. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to drop in, anyway. I wanted you to see my Angel Trumpet. It’s absolutely gorgeous. It’s a beautiful afternoon—we can sit out in the backyard and have some lemonade.” She gave Lizzy a curious glance. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh, just a little family history,” Lizzy said evasively. It was too difficult to explain.

“Goodie!” Bessie said with a broad smile. “There’s nothing I like to talk about more than family history. Unless it’s my own.” Her smile faded slightly. “That’s a different story.”

As the other Dahlias took their empty dishes and left, Lizzy and Verna stayed behind to tidy up the clubhouse, put the chairs back, and sweep the floor.

“Would you check the windows, Verna?” Lizzy called over her shoulder as she wielded the broom. “Make sure they’re all locked and the curtains are drawn.”

Until the last few years, nobody in Darling had bothered to lock their houses. But since jobs had gotten so scarce, men and boys (and sometimes even girls) were riding the rails, looking for work and food and a place where they could sleep out of the weather. Darling wasn’t on the main Louisville & Nashville rail line, but the hoboes often rode in on the freight cars that came to the sawmill. If a house looked vacant, they might try to break in. The residents of Darling weren’t exactly afraid, but they were—well, uneasy. The town felt different, somehow, with strangers traipsing through it.