The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“So we thought you might be able to tell us something about the Hamer family history,” Liz added.

Bessie drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She knew Verna, and from the tone of her voice, thought that there was more here than simple curiosity. Verna was a suspicious person by nature, and in this case— “The Hamer family history?” she asked. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye, trying not to show that the Hamer family was as disturbing a subject as the Bloodworths. At that moment, Roseanne appeared with the pitcher of lemonade—the pitcher was decorated with painted oranges and lemons—and matching glasses on a tray. “Thanks, Roseanne,” she said, grateful for the interruption, and began to pour lemonade.

“I met Miss Jamison when she came to do some business with Mr. Moseley,” Liz went on in an explanatory tone. “And Verna—” She took the glass Bessie handed her. “Verna had a little conversation with her at the drugstore. But maybe she’d better tell you about that part.”

Verna leaned forward with an intent look. “The thing is, Bessie, I’ve met her before. Miss Jamison, I mean. About ten years ago.”

“In Monroeville, maybe?” Bessie guessed, handing Verna a glass and setting the pitcher on the low table in front of them. “That’s where Nona Jean grew up. Her mother—she’s dead now—was Miss Hamer’s younger sister. At least, that’s what I understand. I met her for the first time last week, when she got into town.” She settled back in her chair. This was all true, and easy. It was the part of the story that didn’t harbor any ghosts.

“Not in Monroeville,” Verna replied sharply. “And she wasn’t Nona Jean, either. When I met her, she was in New York City, going by the name of Lorelei LaMotte.”

“Lorelei—” Bessie blinked. “Who did you say?”

Bessie listened as Verna told her story. By the time it was finished, she was shaking her head in disbelief.

“A vaudeville act?” she exclaimed incredulously. “You’re sure?” She paused, pursing her lips and thinking about her own first reaction to Miss Hamer’s niece. “Although Nona Jean does rather look like . . .” She laughed a little. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. She certainly has the figure for it. Still—”

“Go on, Verna,” Liz urged. “Show her what you showed me earlier this afternoon, before the meeting.”

Verna’s black leather handbag was on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and pulled out a creased piece of paper. “Lorelei LaMotte signed this playbill for me, Bessie, backstage at the New Amsterdam Theater after her act. That’s her signature.”

“My gracious.” Bessie took the playbill and studied the picture for a moment, feeling her mouth drop open. Miss Hamer’s niece, revealing all that bare skin? What would the old lady do if she saw this? She took a breath. “Well, I must say it does look like her, platinum hair and all—although she’s certainly not showing so much of herself these days.”

“It’s her,” Verna said flatly, “although for some reason or another, she doesn’t want to admit it.”

Bessie took one last look—really, those breasts! And all that bare skin!—and handed the playbill back. “Well, Darling is a quiet little place. I don’t suppose she wants people here in town—most especially her aunt—to know what she’s been up to since she left Monroeville.” She looked from Verna to Liz, trying to calculate just how much she should say. “And I don’t doubt that she is Miss Hamer’s niece, if that’s what you’re wondering. Miss Hamer really did ask her to come, although not very willingly, I have to say. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t have done it if DessaRae’s back hadn’t gone bad. And if Doc Roberts hadn’t insisted.”

“That’s actually what we wanted to ask you about,” Liz said. “Since you know Miss Hamer so well, we thought you might be able to fill in the details. Forgive us for being nosy,” she added. “Miss Jamison is . . . well, an unusual person. Here in Darling, anyway.”

Bessie couldn’t help herself. She gave a sarcastic chuckle. “What makes you think I know Miss Hamer? To tell God’s honest truth, often as I’ve talked to that old lady, I don’t really know her. Nobody does. She’s a mystery,” she added darkly. “And not a very pleasant one, in my considered opinion.”

“But we thought you were helping her,” Liz said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “That you were a friend.”

“Of course I’m helping her!” Bessie said indignantly. “That’s what neighbors do, when a person lets them. But Miss Hamer has alienated everyone else on Camellia Street over the years. I’m not a friend, I’m just the only one left—aside from DessaRae, of course—who will have anything to do with her. And that’s only because she and I go back a long, long way.” She pressed her lips together and looked away. And then, quite unexpectedly and entirely without intending to, she added, “And because of her brother.”