The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

Liz frowned. “Didn’t Walter’s cousin tell you that he had known her when she was a girl back in Monroeville?” A streak of lightning raced across the southern sky, under a pile of threatening clouds.

“Yes,” Verna conceded, “but he could have been wrong. Gerald has been wrong a lot, over the years.” She thought back to their visit to New York, where Gerald had strutted around, the big-city hero lording it over his small-town cousins. “Or maybe he was saying it to make himself look important—the way men do, you know.”

“I’m confused, Verna,” Liz said. “Miss Jamison told you that she isn’t Miss LaMotte, and now you’re saying she might not be Miss Jamison, either.”

“It is confusing,” Verna replied. “But that’s what makes it a mystery—and intriguing. All I’m saying is that we need to know more about her.”

“More what, exactly?” Liz asked, over the roll of thunder.

“Just more,” Verna said. She thought for a moment. “You said that Miss Jamison had some legal business with Mr. Moseley. What was it?”

“You know I can’t talk about specifics,” Liz said patiently. “Attorney-client privilege includes me, too. Mr. Moseley has drummed that into me from the day I went to work in his office.” She hesitated. “But I guess maybe it won’t hurt to tell you that it had to do with a house she’s put up for sale. She’s asked Mr. Moseley to handle it for her.”

“In Chicago?”

“Not exactly, but close.” She sighed. “If you must know, it’s in a suburb on the west side of the city. Cicero.”

Verna stared at her. “Cicero! Don’t you read the newspapers, Liz? Cicero is all over the front pages. That’s where Al Capone hangs out, so he can stay out of the clutches of the Chicago police. Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘If you smell gunpowder, you’re in Cicero’? You don’t suppose—”

“No, I don’t suppose anything of the sort.” Liz pulled down the corners of her mouth. “Verna, you would suspect your own grandmother—if you had one.”

Verna chuckled wryly. “If my grandmother lived on Twenty-second Street in Cicero, I might suspect her. That’s where Capone has his headquarters. In the Western Hotel on Twenty-second, according to The Dime Detective.”

The Dime Detective was one of the tough-guy crime magazines that Verna read every chance she got. It often included snippets about real-world mobsters—and always lots of information about Al Capone and his gang. For instance, Al Capone had a violent temper and was known to take a bloody revenge against anybody he thought was disloyal. At the same time, he’d been the first to open soup kitchens right after the Crash and distribute clothes and food to the needy. Many people in Chicago saw him as a Robin Hood, a romantic hero who defied the law to give them what they wanted (alcohol) and what they needed (food, clothing, and employment). “Public service is my motto,” Capone was quoted as saying. “Ninety percent of the people of Cook County drink and gamble and my offense has been to furnish them with those amusements.” Lots of people seemed to agree with him.

Verna looked at Liz. “Well, Liz? Would you dig up the address of Miss Jamison’s house for me?”

“Maybe,” Liz said reluctantly. “I guess it would depend on whether it’s really important. And I hope you’re not trying to tell me that Miss Jamison has anything to do with Al Capone.”

Verna was candid. “I don’t know if it’s important. And I have no idea whether Miss Jamison is connected with Al Capone or not. But somebody ought to try to find out who this woman really is and what exactly she’s doing here in Darling, don’t you think?” She gave her friend a closer look. “What’s eating you, Liz? You’ve been quiet all afternoon. Not your usual bouncy self.”

Liz sighed heavily. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, Verna.”

“Try me,” Verna invited, and linked her arm in Liz’s. “Come on, Lizzy, give,” she said affectionately. “Something’s up. Is it Grady?”

Liz rolled her eyes. “No. It’s not Grady. I haven’t even seen him all week.”

“Well, then, it must be Mr. Moseley.” Verna chuckled. “I know he’s been pestering you to—”

“It’s not Mr. Moseley,” Liz said, so quickly that Verna suspected it actually was Mr. Moseley. Then she added, in a subdued voice, clearly worried, “It’s my mother.”

“Uh-oh.” Verna frowned. “What about her? Is she sick? Is she—”

“She’s not sick.” Liz sighed. “Although what’s happened makes me sick. She’s lost her house.”

Verna turned to stare. “Lost her house?” she said incredulously. “But I thought your father—”

“He did. He left it to her free and clear, along with enough money to keep her for the rest of her life. But she took out a mortgage a couple of years ago and put the money into the stock market, with Miss Rogers’ broker. And we all know what happened to Miss Rogers.”