The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

Bessie turned back to Leona. “What exactly did this fella say, Leona Ruth?”


“Well, like I said, he was lookin’ for a platinum blonde and a woman with short black hair. Said he knew they’d come to Darling, but he didn’t have any idea where they were stayin’, so he was knockin’ on doors and askin’ around.” She swallowed, looking anxious. “He was real polite and soft-spoken. Nice as pie, he was, but he had a cold look in his eye. I wouldn’t want to tangle with that one.”

“Oh, he’s polite, all right,” Miss Jamison said bitterly. “He’s a charmer, he is. A real snake.”

Bettina was back with a glass with water in it and the whiskey bottle—the local bootleg whiskey. Beulah uncorked the bottle and poured a healthy slug into the glass. “Here. Drink this, honey. You’ll feel better.”

Miss Jamison took a sip, coughed, and took another. The color began to come back into her face.

Leona Ruth peered at Miss Jamison. “This Yankee fella—I reckon he’s not a friend of yours, huh?”

“No,” Miss Jamison said, and took another sip. “He’s definitely no friend.” The fear in her voice was so plain that everybody heard it. In a pleading tone, she added, “If he comes back, Mrs. Adcock, I beg you not to tell him that you’ve seen me.” She looked at the others. “Everybody. Please don’t tell him about me!”

“Well, of course we won’t tell him,” Beulah said heartily. She looked at Bettina, who nodded.

“No platinum blondes whatsoever in this town,” Bettina added. She put an imaginary key in her lips and turned it.

Bessie scowled at Leona Ruth. “Did you hear that, Leona? This is not something you can go around telling people about, the way you usually do.” She hardened her voice. “And if I hear one word of this outside this room, I’ll know it was you who told.” She looked from Beulah to Bettina. “We’ll all know, won’t we, girls?”

Beulah and Bettina nodded solemnly.

“I won’t say a word.” Leona Ruth held up her hand, palm out. “I promise. But he said he was goin’ around askin’ people, so I’m not the only one he’s talked to.”

“Did this Mr. Gold say where he was staying, Leona?” Bessie asked. “Or how long he was going to be in town?”

“Said he’d be at the hotel through Monday afternoon or maybe later, and if I happened to run across his friends, I should be sure to stop and leave a message for him at the front desk.” Leona Ruth was eyeing Miss Jamison with an avid curiosity. “If he’s not a friend of yours, then why is he lookin’ for you?”

“Leona Ruth,” Bessie said sharply, “it is none of our business why that man is looking for anybody.”

“You’re a hundred percent right, Bessie,” Beulah said. “Bettina, you can get started on Miz Adcock’s shampoo now. I’ll finish up with Miz Bloodworth.” To Miss Jamison, she said, “You just sit there for a few minutes and sip on that whiskey.”

“No,” Miss Jamison said. She put down the glass and pushed herself out of the chair. “I have to get back to Miss Hamer’s right away.” Her pocketbook was on a nearby chair, and she picked it up. “What do I owe you for everything?”

“Well, let’s see,” Beulah said. “We agreed to a dollar fifty on that wig, and your cut and color was two dollars. Call it three fifty.” She went to a shelf and took down a blue hat and gloves and a cardboard hatbox tied with a string.

Miss Jamison took out four dollar bills. She gave it to Beulah and took the box. “Keep the change.”

“Why, thank you,” Beulah said, surprised. The Bower ladies didn’t often tip.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to get back to Miss Hamer’s house all right?” Bessie asked worriedly. “If you’ll hold up until I’m finished, I’ll walk with you.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Miss Jamison said. “But I’m wondering—is there a back alley I could take?”

“Sure is, hon,” Beulah said. “Just go through the fence by the hollyhocks, turn right, and keep on goin’ for a couple blocks. You should end up right smack behind your aunt’s house.” She glanced down at Miss Jamison’s high heels. “Better stay with the street, though. Won’t do those pretty shoes any good to walk on cinders. The alley is where people dump their coal clinkers.”

“I’ll chance it,” Miss Jamison said grimly. “Thank you.” She went to the door and peeked out apprehensively, as though she was afraid that the baldheaded man might be lurking in Beulah’s rose garden. The coast must have been clear, for she turned and waved and then went down the stairs. She was wobbly, Bessie saw, but she’d probably be all right, once she got out in the air.

“A wig?” Leona Ruth asked with a short laugh, as the screen door closed behind Miss Jamison. “Did you sell her that ratty old redhead wig of yours, Beulah? Shame on you!”