The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

Bessie sighed plaintively. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a good idea. I just have this feeling that somebody ought to be doing something to find out who this man really is and why Miss Jamison is so deathly afraid of him. I can’t think of any other way to do it—and I certainly can’t go to the hotel by myself.”


Lizzy understood why. Nobody thought twice of a woman eating by herself at the diner, where she could sit at the counter and talk to Myra May or Violet or Euphoria while she enjoyed her meal. But it would be odd for a woman to eat in the Old Alabama dining room unless she was traveling or with someone. Still— “I’m not sure why we should care who he is,” Lizzy said, stalling for time. “What business is it of ours?” She dropped another folder into the drawer. Then she realized that she’d put an “E” folder into the “L–R” drawer, and took it out.

Bessie leaned forward, her lined face intent. “Well, for starters, if he is a policeman or a special agent looking for those two women, it stands to reason that they are criminals, doesn’t it? Leona Ruth said that Miss Jamison looks like a gun moll to her—and she is no doubt spreading that very same thing all over town, right this minute.” She leaned back and folded her plump arms. “You know Leona Ruth. When she gets through with Miss Jamison and her friend, nobody in Darling will have a blessed thing to do with them, regardless of who they are.”

Lizzy understood this, too. In Darling, there were the facts, and then there were the facts according to whoever was telling them, which might or might not be the same thing and usually wasn’t. If Leona Ruth was telling folks that these women were gun molls, that’s exactly what people would believe. Even if they were totally innocent, their reputations would be completely destroyed.

She opened the “E–K” drawer and put the file into the right place. “I wonder how Mrs. Adcock knows what a gun moll looks like,” she said thoughtfully.

“Maybe from the movies?” Bessie hazarded. “To me, Miss Jamison didn’t look much like a criminal, but of course you can’t always tell. Anyway, there’s Miss Hamer to consider. If those two women are criminals, she could be in danger.” Bessie turned down her mouth. “I was even thinking that we might ought to have a talk with Sheriff Burns about the situation.”

Lizzy didn’t think much of Roy Burns. She’d had a few dealings with him when Bunny Scott was killed, and it was her impression that he liked to wear the badge but wasn’t much of a crime fighter. He had taken over the job of Darling police chief when Chief Henny Poe had retired and the Darling town council decided they couldn’t afford to replace him. But Sheriff Burns and his deputy, Buddy Norris, could usually handle what crime there was in Cypress County, which was mostly tempers getting out of hand at the Watering Hole or the Dance Barn, and cow and chicken rustling (there was more of that, now that so many were short of money), and moonshiners out in the piney woods. Most people didn’t really consider moonshining a crime, though. Somebody had to do it, or nobody would have anything to drink. The preachers liked it, too, for it gave them something to preach against besides lying, stealing, skipping Wednesday night prayer meeting, and committing adultery.

Lizzy thought about Verna’s theory. “And if the man isn’t a policeman or a special agent? What if he is—” She let the sentence dangle.

“That makes it easy,” Bessie replied cheerfully. “If he’s not a policeman, we can stop fretting about Miss Jamison and her friend being criminals. We don’t have a thing to worry about.”

Lizzy didn’t point out that this wasn’t exactly logical. But she had the feeling that, if the baldheaded man was a gangster instead of a special agent, they had something else to worry about. Anyway, now she was curious. She wanted to see him for herself. And Bessie was a Dahlia, after all. Dahlias stuck together.

She glanced up at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall over the Chamber of Commerce certificate, its copper-colored pendulum swinging back and forth. It was almost eleven thirty, and Mr. Moseley would be leaving for Montgomery at any moment.

“I’ll finish this filing,” she told Bessie. “After Mr. Moseley leaves, we can go.”