The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“Wait a minute, Liz,” Verna said, holding up her hand. “What’s this about Miss Jamison getting dyed brown? And J. Edgar Hoover? How does he fit into this?”


Liz shook her head. “That’s all beside the point,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll fill you in later. The point is that your baldheaded man is out there at the counter getting a plate of Euphoria’s special right this very minute, and as soon as he’s done, he’s going to make a long-distance call from the booth, so he got two dollars’ worth of quarters from Myra May. I thought maybe I should try and find out who he was calling, so I came in here to the switchboard to see if I could listen in and—”

But Liz was interrupted as the door opened and Myra May came into the room. “Verna, that man you’re looking for, the one you sent the telegram to—he’s out there at the counter. He—” She stopped and frowned at Liz. “What’re you doing here, Liz?”

“It’s okay, Myra May,” Verna said. “Liz knows.” To Liz, she said in an urgent tone, “What’s that you were telling me about a wig, Liz? And Miss Jamison dyeing her hair brown?”

“They must want to disguise themselves,” Liz replied. “That’s what Bessie thinks, anyway. She thinks they’re trying to hide from—”

The switchboard buzzed and Verna turned around to connect Mr. Dickens at the Dispatch to Mr. Whitman at the Darling Academy, and disconnect Mrs. Sedalius from the Beauty Bower.

“Anyway,” Myra May said to Verna’s back, “what I was saying is that your man is getting Euphoria’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, which might slow him down a little. He may not get out to the phone booth right at noon to make that call. Don’t worry if he’s a little late.” There was the clatter of a plate being dropped and she rolled her eyes. “That’ll teach me,” she muttered. “Step away from the counter for a second and everything goes to hell.” She slipped out the door.

Liz leaned forward, frowning. “What do I know?” she challenged. “You told Myra May that I know something, but I don’t know anything, Verna. I’m completely and totally in the dark.”

“You know who he is,” Verna replied, and plugged in another cord. “Number, please.” She connected Mildred Kilgore, who had a private line, to her husband at Kilgore Motors, and unplugged Mr. Dickens, who had finished talking to Mr. Whitman. While she was doing this, she made a mental note to call Mildred back and ask her to give Myra May a hand behind the counter.

“No, I don’t know who he is,” Liz said crossly, when Verna turned back to her. “Bessie says that Mrs. Adcock says that he’s a government agent.”

“What would Leona Ruth Adcock know about government agents?” Verna scoffed. “Quite the contrary. He’s a member of the Capone gang.”

Liz’s eyes got round. “You’re sure? How do you know?”

“I’m sure. His name is Diamond, Frankie Diamond. Mrs. O’Malley says that he’s a friend of the man who slashed Miss Lake’s face.”

“Slashed—!” Liz’s hand went to her mouth.

“What’s more,” Verna went on, “Miss LaMotte shot the slasher—some gangster named Sal Raggio.”

Liz’s eyes were like saucers. “Shot him!” she whispered.

“With her Remington pistol. He died on the street in front of the Western Hotel. The hotel where Al Capone conducts his business. Where Miss LaMotte was standing in that photo the baldheaded man showed me yesterday. Mrs. O’Malley says that Frankie Diamond wants to kill Miss LaMotte, to pay her back for killing his friend.”

“I just can’t believe this is happening in Darling,” Liz muttered, biting her lip. “It sounds like one of those awful gangster movies!”

“I know, Liz. But it’s true, at least according to Mrs. O’Malley, and I don’t think she’d lie about something like this. She said they called a doctor, who came and stitched up the cuts on Miss Lake’s face. Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake caught a train the next morning—just before the Cicero police, under the direction of Al Capone, showed up to arrest Miss LaMotte for shooting the slasher.”

“So that’s why that business with the disguises that Bessie told me about,” Liz said thoughtfully. “The wig and the hair dye. The women thought they’d be safe with Miss Hamer, but something must’ve happened to make them afraid. Maybe they were somehow tipped off that this man—this Frankie Diamond—might show up here in Darling, looking for them.”

“They might even have looked out the window and seen him walking past,” Verna said. “My house isn’t that far from Miss Hamer’s.”

“Or maybe he even knocked at Miss Hamer’s door, and DessaRae sent him away.” Liz rolled her eyes. “And to think that I wanted to write a charming story about Miss Jamison—a hometown girl who made good in the big city. Some story! It belongs in a true-crime magazine, not in a family newspaper.”