The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“Dead,” Miss Hamer muttered. “Your daddy dead ten years, and I never knew.” She licked her lips. “All that hatin’, all that time. Wasted.” She dropped her head into her hands and began to weep. After a moment, she lifted her head and began to beat her balled hands against her breasts, and then to shriek. Long, agonized shrieks that made Bessie want to cover her ears.

The old black woman hurried in. “Best you go now, Miz Bloodworth.” She bent over and put her arms around the shaking woman. “There, there, now, honey,” she crooned, rocking her. “I’ll git you some o’ dat ol’ Miles Nervine Miss Nona Jean bought for you. It’ll be all right. It’ll be jes’ fine.”

Bessie was about to step off the front porch when the front door opened behind her.

“Miss Bloodworth, please.”

Bessie turned, startled. At first she didn’t quite believe her eyes, but she knew it had to be true. It was Miss Jamison, a print scarf tied around her brown hair. She was wearing a shapeless gray cotton housedress that must have once belonged to Miss Hamer, felt bedroom slippers, and not a trace of makeup. She looked, Bessie thought, like a sharecropper’s wife.

“What happened at the beauty parlor today—” Miss Jamison raised her voice, to be heard over Miss Hamer’s anguished cries. “I hope it won’t go any further, Miss Bloodworth. I don’t want the whole town gossiping about me. Or about Miss Lake, either. As it is, the poor thing is so distraught that she can’t sleep. I tried to get her some of her Veronal, but the druggist refused to fill her prescription.”

Bessie hadn’t meant to tell this, but maybe it would relieve Miss Jamison’s mind. “If you’re worrying about Frankie Diamond, you can stop right now. Deputy Norris put him on the train back to Chicago earlier this afternoon.”

“He—what?” Miss Jamison’s hand went to her mouth. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

“I saw him collared myself,” Bessie replied. “On the square, in front of Mann’s Mercantile. We—” She was about to mention about what Verna had found out in her telephone conversation with the talkative Mrs. O’Malley, but she was interrupted by the sound of an automobile. She turned.

Mr. Bailey Beauchamp’s lemon yellow Cadillac Phaeton was purring along Camellia Street. The canvas top was folded back, Lightning was at the wheel, and Mr. Beauchamp was sitting in the back seat. As they approached Miss Hamer’s house, Mr. Beauchamp leaned forward and tapped Lightning on the shoulder with his cane. The car slowed and Mr. Beauchamp slid over in the seat, peering at the street numbers. He saw the house and the two women on the porch, smiled broadly, and began to raise his hat. Then he got a good look at Miss Jamison. He stared, frowned, jammed his hat back on his head, and spoke curtly to Lightning. The Cadillac sped up.

Miss Jamison’s disguise was a success.





NINETEEN





Lizzy Lays Down the Law


Lizzy took her column—neatly typed, double-spaced, the pages numbered—to the Dispatch office downstairs, which smelled of ink and cigarette smoke. Charlie Dickens was sitting at his battered wooden desk, typing fast with two fingers on an old black Royal typewriter, a cigarette stuck crookedly in one corner of his mouth. He wore his usual green celluloid eyeshade, a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tie askew, and a gray vest. Rolls of newsprint were stacked along one wall, and behind him, at the back of the large room, loomed the silent newspaper press. Mr. Dickens and his helper, Boomer Craig, would crank it up and start printing the paper on Thursday evening, after Lizzy and Mr. Moseley had gone home for the day. The press rattled the building and made as much noise as a locomotive.

Lizzy put her column on Mr. Dickens’ desk. She hesitated, remembering that, just a couple of days ago, she had planned to talk to him about writing a feature story about Miss Jamison (aka Lorelei LaMotte) and her stay in Darling. That was out of the question now, of course—as was Verna’s notion of getting the two ladies to put on an act for the talent show. But depending on what happened tonight, there might be a different story to tell. Of course, it would take a while to get all the facts and write it up.

She cleared her throat. “What’s the deadline for news this week, Mr. Dickens?”

“Thursday morning,” Charlie said, without looking up. He was balding and fleshy, a large man pushing fifty, with sharp, hard eyes that seemed out of place in his round face. He ripped the paper out of his typewriter. “Here’s a very important piece of news, don’t you think? Think I’ll run it on Page One, right next to the story about construction beginning on Boulder Dam.” He read it out loud in a mocking, sarcastic voice. “On Wednesday morning Mrs. Campbell Young entertained very delightfully at her charming home on Rosemont Avenue. The affair was a morning bridge party given on the vine-covered porch. At noon a luncheon of garden salad, cold cucumber soup, and tiny ham sandwiches was served to the appreciative guests. Prizes were awarded to the winning players.”