The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“And the grave marker?” Liz asked.

“It’s nothing but a scrap of granite. Daddy owned the gravestone business, Liz. It could have been just something he had around. It looks like he cut the initials himself.” Another sad chuckle. “He was never much of a hand when it came to stonecutting.”

“Oh, Bessie,” Lizzy said. “I am so sorry. What . . . are you going to do?”

Bessie dried her eyes again and handed Lizzy’s handkerchief back. “Do you mean, am I going to tell anybody? Like—the sheriff?”

Lizzy nodded. “Or have the body exhumed and autopsied, so you know for sure how he . . . how it happened?”

Bessie was silent for a moment. “I doubt if I have a legal right to ask that, Liz. And I really don’t think Miss Hamer is strong enough to go through all that ugliness. She’s convinced that Harold took Daddy’s money and left and was too ashamed to ever get back in touch.” She swallowed a little hiccup. “As for telling the sheriff—Well, Harold’s been dead for nearly thirty years now, and nobody remembers him except for his sister and me. Miss Jamison is a cousin, but I doubt if she ever met him.”

“And your father’s been dead for a decade,” Lizzy said. “A dead man can’t be prosecuted.”

Bessie nodded sadly. “So I’m not sure there’s any point in telling anyone. I’m the only one who really cares.” She looked back in the direction of the grave. “But the mystery is finally solved. And I know where he is—at last. Maybe I’ll get a proper headstone. And have the area cleaned up and mowed.”

“Yes, you could do that,” Lizzy said gently. “I’ll be glad to help, if you want.”

“Thank you, Liz,” Bessie said, reaching for her hand. “What would I do without you?” She sniffed. “Without you and Verna and Myra May and—” She shook her head, unable to go on.

“I know,” Lizzy said, and put her arms around Bessie. “We all depend on one another. And that’s good. That’s the way it should be.”

They sat together for a while, and then Lizzy glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to the office. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bessie said. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I hope I haven’t kept you too long.”

“Not at all,” Lizzy said warmly, and pushed Big Bertha’s starter button.

But nothing happened. She pushed it again. Still nothing. She pumped the accelerator pedal, but she knew that wasn’t the problem. She tried again. “The battery, maybe?” she hazarded. “I’m not sure how often Myra May drives this car.”

“Oh, dear,” Bessie moaned. “Don’t tell me we’re stranded!”

“Looks like maybe we are,” Lizzy said with a sigh. “At least it’s stopped raining, and it’s a little cooler.” She picked up her handbag, opened the door, and got out. “We’re no more than a couple of miles from town. I can walk back and send someone to pick you up.”

“To heck with that,” Bessie said smartly. “I’m not too old to walk.”

But as it turned out, Lizzy and Bessie didn’t have to walk all the way to town. They had gone about halfway, walking along the side of the dirt road, when Lizzy heard a vehicle chugging up behind them. She turned to look.

It was Mr. Clinton’s old red Ford two-seater taxi, from Monroeville. Many people preferred to pay him to drive them home to Darling, instead of waiting all afternoon for the train. Sometimes, he brought more than one passenger, dropping them off along the way. Often, people flagged him down from the road and he took them where they needed to go, either to Darling or Monroeville, depending on which way he was headed. Most of the time, he charged only fifteen cents for a one-way trip (a nickel less than the twenty-cent train ticket).

This afternoon, he had just one passenger. In the backseat of the taxi sat Violet Sims, her red felt cloche askew, her taffy-colored curls slightly bedraggled. Her face was drawn and tired.

When she saw Lizzy and Bessie, she sat up straight and leaned forward to tap Mr. Clinton on the shoulder. “Stop!” she cried. “We need to pick these ladies up!”

Mr. Clinton, a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth, braked the Ford. “You gals goin’ into Darlin’?” he asked in his cracked voice. “Well, come on. Hop in. One up here in front with me, one in the back with the little mother.”

Bessie climbed into the front seat. Lizzy opened the back door and got in beside Violet—and saw, to her surprise, that Violet was holding something in her arms, tightly wrapped in a pink flannel receiving blanket.

“Oh, my!” she whispered, leaning closer. Violet pulled the blanket back so Lizzy could see. The little face was round and pink, the mouth like a rosebud. “Why, it’s a baby!” Lizzy exclaimed. “A beautiful baby!”