The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

“Don’t like liver and onions,” Mr. Musgrove said morosely. “My mother pushed it down my throat when I wuz a kid. Ain’t been able to stand it since.”


J.D., Mr. Musgrove’s scrawny, grizzle-cheeked helper, was sitting next to his boss at the counter. He pointed up at the blackboard that advertised the diner’s weekly specials. “I wanna know what happened to our fried chicken, Myra May. Ain’t we supposed to have fried chicken and chocolate pie on Wednesdays?” He peered nearsightedly at the glass-door cabinet where the pies were usually kept. “I don’t see no pies, neither. We ain’t got no chocolate pie for dessert today?”

J.D. was known around town for his ill temper and bad manners, but that didn’t soothe Myra May’s raw unhappiness.

“What happened to the fried chicken,” she said in a chilly tone, “is that we’re one pair of hands short in the kitchen. It takes longer to dress and cut up a chicken and fry it than it takes to make a meat loaf. And what happened to the chocolate pie is that Euphoria isn’t around to bake it.” She picked up an eraser and wiped off the blackboard. “Until we get ourselves some more help, I am suspending the specials. You’ll get what we got and be glad of it—unless, of course, you want to walk across the square to the Old Alabama. Or up to Miz Meeks’ place, over by the rail yard. I reckon she’d be glad to set a place for you.”

Mrs. Meeks ran a boardinghouse for the single men who worked at the sawmill and on the railroad. If there was room at her table, you could get chicken and dumplings or a bowl of Mrs. Meeks’ okra gumbo, plus a big chunk of hot corn bread and all the coffee you could drink. What’s more, Mrs. Meeks had dropped her price to a quarter, which was a nickel cheaper than a meal at the diner. The trouble was (and everybody knew it) that the railroad and sawmill workers who boarded there got first dibs on the food. You could sit down with the second shift but you ran the risk of getting small helpings, depending on how many there were at the table, and you had to eat fast, because there might be a third shift waiting to sit down. And of course women wouldn’t be comfortable there, watching those men put their faces to their plates and slurp up Mrs. Meeks’ gumbo.

Rubbing his mostly bald head, Mr. Musgrove gave Myra May’s suggestion a moment of serious consideration, then said mildly, “Reckon I’ll skip Miz Meeks’. And four bits for that hotel dinner is too pricey for me.” He picked up his fork. “Sorry if I made you sore, Myra May. This meat loaf is every bit as good as it was yestiddy.”

J.D. chortled sourly. “‘Every bit as good as it was yestiddy.’ That’s a sharp ’un, Marvin.”

“J.D., you’re as growly as some old treed black bear,” Mr. Dunlap said. “You shoulda had the liver and onions. And the apple crumble wa’n’t bad, neither, although I gotta say I’d rather have pie.” He held up his cup. “Myra May, pour me another cup of coffee, would you?”

Myra May had made apple crumble instead of pie because it took less time to make the topping than to roll out and trim up a pie shell, and time was what they were short of right now. As she picked up the coffeepot, she heard the tinny roar and hiccup of Buddy Norris’ Indian Ace motorcycle. A moment later, Buddy pushed open the front screen door and swaggered in, his holstered revolver slung from one hip, a wooden baton and a shiny pair of handcuffs from the other.

Buddy was Darling’s deputy sheriff and—for all his youthful arrogance, derring-do, and reckless driving—a first-class law-enforcement officer. A few years back, Buddy had gotten the deputy’s job by ordering a how-to book on scientific detective work from the Institute of Applied Sciences in Chicago, Illinois. He had taught himself how to take fingerprints and make what he called “crime scene” photographs, which was a lot more than Sheriff Roy Burns—now in his sixties and finishing up his fourth term of office—could do. When elections came around again next year, everybody said that Buddy was likely to give the sheriff a run for his money. The only thing that would save old Roy from getting de-elected was the secret dirt he had surreptitiously compiled on several important Darlingians. But it would do the trick. His people would get out the vote, for sure, and the sheriff would keep his job.

“Hey, Deppity,” J.D. said, raising his fork. “You’re just in time for meat loaf.”

“Meat loaf?” Buddy frowned as he pulled off his leather motorcycle helmet and goggles. He was dressed in his usual khaki uniform, with lace-up brown leather motorcycle boots he’d gotten from the Sears catalog. “Today’s Wednesday, ain’t it? I’ve been lookin’ forward all mornin’ to havin’ me some good ol’ fried chicken.” He sat down next to J.D. “Hey, Myra May. I’ll take the special.”