The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Verna, a fan of true crime magazines and Agatha Christie’s detective stories, had recently loaned Lizzy her well-thumbed hardcover copy of The Murder at the Vicarage. The book had reminded Lizzy that things were not always as they seemed, and that even small towns—like the quiet and innocent-appearing St. Mary Mead, where nothing important ever happened—could harbor some sinister secrets, secrets that nobody in the world could guess. Nobody, that is, except for a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.

Innocent little Darling had its dark corners, too, as Lizzy knew from her own experience over the past few years. There had been the dreadful murder of young, pretty Bunny Scott, which might have gone unsolved if she and Verna and Myra May hadn’t gotten curious about a certain dentist in Monroeville. And that slick gangster from Chicago who had come to Darling looking for Al Capone’s ex-girlfriend, who had moved in with her aunt right across the street from the Dahlias’ clubhouse! And those sneaky shenanigans with the Cypress County bank accounts that had ended when the county treasurer drowned himself in a gallon of the local white lightning. You’d never in the world know that such ugly events could occur in such a lovely small town as Darling. But of course they could, and they had. And that was exactly the point. Bad things could happen anywhere.

“Personally, I think what this world needs is one or two more Miss Marples,” Verna replied. “But I sincerely hope that Miss Dare hasn’t collected as many enemies as Colonel Protheroe did. And that she doesn’t end up the same way he did.” She narrowed her eyes. “Stabbed to death.”

Lizzy stared at her. It was the murder of Colonel Protheroe—a man who was hated by half the village of St. Mary Mead—that the astute Miss Marple had solved in The Murder at the Vicarage. Lizzy swallowed. And Lily Dare, like Colonel Protheroe, had a great many enemies. But it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone might actually try to—

“You don’t think there’s a possibility of that?” Lizzy asked. She thought of the letters that Mildred had received and her mouth went suddenly dry.

“Obviously, somebody hated her enough to sabotage her plane. So yes, indeed, there’s a possibility of that.” Verna spoke with the grim assurance of someone who knows that when she turns over a rock she will find a snake or a scorpion under it—and the experience of someone who never expects anybody to act any better than anybody else (and usually a whole lot worse). “Oh, and if you need me to help you keep an eye on things at the Kilgores,” she added casually, “you can count me in.”

“Really?” Lizzy put down her coffee cup. She hadn’t thought about asking someone else to help, but now that she did, it certainly made good sense to ask Verna, who was by nature a suspicious person.

“Really,” Verna said emphatically, and Lizzy could tell that she would like nothing better.

Lizzy paused. “Actually, I don’t know when Miss Dare is arriving—tonight or tomorrow, or perhaps not at all. And I have no idea what’s going to happen. But I’m sure that two pairs of eyes would be better than one.”

“And if nothing else, we can keep each other awake,” Verna said with a chuckle. She flashed a wicked grin. “We could equip ourselves with whistles, so we can wake up the household if we spot somebody climbing the drainpipe with a rope over his shoulder and a knife in his teeth.”

Lizzy had to laugh at this comical idea, which sounded like something out of a silent-film melodrama. “I suppose I am taking this a bit too seriously,” she said. “But Mildred said—”

She broke off abruptly. No, not Mildred. It was the anonymous letter writer who had said that Miss Dare was ruining innocent people’s lives. That somebody had to stop the woman. Stop her how? By sabotaging her airplane? By following her to Darling and stabbing her with a knife, like poor Colonel Protheroe?

“What?” Verna regarded her curiously. “Mildred said what?”

Lizzy cleared her throat. “Nothing. Just . . . nothing.”

She wanted to tell Verna about the letters, but if she did, she’d have to tell her about Roger Kilgore’s relationship with Miss Dare, and about the money he was paying her. And what Charlie had said about Douglas Fairbanks and wedding rings. And she couldn’t do that—at least, not yet.

“I’ll check with Mildred,” she added, “but I’ll bet she’ll be glad for you to stay. And I’m sure I’m just being a worrywart.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Verna said darkly. “Bad things happen. Let me know when you need me, and I’ll be available. We’ll keep an eye on the drainpipes, just in case.” She put down her coffee and reached for the telephone on her desk. “And I’ll call the rental place about those tents right now. That way, you’ll have the latest information.”