The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Lester Lima, a thin, stoop-shouldered, fussy man with gold eyeglasses, frowned down at his eggs and bacon. “It is my understanding,” he said prissily, “that Mr. Dickens is engaged to Miss Champaign, the little lady who makes the hats.”


“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Jake Pritchard put in, slathering grape jelly on a biscuit. “My missus heard Miss Champaign say so at the beauty salon.”

“Well, if they was engaged, they ain’t engaged no more,” Mr. Greer replied in a knowing tone. “At least, ol’ Charlie ain’t. Lily Dare was hangin’ on to him like a tick on a hound dog, and I didn’t see him objectin’ none.”

Mr. Greer, who operated the movie projector at the back of the theater, kept a running score of the developing romances of the Palace patrons, especially among the younger crowd. He could be counted on to know who was courting who and whether the courting looked like it was going to lead somewhere it shouldn’t, at least in his theater. When things got too steamy, he’d been known to take a flashlight and roam the aisles, throwing a little light on the offending couples.

Jake Pritchard laughed. “Well, I reckon ol’ Charlie’s found out why it’s good to stay a bachelor, although the missus is gonna be plumb disappointed. She was figurin’ on a new hat for the weddin’.”

Verna listened, at first with a frown and then with a growing dismay. She had heard about Fannie and Charlie from several different sources, although (in her usual skeptical fashion) she hadn’t quite believed the part about the engagement. Still, she knew that Fannie and Charlie were an item, and that Fannie (a fellow Dahlia) probably cared more than she should for Charlie. Poor Fannie was much too sweet for her own good, while Charlie had always struck Verna as the footloose-and-fancy-free type. When Fannie found out that Charlie had been seen at the movie house with Lily Dare, it would be a blow.

Verna shook her head disgustedly. This was exactly why she had decided, after her husband Walter stepped out in front of that Greyhound bus, that she didn’t need another man in her life, thank you very much. You couldn’t trust a one of them any farther than you could throw him.

Myra May rushed around the end of the counter and skidded to a stop in front of Verna. “Mornin’, Verna,” she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Sorry it took so long to get to you. We’re a little rushed this morning.” She picked up the coffeepot and slopped coffee into a mug, pushing it across the counter. “What’ll you have, hon?”

“Donna Sue Pendergast raved about your new cook’s grits and sausage casserole,” Verna said with happy anticipation. “That’s what I’ll have.”

“Oops, sorry,” Myra May said regretfully. “Raylene didn’t come in this morning. You can have eggs any way with bacon or ham, plus grits, and gravy. That’s all we’ve got. Oh, and biscuits, of course. Violet just made another panful.”

“She didn’t come in?” Verna asked, surprised. She took a couple of sips of her coffee. “But I thought—”

“So did we,” Myra May said glumly. “We thought our problems were solved. Raylene is a swell cook, great with the customers, seems to be able to come up with exactly what they want, like it’s by magic. Really, Verna. You gotta see it to believe it. Magic.”

“What happened?” Verna asked. “Did she quit?”

“I wish I knew,” Myra May said. “Maybe she just overslept. Or maybe she’s sick, although she seemed okay when we closed up last night. If I could get away, I’d drive out to the motor court and see what’s wrong. She’s staying out there until she can find a cheap place to live in town.” Myra May wiped the counter with a rag. “We can get by here for today, but she’s supposed to help us with the catering for Mildred’s party. If she’s skipped, Violet and I will have to figure out something.” She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “What, I don’t know,” she said wearily, “but something.”

Verna took another drink of coffee. “She’s staying at the Marigold? Why don’t you call out there and see what’s happened?”

“There’s no phone in any of the cottages,” Myra May replied. “I called the office to ask Pauline to skip over and knock on Raylene’s door, but nobody answers. Pauline’s probably cleaning or doing the laundry. I’ll just have to keep on trying.”

“Myra May!” Violet yelled from the kitchen. “Myra May, I need you!” At the same time, little Cupcake, corralled in her playpen at the back of the dining room, began to wail, adding to the general cacophony.