The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Verna rapped, listened intently, and rapped again, louder. There wasn’t so much as a footstep inside, at least one that she could hear. She rapped a third time, much more loudly. Still no response.

Verna frowned. If Raylene Riggs was inside, she was either asleep or sick. If she was just sleeping late, she would surely be glad to be awakened so she could get to work. If she was sick, she might need help. It was time to take some action, and Pauline would have a key. Verna turned away to go to the house, and as she did, she saw the corner of the yellow curtain twitch.

She hesitated, watching to see if the door would open after all. But it didn’t. The curtain twitched again, this time decidedly, and Verna frowned. Maybe Raylene was neither asleep nor sick. Maybe she had decided that she didn’t want to work at the diner after all and was getting ready to skip town. But Myra May was counting on Raylene and she needed to know one way or another. It wasn’t fair for Raylene to simply hide out and refuse to answer the door.

Verna turned and went in search of Pauline, whom she found gathering eggs in the small chicken coop directly behind the main house. She was a plump little lady with a face as round as a melon, dressed in a faded lavender print wash dress and muslin apron, her gray hair tidied up in a hair net. She wore a pair of Floyd’s old shoes. After Verna told her what was going on, she agreed, a little reluctantly, that they ought to check out the situation.

Trailed by two Barred Rock hens and a bedraggled red rooster, they went to the parlor-office, where Pauline took a ring of keys from a hook beside the front window.

“I hope there hasn’t been trouble,” she said, as they went down the front steps. “I had to call the sheriff a couple of days ago, y’know. There was some rowdies in Cabin Seven, liquored up and shootin’ off a gun and scarin’ the chickens—three of ’em, when they had only paid for two. Buddy Norris rode his motorcycle out from town and shushed ’em up good, though. And made ’em pay for the extra.” She set her mouth. “What I hate is when somebody comes in and pays for one in the cabin and then he starts unloadin’ the car and I look out there and see three or four sneakin’ in. Shame on ’em, is what I say. Cheatin’ an old woman!”

“Are you ever afraid, out here by yourself?” Verna asked. Most older Darlingians relied on their family for help when they got to the point where they couldn’t do for themselves, which was natural, because families stuck together. But Pauline didn’t have a family. She was vulnerable, especially at night, with strangers in the cottages and who-knows-what-kind-of-people drinking and shooting guns around the place.

And as times got harder, people got more dangerous, it seemed, and not just in the big cities, either. In Oklahoma, a couple of tourist camps and motor courts had been robbed and people shot to death. In rural Ohio and Kentucky, Pretty Boy Floyd and his gang were shooting things up. And in little Sherman, Texas, Machine Gun Kelly’s boys robbed the Central State Bank to the tune of $40,000; later, his girlfriend handed out spent shell casings as souvenirs. Even in Darling, folks were on edge, and more so in outlying areas, where the law could be miles away.

Pauline nodded, jingling the keys. “Well, yes, I’m afraid sometimes, especially with business so slow, the way it’s been and me here all alone.” She brightened. “But with the festival this weekend, I’m hoping for more business. And Miz Riggs, well, she’s booked herself for a full week, which is good, since it means less laundry. I even gave her a free night, just four dollars and fifty cents for the week instead of five and a quarter, seein’ as how she paid in advance. She seemed like a nice lady. I surely hope she’s not sick or been boozin’ it up all night so she can’t work this mornin’.” She shook her head sadly. “As I told the preacher man last Sunday, prohibition is all well and good but it don’t mean a blessed thing when a person is bound, bent, and determined to drink.”

Boozing. Verna frowned. She hadn’t considered that possibility. Myra May’s cook might be new to town, but anybody would be glad to tell her that she could get a bottle of good corn liquor from Archie Mann, at Mann’s Mercantile. If Raylene Riggs had got herself so soused after her first day on the job that she couldn’t get up and go to work, it didn’t bode well for her future at the diner. Myra May was not a teetotaler, Verna knew. But she wouldn’t put up with a cook who drank, especially with little Cupcake around.

By that time, they had reached the cottage. Pauline banged with her fist on the door and called out, “Miz Riggs! Miz Riggs, you got a friend here lookin’ for you.”

Nothing. Pauline banged and called again, and again.

Still nothing.

“Well, I don’t usually do this,” Pauline said with a sigh, “but I guess I need to find out if she’s sick or drinkin’.” She located the key and stuck it in the lock. “We’re comin’ in, Miz Riggs,” she called cheerily. “Hope you’re decent.”