The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

“No!” a voice cried. “I’m not decent! Don’t come in. I—”

But it was too late. Pauline pushed the door open and went in, Verna on her heels. Pauline stopped a few paces inside the door and put her hands on her hips.

“Who the dickens are you?” she demanded brusquely. “You ain’t Miz Riggs. And she only paid for one!”





FIFTEEN




Texas Star Kidnapped

on Eve of Air Show!



Lizzy was looking around Miss Dare’s room, pondering the question of whether Mildred or Roger could have had a hand in her disappearance, when Mildred, still wearing a stunned and disbelieving expression, brought Charlie Dickens upstairs.

He stood in the open doorway, glancing around, frowning. He was dressed casually, in an open-necked blue shirt—no tie—and slacks. He looked tired and rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept much, and there was a coffee stain on his shirt.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. He looked at Angel Flame. “I thought you and Miss Dare wanted to get out to the airstrip early.”

“We do!” Angel’s voice dropped. “That is, we did. Until—” She gestured dramatically. “You can see for yourself, Mr. Dickens. She’s not here. She’s . . . gone!”

“Gone where?” Charlie asked, his frown deepening.

“We wish we knew!” Mildred cried, clenching her fists. “Mr. Dickens, I promise you that the front door was locked all night long, until I unlocked it myself, first thing this morning. We’re hoping you can figure it out. Please, please help us!”

Lizzy pointed to the scrap of sheer material caught on the sill. “That’s her nightgown,” she said. “If you’ll look out the window, you can see her mule, down there on the ground.”

Charlie leaned on the sill, looking out. “Her mule?”

“Her high-heeled slipper,” Mildred explained.

“That proves it, as far as I’m concerned.” Angel Flame’s voice was thin and high. “She’s been kidnapped! I know it!”

Charlie turned to Lizzy. “I thought you and Verna were supposed to keep an eye on her,” he said accusingly.

“We did,” Lizzy said. “Sort of, that is. Until—” She glanced at Angel Flame, then at Mildred.

Mildred got the point. “Miss Flame,” she said, “let’s go downstairs and get some coffee. Mr. Dickens and Miss Lacy want to talk.”

“But I want to hear,” Angel objected. She stamped her foot. “I think we ought to call the cops. We have to find out what’s happened to Lily!”

“We will,” Charlie replied grimly. “Just give us a few minutes to sort things out. We’ll join you shortly.”

Mildred led Angel, still protesting, out the door and closed it behind her.

“Now,” Charlie said, scowling. “What’s happened here, Liz?”

“I don’t have the foggiest,” Lizzy confessed. “But it was a very eventful night, believe me.” Mr. Moseley had trained her to remember and report conversations in detail, since information from a client could be very important. So she told Charlie everything she could remember about the two angry encounters—Mildred and Roger, with Miss Dare—that she and Verna had overheard. She had to tell him about Roger’s relationship with Miss Dare, as well as the anonymous letters and the telegrams asking for money. But at this point, breaking a confidence seemed irrelevant. She also told him about her conversation, afterward, with Miss Dare.

“She told me to get out and not to bother her again,” she said, “no matter what. So even if Verna and I had heard something—an argument or noises or something like that—we probably wouldn’t have rushed in here. By that time,” she added, “we were feeling pretty foolish about the whole thing. And this morning, we decided we wouldn’t sleep over here tonight. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Charlie said, shaking his head over all she had told him. “But you didn’t hear anything? After you talked to her for the last time, I mean. Or outside—you didn’t hear a vehicle?”

“No, not a sound,” Lizzy said. “Outdoors or in.” She glanced around. “I know it looks like there’s been a struggle, and I don’t see how we missed hearing it. It should have woken us up, don’t you think?”

“If there was a struggle,” Charlie said in a skeptical tone. “But maybe there wasn’t.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Damn the woman, anyway.”

“No struggle? What about all this?” Lizzy gestured helplessly. “Somebody knocked over all this stuff. But who? And why? I can’t believe that Roger . . . or Mildred—” She stopped. “It could have been somebody from the outside, I suppose. But how did he get into the house without being heard? Did he climb up the trellis and come in through the window?”