The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Instead, there had been long, lovely stretches of time with no one around but Daffodil and nothing to do but sit at her typewriter and immerse herself in the world of her story. When she had been working for several months, she rather shyly mentioned what she was doing to Mrs. Jackman, who clamored to read the first three chapters. When she did, she was impressed.

“I think this is simply splendid, my dear,” she exclaimed. “Coincidentally, my favorite cousin, Nadine Fleming, has her own literary agency in New York City. Please do let me share these chapters with her.”

This wonderful coincidence paid huge dividends. After Miss Fleming had seen the first three chapters of Lizzy’s book, she asked to see more—and then more, and then more, until finally she had seen the whole thing.

“Surprisingly good, for a first effort,” Miss Fleming acknowledged, when she telephoned—long-distance!—to discuss her impressions with Lizzy. “I was involved with your characters from the very first page. I’d like to send you a few suggestions to help you tighten up your narrative and . . .”

Entitled simply Sabrina, Lizzy’s book was about a young woman who lived on her family’s Alabama plantation during the difficult years after the War Between the States. Her young lover had been killed at Gettysburg, and she was being courted by an older man, a neighbor who seemed to offer her freedom from the burden of keeping the plantation going. Marriage was tempting, but—and in that but, of course, lay the story.

Lizzy did her best to incorporate the agent’s suggestions into what she hoped would be a final draft. When she was finished, she typed it one more time (with two carbons) and sent the manuscript off to New York. Now, Lizzy was waiting for a letter that might tell her whether Miss Fleming liked it or didn’t like it—or might like it better if Lizzy revised it yet again.

She was about to ask Verna what it was she wanted to ask when a bicycle bell jangled behind them. “Hello, ladies,” came the shouted greeting. “Pretty day, isn’t it?”

“Hello, Charlie.” Lizzy lifted her hand to wave at Charlie Dickens, who was catching up to them on his old blue bicycle. He was dressed in his summer seersucker suit and straw boater, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. Charlie, the editor and publisher of the Dispatch, was a rather different man since his marriage to Fannie Champaign. He still wore his newsman’s cynical skepticism like a hair shirt, but he no longer hung out at Pete’s Pool Parlor, he was home most evenings, and he even mustered the occasional smile.

Charlie slowed his bicycle. “Just letting you know that I’m putting out a special edition of the Dispatch early next week,” he said, raising his voice. “If your garden column is ready, Liz, there’ll likely be room for it.”

“The special is for Rona Jean’s murder?” Verna asked with interest. The Dispatch was a weekly, but if there was a big story, Charlie was known to publish an extra edition, which his readers very much appreciated.

“Guessed right the first time,” Charlie said cheerfully.

“What’s the scoop on the autopsy?” Lizzy asked. “Has Edna Fay heard anything from the hospital?” Charlie’s sister, Edna Fay, was married to Doc Roberts, and she sometimes gave her brother the inside story—her version, anyway. Since Charlie was coming from the direction of the Roberts’ house, it was a good guess that he had been visiting his sister.

Charlie gave her a crooked grin. “No comment,” he replied. He lifted his hat and pedaled away.

“He knows something we don’t,” Lizzy said, frowning. “I wonder what it is.”

“He knows that murder sells newspapers,” Verna remarked, waving at Mrs. Donner, who was deadheading her roses.