The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (33 page)

The late afternoon breeze lifted the willow leaves over her head and Bessie sighed, remembering Harold’s gentle smile, his beckoning glance, his young man’s eager hunger for her young woman’s willing body. She shook her head in disbelief. Miss Hamer was right. Harold had been proud and stubborn—and passionate. Bessie couldn’t imagine that he would willingly abandon her—the girl she had been then—for anything less than a king’s ransom. And she certainly couldn’t imagine her scrooge of a father forking over more than a few dollars for what was at bottom an uncertainty. There wouldn’t have been anything to keep Harold from taking the money, leaving for a few days, and then coming back.

A blue dragonfly, its transparent wings quivering, dropped onto a blade of grass at Bessie’s feet and she sat very still, watching it. Her father had been a volatile, temperamental man who was given to explosive outbursts. If Harold had refused his offer, had stood up to him and announced that he and Bessie were getting their rings and meant to be married whether he wanted to or not, he might have—

“Bessie!” It was Maxine, shouting from the back screen door. “What have you got in the oven? Smells like it might be scorching!”

Bessie jumped up and flew into the kitchen. After she rescued her crust and added the lemon filling, Leticia and Roseanne came in to start supper. They planned to eat early, because Leticia, Maxine, and Mrs. Sedalius were all going to a baby shower for Maxine’s granddaughter. Then Miss Rogers came in, asking Bessie’s advice on a dress pattern she was sewing. There was so much commotion that she could not pursue the unbearably ugly thought she had broken off when the cookies began to scorch.

It was just as well.

She didn’t want to think it. She didn’t dare.

 

 

The Dahlias’ Monday evening card party—they almost always played hearts—was open to all the club members, but only seven or eight usually came. Voleen Johnson, Miss Rogers, and several others never played cards, while Aunt Hetty Little played only poker. Mildred Kilgore often played hearts, but she had phoned to say that she and Mr. Kilgore had been asked out to supper at the country club. Alice Ann Walker and Lucy Murphy, also regulars at the card party, had gone to a meeting of the quilting club. Myra May had to work the switchboard. So it would be just one table of four: Bessie, Verna, Lizzy, and Ophelia. And since the Magnolia Ladies were all otherwise occupied tonight, they could set up their game in the parlor.

It was beginning to get dark and Bessie—still resolutely refusing to think that dreadful thought about her father and Harold—turned on the porch light. Then she put a pitcher of iced tea and a china plate filled with lemon chess squares, along with glasses, dessert plates, forks, and napkins, on the cherry sideboard. She was getting out the deck of cards and paper and pencil for scoring when she heard a knock at the door and opened it to Liz and Verna. The three of them were just sitting down at the card table when the telephone rang. It was Ophelia, regretting that she couldn’t come because her daughter had a fever and her husband had to go to a town council meeting.

“So it will be just us three,” Bessie said, and took out the two of diamonds, so that the deck had just fifty-one cards. “I always think it’s more fun to play with four, but—”

“Actually,” Verna said, with a glance at Liz, “it’s just as well that Ophelia isn’t here. I don’t know how much playing we’re going to get done tonight.”

“Oh?” Bessie asked, shuffling the cards. The hostess always dealt the first hand. “Let’s see, now. Since it’s just the three of us, we each get seventeen cards. Isn’t that right? And pass three instead of four?” She started to deal, then paused and looked at Verna. “Why aren’t we going to get much playing done tonight?”

“Because there might be a ruckus across the street,” Liz said. “Along about dark, maybe.” She glanced at Bessie. “Would it be okay if I opened the parlor window? We want to be able to hear.”

“Maybe we’d better tell Bessie what this is all about,” Verna said. “So she won’t be surprised.”

Bessie put down the cards. “Okay,” she said expectantly. “What’s it about?”

“Frankie Diamond,” Liz and Verna said, practically in unison.

Bessie raised her eyebrows. “What about him? He’s on the train back to Chicago, isn’t he?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Verna said. “We think maybe not.”

“We figure he’s not like the government revenue agents who let themselves be pushed around,” Liz said.

“He’s tough,” Verna said grimly. “He’s used to slugging it out with those Chicagoland gangsters. We think he might’ve jumped the train and come back. And if he was listening to Leona Ruth, he may know where to find the women. But it’s likely to be tonight. He won’t want to hang around here and risk getting collared again.”

“Oh, dear! And I told Miss Jamison that she didn’t need to worry!” Bessie reported what she had said, lamenting, “Now she’ll let her guard down!”

“No, she won’t,” Liz comforted her. “Sally-Lou is over there, paying a little visit to her auntie DessaRae. She’ll—”

“Hush,” Verna said, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. “I think I hear something. Bessie, let’s turn out the lights and go out on the porch. But we need to be quiet. It might not be happening just yet.”

“
What
might not be happening?” Bessie asked.

“You’ll see,” Liz said.

Bessie flicked the light switch and, moving silently, the three of them went out onto the porch. The night air, still warm from the heat of the day, was rich with the sound of cicadas and tree frogs. The moon had not yet risen and the sky was nearly full dark, the street darker yet under the overhanging trees. There were lights in the neighbors’ parlors and kitchens, and one house had a porch light. Across the street, Miss Hamer’s house spilled a block of light from the kitchen window, and there was a dimmer light upstairs.

They all stood quietly for a little while, for three minutes, maybe four. Bessie was just about to suggest that they go back inside and play a hand or two while they waited, when she saw a hunched-over shadow, heavy and bulky, moving slowly, creeping along the side of the house near the kitchen window. The shadow wore a hat.

She gasped and grabbed Verna’s arm. “Look there!” she squeaked. “It’s . . . it’s—him!”

“Bessie’s right, Verna,” Liz said excitedly. “Shouldn’t we go over there? What if Miss Jamison is in the kitchen, and he manages to get a shot through the window before—”

“Hang on a sec,” Verna said in a low voice. “Leave it to—”

Suddenly there was a shrill whistle. “Drop the gun, Diamond!” Buddy Norris shouted from behind the oak tree in Miss Hamer’s yard. “Hands against the wall! Now!” A glaring light spotlighted the shadowed figure and it froze, arm extended. Bessie could see that Frankie Diamond was holding a gun.

“Drop it, I said!” Buddy Norris shouted, but the figure didn’t move.

And then from inside the house came a sudden loud clanging, somebody banging on a big metal pot with a metal spoon—several somebodies, several pots, louder and faster, faster and louder, strangely syncopated. Then to this accompaniment they heard a wild, weird, wordless, otherworldly wailing that Bessie recognized from old African slave songs, passionate reverberations at the gates of the underworld. And then Miss Hamer’s shrill screeches split the air in a bloodcurdling, bone-shivering, banshee crescendo. It was, unmistakably, a Rebel yell.

It was the Rebel yell that toppled Frankie Diamond—and no wonder, for it was the same yell that had scared the pants off every Union soldier when he heard it through the trees or over a stone wall. Diamond dropped the gun and fell to his knees, covering his head with his arms, cowering.

“Lots of good old-fashioned Alabama yellin’ goin’ on over there,” Liz remarked cheerfully, as Buddy Norris ran up, kicked the gun away, and jerked Diamond to his feet.

“That damn Yankee must think all the hounds of hell are after him,” Verna observed with satisfaction. In one swift move, Buddy pulled the man’s hands behind his back and handcuffed him. Then he went to the kitchen window and rapped on it, and the pot-clanging and African wailing stopped. The Rebel yell continued for a moment, then it stopped, too. The night was quiet once again, as front doors all along the street popped open and people spilled out onto their porches to see what was going on.

Mr. Butler, two doors down, called, “Dep’ty Norris, you need a hand over there?”

“I reckon if you’ve got ten minutes, you can help me march this Yankee off to the hoosegow,” Buddy replied. “I’m gonna book ’im on a charge of attempted assault with a deadly weapon, attempted burglary, trespassin’, and disturbin’ the peace. And maybe by the time I get him there, I’ll think of something else to pin on him.”

“Lemme get my shoes on,” Mr. Butler replied. “Be with you in a shake.”

So that was why the neighbors along Camellia Street were treated to the satisfying sight of Deputy Buddy Norris, accompanied by Mr. Butler in his undershirt, trousers, and suspenders, escorting one of Al Capone’s most dangerous gangsters to the Cypress County jail, upstairs over Snow’s Farm Supply. It wasn’t a comfortable jail, just two small cells, one of which was probably already occupied by a drunk or a vagrant.

“Well, my goodness,” Bessie said limply to Verna and Lizzy. “How in the world did you girls manage all that?”

“We didn’t do anything much,” Verna said in a modest tone. “Buddy wanted to be a hero, so we asked him to hang around in the dark and see if Diamond showed up. And Liz put Sally-Lou up to organizing a little noisemaking with those clanging pots and pans. We thought that maybe some racket from inside would confuse Diamond and make it easier for Buddy to nab him.”

“And that Rebel yell?” Bessie asked.

“That,” Liz said with a chuckle, “was Miss Hamer’s own idea.”

Verna let out her breath. “Well, now that Buddy’s got his man, what say we play some hearts?” She rubbed her hands. “I’m ready for a game!”

“Maybe we could have refreshments first,” Liz said. “All this excitement has made me thirsty. And didn’t I see some lemon chess bars on a platter on your sideboard, Bessie?” She grinned. “You must’ve known that they’re my favorite.”

The three of them polished off the refreshments, then played a couple of games. The Magnolia Ladies came home from the baby shower and Liz and Verna said good night and went home. Bessie put away the card table and straightened the parlor, then climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

All in all, it had been a memorable day, from its inauspicious and rather ordinary beginning at Beulah’s Beauty Bower to its extraordinary conclusion with Miss Hamer’s Rebel yell and the arrest of a Chicagoland gangster right across the street—not to mention Miss Hamer’s claim that her father had paid Harold to jilt her and leave Darling. Who would have thought that all those amazing things could happen on just one day? She rather hoped that things would go back to being ordinary again tomorrow. She’d had just about all the excitement she could handle.

In her room, Bessie turned on the light beside her bed. She was tired, but her mind was still racing and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Her glance went to the box of her father’s papers that she had carried down from the attic, sitting on her dresser. She hadn’t had an urgent reason for going through them—until now. Of course, it wasn’t likely that she’d find anything to confirm or refute Miss Hamer’s assertion. But still, she ought to make the effort. When she didn’t find anything, she would at least know that there wasn’t anything to find.

Mr. Noonan had brought the box over from the funeral home one day not long after her father had sold the business. He was already too sick to be able to go through the papers, so Bessie had carried the box to the attic without bothering to take a look. Mr. Noonan told her that he’d kept the business items he had found in the files—burial records, grave marker and grave location information, invoices, employee records, and the like—and was returning items that looked to be of a more personal nature: newspaper clippings, notes from grateful clients, complaints, and so on. There was a note inside the box from Mrs. Noonan, saying that she had put everything into folders, a folder for each year. Now, Bessie was grateful. Her father had been in the funeral and gravestone business for decades and had accumulated a great many papers. At least she didn’t have to sort through dozens of scraps.

The file folders were neatly labeled and arranged in chronological order. Not all the years were represented, and the files were variously thick and thin. Bessie flipped through the folders, found the year she was looking for—the year Harold disappeared—and opened the file. There were only five or six items in it. A clipping about a death in neighboring Monroeville; a plaintive letter from a mother in North Carolina, asking for information about the burial of her son, with a carbon copy of the typed letter her father had written back; and several dated notes in her father’s cribbed and almost illegible handwriting, scribbled on the backs of funeral cards. She was about to close the file when she noticed another piece of paper, the familiar plat of all the graves in the Darling Cemetery, neatly numbered.