The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star (20 page)

She struck a match and held it to the cigar, but her hand was shaking so hard that the match went out. She tried again, with another match.

“I intend to settle some hash over this,” she added savagely, blowing out a stream of smoke.

Settle some hash. Who did Miss Dare suspect? Was it Rex Hart? If she thought he sent the telegrams, did she suspect him of writing the anonymous letters and sending the photograph? And sabotaging her airplane, too? But Lizzy didn’t feel that she could ask those important questions. Lamely, she said, “Well, if you need me in the night, just yell. I’m right next door. I can be here in a few seconds—faster, if you’ll unbolt the door between our rooms.”

“I am
not
unbolting any doors, baby doll.” Miss Dare looked straight at her, her eyes hard. “Go back to bed and go to sleep. And don’t bother me again, no matter what you think you hear in this room. You got that?”

“But I promised Charlie—” Lizzy began.

“I don’t care what the hell you promised Charlie,” Miss Dare said icily. “And you can tell him I said so. I resent being looked after. And I don’t like knowing that there’s a spy in the room next door, eavesdropping on my private conversations. Get out.
Now.
”

“I’m sorry,” Lizzy said, feeling like a little girl who’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Miss Dare was making a very valid point. She backed toward the door. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

Miss Dare didn’t reply. Lizzy left her, sitting on the bed, smoking and swinging that peach satin mule. As she went into the hall, she saw Angel Flame’s door close and wondered uncomfortably how much she had heard.

Back in their bedroom, Verna was waiting. “I guess that wasn’t such a good idea, huh?” she said quietly. “How is she?”

“She’s in pretty bad shape,” Lizzy replied. “Black eye, bruised arm. She was so shaky that she could barely light that cigar of hers.”

“Cigar?” Verna frowned.

“Cigar,” Lizzy said. “And I think she’s right, Verna. Regardless of why we were doing it, we shouldn’t be eavesdropping on her private conversations. I’m turning in now. And I don’t care what happens next door—even if somebody gets
shot—
I am
not
getting out of this bed.” She pulled her green cotton nightgown out of the dresser drawer. “And I am sleeping in my nightgown,” she said pointedly, beginning to undress.

Verna considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Our hearts were in the right place, but I guess you’re right.” Her grin was lopsided. “Just out of curiosity, though, tell me what she wears to sleep in.”

“A see-through peach negligee trimmed with lace,” Lizzy said. “And peach-colored satin mules on her feet. Like a Hollywood starlet. She may be broke, but she sleeps in style.” She turned back the pink coverlet and crawled into bed. “Whatever happens can happen without me. Good night.”

As she fell asleep, she wondered if Miss Marple ever regretted snooping into the private affairs of anyone in St. Mary Mead—and whether she’d gotten into serious trouble when she was doing it. Maybe she should write to Miss Agatha Christie and ask.

Lizzy was wakened from a sound sleep by the insistent hammering of a woodpecker in the sycamore tree outside the window. The sun was brightening the room and the inviting smell of bacon and coffee wafted through the early morning air. As she opened her eyes, she saw that Verna was already up and dressed.

“It’s seven o’clock on a Friday,” Verna announced briskly, “and I’m a working girl. I have to get to the courthouse, so I’ll just skip breakfast here. I can pick up something quick at the diner.”

Lizzy sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “You’re skipping breakfast here because you don’t want to face the awkwardness,” she said accusingly, thinking of what was ahead. “Mildred, Roger, and Miss Dare across the breakfast table. Oh, and Angel Flame, too.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun,” Verna agreed soberly. “Maybe we shouldn’t have listened in last night, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are three pretty unhappy people in this house this morning.”

“Make that four.” Lizzy swung her feet onto the floor. “I’m going to tell Charlie that Miss Dare doesn’t need a Miss Marple—or a nanny, either. She can take care of herself. Which means I won’t be sleeping over here after the party tonight.” The party, she thought forlornly, to which Grady was bringing the beautiful DeeDee Davis. But at least she hadn’t dreamed about her again.

Verna nodded slowly. “I won’t either, then. Shall I let Mildred know, or will you?”

“I will,” Lizzy said. “I’m sure it will be okay if we leave our clothes, though. We can dress here for the party.”

“Good idea,” Verna said, picking up her handbag. “Thank Mildred for the hospitality, will you? I’ll see you later today.” At the door, she paused. “Oh, and I’ll leave your bicycle out front. You’ll want it today, I’m sure.”

Lizzy combed her hair, dressed in slacks and her red print blouse, and added a touch of red lipstick. Then she went downstairs to the breakfast room, where a table was spread with a snowy white damask cloth and centered with a crystal bowl of pink roses. It was set for five.

But Mildred, wearing a lilac-colored sundress, was the only person there. Her eye was puffed and purpled, although it wasn’t nearly as bad as Miss Dare’s had been last night.

“Oh, dear,” Lizzy said quietly. “Oh, Mildred, your poor
eye.
I’m so sorry.”

“Well, I’m not,” Mildred replied staunchly. “I gave as good as I got—and maybe some better, too. You overheard the whole thing, I suppose.”

Ollie Rose, wearing her starched black uniform and white cap, brought in a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits and set it down on the table.

“Thank you, Ollie Rose,” Mildred said. She picked up the silver coffeepot. “Coffee, Liz?”

“Thank you.” Lizzy held out her cup as Mildred poured. “Yes, I overheard,” she confessed somewhat guiltily.

“And you overheard Roger’s conversation with her?” Mildred giggled. “I don’t think it went quite the way he expected. You should see
his
eye.”

Lizzy flinched. “Verna and I both wish we hadn’t put all of us into that situation,” she said contritely. “If I had thought the whole thing through, I might have realized that it wasn’t the best idea in the world. I feel terribly awkward about it, Mildred. I apologized to Miss Dare, and I’m apologizing to you. I
am
sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mildred said thoughtfully, and put down the pot. She smiled. “To tell the truth, Liz, I actually felt better knowing that you were on the other side of that door, in case . . .” She shrugged one shoulder. “Well, just in case. And I’m glad I told you about the letters and the money. Talking about it made me see things a little more clearly. I didn’t have a chance to discuss anything with Roger this morning—he got up and went to work very early, while I was still asleep. But we said enough last night to make me hope that we’ll get things straightened out—once Miss Dare is gone.” She frowned. “Of course, my opinion of her is still the same. She is a
tramp
.”

“I think you and Roger will get things straightened out,” Lizzy said warmly, “and I’m glad. Just the same, Verna and I feel it would be better if we went home after the party tonight.” She helped herself to the scrambled eggs and bacon. “Oh, and Verna asked me to thank you for your hospitality,” she added, taking a biscuit. “She thought she’d better skip breakfast and go on to the courthouse.”

“You all are welcome any time,” Mildred said. “We rattle around in this big house.” She glanced at the clock on the sideboard. The hands stood at eight o’clock. “I wonder where Angel and Miss Dare are. Last night, Mr. Dickens said he’d be here at eight fifteen to pick them up and take them out to the airfield, so they asked for breakfast early. I’ll ask Ollie Rose to go upstairs and knock.”

But just as Mildred was reaching for the small gold bell beside her plate, Lizzy heard the sound of hurrying footsteps on the stairs.

“Mrs. Kilgore!” Angel Flame, dressed in khaki trousers and a navy blue blouse, burst into the dining room. Her hair was sticking out in every direction and the sandy freckles were popping out all over her face. “Mrs. Kilgore, oh, come quick! Quick! Lily is—” She gulped. “Miss Dare is
gone
!”

“Gone?” Lizzy echoed. “Gone where?”

“I have no idea,” Angel replied breathlessly. “I went to wake her up just now and her room is empty. And there’s been some sort of . . . of trouble. In her room.”

“Trouble?” Mildred asked sharply. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “What kind of trouble?”

“Come and see,” Angel said, and turned to run back up the stairs.

A moment later, they were standing at the door of Lily Dare’s bedroom. “You see?” Angel said excitedly. “It looks like there’s been a struggle of some sort!”

She was right. The lamp from the nightstand lay on its side, the light bulb shattered and the lampshade broken. The ashtray had spilled and cigar ashes were scattered across the floor. Bedding was twisted and pulled from the bed. A straight chair lay on its side. A vase of flowers had been knocked over and the water spilled. The window shade was askew. Lily Dare was nowhere to be seen.

“The window!” Lizzy exclaimed, and rushed toward the open window, which was pushed up as high as it would go. The screen was missing, and a torn scrap of sheer peach fabric was snagged on a corner of the sill. She put her head out and looked down. There was a bare wooden trellis on the wall beneath the window. On the ground beneath the window, about ten feet below, lay the window screen—and one peach-colored satin mule.

“Her slipper,” Lizzy said to Mildred. “It’s down there, on the ground.” She pointed to the scrap of fabric. “And that’s her nightgown.”

“You mean, she’s out there somewhere in her negligee and just one slipper?” Mildred asked incredulously.

“She would never go out dressed like that!” Angel Flame cried, clapping her hands to her mouth. “She’s been kidnapped. Somebody forced her out that window!”

“Kidnapped!” Mildred wailed. “Oh, no! This can’t be happening. Not in
my
house
!” She swiveled to face Lizzy. “This mess, the breakage—surely there would have been some noise. What did you hear?”

“Not a thing,” Lizzy said disconsolately. “Not after—”

She stopped. She had been about to say that she hadn’t heard any signs of an altercation after Roger left Miss Dare’s room, but she didn’t want to discuss it in front of Angel Flame. Angel had been at her door, listening, and Lizzy didn’t know what she had overheard.

“Not after—” Angel prompted, watching her. “Not after what? What do you mean?”

But Lizzy was saved by the bell—the doorbell, pealing sharply downstairs.

“Thank heavens,” Mildred said, hurrying to the door. “It must be Mr. Dickens. He’ll know what to do.”

“I think you should call the cops,” Angel said loudly, to Mildred’s back. “Call ’em right now! Don’t wait another minute.” She looked around the room, shuddering. “Something
bad
has happened to Lily,” she muttered. “Something really,
really
bad. I can feel it in my bones!”

Lizzy sighed, thinking of Sheriff Roy Burns, who would go clumping through the house like Mr. Norris’ clumsy old horse. The sheriff could handle Old Zeke when he got drunk and disorderly, and he could manage the rowdies out at the Dance Barn out on Briarwood Road. But he had neither finesse nor imagination, and she was sure he would have no more idea of what to do than they did.

And what was worse, if the sheriff came, he would likely start asking questions, and she would end up having to tell about the confrontations of the night before. And
that
could cause all kinds of unwarranted embarrassment and trouble for Mildred and Roger.

Then Lizzy pulled in her breath, reminding herself of a question that Mr. Moseley would most certainly ask. Was it
really
unwarranted? What if one or the other of the Kilgores—or both—had a hand in Miss Dare’s disappearance?

But that wasn’t likely.

Was it?

Verna usually walked to work, from the small frame house at the corner of Larkspur and Robert E. Lee, where she lived with her black Scottie, Clyde. But Clyde had spent the night with Verna’s neighbor. And since she was already in the car, she just drove on into the middle of town and parked her LaSalle against the nearly empty curb in front of the courthouse, where old Mr. Tucker was just raising the flags, the U.S. flag on one pole, the flag of the Confederate States of America on the other. Out of respect for the fallen, he always raised the Confederate flag first and stepped back to salute it.

Getting out of the car, Verna glanced up at the clock on the tower. It was only seven thirty. She hated to admit it, but Liz had been right—she had skipped breakfast at the Kilgores’ because she wanted to avoid the unpleasantness. She felt like a heel, leaving Liz to cope with Mildred and Roger and Miss Dare, but she promised herself that she’d make it up to her.

Meanwhile, she needed some breakfast. Donna Sue, the clerk in Judge McHenry’s office, had raved about the sausage and grits casserole that she’d gotten at the diner the morning before, which (according to Donna Sue) tasted exactly like her mama’s casserole and maybe even a bit better. This was saying a
lot,
Verna knew, since Donna Sue had always claimed that nobody in the world could hold a candle to her mama’s cooking.

Grits and sausage casserole sounded good to Verna, along with a cup of Myra May’s strong, black coffee, Violet’s cheerful morning greeting, and the chortles of little Cupcake. She crossed the street, feeling the warm summer sunshine on her shoulders and smiling with anticipation. The night had been awkward (to say the least!), and she was sorry that she had volunteered to snoop into something that was really none of her business. That’s what came of indulging her regrettable habit of poking around under rocks. A satisfying breakfast with her good friends at the Darling Diner would go a long way to restoring her balance—and her self-confidence.

But when Verna opened the door and went in, the diner was such a scene of noisy chaos that she simply stopped and stared. The stools at the counter were almost all taken, the tables were full of chatting patrons, and Myra May, Violet, and Earlynne Biddle’s boy, Bennie, were running back and forth with plates of food and pots of coffee, all three wearing anxious and harried expressions. Obviously, word about the new cook had gotten around. Myra May was going to have to hire additional help.

Verna took the nearest available seat at the counter, sliding in next to Mr. Greer, the owner of the Palace Theater. Over a full plate of eggs and ham, he was telling Mr. Musgrove about the large and enthusiastic crowd they’d had at the showing of
Hell’s Angels
the night before. The film had featured several aerial dogfights, with one of the planes flown by Miss Lily Dare, the Texas Star—who would be flying at the air show that weekend.

“And the Texas Star herself came to the movie,” he announced, speaking over the morning farm market report (corn was up, beans and pork bellies were down) on the white Philco radio behind the counter. He spoke loud enough to be heard three stools down by Archie Mann, from Mann’s Mercantile.

Archie Mann leaned forward to reply to Mr. Greer past Lester Lima (the owner of Lima’s Drugstore) and Jake Pritchard (who owned the Standard Oil filling station out on the Monroeville Highway).

“That pilot lady’s a real looker, too, by damn,” he said with a sly chuckle. “Ol’ Charlie Dickens, he’s landed hisself a stunner this time. That Miss Dare, she can fly my plane any day of the week,” he added, and broke into a raucous guffaw that was echoed along the counter by all the men who were listening—and all of them were.

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.

Verna looked at her watch. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ve got my car this morning. I’ll run across the street to the office and get Melba Jean and Ruthie started for the day.” She gulped the last of her coffee and slid off the stool. “Then I’ll drive out to the Marigold and find out what’s what. If she’s just overslept, I can drive her back. Her name is Raylene, you said? Which cottage is she in?”

“Oh,
would
you, Verna?” Myra May asked happily. “You’ll earn our undying gratitude. Right—Raylene Riggs. She’s in Number Four.” She grabbed a paper napkin and two biscuits off a plate, wrapped them up, and thrust them at Verna. “Here. Take these with you so you won’t starve. And when we get ourselves organized again, you’ve got a couple of free breakfasts coming.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything,” Verna said.

From the kitchen came the ominous sound of grease crackling. “Myra
May
!” Violet yelled, louder this time.
“Help!”

Verna had been working late recently to reorganize the county bank accounts, so she felt justified in taking a little time off this morning. She got Ruthie and Melba Jean—her two employees—settled on the day’s work, signed a couple of documents, and returned a telephone phone call. Twenty minutes later, she was back in her LaSalle, heading out to the Marigold Motor Court.

Pauline and Floyd DuBerry had built the motor court back when people were upbeat and hopeful and could spend a little extra money to put gas in their tanks and new tires on their cars and drive somewhere for a vacation. They had lost their only child, Herman, in the Great War, and they had nothing except the motor court cottages, their house, a few chickens, and a garden. And then Pauline had lost Floyd to heat stroke, one hot July afternoon two years before, when he shouldn’t have been out mowing but was anyway, because it needed doing. That was Floyd, she said sadly, out there in the noon sun without a hat. Stubborn as an old mule. You couldn’t tell that man a blessed thing.

With Floyd gone, Pauline had to hire Jake Pritchard’s boy to come over from the Standard Oil station across the road and cut the weeds and fix the plumbing and do whatever had to be done to keep the motor court looking attractive. The Marigold income was all she had to keep her going in her old age, which she had already reached, since Pauline was sixty-two and wishing she could slow down.

Unfortunately, things weren’t working out that way. When she stopped by the courthouse to pay the property tax, Pauline (a chatty little old lady) told Verna that she was lucky to have more than two guests on any one night and there were lots of nights when all the cottages were vacant and she was out there by herself. What little she made was barely enough to keep the electric lights on and the toilets flushing, let alone pay down the mortgage Floyd got from Mr. Johnson at the Darling Savings and Trust to build the cottages.

“A measly seventy-five cents a night is all I charge for one, plus a quarter for two,” Pauline said, but folks still couldn’t afford it. They’d sleep in their cars, sometimes right there in the parking lot beside the CLEAN SHEETS AND TOWELS sign.

“I’d give just about anything if Senator Huey P. Long would run for president instead of that rich man Roosevelt,” Pauline had added wistfully. Many Southerners favored Long over Roosevelt, who was not only wealthy but had an aristocratic look and talked like a college man and a Northerner, to boot. Long, on the other hand, was a down-home good ol’ boy. He talked just like everybody else and looked out for the people’s good.

As she counted out ten ones and twenty-six cents for her property tax payment, Pauline had said, “Did you know that Senator Long is in favor of old age pensions for everybody over sixty? If I had one of
them
,
I could sit back and put my feet up.” She had sighed heavily. “Of course, I’d still have my swolled-up ankles, but my money troubles would be over.”

Verna pulled into the motor court, parked her car, and looked around. The seven one-room frame cottages were arranged in a half-circle around the sides and back of the DuBerry house—each cottage painted a different color because Floyd had bought the paint in a closeout sale at Musgrove’s Hardware. A red neon VACANCY sign blinked hopefully in Pauline’s parlor window, which was also the motor court office. There was only one car in sight, a dilapidated black Model A Ford, missing both its front and back bumpers, parked in front of Cottage Two.

Verna got out of the car and hesitated a moment, wondering if she should go and look for Pauline, then decided to try the cottage first. Number Four was painted a bright lemon yellow, with orange window frames and a blue door. Pauline had carried out the color motif at the front window with yellow print curtains edged with several rows of bright orange rickrack. A battered tin water bucket planted with red and gold marigolds stood beside the door.

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.