Read The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star Online
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
Tags: #Mystery, #Gardening, #Adult
The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star (5 page)
“Yep, that’s me,” Myra May said curtly. “Myra May Mosswell.” By now she was suspecting that this was some sort of sales call. Well, she knew how to handle that. She’d make it short and not-so-sweet. “Just what is it you’re wanting, Miz Riggs?”
Clearing her throat, the caller spoke hesitantly. “Well, I . . . I’m stayin’ with some friends just now, over here in Monroeville.” Some twenty miles to the east, Monroeville was the county seat of Monroe County. “Years ago—years and
years
ago, really—I used to come over to Darlin’ to visit. I always thought it was a right pretty little town, the kind of place I’d like to live. I’m lookin’ to settle down now, after travelin’ around all over, and I—”
“Excuse me,” Myra May broke in. “It sounds to me like you’re lookin’ for Mr. Manning. That would be Mr. Joe Lee Manning, Junior. He handles real estate, and last I heard he had a whole long list of houses for sale or rent.” A long, sad list, most of them bank foreclosures, sitting silent and empty. She reached for the switchboard plug that would connect the caller to Mr. Manning. “It’s a little on the late side, but I can ring him for you. I’m sure he won’t mind.” He wouldn’t, either. Joe Lee Manning would drag himself out of bed at any hour to unload one of those vacant houses.
“Oh, no, ma’am, I’m sorry,” Raylene Riggs said quickly. “I am not lookin’ for a
house
,
at least, not yet
.
Maybe later I will, after I’ve landed a job.” She cleared her throat apologetically. “That’s actually what I’m lookin’ for. A job.”
Myra May was nearly out of patience. Didn’t this woman know
anything?
“Well, then, you want to pick up a copy of the Darling
Dispatch.
If there’s any jobs to be had in this town, that’s where you’ll find them.” Lots of luck, she thought ironically. Job openings in Darling were few and far between. Anybody who had one hung on to it like grim death.
“But I’m not lookin’ for just any old job.” The woman pulled in her breath. “What I mean to say is that I hear your cook is quittin’. There at the diner, I mean. That’s why I’m callin’, Miz Mosswell. I am a real good cook with lots of experience. I thought I might could—”
“I don’t know where you heard that,” Myra May snapped. “About our cook, I mean.”
“A . . . friend of mine happened to hear it,” Raylene Riggs said, almost apologetically. “He says that Euphoria is a real good cook and he’ll truly miss her fried chicken. But he thinks my meat loaf is even better than hers and my meringue pies—”
Myra May cut her off again. “She didn’t actually quit—she just took off a little early one day. So you tell your friend he can rest easy about his fried chicken. We are not in need of a cook.”
I hope,
she added silently, thinking of Friday night’s party.
Oh, lord, lord, I hope.
There was a moment’s pause. Then, “Well, I guess I must’ve heard wrong. My friend also works with Miz Euphoria’s oldest boy, Chauncy, at the depot here in Monroeville, you see. Chauncy happened to mention that his mama and her sister, Jubilation, have decided to set themselves up in business, in one of those little joints over in Maysville.”
Myra May gulped a breath. She knew for a fact that Euphoria had a sister named Jubilation and that her son Chauncy unloaded freight at the railroad depot over in Monroeville. Maysville was the colored section of Darling, on the east side of the railroad tracks, and several juke joints there were known to serve very good food. Altogether, the story had the ring of truth. Myra May shivered. Was it possible that Euphoria’s recent irregularities were inspired by a plan to strike off on her own?
But she didn’t want to let on what she was thinking. She steadied herself and said, cautiously, “Well, I don’t know anything at all about that, Miz Riggs. Far as I know, we’ve still got us a cook. A real good one, at that.”
“It sounds like Chauncy was misrememberin’,” Raylene Riggs replied hesitantly, “or else he maybe didn’t have all the facts.” She wasn’t making any effort to disguise the disappointment in her voice. “But I wonder—well, how ’bout if I just give you the phone number, here at this place where I’m stayin’? That way, you can call me if things don’t turn out the way you think. I’m available now, in case you find out that you need help right away.” Without waiting for Myra May to answer, she rattled off a telephone number.
Myra May reached for a pencil. “What was that again?” she asked, reminding herself to be polite. After all, the woman was only looking for a job, like lots of other out-of-work, out-of-luck people these days. Anybody who heard about a possible opening was smart to jump on it lickety-split, since there were bound to be a couple dozen folks in line before the day was an hour older. She wrote down the number the woman had given her.
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll need anybody, but if we do, we’ll let you know.”
“That’s all I’m askin’,” the woman said. She added, with what Myra May thought was an odd, lingering reluctance, “It’s been real nice talkin’ to you, Miz Mosswell.” A breath, and then, with greater—and more puzzling—intensity. “Just
real
nice. I appreciate it.”
“Same here,” Myra May replied uneasily, and broke the connection. Next to her at the switchboard, Nancy Lee shifted in her chair. Myra May noticed that she had not unplugged her switchboard jack, which meant that she’d been listening in—not usually allowed, but she would’ve overheard Myra May’s half of the conversation anyway.
Nancy Lee gave her a look over her glasses. “I couldn’t help hearin’ what you were saying about Euphoria,” she remarked. “I was over to the post office this afternoon when Old Zeke came in. I heard him tellin’ Mr. Stevens that Euphoria and Jubilation are goin’ to work for shares in the Red Dog, that juke joint over in Maysville. They’re fixin’ to start cookin’ there this week. I figured Zeke was talkin’ about Jubilation cookin’ full time and Euphoria nights and Sundays, but maybe—” A caller’s buzz interrupted her. When she plugged in the call, she turned back to Myra May. “Sorry I’m not a better cook, or I’d be glad to help out. My Daddy Lee says all I’m good for is makin’ chick’ry coffee.” Nancy Lee had grown up in New Orleans, where chickory coffee was a favorite.
Myra May sighed, said good night, and went upstairs, feeling like that sack on her shoulder was another twenty pounds heavier. It was a warm July night, and the windows were open to the buzzy song of the cicadas in the trees and the sweetly scented nighttime breeze. Wearing her old pink flowered cotton sleeping chemise, Violet was sitting in her favorite chair with a book—the library copy of Edna Ferber’s
Cimarron
—and idly fanning herself with a black-bordered cardboard fan from Noonan’s Funeral Home while she read.
She looked up and closed the book on her finger to mark her place. “There’s a pitcher of cold tea in the icebox. Everything okay downstairs?”
“Not exactly,” Myra May replied glumly, thinking that what she had just heard constituted an emergency and thereby permitted her to break Violet’s rule. She went to the icebox and took out the frosty glass pitcher. “We got a phone call from some woman over in Monroeville who heard that Euphoria and Jubilation are going to cook at a juke over on the other side of the tracks. Specifically, at the Red Dog, was what Nancy Lee heard Old Zeke tell the postmaster. Zeke said they’re working for shares in the business. They’re going to be part owners.”
There were several jukes in Maysville, but the Red Dog was the most popular. It showcased traveling blues musicians like Son House and Lead Belly, who always brought in a crowd when they came to town. Myra May suspected that if Euphoria and Jubilation were cooking there, the Red Dog would soon be as popular for its food as it was for its music.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Violet said, laying her book aside. “It makes a lot of sense, though—and it’s better for Euphoria. Why should she work for us when she can work for herself? More power to her, I have to say.”
“You’re right,” Myra May said, sinking into her favorite chair, across from Violet. “But I wish she would’ve told us what she was planning. I guess when she comes in tomorrow morning, I have to ask her straight out if this is true or not. I’d rather know for sure than stand around worrying whether it’s actually going to happen. Or when.” She shivered. “I sure hope she’ll stay for the weekend, anyway. We could probably handle the Kilgores’ party without her, but it would be pretty tough.”
Violet pulled up her legs and propped her chin on her knees. She looked worried. “Euphoria is going to be a tough act to follow. You got any ideas who we can get to replace her?”
“Ophelia Snow’s maid, Florabelle, has a sister who does good fried chicken,” Myra May said. “I had some at the Snows’ picnic last summer. I could ask Ophelia to find out if she’s available. Or—” She paused, sipping her cold tea. “There’s that woman who called tonight looking for a job—Raylene Riggs, her name is. She says she’s a real good cook. Experienced.”
“That’s what they all say,” Violet replied pertly. “But it usually turns out that they’re good at one thing or another but not good at both. The thing about Euphoria is that her pies are every bit as good as her fried chicken—and her catfish is the best I’ve ever tasted. We might check this woman out, though. If it turns out that Euphoria is fixing to quit, we could invite her in to cook one day. Give her a tryout. Florabelle’s sister, too.” She paused, cocking her head. “Actually, we might run an ad in the
Dispatch
asking folks to audition, the way they do for dancers and actors and such.”
“Now, there’s an idea,” Myra May said, snapping her fingers. “If we’re trying out cooks, we could get the customers to tell us who they like best. Maybe the auditions can even tide us over until we find a replacement for Euphoria—
if
we have to.” She paused, adding hopefully, “But it might not be true, this rumor about her quitting, I mean. Maybe it’s just talk. You know how people are.”
Violet considered this. “Well, I’m thinking that even if she says she’s staying on, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her know we’re looking for a backup. The way it is now, we are at her mercy. What do you think?”
“Agree a hundred percent,” Myra May said definitively. “I’ll talk to her first thing in the morning.”
“Good luck,” Violet said, picking up her book again.
“You bet,” Myra May muttered, under her breath.
It took her a long time to fall asleep that night, and when she did, she dreamed of going into the diner kitchen and finding it silent and the kitchen range stone cold, while customers were lined up outside the front door and around the block, waving signs and shouting in unison, “We want Euphoria! We want Euphoria!”
Myra May woke up in a cold sweat. She lay there for a long time, thinking how much she hated to be at the mercy of a cook who couldn’t be counted on, no matter how talented she might be when it came to fried chicken and chocolate pie.
Looking for a Cook
When Tuesday morning came and Myra May and Violet went downstairs to start the biscuits for the breakfast crowd, there was no Euphoria. She failed to show up to cook the noon dinner, too, so Myra May wound up repeating the Monday special, which was meat loaf. Sticking several pans of meat loaf into the oven was easier than standing over three or four skillets of frying chicken and turning the pieces every few minutes. Violet fried catfish and made coleslaw. Sissy Dunlap (the daughter of Mr. Dunlap, who owned the Five and Dime) came in to help with the serving and the cleanup, and Bennie Biddle helped, too. But between cooking and managing the counter, Myra May and Violet were as “busy as a stump-tailed cow in fly season,” as Mr. Greer (from the Palace Theater) put it. And all the while, Myra May was worrying about the coming weekend and the Kilgores’ party. How were they going to manage?
As soon after lunch as she could get away, Myra May went next door to the office of the Darling
Dispatch
, where she stood at the counter and filled out an advertising form for auditions for the Darling Diner cook’s position. Every applicant would be required to fry chicken, catfish, and liver and onions, as well as make a meat loaf, cook beans and greens, and bake biscuits and pies. The “audition” would be an on-the-job test that would also show how well the person worked under pressure. She didn’t put all of this in the ad, though, since she was being charged by the word.
Charlie Dickens, the
Dispatch
editor, was sitting at his desk, frowning about something. He had just picked up the candlestick telephone when he looked up and saw Myra May. He put the phone down, pushed back his chair, and came to the counter. He wore a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, red suspenders, and a green celluloid eyeshade.
Charlie had grown up in Darling, but he had left when he was young, soldiered in France in the Great War, hoofed it through Europe and the Balkans, then became a reporter for the Cleveland
Plain Dealer,
the
Baltimore Sun
,
and the Fort Worth
Star-Telegram
. His nomadic experiences had given him a slantwise, skeptical view of settled, small-town life. In fact, it was such an un-Darlingian view that most folks figured he stayed only because—given the depressing economic effects of the Depression—he couldn’t afford to leave. This was just about right, as Charlie might tell you if you happened to ask him when he’d been helping himself from the bottle of Mickey LeDoux’s bootleg corn whiskey he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. When he was sober, he’d just say it was none of your damn business.
“So what’s this?” Charlie asked in an ironic tone, looking down at the ad copy Myra May handed him. “Auditions at the diner? You and Violet planning to add some supper-time entertainment?” He tipped his eyeshade back with his thumb. “Some hootchy-kootchy? A sword-swallowing act?” He seemed to find this amusing.
Myra May explained the predicament they were in and what they wanted to do, and Charlie pursed his lips. “Maybe you better put ‘cooking’ in front of ‘auditions,’” he said. “To get your meaning across.” When Myra May nodded, he penciled the word in, then turned and shouted, “Ophelia! Hey, Ophelia. I got an ad for you. And a story.”
While Myra May was writing out her ad, the Linotype machine had been clunking slowly away at the back of the big room. It stopped, and the woman who had been operating it slid out of her seat and made her way through the maze of type cases and makeup tables to the front counter. People (mostly men) sometimes said that a woman didn’t have the kind of muscle a Linotype operator needed to pull the casting lever, but that was a lot of hooey, according to Ophelia Snow, who had been pulling that lever for over a year.
“If I can wrestle Jed’s wet denim overalls through the crank wringer on that antique washing machine of mine,” she liked to tell her friends, “I can wrestle that Linotype. It takes about the same amount of muscle.”
“Hi, Myra May,” Ophelia said, tucking her brown hair back under her blue kerchief. Ophelia worked full time as the
Dispatch
’s advertising and subscription manager, Linotype operator, and society reporter, assigned to cover clubs and civic organizations. (Charlie handled what he laughingly called the “city desk.”) Married to Jed Snow, the owner of Snow’s Farm Supply and the mayor of Darling, Ophelia had never planned to “work out,” as the Darling matrons disdainfully put it, for she considered taking care of her husband and two children job enough. But she had gotten in over her head the previous year when she bought a smart living room suite on Sears’ time-payment plan and needed to find the money to make the monthly payments. She couldn’t ask her husband because too many of the farmers were behind on their seed and equipment bills at the Farm Supply. And while being mayor of Darling allowed Jed to swagger around with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, looking important, it didn’t pay one red cent in salary.
In fact, scarce as jobs were, Ophelia counted herself lucky that she happened to come into the
Dispatch
office the same afternoon that Mr. Dickens was trying to figure out how to replace Zipper Haydon, who was retiring from several decades at the
Dispatch
. (It was surely time, for Mr. Haydon was old enough to remember when the rabble of Union soldiers had ripped their way through Darling in the last days of the War for Southern Independence.) Mr. Dickens needed somebody who could type and correct copy, operate the Linotype, get to work on time and sober—and do it all for ten dollars a week. Ophelia could type sixty words a minute, spell like a dictionary, never touched a drop on principle, and thought ten dollars sounded like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Jed had sulked when he first learned that she was going to work, but he quit complaining when he saw the extra money coming in.
Charlie handed Ophelia Myra May’s ad. “The girls are gonna audition cooks for the diner—like a chorus line or something. Might be a story in it. You write something up, we’ll run it on the local page for Friday.”
“Audition
cooks
?” Ophelia glanced in surprise at the ad. “What happened to Euphoria?”
Myra May explained again. “A story would be swell,” she added enthusiastically. “It would get a lot more attention than an ad.” As an afterthought, she said, “Violet wondered if Florabelle’s sister might like to try out.”
Ophelia frowned. “Wisteria—that’s her name—would be great for fried chicken. Her biscuits are middling. But I’m telling you as a friend that you’d be disappointed in her piecrust. You’d have to find somebody else to bake pies.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” Myra May said thoughtfully. “A different pie cook, I mean. That way, we wouldn’t have all our eggs in one basket, so to speak.” She sighed, thinking of the party. They’d had their eggs in Euphoria’s basket, and now they were smashed, all over the floor. How in the world could they handle that party?
The door opened, and the three of them turned to see Elizabeth Lacy, one of Myra May’s best friends. She was slender and summery in a pink print silk crepe dress with organdy ruffles at the neck and arms. Her brown hair was cut short, parted on one side, and fell in soft waves on either side of her heart-shaped face. She looked like Loretta Young, who was featured on a recent cover of
Movie Classic
magazine.
Liz wasn’t just pretty, but warm and caring, as well. She worked as a secretary and legal clerk in the law office of Moseley and Moseley, upstairs over the
Dispatch.
And even if she didn’t always get the credit due her, most Darlingians knew that Mr. Moseley couldn’t manage without her. She handled the paperwork, met the filing deadlines, and kept the office running during her boss’s frequent absences. People said that the only thing she couldn’t do was appear for him in court. Old Judge McHenry couldn’t see very well, but he’d know the difference between Liz and Mr. Moseley right off.
“It’s Tuesday, so here’s Mr. Moseley’s legal advertisements,” Liz said, handing Charlie a typed page.
She looked from Myra May to Ophelia. “What’s this?” she asked, laughing lightly. “A meeting of the Dahlias’ officers—and you didn’t invite me?” Ophelia was the vice president and secretary, and Myra May was the communications chairwoman. Liz, of course, was the president.
“Auditions,” Ophelia said. “At the diner.” She held up Myra May’s ad, which required Myra May to tell her story one more time.
“I’m sorry you’ve lost Euphoria,” Liz said. She tilted her head to one side, considering. “Mrs. Alexander is letting her cook go. Pearly is a good hand with pies and biscuits, and Grady says she definitely has to find another job. You could give her a try.”
Grady Alexander, the Cypress County agriculture agent, was Liz’s boyfriend. Just the month before, his father had died when the M&R locomotive he was driving derailed at the river crossing. Myra May had heard that his mother had to cut back on expenses.
Liz paused, then qualified her recommendation. “Pearly’s meat loaf is only so-so, though. And I wouldn’t recommend her pies, especially her meringue. It’s weepy.”
Charlie snorted. “Lord deliver us from weepy meringues.”
Myra May pressed her lips together, thinking that hard times for some folks—like poor Mrs. Alexander, who had not only lost her husband but her husband’s paycheck—meant hard times for even more folks. “Euphoria is one of a kind,” she said with a sigh. “It might take two, maybe three, to replace her.”
“Well, look at it this way,” Ophelia said in a practical tone. “You get yourself seven cooks to come in and audition, you’ve got free cooking for a week.”
Charlie looked down his nose at Ophelia. “Free advertisin’, too, if Ophelia gets right on that story.” He turned to Liz. “I was just reaching for the phone to call you when Myra May came in with her ad.”
“What’s up?” Liz asked.
“It’s the Dare Devils,” he replied. “The air show.”
Liz looked apprehensive. “Uh-oh. What about it? Don’t tell me that something’s gone wrong!”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Charlie said in a deliberate, matter-of-fact tone. “But since you’re in charge of the festival, I think you ought to know how things stand. I just got off the line with Lily Dare. She called because I’m supposed to interview her when she flies in, for the story we’re running. But there’s been some trouble. They did an air show down in Pensacola last weekend. Seems there was a problem with Miss Dare’s plane.” He pulled his eyebrows together. “She thinks it was sabotage.”
“Sabotage,” Ophelia echoed blankly. “Why, who would do a thing like that?”
“Sabotage!” Myra May’s eyes widened. “That sounds serious.”
“Sabotage?” Liz asked uncertainly. “What kind of sabotage?”
Charlie shrugged. “How should I know what kind of sabotage? I’m just repeating what Miss Dare told me. The bottom line is that the plane needs a new propeller, which has to come from St. Louis. Nobody’s just real sure when it’ll arrive. She said she’d call as soon as she had any news.”
“Rats,” Myra May said expressively, and Ophelia groaned.
“Oh, dear.” Liz’s voice was low and anxious. “There’s no chance the show will be canceled, is there?”
“Dunno,” Charlie said. “But it didn’t sound too good.”
“I sincerely hope they don’t cancel,” Myra May said, pursing her lips. “If they do, Darling is going to be very disappointed.”
“I hope not, too,” Ophelia said fervently. “This air show is the biggest thing that’s ever happened in this town.” She paused. “I guess I’d better tell Jed. He’s vice president of the Lions Club, you know. And Roger Kilgore will have to be told, of course. He’s the one who arranged all this—and he’s got that special promotion going on. If you buy a car, you get a free airplane ride.” She turned to Liz. “Maybe you ought to let Mildred know, too, Liz. Miss Dare is supposed to be the guest of honor at her party. And she’s staying at their house.”
“Yes, I think I’d better,” Liz said slowly. “Although I hate to bother her before we know anything for sure. Mildred seems to have had a lot on her mind lately.”
“Then maybe you should wait until Charlie hears back from Miss Dare,” Myra May said. She was torn. She hoped that the Kilgores’ party wouldn’t be canceled, since she and Violet were counting on the extra money. But if they couldn’t find another cook, they’d be in serious trouble.
“I’m afraid not,” Liz said reluctantly. “Once Jed and Roger know, Mildred is going to find out. So I’d better tell her.”
Myra May went to the door. “I’ve got to get back to the diner, girls. Violet’s in the kitchen all by herself.” Over her shoulder, she added, “Ophelia, if you want to write that story about our auditions, you just come on over. And Liz, you be sure to let me know if you need help with the festival.”
“You could call all the Dahlias and let them know about Friday afternoon,” Liz said. “The garden is producing like crazy and we need to get stuff picked and toted over to the fairgrounds. Everybody has to pitch in.”
“I’ll do the calls this afternoon,” Myra May promised. Most of the Dahlias were on party lines. It took only two or three phone calls to reach the entire membership.
Ophelia reached under the counter for her notebook. “I finished my work on the Linotype,” she told Charlie. “I might as well go on over to the diner with Myra May and get this story now, before you start the layout for the local page.”
