The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (9 page)

“So this woman is incognito,” she said, buttering a piece of hot corn bread. “I guess that means she doesn’t want anybody in town to know that she was in vaudeville.”

“But why?” Verna asked, waving her fork. “I mean, for heaven’s sake, Myra May. She’s famous! Why wouldn’t she want anybody to know?”

“Maybe she’s trying to get away from the newspaper reporters and all that attention,” Myra May replied. “Maybe she just wants some peace and quiet. People do, you know. And it probably isn’t all that easy to earn a living as a performer these days. Since Prohibition, I mean. And since the Crash. People don’t have as much money as they used to.”

“Peace and quiet?” Verna laughed shortly. “If that’s what she wants, she’s going to have to hang that red dress in her closet and wash that makeup off her face. Putting a bag over her head wouldn’t hurt, either. Bailey Beauchamp was about to jump right out of that fancy Cadillac of his and gobble her up right there in the middle of the street, like she was a piece of candy.”

Myra May chuckled. “Don’t let Mrs. Hobart hear about that. She’s the jealous type, you know. If Bailey Beauchamp hasn’t put his misbehavin’ behind him, she’ll show him how.”

Lizzy sighed. If it was true that all Miss Jamison wanted was peace and quiet, her newspaper article idea probably wasn’t going to work. If Miss Hamer’s niece wouldn’t admit to Verna that she was a Broadway star, it wasn’t likely that she would submit to an interview for a feature story in the
Dispatch.
But maybe Verna hadn’t approached her right. Or maybe she had simply caught Miss Jamison at an awkward moment, when she was upset about not getting her prescription refilled. Lizzy frowned, wondering what that was all about. Veronal was a very strong sleeping medicine, from what she had read. It must be for Miss Hamer. Was the old lady having trouble sleeping? Was she very ill?

“Actually,” Verna said, pursing her lips, “now that I think about it, I wonder why Miss Hamer’s niece is here. Doesn’t it seem odd to you? I mean, has she ever in her whole adult life visited her aunt? If she had, surely somebody would have noticed, wouldn’t they?”

“That’s true,” Lizzy replied. Strangers in Darling were an irresistible source of gossip. And Miss Jamison was the sort of person that people would talk about. “Maybe she’s here because she’s down on her luck. Myra May is right. Money is tight everywhere—it can’t be the best time in the world to be in show business.” That would be another angle for her story, she mused. Small-town girl dances into the Big Apple limelight, then slips and falls back into shadowy obscurity. A spectacular rise; a tragic fall.

“And if she’s never been here,” Verna was going on, “why not? I mean, doesn’t it seem a little strange that she’s never once bothered to visit her aunt—and all of a sudden she’s
living
here?” She frowned, pushing her mashed potatoes around with her fork. “Come to that, how do we know who this woman actually
is
? She’s already lying about not being Lorelei LaMotte. Maybe she’s lying about being Miss Hamer’s niece, too.”

Lizzy dug into her catfish, which was crispy brown on the outside, flaky and delicious inside. “For heaven’s sake, Verna. Can’t you ever just take people at face value?”

“Nope.” Verna tossed her head. “Doesn’t pay, Liz. Lots of people cheat. Others lie. And some will do anything to gain an advantage. I see it all the time in the probate office, you know.”

Lizzy sighed. Verna was by nature a suspicious person. But she had become even more wary over the years she had managed the records in the Cypress County probate clerk’s office, where she was responsible for recording election results, people’s wills and estates, property transactions, and the like. Verna always said that if she stubbed her toe on a rock, she was compelled to look under it, to see what was hiding there.

“And something usually is,” she would add. “Something we probably wouldn’t go looking for, if we could avoid it.”

Lizzy had to admit that Verna had a point. Some people cheated; others lied. She had recently read a news item about a family in Florida who had welcomed their long-lost son, kidnapped years before. Unfortunately, the man turned out to be an imposter angling for an inheritance. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more closely at Miss Lorelei LaMotte.

“Maybe we ought to have a talk with Bessie Bloodworth,” she suggested. “Bessie has known Miss Hamer longer than the rest of us. If anybody knows anything about why Miss Jamison is here in Darling, it would be Bessie.”

“Actually, now that you mention Bessie, I do remember something,” Myra May said. “I’d forgotten about it until right this minute. But somebody—a woman—in Chicago telephoned Bessie a couple of weeks ago, asking about Miss Hamer. Since it was long distance, I stayed on the line long enough to make sure that the call went through okay. The woman said she was calling Bessie because her aunt doesn’t have a telephone, and she needed to find out a few things.”

“Find out what things?” Verna asked curiously. “What else did she want to know?”

“I have no idea. I got off the line.” Myra May pointed at Verna with her fork. “And even if I hadn’t, I couldn’t tell you what I heard. I shouldn’t have told you as much as I did.”

“All you’ve said is that a woman was calling from Chicago, Myra May.” Verna sounded cross. “Anyway, we’re not asking for the combination to the bank vault. We’re just trying to understand why a woman calling herself Miss Hamer’s niece—”

“Forget it, Verna,” Myra May said firmly, and applied her fork to her mashed potatoes. “You’ve worked on the switchboard yourself. You understand that the operators aren’t supposed to listen to people’s conversations. And if they do catch a bit of it, they’re definitely not supposed to talk about what they hear.”

Lizzy knew that this was true. Verna had worked part-time on the switchboard a few years back, when Mrs. Hooper was sick and needed the help.

“Violet can keep her mouth shut,” Myra May was going on. “But Olive and Lenore are still just kids. If I told tales and they found out, they’d think it was all right for them to do it and then I’d have to fire ’em. I love you with all my heart, Verna dear, but don’t ask me to tell you anything I might’ve heard on the switchboard. Okay?”

Verna rolled her eyes. “Myra May, you are a
hard
woman. I am sure glad I don’t have to work for you.”

Lizzy chuckled. The four switchboard operators had to be among the best-informed and most up-to-date people in Darling. All the news in town went through the Exchange—the price of cotton, how many kids had the measles, whose wife had left him, whose sister had miscarried. But Myra May made sure that her operators played by the rules. What comes into the Exchange, stays in the Exchange.

She changed the subject. “Speaking of Violet, what do you hear from her, Myra May? When is she coming home from Memphis?”

Not looking up, Myra May spread butter on her corn bread. “She called this morning.” She spoke reluctantly, almost as if she didn’t want to talk about it. “Her sister isn’t doing so well, I’m sorry to say.”

“It’s her sister’s first baby, isn’t it?” Verna asked.

Myra May nodded. “A little girl named Dorothy. The baby’s okay, apparently, but Violet is worried about her sister. The doctor is keeping her in the hospital, and of course there isn’t much money. Violet is worried about how they’re going to pay the bill. I’m afraid—” She stopped, as if she didn’t want to say the words.

“Afraid of . . .” Lizzy prompted gently.

Myra May pressed her lips together. “Afraid she’ll decide to stay in Memphis, I guess,” she said slowly. “There’s a heckuva lot more exciting stuff going on up there than there is in Darling. Dunno why she would come back.”

Lizzy was surprised. This was more than Myra May had ever said about her relationship to Violet—which was probably a clue to just how troubled she was. “Violet left Memphis because she didn’t like living in the city,” Lizzy reminded her emphatically. “And she stays here because she likes living in Darling. And because of you,” she added. “You know that.”

“I guess.” Myra May sighed. “I’ll just be glad when she gets home, that’s all. I miss her. And we could use her help. We’ve been pretty busy here at the diner, and Olive has a bad cold and missed her shift at the switchboard last night. She’ll be out tonight, too. I’ve got to get back here right after the movie and fill in.” She glanced at the Snow’s Farm Supply clock on the back wall. “Speaking of which, looks like we’d better get going, don’t you think? We can come back later and have our pie and coffee.”

“Dessert after the show,” Verna said with a grin. “Sounds swell.”

As it turned out, the Snows and Mr. Dickens and his sister were going to the movie, too, so they all walked together down Franklin Street in a group, past the
Dispatch
building and Hancock’s Groceries. The Palace was at the end of the block, its brightly lit marquee jutting out over the sidewalk. The owner, Mr. Don Greer, stood outside, welcoming the patrons.

As usual, there was a line at the glass-fronted ticket window, where the Greers’ daughter Gladys sold tickets at twenty-five cents apiece, and at the candy counter, where Mrs. Greer did a land-office business selling candy, popcorn and hot roasted peanuts, as well as icy-cold bottles of Coca-Cola out of the cooler. Inside the theater, in the dimly lit haze of cigarette and cigar smoke that hung in the air, Mrs. LeVaughn was playing the piano. The movie was a talkie, so she wouldn’t be playing during the film. But while the younger folks loved the talkies, many oldsters still preferred silent films. They thought it wasn’t a night at the movies unless they could lean back in their seats and watch the flickering screen while they listened to Mrs. LeVaughn, who could play ragtime as well as Chopin. So Mr. Greer traded a movie ticket and a box of hot buttered popcorn for an hour of Mrs. LeVaughn’s piano, before he turned off the house lights and turned on the projector.

Lizzy, Verna, and Myra May got popcorn and peanuts, then found their seats and settled in expectantly, listening to Mrs. LeVaughn play the “Maple Leaf Rag” and looking around to see which of their friends had come out for an evening’s entertainment. The movie house wasn’t quite full, but there was a respectable crowd and the audience wasn’t disappointed in the film.
The Saturday Night Kid
was a romantic comedy about two lively young sisters—played by Clara Bow and Jean Arthur—who worked in a department store and were both in love with the same man, another store employee who was a compulsive gambler stealing company funds. After a half-dozen twists and turns, the characters got what was coming to them, and the audience went home smiling.

 

 

Back at the diner, Myra May turned on the gas burner under the coffee percolator. “I always thought that romantic comedies were silly,” Myra May said. “But I’ve changed my mind. The world is pretty grim. People need something to smile about.”

Lizzy leaned her elbows on the counter. The Closed sign was hung on the diner’s front door and the only light was the one in the back, so the dining area was comfortably dim. They had the place to themselves, and Myra May had turned on the radio. A crooner was singing, “Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella.”

“Heaven knows, there’s enough heartache going around,” Verna agreed. “People feel better if they can escape for a little while. Going to the movies on Saturday night gives them something to look forward to all week.”

“Right,” Myra May said, cutting generous slices of pecan pie. “The anticipation by itself is probably worth a quarter.” She cocked her head, listening to the radio. “Let a smile be your umbrella, on a rainy, rainy day,” she sang along with the music. “And if your sweetie cries, just tell her that a smile will always pay.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Lizzy said softly, taking the pie plates to the table. She was thinking of Violet and the situation in Memphis, and wondering how it was going to come out.

“I think what people need is to see the Nice and Naughty Sisters doing their act in the talent show,” Verna said with a wicked grin. “That would cheer them up pretty fast.”

Myra May snickered. “You bet it would.” The coffee was perking merrily, and she turned off the gas and picked up the pot. “But I thought you said that Miss LaMotte danced nearly naked, Verna. That kind of thing might be a big hit in New York, but this is Darling, for pity’s sake. I can just imagine what the Baptist preacher would say about a naked woman doing the shimmy in front of God and everybody.” She poured three cups of coffee and pushed them across the counter.

“Verna’s just teasing.” Lizzy said. “She knows Mildred Kilgore would never even consider inviting Miss LaMotte and her friend to do their act.”

“Not the real vaudeville act,” Verna protested. She picked up the coffee cups and carried them to the table. “They could do a cleaned-up version. I mean, there’s all kinds of naughty, isn’t there? The Clara Bow kind, for instance, which is funny and cute and clever, like what we saw tonight. I’ll bet Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake could come up with something a lot less risqué than they did for Mr. Ziegfeld. Something that doesn’t have any S-E-X in it.”

“S-E-X.” Myra May put her finger against her cheek and pretended a puzzled frown. “That spells
sex
, doesn’t it?” She widened her eyes and lifted the pitch of her voice. “S-E-X. Why, of course it does!” She pulled three forks from a container of silverware and slid them across the counter. “Verna Tidwell, you wicked girl! Whatever can you mean, using that word in front of us ladies?”

All three of them laughed, but a little ruefully, because Miss Rogers, one of their Darling Dahlias, had said something very similar not very long ago. They all liked Miss Rogers but she was
very
old-fashioned.

“Well, it won’t work at all if Nona Jean Jamison isn’t going to own up to being Lorelei LaMotte,” Lizzy said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s the first hurdle you’ll have to get over, Verna. Let me know if that happens.” She had her own reasons for wanting Verna to succeed, of course. If Miss Jamison could be persuaded to acknowledge that she was really Miss LaMotte, she might also be persuaded to agree to a newspaper feature story.