The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (14 page)

“Liz and I were curious about Miss Hamer’s niece,” Verna said. “Nona Jean Jamison. We understand that she’s moved in with her aunt, and we were . . . well, just wondering.” She glanced at Liz. “We know that you’re interested in family history, and that you’ve been friends with Miss Hamer for a long time.”

“So we thought you might be able to tell us something about the Hamer family history,” Liz added.

Bessie drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She knew Verna, and from the tone of her voice, thought that there was more here than simple curiosity. Verna was a suspicious person by nature, and in this case—

“The Hamer family history?” she asked. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye, trying not to show that the Hamer family was as disturbing a subject as the Bloodworths. At that moment, Roseanne appeared with the pitcher of lemonade—the pitcher was decorated with painted oranges and lemons—and matching glasses on a tray. “Thanks, Roseanne,” she said, grateful for the interruption, and began to pour lemonade.

“I met Miss Jamison when she came to do some business with Mr. Moseley,” Liz went on in an explanatory tone. “And Verna—” She took the glass Bessie handed her. “Verna had a little conversation with her at the drugstore. But maybe she’d better tell you about that part.”

Verna leaned forward with an intent look. “The thing is, Bessie, I’ve met her before. Miss Jamison, I mean. About ten years ago.”

“In Monroeville, maybe?” Bessie guessed, handing Verna a glass and setting the pitcher on the low table in front of them. “That’s where Nona Jean grew up. Her mother—she’s dead now—was Miss Hamer’s younger sister. At least, that’s what I understand. I met her for the first time last week, when she got into town.” She settled back in her chair. This was all true, and easy. It was the part of the story that didn’t harbor any ghosts.

“Not in Monroeville,” Verna replied sharply. “And she wasn’t Nona Jean, either. When I met her, she was in New York City, going by the name of Lorelei LaMotte.”

“Lorelei—” Bessie blinked. “Who did you say?”

Bessie listened as Verna told her story. By the time it was finished, she was shaking her head in disbelief.

“A vaudeville act?” she exclaimed incredulously. “You’re
sure
?” She paused, pursing her lips and thinking about her own first reaction to Miss Hamer’s niece. “Although Nona Jean does rather look like . . .” She laughed a little. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. She certainly has the figure for it. Still—”

“Go on, Verna,” Liz urged. “Show her what you showed me earlier this afternoon, before the meeting.”

Verna’s black leather handbag was on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and pulled out a creased piece of paper. “Lorelei LaMotte signed this playbill for me, Bessie, backstage at the New Amsterdam Theater after her act. That’s her signature.”

“My gracious.” Bessie took the playbill and studied the picture for a moment, feeling her mouth drop open. Miss Hamer’s niece, revealing all that bare skin? What would the old lady do if she saw
this
? She took a breath. “Well, I must say it does look like her, platinum hair and all—although she’s certainly not showing so much of herself these days.”

“It’s her,” Verna said flatly, “although for some reason or another, she doesn’t want to admit it.”

Bessie took one last look—really, those
breasts
! And all that bare skin!—and handed the playbill back. “Well, Darling is a quiet little place. I don’t suppose she wants people here in town—most especially her aunt—to know what she’s been up to since she left Monroeville.” She looked from Verna to Liz, trying to calculate just how much she should say. “And I don’t doubt that she is Miss Hamer’s niece, if that’s what you’re wondering. Miss Hamer really did ask her to come, although not very willingly, I have to say. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t have done it if DessaRae’s back hadn’t gone bad. And if Doc Roberts hadn’t insisted.”

“That’s actually what we wanted to ask you about,” Liz said. “Since you know Miss Hamer so well, we thought you might be able to fill in the details. Forgive us for being nosy,” she added. “Miss Jamison is . . . well, an unusual person. Here in Darling, anyway.”

Bessie couldn’t help herself. She gave a sarcastic chuckle. “What makes you think I know Miss Hamer? To tell God’s honest truth, often as I’ve talked to that old lady, I don’t really know her. Nobody does. She’s a mystery,” she added darkly. “And not a very pleasant one, in my considered opinion.”

“But we thought you were helping her,” Liz said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “That you were a friend.”

“Of course I’m helping her!” Bessie said indignantly. “That’s what neighbors do, when a person lets them. But Miss Hamer has alienated everyone else on Camellia Street over the years. I’m not a friend, I’m just the only one left—aside from DessaRae, of course—who will have anything to do with her. And that’s only because she and I go back a long, long way.” She pressed her lips together and looked away. And then, quite unexpectedly and entirely without intending to, she added, “And because of her brother.”

“Her brother?” Verna asked, looking puzzled.

A bright yellow butterfly lit on the clipped green grass at Bessie’s feet, fluttered its delicate wings for a moment, then flew away, dancing on the light breeze. Wishing she hadn’t spoken, Bessie straightened her shoulders and clasped her fingers in her lap.

“Anyway, the current situation is pretty straightforward,” she said, not answering Verna’s question. “Miss Hamer hasn’t been able to manage without help since the beginning of summer. She’s not bedridden yet, but nearly. DessaRae’s back finally got so bad that she couldn’t lift the old lady the way she used to, or get her into her chair or onto the chamber pot. So Doc Roberts finally put his foot down and said that Dessa Rae could do the cooking and light work, but that somebody else was going to have to do the heavy lifting. He suggested one or two ladies he knew were available, but they didn’t want to live in—and they wanted to be paid.” She chuckled drily. “And since Miss Hamer is so hard to get along with, they wanted to be paid quite a lot. One of them asked for twenty cents an hour.”

“Ah,” Verna said thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” Bessie replied. “Miss Hamer has plenty of money—in fact, she’s got more than all the rest of us put together. Some people say that she keeps it under her mattress, because she doesn’t trust Mr. Johnson at the bank.”

“I can understand that,” Liz muttered.

“But however much she’s got,” Bessie went on, “she doesn’t like to spend it. So that’s why Nona Jean is here. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, she wrote to her aunt from Chicago. Said she was wanting to come back to Alabama and wondered whether Miss Hamer could help her get a job and find a place to live.”

“Out of the blue,” Verna repeated in a meaningful tone. “It sounds as if they hadn’t been in contact over the years. Is that right?”

“I think that’s right,” Bessie replied. “Miss Jamison’s mother—Miss Hamer’s sister—has been dead going on twenty or twenty-five years. I don’t remember Miss Hamer ever mentioning that she had a niece.” Although of course it wasn’t a subject they talked about. Like the other part of the Hamer family history, which neither of them had ever mentioned to the other, at least not in the past twenty years. The Hamer and Bloodworth history, two chapters of a single story.

Verna was frowning intently, as if she were mentally sorting through a series of filing cards. “Did Miss Hamer verify who she was?”

Bessie could see where this was going and wondered why she hadn’t thought of it herself. “You mean, did the old lady get somebody to check her out? No, I don’t reckon she did. Why are you asking?”

Verna cast an I-told-you-so look at Liz, who said, rather hurriedly, “I don’t suppose Miss Jamison mentioned anything to her aunt about dancing. Or vaudeville or Broadway or Mr. Ziegfeld.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Bessie said caustically. “If she had, she’d still be in Chicago. Dancing is one of the things Miss Hamer can’t abide. One of the
many
things.”

“I suppose that’s why Miss Jamison refuses to admit that she’s Lorelei LaMotte,” Verna said reflectively. She folded the playbill and put it back in her handbag, then gave Liz another look. “I guess there’s no point in even thinking about the talent show, then.”

“The talent show?” Bessie had to laugh at that. “You were planning to ask Nona Jean Jamison to put on an act for the Dahlias’ talent show?”

Verna shrugged and gave her a half-embarrassed grin. “Well, yes, I was. Not a very good idea, huh?”

“Sure it’s a good idea,” Bessie agreed. “That is, if she really is Lorelei LaMotte. And if she could clean up the act enough to be decent. And if she weren’t nursing her aunt. And if her aunt didn’t hate dancing so much.” She shook her head emphatically. “Miss Hamer finds out about the Naughty and Nice Sisters, and Nona Jean Jamison will be out on the street in the blink of an eye. She and Miss Lake both.”

Verna chuckled. “It’s a little hard to think of Lorelei LaMotte as a nurse.”

Bessie lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Well, these days lots of people are doing things they never thought they’d do. And she’s not getting paid. Miss Jamison said on the phone that she’d do it just for the board and room, if her friend could come with her. That’s what got her the job, most likely. Miss Hamer would probably die before she paid out any real money.”

“On the phone?” Liz asked. “Was that when she called from Chicago? Myra May mentioned that there was a call.”

Bessie nodded. “That’s right. She wanted to find out about the living arrangements—simple questions she could’ve asked Miss Hamer, if the old lady had a phone, which she doesn’t. Miss Jamison wanted a bedroom for herself and one for Miss Lake, and asked about DessaRae—whether she lives in. One odd question I remember: she especially wanted to know whether many people came to the house.”

Far away to the south, purple clouds were piling high and thunder rumbled. Her shoulder had made the right call—they would get rain before dark. Which was good, Bessie thought. The shrubs could use a good watering.

Liz chuckled. “I suppose you told her that
nobody
ever goes to that house—except for you and Doc Roberts.”

“Yes, I did,” Bessie said. “To tell the truth, I thought that might change her mind. But it actually seemed to make her feel better.” Another rumble of thunder, this one closer. “I got the idea that she and Miss Lake don’t much want to see people.”

Verna harrumphed. “Well, if that’s her intention, she’d better change her style, because people will want to see
her.
In fact, Bailey Beauchamp made an extra trip around the courthouse square, just so he could get a better look at that red dress—and what was inside it.” She paused. “You’ve met them?”

Bessie nodded. “I went over to say hello yesterday morning. I talked to Miss Jamison, but not to Miss Lake.” She paused. “There’s a bit of a mystery there.”

The thunder seemed to have broken the quiet of the neighborhood. A screen door slapped shut somewhere close by, and the sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower being pushed across the grass came through the hedge. Down the street, some boys called to one another, and a dog barked excitedly.

“A mystery?” Liz asked, looking puzzled. “You mean—”

“When they got here,” Bessie said, “Miss Lake was wearing a big floppy hat and an old-fashioned black motoring veil that completely hid her face. She didn’t take it off. She just went straight upstairs to her room and that’s where she has stayed. She never comes out, DessaRae says, not even to eat. Miss Jamison takes her meals to her and brings back the empty plates.”

“Ah,” Liz said, nodding. “Sally-Lou told me about that.”

Verna blinked. “Takes her meals to her? That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“No odder than anything that goes on in that house,” Bessie said with a wry chuckle. “There’s no such thing as ‘normal’ where Miss Hamer is concerned.” She was silent for a long moment, feeling the words rising inside her, an irresistible force, like lava from some long-dormant volcano. She hadn’t talked of this to anyone, not since it happened, all those years ago. And now—

She heard herself saying, as if the words were coming from someone else, “Did you know that I was once engaged to Miss Hamer’s brother?”

“Really?” Liz was surprised. “I didn’t know she had a brother.”

“His name was . . . Harold,” Bessie said. She said it again, testing it, almost tasting it. “Harold. If we had married, I would be Miss Hamer’s sister-in-law. And Miss Jamison’s aunt-by-marriage.” Put that way, it seemed almost funny, and she smiled.

“But you didn’t marry?” Verna asked gently.

“No.” The sudden, painful sadness washed her smile away, and Bessie felt her mouth trembling. She should stop, she knew. She didn’t want to say the words, or to hear them, either. But she couldn’t. She swallowed and went on.

“It was a long time ago, when I was still in my early twenties. Back then, of course, it seemed like a terrible tragedy, the worst thing that had ever happened to anybody in this world. Which it wasn’t, I know.” She sighed heavily. “But still . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Verna put her glass down, obviously intrigued. “So what happened, Bessie? Did you quarrel?”

Bessie swallowed again. “I never knew what happened,” she said matter-of-factly. “There wasn’t any quarrel. The wedding arrangements were made, the church reserved and everything, and I even had my dress. Harold and I were planning to borrow Daddy’s car and drive over to the jewelry store in Monroeville and pick out our wedding rings.” Her mouth twisted around the bitter words. “But then he was just . . . gone, that’s all. I never heard a word from him. No letter, no telegram, not one single word, from that day to this.”

“I am so sorry, Bessie,” Liz whispered. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if she couldn’t think what else to say.

Bessie looked down at her fingers clasped in her lap. “I always suspected that Miss Hamer drove him away. I reckon he just couldn’t take her bossing him around any longer, telling him what to do. She didn’t like me one bit, of course. But then, she wouldn’t have liked any girl Harold wanted to marry. She wanted to keep him all to herself, and she was determined to make life miserable for anybody he cared about. He knew that, I think. So he left.”