The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (21 page)

“Thanks, Liz,” Verna said. “This is really swell. I owe you.”

“What are you going to do?” Lizzy asked.

“I have a plan,” Verna said, and lowered her voice. “Two plans, in fact. I can’t talk about them right now, but when I find something out, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.” She raised her voice to someone in the office. “I’ll be right with you.” To Lizzy, she added, “See you later. And thanks again!”

Lizzy returned to her desk, took the cover off her Underwood typewriter, and settled down to transcribing some of the shorthand notes she had taken on Friday afternoon. It was slow going. Mr. Moseley had dictated faster than usual, and she was having trouble reading her Gregg. She was having trouble concentrating, too. Her thoughts kept slipping away from the task at hand to her mother’s terrible problem. What in the world were they going to do?

Mr. Moseley usually came in late on Mondays. This morning, it was a little after ten when he tramped up the stairs, tossed his gray felt hat onto the hat tree next to Lizzy’s, and smoothed his shiny brown hair, parted in the middle, with his hands.

“G’morning, Liz,” he said cheerfully. “My, you look pretty and bright today in that yellow dress. A ray of sunshine. A treat for the eyes.”

Lizzy looked up from her typewriter and tried to smile. “I’m afraid I don’t feel very bright,” she replied ruefully. She was always a little bothered by Mr. Moseley’s compliments. She knew he didn’t mean to be condescending, but that’s what it sounded like to her.

Mr. Moseley frowned and came toward her. He leaned both hands on her desk, peering down at her. “Mmm. Now that you mention it, I have to say that you do look a mite tired.” He chuckled. “You and Grady Alexander do a little too much partyin’ over the weekend, huh?”

Lizzy sighed. More condescension. And worse, after he had come into the office one day last spring and caught Grady kissing her, Mr. Moseley never missed a chance to tease her about the relationship. That had happened just about the time that Mr. Moseley’s wife Adabelle—a willowy debutant from a wealthy Birmingham family with important political connections around the state—announced that she was going home to Mama and Daddy and taking the two Moseley daughters with her. A month or two after that, Mr. Moseley had asked Lizzy to go with him to the tent theater over in Frisco City. A few weeks later, he tried again. They had been working late, getting ready for a trial on a civil matter, and he asked her to go to supper at the Old Alabama.

Both times, she had said no. For one thing, his divorce from Mrs. Moseley wouldn’t be final for some time yet, and Lizzy had made up her mind a long time ago that she would never date a married man. For another, she thought that going out with her boss would unnecessarily complicate things in the office. Carrying a torch for him had been okay, because she had known that nothing would ever come of it. She was proud of the fact that she had successfully extinguished those unruly feelings several years before, and she had no intention of reigniting them. Anyway, there was Grady. She wasn’t going to go out with Mr. Moseley as long as she was going out with Grady, and that was that.

She frowned. “No, Grady and I did
not
do too much partying this weekend,” she retorted, nettled. “He’s out of town. I didn’t even see him.”

“Ah-ha! No Grady?” He quirked one eyebrow in that annoyingly superior way of his. “You mean, there’s hope for me, after all?” He straightened and held up his hand, forestalling whatever she had been about to say. “Seriously, Liz, what is it? What’s wrong? You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Lizzy lied. She lifted her chin. “I’m fine.” While she had been tossing and turning and trying to come up with a way to deal with her mother’s foreclosure, she had thought of talking it over with Mr. Moseley. He dealt with property matters all the time, and he might be able to come up with a simple solution to the problem. But she had decided that he would have to be a last resort. If he helped her out, she would be deeply in his debt. Mr. Moseley was a gentleman and would never use that to pressure her in any way, but still—

She pushed back her chair and stood. “Today’s files are on your desk, Mr. Moseley. I’ll get your coffee.”

Mr. Moseley looked at her for a moment. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll be leaving for Montgomery before lunch. Why don’t you treat yourself? Take the afternoon off. You’ve worked late several times lately. You’ve got it coming.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Lizzy said quickly. “There’s so much to—”

“No, there isn’t,” he said. He smiled at her. “Boss’s orders. No argument, now. You’re taking the afternoon off.” Then he turned and went into his office.

Lizzy stared after him. An afternoon off? Well, she could certainly use the time, couldn’t she? She could walk over to the bank and talk to Mr. Johnson about her mother’s foreclosure. Surely she could persuade him to put off the eviction for a few weeks—maybe even until after the holidays. It would be cruel to throw somebody out now, with Thanksgiving and Christmas on the way. And even though her mother’s house was nice and well maintained, it wasn’t likely that anybody would be interested in buying during the holidays. In fact, with so many empty houses for sale, it might not sell at all.

Feeling grateful to Mr. Moseley for letting her take some time off, Lizzy sat back down at her desk and pulled out the big leather-bound account ledger. Between the long drought and the low cotton prices, the farmers had had a difficult time of it in the past few years. Some of Mr. Moseley’s clients had begun paying their legal bills in kind, bringing eggs, boxes of figs, and lard pails full of fresh robbed honeycomb to the office, not to mention a few live chickens. Mr. Moseley always accepted these payments, told Liz how much to credit against what was owing, and then carted everything over to the Presbyterian Church for its Food for the Darling Needy program. This morning, she caught up the accounting quickly, finished typing the notes, then typed two legal documents that would be needed later in the week—with carbons, which she hated, since she had to erase every mistake and retype the correction carefully, to avoid smudging. Typing carbons slowed her down.

The bookkeeping and typing finished, Lizzy got up and went to the stack of case files that were waiting for filing in the gray metal cabinets on either side of the front windows. She was just getting started when she heard hasty footsteps on the stairs, the door opened, and Bessie Bloodworth burst in. She was wearing a lace-colored mauve cambric dress and what looked like a freshly done shampoo and set, her springy, precise salt-and-pepper curls peeking out from under her straw sailor hat.

“Why, hello, Bessie,” Lizzy said. She was surprised, since Bessie didn’t come to the office very often—but then she remembered that she had asked the Dahlias to turn in items for her garden column, which she had to finish by tomorrow. Now that she had the afternoon off, she’d have plenty of time. “Have you brought me a piece for the column?”

“No,” Bessie said. “To tell the truth, I forgot all about that.” She glanced in the direction of Mr. Moseley’s closed door and lowered her voice. “I don’t want to interrupt while you’re working, but do you have a minute, Liz?” Her face was pink with the exertion of climbing the stairs and she sounded excited. “I need to ask you something.”

“Sure,” Lizzy said, and pointed to one of the reception room chairs. “Why don’t you sit down there and catch your breath, Bessie? I can listen and file at the same time.” She picked up the first file, opened a drawer, and dropped it in place. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s not a what, it’s a who,” Bessie said. She pulled the chair around so she could see Liz and sat down, crossing her thick ankles. “It’s Miss Jamison.”

Lizzy flushed guiltily, thinking of the information she had given to Verna. “What about her?”

“I’ve just come from the Beauty Bower. Beulah was already working on her when I got there. On Miss Jamison, I mean.” Bessie puffed out her breath and fanned herself with a hankie. “She was dyeing her brown. Transforming her from platinum to brown, right there in front of my eyes.”

“Brown!” Lizzy exclaimed. “Gracious sakes! Why in the world would Miss Jamison want—”

Bessie held up her hand. “Wait, there’s more, Liz. Lots more. In fact, you might as well hear the whole thing, start to finish .”

It took a little while for Bessie to tell the whole story, which she did in one long sentence, from Miss Jamison’s purchase of Beulah Trivette’s red wig and the blond-to-brown coloring job she got on her hair to Leona Ruth Adcock’s tale about the baldheaded man with shiny leather shoes (who might or might not have been a special agent for Mr. J. Edgar Hoover), who had shown up at Leona Ruth’s front door the afternoon before, introducing himself as Mr. Gold (although Miss Jamison said he was really Mr. Diamond, Frankie Diamond) and asking if she had seen a platinum blonde and a girl with short dark hair.

“I haven’t actually laid eyes on Miss Lake myself,” Bessie added breathlessly. “She had already hidden herself away in her bedroom when I went over to say hello after they arrived. But I’ll bet a nickel that she’s the one with short dark hair—except that by this time, she’s probably wearing Beulah’s old red wig. She’s in disguise. Both women are hiding out.”

Lizzy stared at Bessie. Why, this was the very same story that Verna had told her on the phone the afternoon before, although Verna hadn’t said anything about her caller looking like a special agent. Quite the contrary, in fact.

“Do you think Mrs. Adcock is right?” she asked tentatively. “That this fellow is a
policeman
?” She looked down at the folder in her hand, realized that she’d gotten so caught up in Bessie’s story that she hadn’t filed it, and opened a drawer.

“I have no idea,” Bessie said. “But whoever the man is, Mr. Gold or Mr. Diamond or whoever, I’m here to tell you that he scared the stuffing out of Miss Jamison. She almost fainted when Leona Ruth described him. And it wasn’t any stunt, either. She got white as a sheet and Beulah and I had to make her sit down. She is scared to death of him.” She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “There is something truly fishy going on over at Miss Hamer’s house, Liz. I think we ought to find out what it is. How much time do you take at noon?”

“An hour, usually. But Mr. Moseley is driving to Montgomery and he’s given me the afternoon off.”

“That’s good,” Bessie said with satisfaction. “But an hour ought to be way more than enough time for us to do it.”

“Do what?”

“To walk on over to the Old Alabama Hotel and get a quick bite. I know it’s more expensive than the diner, but if we just got a sandwich and split it between us, it shouldn’t be any more than a quarter apiece. I would’ve asked Verna, too,” Bessie added, “but she wasn’t in the office when I stopped. Mrs. Cole said she was out running an errand.”

Lizzy frowned. “Why do you want to go to the hotel?”

“Because Mr. Gold told Leona Ruth that he’s staying there,” Bessie replied. “If that’s true, then he ought to be taking his meals there, wouldn’t you reckon? I thought, if we could get a good look at him, we might be able to tell whether he’s a special agent or—” She stopped.

“Or what?” Lizzy asked, thinking of Verna’s guess that he was one of Al Capone’s henchmen. Both seemed equally improbable to her.

Bessie sighed plaintively. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a good idea. I just have this feeling that somebody ought to be doing something to find out who this man really is and why Miss Jamison is so deathly afraid of him. I can’t think of any other way to do it—and I certainly can’t go to the hotel by myself.”

Lizzy understood why. Nobody thought twice of a woman eating by herself at the diner, where she could sit at the counter and talk to Myra May or Violet or Euphoria while she enjoyed her meal. But it would be odd for a woman to eat in the Old Alabama dining room unless she was traveling or with someone. Still—

“I’m not sure why we should care who he is,” Lizzy said, stalling for time. “What business is it of ours?” She dropped another folder into the drawer. Then she realized that she’d put an “E” folder into the “L–R” drawer, and took it out.

Bessie leaned forward, her lined face intent. “Well, for starters, if
he
is a policeman or a special agent looking for those two women, it stands to reason that
they
are criminals, doesn’t it? Leona Ruth said that Miss Jamison looks like a gun moll to her—and she is no doubt spreading that very same thing all over town, right this minute.” She leaned back and folded her plump arms. “You know Leona Ruth. When she gets through with Miss Jamison and her friend, nobody in Darling will have a blessed thing to do with them, regardless of who they are.”

Lizzy understood this, too. In Darling, there were the facts, and then there were the facts according to whoever was telling them, which might or might not be the same thing and usually wasn’t. If Leona Ruth was telling folks that these women were gun molls, that’s exactly what people would believe. Even if they were totally innocent, their reputations would be completely destroyed.

She opened the “E–K” drawer and put the file into the right place. “I wonder how Mrs. Adcock knows what a gun moll looks like,” she said thoughtfully.

“Maybe from the movies?” Bessie hazarded. “To me, Miss Jamison didn’t look much like a criminal, but of course you can’t always tell. Anyway, there’s Miss Hamer to consider. If those two women are criminals, she could be in danger.” Bessie turned down her mouth. “I was even thinking that we might ought to have a talk with Sheriff Burns about the situation.”

Lizzy didn’t think much of Roy Burns. She’d had a few dealings with him when Bunny Scott was killed, and it was her impression that he liked to wear the badge but wasn’t much of a crime fighter. He had taken over the job of Darling police chief when Chief Henny Poe had retired and the Darling town council decided they couldn’t afford to replace him. But Sheriff Burns and his deputy, Buddy Norris, could usually handle what crime there was in Cypress County, which was mostly tempers getting out of hand at the Watering Hole or the Dance Barn, and cow and chicken rustling (there was more of that, now that so many were short of money), and moonshiners out in the piney woods. Most people didn’t really consider moonshining a crime, though. Somebody had to do it, or nobody would have anything to drink. The preachers liked it, too, for it gave them something to preach against besides lying, stealing, skipping Wednesday night prayer meeting, and committing adultery.