The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star (24 page)

“Yes,” Verna said. “If Rex Hart didn’t do it, who did? Who cares enough to do things like that?”

With a thoughtful expression, Raylene turned her coffee mug in her fingers. “Let me tell you a little story. Before Mabel Hopkins joined the flying team—”

“Mabel Hopkins?” Verna interrupted.

“That’s Angel Flame’s real name,” Liz told her. “I guess she thought she needed a more exotic name, as a performer.”

“I can understand that,” Verna muttered. “‘Mabel Hopkins’ Dive of Death’ sounds like a joke, not an aerial stunt.”

“Before Mabel joined the team,” Raylene went on, “Lily and Rex worked with another aerialist, a young woman named Bess. She was very good, one of the best, Rex used to say. She was strong, with excellent coordination, and she’d trained as a trapeze artist in the circus. She had no fear, so wingwalking was easy for her.”

“I heard Miss Dare telling Charlie Dickens about her,” Liz said. “But she had an accident and had to quit, didn’t she?”

“She had an accident and
died
,” Raylene said gravely. “They were doing an air show in Tampa. Bess was hanging from a trapeze under Lily’s plane during one of the stunts. One side of the trapeze broke loose from the plane and she fell to the ground. She was killed instantly.”

“Oh, dear,” Liz said. Her hand went to her mouth.

“It’s a hazardous profession,” Verna said. “The fatality rate must be pretty high. But I don’t see—”

“Bess was Mabel’s sister,” Raylene said. “Mabel was in the crowd, watching, when the trapeze let go and Bess fell.”

There was a silence. After a moment, Liz said, very slowly, “Are you suggesting that Angel Flame—Mabel—could be responsible for the letters and the telegrams?”

“She certainly has a motive,” Raylene said. “When the accident first happened, Mabel was distraught, understandably. I was in the crowd, too. I heard her say that Lily was responsible for what happened—that she didn’t maintain the equipment the way she should. That’s why I was surprised when I heard, a couple of months later, that Mabel had taken her sister’s place as an aerialist for the team.” She smiled. “You see? Even psychics don’t know everything.”

“She could do the work?” Verna asked in surprise. “Wingwalking seems . . . specialized.”

“Mabel and Bess had worked together as trapeze artists in a Florida-based circus,” Raylene said. “And she was always out at the airfield when her sister was practicing. I don’t suppose that part of it was hard for her. But flying with Lily—”

“That must have been hard,” Liz said, shaking her head. “I wonder how she could do it.”

Raylene nodded. “Anyway, as Lily was telling me about the letters and telegrams, I got the feeling—” She broke off, glancing almost apologetically at Verna. “I got the very strong feeling that Mabel was behind it. I didn’t want to say anything to Lily—and anyway, she wouldn’t believe me. She was focused on Rex Hart.” She turned to Liz. “Is there anything you and Verna can do to help straighten this out?”

“I don’t know what we could do,” Liz said helplessly. “We don’t know everyone involved and we—”

But Verna’s mind was already racing through the possibilities. “Wait, Liz,” she said. “Let’s think about this for a minute. There might be a way.”

Raylene pushed back her chair. “If you can help, I’d be grateful,” she said. “I don’t blame Lily for being afraid. If I were in her shoes, I’d feel that way, too.” She stood up and smiled down at them. “Myra May is going to start yelling at me any minute now. I’d better get back to work.”

She had walked no more than a few paces when Myra May stuck her head out of the kitchen and called “Raylene! Hey, Raylene, we need you back here.”

Liz nudged Verna. “See?” she whispered. “Psychic.” Verna rolled her eyes and Liz laughed. “Okay, Verna,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

In a low voice, Verna told Liz what she had in mind.

Liz listened, frowning a little. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Do you really think she’ll go for it?”

“Have you got a better idea?” Verna countered.

“I’m fresh out,” Liz confessed. “I’m not sure yours will work, Verna, but we don’t have a lot of choices. I guess we ought to give it a try. Where do we start? And when?”

“We have to start with Mildred,” Verna said. “And the sooner, the better.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They took their cups to the counter and said good-bye to Myra May, who was filling catsup bottles. As they went out the door, Verna found herself humming,
“Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate . . .”

As they went out on the square, they heard the clattering, metallic thunder of an airplane engine. They looked up and instinctively ducked, for the plane seemed to be coming straight at them along Robert E. Lee, not a hundred feet above the buildings and trees. As it came closer, Darling citizens spilled out of their houses, offices, and shops onto the street. Men stamped and whistled, women gasped, girls shrieked, boys shouted, dogs barked, pigeons and blackbirds squawked and fluttered, horns blared. Down the street, hitched to the rail in front of Hancock’s Grocery, Leroy Whittle’s old white mare Dolly reared up, whinnying and pawing the air with her forelegs more wildly than she ever had in her filly days. Mr. Whittle barreled out of the store and grabbed Dolly’s bridle to calm her down. He raised his fist at the sky and yelled, “Dad-blasted airplanes! You got the sense of a goose, flyin’ into town and scarin’ the horses! Whoa there, Dolly
. Whoa, you old nag!
”

The airplane was towing a large red and white advertising banner that screamed:
Sky Rides TODAY.
And perched on the top wing of the bi-plane, in a red bathing suit that bared her long legs and revealed other attention-getting attributes, was Angel Flame. As Verna and Lizzy watched, she began throwing handfuls of white cards into the air. They fluttered down like small white birds. One fell at Verna’s feet and she stooped to pick it up.

“
Write your name on this card
,” she read aloud, “
and deposit it in the basket at Kilgore’s Motors for the drawing, 3:30 p.m. Sunday. Winner receives one free airplane ride after the show
.”

“Clever advertising,” Liz remarked admiringly, still following the flight of the plane as it swooped overhead. “A good way to get people to pay to come to the show.”

Behind them, Mr. Musgrove had come out of the hardware store and was peering nearsightedly into the sky. “I’ll be dad-blamed,” he muttered, under his breath. “That woman up there, she’s near naked! She better watch out. She’ll get sunburnt.”

At that moment, the airplane made a sweeping turn and began another earsplitting pass over the street. On the ground, there was more stamping, whistling, gasping, shrieking, shouting, barking, squawking, honking, and whinnying.

And high in the air, on the wing of the airplane, Angel Flame did a handstand.

During the past few days, Myra May and Violet had gone over the party menu several times, with Mildred’s caution in mind: “Please be thrifty. I’ve got to cut every corner I can.”

In the end, they had agreed on a light buffet supper: sausage puffs; slivers of ham with slices of fresh cucumber on buttermilk-cheese biscuits the size of silver dollars; finger sandwiches in three shapes, made with a variety of fillings; small tomatoes stuffed with chicken salad and topped with sprigs of mint; deviled eggs; Southern banana pudding with whipped cream; and watermelon and cantaloupe cubes. When Raylene looked at the menu, she suggested that they add a cheese custard pie with onions and sausage.

“Custard pie with . . .
cheese
?” Violet had asked dubiously. “Never heard of it.”

“I saw it in a cookbook called
The Joy of Cooking,
by Irma Rombauer,” Raylene said. “It’s a book she published herself, a couple of years ago. The recipe uses lots of eggs, which are cheap, and you can scrimp a bit on the cheese if you add more eggs. My version includes onions and sausage and a few herbs. Oh, and you can make it ahead and serve it warm or cold.”

“Well, I guess we can give it a try,” Myra May said. Armed with the shopping list, she went down the block to consult with Mrs. Hancock, who had ordered what she didn’t already have in stock—for example, two boxes of vanilla wafers for the banana pudding and extra bread and fresh buttermilk.

On Thursday night, after the diner closed, Myra May and Violet stayed up late, boiling eggs, slicing ham, baking cheese biscuits, and making sandwich fillings. On Friday, as soon as the noon lunch crowd left, Myra May and Violet put all the prepared food and groceries into big baskets, which they loaded into Myra May’s Chevy touring car, Big Bertha. Bertha was a genuine antique but was still bravely running. (Just in case, Myra May always said a fervent “Bless your heart, Bertha,” every time she turned the key in the ignition and patted the dashboard affectionately when Bertha coughed into life.) Violet was staying behind at the diner with a cook who was coming in to try out for part-time work.

Myra May and Raylene drove Bertha, fully loaded, out to the Kilgores’ house. They planned to assemble and prepare everything in Mildred’s kitchen, add the finishing touches, and be ready to serve to the guests around eight o’clock that night.

At the Kilgores’, Myra May pulled around the back and parked near the kitchen door so they could start unloading. When Mildred came out to give them a hand, Myra May was a little startled to see that her friend’s eye was purple and puffy. She thought about making a joke out of it (“What does the other person look like?”) but she didn’t want to hurt Mildred’s feelings, so she didn’t.

“I’m glad to see you two,” Mildred said, taking the small basket Myra May handed her. “Things were a little chaotic this morning, but we’re back to normal now, more or less. I think everything is all set for tonight—except for the food, of course.” She called to the two neatly uniformed colored girls from the Darling Academy that she had hired for the day and evening. “Girls, come and help carry this stuff to the kitchen.”

With everyone’s help, they made quick work of unloading the car. In the spacious, fully modern kitchen, Myra May and Raylene put on their aprons and began organizing their team of helpers for the greatest efficiency. As they worked, Myra May was delighted with Raylene’s proficiency in handling a large party prep, which she chalked up to her experience in a hotel kitchen. She wondered once again why a woman with Raylene’s skill and talent would want to bury herself in the small town of Darling. Surely there was a mystery here.

Myra May was also mystified by the obviously serious conversation that Raylene had had with Verna and Liz at the diner that morning. But she couldn’t think of a way to open the subject and Raylene didn’t volunteer any information. Raylene seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful, though, as she organized the making of the dozens of party sandwiches Mildred had ordered. She set out loaves of fresh bread and bowls of the sandwich fillings that Myra May and Violet had made and put the helpers to work at the long table in the dining room, where there was plenty of clear workspace.

“Okay, girls, here’s how you do it,” she said, speaking as she worked. “You lay out eight slices of bread and butter them, which keeps the filling from soaking through. Then spread the filling evenly on four of the slices and top each with another slice. Then you trim off the crust on each side, like so.” She deftly demonstrated. “Then slice each sandwich into four fingers. Stack the fingers over here on this cookie sheet and cover them with a damp towel. Then start over again with eight more slices, except this time, cut the sandwich into four triangles and put them on the other cookie sheet. The third time, cut your sandwiches into four squares. That way, we’ll end up with a variety of fillings and shapes. Got it?”

The sandwich preparation underway, Raylene began browning the sausage for the sausage puffs that they would mix and bake later, while Myra May started peeling the cold hard-boiled eggs. Myra May had just finished the first dozen eggs when the kitchen door opened and Aunt Hetty Little—a neighbor of Mildred’s—came in. She was carrying four large, ripe melons, fresh from her garden. Her white hair was twisted into a bun at the back of her neck and she was wearing the shapeless old green print dress that she wore in the garden.

“Hi, Myra May,” she said as she put the melons on the kitchen counter. “I’m getting ready to meet the Dahlias over at the clubhouse garden and wanted to deliver these first. I promised them to Mildred for her party tonight.”

“Oh, these look good,” Myra May said, pausing in her egg-peeling to have a look at the melons. “We’ll let Mildred know they’re here—and put one of the girls to work cubing them.”

Over the tops of her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, Aunt Hetty peered curiously at Raylene. “And who’s this?” With her customary bluntness, the old lady added, “I don’t think I know you.”

“I guess you haven’t met Raylene Riggs yet,” Myra May said. “Maybe you heard that Euphoria is now cooking over in Maysville at the Red Dog? Well, I’m happy to say that Raylene is her replacement, as of a couple of days ago. Raylene, this is Aunt Hetty Little. She’s a member of our Dahlias’ garden club.”

Raylene turned from the skillet, a spoon in one hand. When she saw Aunt Hetty, her eyes widened, startled, and she ducked her head and turned away again. For a moment, there was a silence.

Then Aunt Hetty said, very quietly. “I’m sorry—what did you say your name was, hon?”

When Raylene didn’t immediately answer, Myra May repeated, a little louder, “This is Raylene Riggs, Aunt Hetty. She’s been working in Tampa as a hotel chef and has had lots of experience as a cook. Violet and I think we’re downright lucky to have her.”

“Raylene, is it?” Aunt Hetty said. She went to Raylene, then put up her hand and gently turned Raylene’s face toward her. “I know you, don’t I?”

Raylene pulled back, shaking her head, her lips pressed tightly together. But Aunt Hetty was not deterred. She put her hand on Raylene’s arm.

“I
do
know you, Raylene—or I used to, a long time ago. Put down that spoon and come over here by the window, child. I want to see you up close, in the light.”

Raylene cast an anxious glance at Myra May, who shook her head slightly and continued to peel the boiled egg she had in her hand. She knew better than to interfere when Aunt Hetty had her mind set on something. As one of the oldest women in Darling—certainly the oldest Dahlia—she was a law unto herself. Reluctantly, Raylene followed the old lady.

“Now, you just let me have a good look,” Aunt Hetty said, as they stood in front of the window. She lifted her hand and traced the outline of Raylene’s face and mouth. “Yes, I know you, my dear,” she said softly. There was a tremor in her scratchy old voice. “And you know me.”

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Raylene said, and tried to turn away.

But Aunt Hetty took her by the arm and turned her back. “Well, I do,” she said. “I know I do. And while I may not be a spring chicken any longer, there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I never forget a face.” She turned to look at Myra May. “Don’t you, Myra May?”

Myra May put her peeled egg down on the plate and sliced it down the middle. “Don’t I what, Aunt Hetty?” she asked casually. With a spoon, she scooped out the cooked yolk and dropped it into a bowl. She picked up another egg.

“Know this lady,” Aunt Hetty said. “Why, I’m sure you
must
, Myra May. You don’t recognize her?” She gave a long sigh. “No, I don’t expect you do, and no surprise. You were too young, I reckon. You were just a little ’un, not two years old, not even talking yet. You wouldn’t remember.”

“Really,” Raylene said, and tried to turn away again. “I have so much to do for this party tonight, Miz Little. I can’t stand around talking about—”

“You’re Ina Ray, aren’t you?” Aunt Hetty said, still clutching Raylene’s arm. “Miss Ina Ray Sparks.” She paused, while the silence lengthened. “Mrs. Ina Ray Sparks Mosswell.”

Myra May dropped the boiled egg she held in her hand. It smashed onto the floor and rolled under the table. Her knees felt suddenly weak and she groped for the nearest chair.

“Myra May,” Raylene said, in a choked voice. “Please—”

Myra May was staring at Aunt Hetty. “Ina Ray?” she whispered. “But she . . . she
can’t
be! My mother is dead, Aunt Hetty. Don’t you remember? She died when I was a little baby. She went on a visit to Savannah, to see her parents, and she got sick. She died and she was buried there. My father told me. He said she was dead. He said—”

And then Myra May stopped and looked at Raylene. But she was also seeing the gold-framed photograph on her dresser, her striking young mother dressed in a lacy white shirtwaist and long dark skirt, in a photograph taken when Myra May was the baby girl in her mother’s arms. Her mother’s face—and Raylene’s face, thirty years younger. The same firm jaw, the determined mouth, the wide-spaced eyes. Raylene and Ina Ray. They were the same, weren’t they?
Weren’t they?

“He said you were dead,” Myra May repeated. She bent over, clutching herself, and began to cry. “Why did he say you were
dead
?”

Raylene was at her side in two strides, gathering her into her arms. “There, baby girl,” she whispered, holding Myra May tightly against her, both of them crying now. “There, there, baby girl.”

After a few moments, Aunt Hetty coughed. “I understand why Dr. Mosswell sent you away, Ina Ray. But I never understood why he and his sister told ever’body you were dead. Didn’t seem right then. Doesn’t seem right now.”

“They did it because I was dead to them,” Raylene said in a choked voice. “To both of them. They wanted me to be dead to my daughter.” She was still holding Myra May to her, crushing her, as if she would never let her go. “He warned me. He said if I ever came back, he would tell Myra May how
evil
her mother had been. He would destroy me forever in her eyes, in her heart.”

“Not evil, just foolish,” Aunt Hetty amended quietly. “It was a mistake, you and that young man—but we all make ’em.” She paused. “That young man. I misremember his name.”

“Roscoe,” Raylene whispered. “Roscoe Bennett.”

“Ah, yes. Preacher Bennett’s middle boy. You were so young. And Jeremiah Mosswell was—what? Twenty years older? Twenty-five? And proper. All them Mosswells was stiff and proper as deacons. Never had an hour of fun in their lives.”

“Mama?” Myra May whispered incredulously. She lifted her eyes, the tears blurring her vision so that all she could see was the shape of the pale face, the smiling face in the photograph.
“Mama?”

“Yes,” Raylene said. kissed her forehead tenderly. “I am so sorry, Myra May. So, so,
so
sorry. I don’t know how I could ever have gone away and left you behind. How could I have done that?”

Aunt Hetty sighed. “We do what we have to, Ina Ray. And you were so young. I said at the time, I don’t know what your daddy and mama could ever have thought, marrying you off to a stuffed-shirt Mosswell. Sixteen, were you?”

“Seventeen, just barely,” Raylene replied. “I was rebellious. They thought I needed to be taken in hand, and that Dr. Mosswell was the one to do it,” Raylene said. Myra May heard the note of bitterness in her voice. “He and my daddy were old friends, you know. Daddy trusted him to settle me down. Well, he was bound to do that, body and soul. Settle me down.”

“Jeremiah would do that, and more,” Aunt Hetty said darkly.

Myra May couldn’t take her eyes off Raylene—off her mother. “Mama?” she whispered again. “Is it really
you
? Really?” Her vision was beginning to clear. The remembered photograph faded and all she could see now was the face of the woman. Raylene’s face.

“Really. Yes, really.” Raylene knelt down beside Myra May. “You’re too young to remember, sweetheart, but the first time I left your daddy, I bundled up all your little dresses and toys and took you with me. We didn’t get far, only to Pensacola. That’s where the police caught up with us and made us go back to the Mosswells, to your daddy and his sister.” She smiled shakily. “You were so sweet, Myra May, such beautiful dimples and little fat hands and a glorious laugh that went straight to my heart. I meant . . . I thought . . . I was
sure
I’d be able to come back to Darling and get you. I even tried, twice.”