The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Oh, Mildred, I’m so sorry,” Lizzy began, but Mildred had gulped a breath and was going on, her voice ragged and desperate, out of control.

  “And now I find out that he’s been writing checks to her out of the dealership bank accounts. I have to stop that horrible woman, Liz. I simply have to, or I’ll lose it all! This house, the business, my husband—they’re all I have!” Her voice thinned to a wail, like a trapped animal. “When they’re gone, there’ll be nothing left of me. Nothing!”

  Lizzy stared at her, suddenly thinking that perhaps the big plantation-style house and the servants and the chrome-trimmed roadster and the stunning collection of camellias and, yes, even Roger and Melody—they were all one and the very same thing to Mildred, and all of them like the Bergdorf Goodman dress she’d bought for the party and the other expensive clothes she wore. They were ways of covering up and disguising an emptiness inside. But perhaps she was overreacting. Maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Maybe—

  “Yoo-hoo,” a high, light voice called. “Oh, Mildred, Liz, it’s me!”

  A gate at the back of the garden had opened and Aunt Hetty Little was coming down the path toward the house. She wore a flowered print dress and carried a pot containing the Hibiscus coccineus, the plant that Liz was supposed to present to the Texas Star at the party.

  “Oh, dear,” Mildred said, very low. “If it isn’t old Aunt Nosy.” She sighed heavily. “Sorry. I don’t mean to complain. Aunt Hetty is a sweet old thing, and rather pitifully lonely. I just wish she didn’t live quite so close.”

  In the early 1920s, the Cypress Country Club and the properties on Country Club Drive had been carved out of the large Little cotton plantation, which at one time was one of the most beautiful and substantial plantations in the area. The Little plantation house had burned down the year before President Wilson dragged the country into the Great War, and all the servants had been let go. Since then, Aunt Hetty—the last surviving Little—lived by herself in a cottage on the other side of Mildred’s back garden hedge. She was a congenial neighbor, although (as Mildred frequently complained) an irritatingly nosy one, who liked to know everything that was going on.

  Mildred turned to Lizzy. “Now that she’s here, Liz, we can’t talk anymore. I’m sure I’ve said far too much, anyway—about those letters, and about everyone else. You must promise me not to say anything to anybody about them.”

  “I promise,” Lizzy said. “Not a single word. To anyone.”

  She didn’t imagine that she might come to regret that promise—and to break it.

  SEVEN

  Some Unexpected Magic

  By the noon hour on Wednesday, Myra May and Violet were feeling the pinch at the Darling Diner. Ophelia’s story and the ad for cooking auditions would run in Thursday’s Dispatch. But that wasn’t helping them get through the middle of the week. Business had fallen off dramatically as the news got around that Euphoria had abandoned the diner for the Red Dog. (“Like a rat from a sinkin’ ship,” Mr. Mann had been heard to mutter.) And the regular customers were beginning to grumble.

  “Meat loaf again?” Mr. Musgrove from the hardware store asked. “Didn’t we have it yestiddy? And the day before?” Suspiciously, he poked his food with his fork. “This ain’t left over, is it?”

  “No, it’s not left over,” Myra May snapped. She turned down the volume on the Chicago farm commodities market report on the radio and picked up the flyswatter. She had to admit that the meat loaf wasn’t her best. She’d been rushed when she made it and she was pretty sure she’d left out the salt. But she wasn’t about to tell Mr. Musgrove that.

  “There’s liver and onions,” she added crossly. She whacked a fly on the counter. “You could’ve ordered that, if you didn’t want the meat loaf.”

  A few seats down the counter, Mr. Dunlap from the Five and Dime spoke up. “It’s good liver and onions, Myra May. The liver’s maybe a mite overcooked, but it’s tasty.” He glanced over his shoulder at the empty tables. “I’m surprised you ain’t got more traffic today.”

  “It’s still early,” Myra May replied defensively, hanging up the flyswatter and giving the counter a swipe with her cloth. “They’ll be along.”

  But it wasn’t that early. The tables should have been filled by now, with secretaries from the county offices in the courthouse, clerks from Mann’s Mercantile, and the men from the repair shop at Kilgore’s Dodge dealership. Obviously, news of Euphoria’s defection was making the rounds. Of course, people didn’t have a lot of choices when it came to eating out in Darling. But they could be going home for the noon meal, or packing a sandwich. Or going across the tracks to the Red Dog.

  “Don’t like liver and onions,” Mr. Musgrove said morosely. “My mother pushed it down my throat when I wuz a kid. Ain’t been able to stand it since.”

  J.D., Mr. Musgrove’s scrawny, grizzle-cheeked helper, was sitting next to his boss at the counter. He pointed up at the blackboard that advertised the diner’s weekly specials. “I wanna know what happened to our fried chicken, Myra May. Ain’t we supposed to have fried chicken and chocolate pie on Wednesdays?” He peered nearsightedly at the glass-door cabinet where the pies were usually kept. “I don’t see no pies, neither. We ain’t got no chocolate pie for dessert today?”

  J.D. was known around town for his ill temper and bad manners, but that didn’t soothe Myra May’s raw unhappiness.

  “What happened to the fried chicken,” she said in a chilly tone, “is that we’re one pair of hands short in the kitchen. It takes longer to dress and cut up a chicken and fry it than it takes to make a meat loaf. And what happened to the chocolate pie is that Euphoria isn’t around to bake it.” She picked up an eraser and wiped off the blackboard. “Until we get ourselves some more help, I am suspending the specials. You’ll get what we got and be glad of it—unless, of course, you want to walk across the square to the Old Alabama. Or up to Miz Meeks’ place, over by the rail yard. I reckon she’d be glad to set a place for you.”

  Mrs. Meeks ran a boardinghouse for the single men who worked at the sawmill and on the railroad. If there was room at her table, you could get chicken and dumplings or a bowl of Mrs. Meeks’ okra gumbo, plus a big chunk of hot corn bread and all the coffee you could drink. What’s more, Mrs. Meeks had dropped her price to a quarter, which was a nickel cheaper than a meal at the diner. The trouble was (and everybody knew it) that the railroad and sawmill workers who boarded there got first dibs on the food. You could sit down with the second shift but you ran the risk of getting small helpings, depending on how many there were at the table, and you had to eat fast, because there might be a third shift waiting to sit down. And of course women wouldn’t be comfortable there, watching those men put their faces to their plates and slurp up Mrs. Meeks’ gumbo.

  Rubbing his mostly bald head, Mr. Musgrove gave Myra May’s suggestion a moment of serious consideration, then said mildly, “Reckon I’ll skip Miz Meeks’. And four bits for that hotel dinner is too pricey for me.” He picked up his fork. “Sorry if I made you sore, Myra May. This meat loaf is every bit as good as it was yestiddy.”

  J.D. chortled sourly. “‘Every bit as good as it was yestiddy.’ That’s a sharp ’un, Marvin.”

  “J.D., you’re as growly as some old treed black bear,” Mr. Dunlap said. “You shoulda had the liver and onions. And the apple crumble wa’n’t bad, neither, although I gotta say I’d rather have pie.” He held up his cup. “Myra May, pour me another cup of coffee, would you?”

  Myra May had made apple crumble instead of pie because it took less time to make the topping than to roll out and trim up a pie shell, and time was what they were short of right now. As she picked up the coffeepot, she heard the tinny roar and hiccup of Buddy Norris’ Indian Ace motorcycle. A moment later, Buddy pushed open the front screen door and swaggered in, his holstered revolver slung from one hip, a wooden baton and a shiny pair of handcuffs from the other.


  Buddy was Darling’s deputy sheriff and—for all his youthful arrogance, derring-do, and reckless driving—a first-class law-enforcement officer. A few years back, Buddy had gotten the deputy’s job by ordering a how-to book on scientific detective work from the Institute of Applied Sciences in Chicago, Illinois. He had taught himself how to take fingerprints and make what he called “crime scene” photographs, which was a lot more than Sheriff Roy Burns—now in his sixties and finishing up his fourth term of office—could do. When elections came around again next year, everybody said that Buddy was likely to give the sheriff a run for his money. The only thing that would save old Roy from getting de-elected was the secret dirt he had surreptitiously compiled on several important Darlingians. But it would do the trick. His people would get out the vote, for sure, and the sheriff would keep his job.

  “Hey, Deppity,” J.D. said, raising his fork. “You’re just in time for meat loaf.”

  “Meat loaf?” Buddy frowned as he pulled off his leather motorcycle helmet and goggles. He was dressed in his usual khaki uniform, with lace-up brown leather motorcycle boots he’d gotten from the Sears catalog. “Today’s Wednesday, ain’t it? I’ve been lookin’ forward all mornin’ to havin’ me some good ol’ fried chicken.” He sat down next to J.D. “Hey, Myra May. I’ll take the special.”

  “Meat loaf for Deputy Norris,” Myra May yelled over her shoulder to Violet in the kitchen. She took a bottle of orange Nehi out of the ice cooler and popped the top with the beer opener she kept hanging from a string. Buddy liked orange soda with his meal.

  “Aw, shucks,” Buddy said, and turned down his mouth. “And here I had my heart set on fried chicken.” He took a pack of Chesterfields out of his uniform pocket. “Why, I said to the sheriff as I was leavin’, ‘Roy, it’s Wednesday. I’m goin’ over to the diner and get me some of that good fried chicken.’” He scraped a match against his boot heel and lit his cigarette, and Myra May slid a metal ashtray across the counter to him.

  J.D. leaned over to Buddy and growled, “When I finish up this here meat loaf, I might just go ’cross the tracks to the Red Dog. Euphoria and Jubilation are cookin’ over there.” He smacked his lips. “Bet they’d be glad to fry me up some chicken.” He said it just loud enough for Myra May to hear.

  Myra May, who couldn’t decide whether she was being teased, folded her arms and replied with a frosty sarcasm, “Well, now, J.D., you just go on and do that. But you might want to take Buddy here with you. I hear the Red Dog can be rough, and you’re just a little guy.”

  Mr. Musgrove threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Yeah, sure, J.D. I’d like to see you go over to the Red Dog. ’Cept if you did, you might not come back and I’d have to hire me a new helper.” He held out his empty cup. “I’ll have another cup of that java, Myra May.” He raised his voice. “And don’t you worry yore purty head none ’bout losing customers. We’ll stick by you ’til you get yourself a new cook. Won’t we, Buddy?”

  “Reckon we will,” Buddy said, pulling on his cigarette. He swigged his Nehi, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, and gave Myra May a disarming smile. “Reckon we ain’t got much choice.”

  “Speak for yore selfs,” J.D. said grumpily. “You wise guys’ll change yore tune when you come in tomorrow with yore heart set on the Thursday pot roast and there ain’t nothin’ but fried green tomato sandwiches.”

  Violet, who believed in good customer relations, stuck her head through the kitchen pass-through and spoke up. “J.D., honey, Billie Bob just brought in a string of fresh catfish, already cleaned. We’ve got it on tonight’s supper menu, but I can fry some up real fast for you, if you feel you haven’t had yourself enough to eat.”

  J.D. fished in his pocket and pulled out some change. “Don’t reckon I will,” he muttered grumpily, counting it. “I ain’t got me but eighteen cents, and I don’t figger you’re givin’ it away.”

  “Wish we could,” Violet said regretfully. She smiled at Buddy. “Same goes for you, Buddy. You want a plate of catfish instead of the meat loaf?”

  Buddy brightened. “You’d fry up that catfish, Violet? Just for me? Why, that would be swell.” Buddy had had a mad crush on Violet ever since she arrived in Darling. He’d once said he’d lay down his life for her and her little Cupcake, and Myra May thought he probably would.

  Mr. Dunlap spoke up. “Myra May, don’t you pay J.D. no never mind. He’s got rocks in his head. You just do the best you can. Like Marvin says, we’ll stand by you ’til you get a new cook.” He paused, adding judiciously, “That’s gonna be sometime soon, ain’t it?”

  “Soon as we can,” Myra May said, and managed a smile. Deep down, though, she was desperately worried. The Red Dog might be a little rough for the likes of Marvin Musgrove and Mr. Dunlap. But the guys from Kilgore’s repair shop and the pool room down the street wouldn’t mind going over to Maysville if they thought they’d find a plate of Euphoria’s fried chicken waiting for them on the other side of the tracks.

  Anxiously, she looked up at the clock. Twelve thirty. She had expected Raylene Riggs to come in early this morning and try out for Euphoria’s job, but the woman had telephoned and said she was still trying to get a ride over from Monroeville. She didn’t know when she was going to make it, or if she could. And it might be Saturday before they got any response to the article and the ad in the Darling Dispatch. The Watermelon Festival crowd would be in town by that time, and there was the Kilgores’ party to deal with. Myra May swallowed down her panic. She and Violet had been in tight spots before. Surely they could weather this one. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

  And then, as if she had been waiting just outside for Myra May to think about her, the screen door opened and a woman stepped inside. She was tall, about the height of Myra May, with heavy dark brows, a firm mouth and chin, and auburn hair streaked with gray, cut short and snugged around her ears. She was dressed in a blue cotton dress with a white eyelet V-collar and white patent belt and white low-heeled shoes and carried a canvas bag and a leather purse over her arm. She marched straight up to the end of the counter and spoke to Myra May in a businesslike voice softened by a Southern drawl.

  “Miz Mosswell? I’m Raylene Riggs. We talked on the phone. I’m here to try out for the cook’s job.” She held up the bag with a smile. “Brought my apron,” she added, “and a few special little things—like chocolate for fudge cake—that I wasn’t sure you’d have on hand. I’m just real sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. Mr. Clinton didn’t want to leave until he had a full load.”

  Mr. Clinton drove an old red Ford that served as a taxi between Darling and Monroeville. It was cheap (only fifteen cents one way, while the train was a quarter) and convenient. But you had to wait until he got enough passengers, which could be an hour or so. And sometimes you might have to ride with a crate of live chickens or a lapful of somebody’s dog.

  At Mrs. Riggs’ announcement, there was a sudden silence in the diner. Four men’s heads swiveled for a look. Under his breath, Buddy Norris uttered two words, in a low, crooning voice: “Fudge cake.”

  Myra May lifted the hinged countertop that served as a gate. “Glad you could make it, Miz Riggs,” she said cordially. “You just come right straight to the kitchen. The lunch crowd is just starting to show up. You can get started right away.”

  “How’s your fried chicken?” J.D. growled, as Mrs. Riggs went past him on the other side of the counter.

  “You can ignore J.D.,” Myra May said, low. “He’s mad because of the meat loaf.”

  But Mrs. Riggs had already turned to him. Her smile softened her firm mouth and transformed her rather plain face. “Well, you’ll have to be the judge, Mr. Jay-dee, but folks tell me that my fried chicken is pretty good. What they seem to like best, though, is my pies.” Her brown eyes were fixed on him. “My sweet potato meringue pie, for instance.”

  J.D.’s mouth fell open and he stared at her. “Sweet potato meringue pi
e!” he said, almost incredulously. “My sainted aunt Mamie used to make the best sweet potato meringue pie I ever tasted. She put coconut in it.” He closed his eyes. “I ain’t had pie that good since she died.”

  “Why, isn’t that a coincidence?” Mrs. Riggs replied with a husky laugh. She lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “It just so happens that I brought some coconut with me, too. That pie is always so much better with a half cup of coconut—but it should be toasted just a little. Did your aunt Mamie ever put toasted coconut into her pie?”

  Still staring and nearly overcome with emotion, J.D. could only nod. “I would give just about anything in the world for a taste of that pie,” he managed at last. “With some toasted coconut.”

  “Sounds right to me,” Myra May said, and gave him a look that said, plain as day, Put that in your pipe and smoke it, J.D.

  Mrs. Riggs straightened. “Well, if you’ll be a little patient, I think we can fix you up,” she said with another smile, and followed Myra May. At the kitchen door, she turned and gave J.D. a wink.

  “It was like magic,” Myra May said later that night. She and Violet were finally able to sit down in their upstairs flat with glasses of cold iced tea and two small pieces of a fudge cake so rich it was almost like a double chocolate brownie and delectable beyond belief. “I swear, she charmed that spiteful old J.D. right down out of his tree. And that was even before he tasted her sweet potato meringue pie.”