Among the Dahlias who had standing appointments on Mondays was Verna Tidwell. Verna always came at eight, because she had to be on the job at the courthouse at nine and she liked to get her hair out of the way early. Bessie Bloodworth and Aunt Hetty Little both came in at eight-thirty, which was not a problem, because Bessie liked to have Bettina do her. After that, Earlynne Biddle came at nine, and Mildred Kilgore at ten. By that time, Beulah would have caught up with most of the weekend news and was ready to face the week well-informed.
The bell over the door dinged and Beulah looked up, expecting Bettina, who could always be counted on getting to work before the first appointment. But it was Verna, dressed fit to kill in her best gray gabardine suit, a red blouse, red pumps, and the jaunty red felt newsboy hat that Fannie Champaign had made for her. Verna had two jobs—she was the county treasurer and the county probate clerk—so she always tried to look nice. But this was unusual.
“My gracious,” Beulah said admiringly. “Don’t we look swell this morning! Special occasion?”
Verna took off her cap and jacket and hung it on the rack by the door. “I’m driving over to Monroeville to have lunch with some ladies. They have a Girl Scout troop over there, you know.” Shaking her head to Beulah’s offer of a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and an oatmeal cookie, she sat down in the shampoo chair and put her head back in the sink.
“No, I didn’t know,” Beulah said, taking the cap off the shampoo bottle. “You’re interested in Girl Scouts?” She ran the water, making sure it was hot, the way Verna liked it. “I’ve always wished that Spoonie could be a Girl Scout.” She fluffed up Verna’s brown hair, testing it with her fingers. “You’re a little dry, sweetie. When we’ve got you shampooed, I’ll use some of my special hair conditioner.” Verna wore her brown hair in a sleek bob with square-cut bangs, like that flapper movie queen, Louise Brooks. The style was a little out of date. These days, hair was all fluffy curls, à la Katherine Hepburn and Norma Shearer. But the bob was a perfect fit for Verna’s no-nonsense, get-straight-to-the-point style, so Beulah suggested she keep it.
“Whatever you say, Beulah. Where hair is concerned, you’re the boss.” Verna closed her eyes as Beulah went to work. “Well, maybe she can,” she said after a moment. “Spoonie, I mean. Be a Scout. I’m thinking about starting a troop here in Darling.”
“Oh, really?” Beulah began to massage the shampoo through Verna’s hair. “That is an absolutely swell idea, Verna! And with your organizing ability, you’re just the person to do it, too.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Verna said slowly. “There are some old fogies in this town that don’t like the idea, you know.” Her voice became mocking. “Girls getting out there, hiking, having adventures, coming up with new ideas—why, that’s what boys are supposed to do. It’s downright immoral, that’s what it is. Dangerous, too.”
Beulah chuckled and shook her head. “Well, yes, I suppose some folks do think it’s immoral when a girl gets a new idea. My mother truly thought it was a scandal that I would go off to Montgomery on the Greyhound, all by myself, and get my beauty certificate and start up my own business. And there are plenty who still don’t think women should have the vote.” Which was true, although women had been voting for president since 1920. They were blamed—unfairly—for Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, and now Roosevelt.
She turned on the faucet again and began to rinse Verna’s hair. “But if you start a troop here in Darling, Verna, I will personally see to it that Spoonie is right there for every meeting. And her friends, too.”
“Thank you, Beulah,” Verna said gratefully. “That will be a big help. But I’ve got a lot to learn before I get started on this project. So don’t say anything to Spoonie about it just yet.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Beulah said. “But whenever you want some help, you be sure and let me know. If there’s a thing in this world I believe in, it’s girls.”
She took down a bottle of her freshly made special-recipe hair conditioner (one egg yolk whisked in a cup of warm water with a teaspoon of cottonseed oil) and poured a generous amount over Verna’s hair. She was working it in when the telephone rang, three quick shorts—the Bower’s telephone signal. And since Bettina still hadn’t come in, Beulah had to hurriedly dry her hands and go to the phone.
The call was from Alice Ann Walker, another Dahlia. Alice Ann always took an eleven o’clock lunch hour on Mondays. Today, she had to reschedule, because Mr. Duffy, her boss at the Darling bank, was gone for the day and she couldn’t get away. In a moment, Beulah had her fingers back in Verna’s hair.
“Three shorts,” Verna said. “You’re back on the party line?”
“‘Fraid so.” Beulah sighed. “Myra May says she had to put us back on the party line until they get a new switchboard at the Exchange.” She made a clucking sound. “It’s a serious problem for poor old Mrs. Hubbard across the street. She’s losing her hearing and she confuses her ring—two shorts and a long—with ours. She’s always running to answer our calls.”
“Ha,” Verna muttered. “Maybe she just likes to listen in. I have the same problem on my party line. Eudora Crawford keeps her telephone beside her chair and picks up every time it rings, no matter who it’s for. I have to tell her to hang up and then listen to make sure she does.” She puffed out an irritated breath. “I’ve been trying to get a private line, but Myra May tells me the same thing. Darling obviously needs a new switchboard.”
Verna was getting so worked up that Beulah thought it was time to change the subject. While she was rinsing out the conditioner, she said, “We had an exciting weekend at our house. My Hank got lucky.” She chuckled at her own little joke. “He got picked to sing lead with the Lucky Four Clovers.”
“He did?” Verna’s eyes popped open. “What happened to Mr. Ewing? He was singing lead when the quartet put on their show Friday night.”
“He was. But he’s been suffering with pimples in his throat, and they’ve gotten so painful he almost can’t eat. Mrs. Ewing says he’s living on eggnog, which won’t hurt him a bit, of course. It’s just fresh eggs and cream and sugar.” Beulah reached for a fresh pink towel. “Anyway, Doc Roberts told him if he wanted to get better, he had to stop singing for a while.”
“How unlucky!” Verna exclaimed. “He’s been with the Clovers forever.”
“He’s really downcast, poor man,” Beulah said sympathetically. She wrapped the towel around Verna’s head. “And of course it’s put the Clovers in a terrible fix, with the Dixie Regional coming up.”
“That’s right,” Verna said. “Liz called me about bringing a pie for the pie supper afterward. I told her I would, but I haven’t decided what kind to make.” She sat up. “So Hank is taking Mr. Ewing’s place for the competition?”
“Yes, and now there’s no living with him.” Beulah chuckled. “He feels so lucky to be a Clover that his head has swelled up four sizes too large for his hat.” She took a pink hair-cutting cape off the shelf. “I told Liz I’d bring an apple pie. That Red Rebel tree in the backyard is positively loaded and the squirrels and possums are already raiding it. I need to get out there and start picking.”
Verna pushed herself out of the shampoo chair and headed over to Beulah’s hair-cutting station. “Well, you tell Hank congratulations from me. I know he’ll do a good job.” She sat down in front of the mirror. “What songs are they doing in the competition?”
“Their trademark, of course,” Beulah said. She hummed a few bars of “I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover” as she shook out the cape and tied it around Verna’s neck. “And I think they’ve decided on ‘Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.’” She glanced up at the clock. “Gosh all get out, it’s eight-twenty. I wonder what’s keeping Bettina.”
But just as she began to comb out Verna’s wet hair, the door flew open and Bettina rushed in.
“Sorry to be late,” she said breathlessly, whipping off her brown sweater and hanging it next to Verna’s gray jacket. “Something unexpected came up this morning.”
“That’s all right, sweetie,” Beulah said in a comforting tone. “Bessie isn’t here yet.” She nodded to the shelf where the electric coffeepot sat, with cups and a plate of fresh oatmeal cookies. “If you didn’t get your coffee, the pot’s on. Help yourself. Have a cookie, too.”
“Thanks. I’ve already had breakfast, but another cup of coffee would be swell.” Bettina straightened the collar of her pink-and-brown plaid cotton dress, then went to the coffeepot and began pouring a cup. “I am so sorry, Beulah. My phone isn’t working or I would have called to say I’d be late.”
“Your phone too?” Verna asked.
“It’s our party line,” Bettina said, sounding disgusted. “It’s out about half the time.” She added sugar to her coffee and stirred. “Anyway, I was just ready to walk out the door when Buddy stopped by to say he’s working on a case and we’d better not figure on supper tonight. I told him that was a crying shame, because I got up extra early and baked his favorite shoofly pie for dessert. Seein’ as how he hadn’t had breakfast yet, he sat down and had a piece right quick.” She smiled a private little smile that implied that there was more to the story than she was telling.
Beulah always tried to look past the surface and see the real beauty in people, deep down. But even she had to say that Bettina, a tall, angular young woman with mousy brown hair and a face full of freckles, was not the prettiest flower in the garden. In fact, Beulah had worried that while Bettina had the soul of an artist when it came to hair and nails, she might be destined to dry up on the vine. It wasn’t hard to end up an old maid these days, for matrimonial pickings were pretty slim. If a young man wanted a halfway decent job, he had to take the train to Memphis or Chicago, so most of Darling’s eligible bachelors had left town.
But to everybody’s surprise, Bettina had caught the attention of one of the county’s most marriageable men. He was Buddy Norris, who had recently been elected to fill the term vacated by the untimely death of Sheriff Roy Burns.
Beulah picked up her comb and scissors and began to even up Verna’s ends. “Well, at least Buddy got a piece of shoofly pie before he went to work,” she said, combing and snipping. “That brings back memories. My grandma used to make shoofly pie every Sunday morning. We had it for breakfast before we went to church. It was our special Sunday treat.”
Verna turned her head so quickly that she almost got Beulah’s scissor point in her eye. “How come Buddy had to cancel for supper, Bettina?”
“Careful, hon,” Beulah said, using both hands to gently turn Verna’s head back straight again. “Maybe it’s not something Bettina can talk about.”
“Actually, I don’t know.” Bettina went to a cupboard and got out a clean pink and white checked apron. “All he said was that it looked like he might have a pretty big case to work on, and he never likes to take time out from an investigation for personal reasons.” She gave them a bright smile. “He may be just plain old Buddy Norris, but he’s very professional.”
There went Verna’s head, swiveling again, and Beulah pulled it back. But this time Verna resisted. “Hold on a minute, Beulah,” she said, turning her shoulders so she could look at Bettina. “I want to know. Bettina, what’s this about a ‘pretty big case’? What’s going on?”
Beulah rolled her eyes. That was so like Verna. She always had to know every single little detail and was never satisfied with an explanation. After “what?” her next questions would be “who?” and “when?” and then “why?” and “how much will it cost?” Which of course was an asset, given her job as county treasurer. You wanted somebody at the courthouse who cared about keeping the records straight.
Bettina frowned. “Somebody disappeared is all he said.” She tied her apron behind her back. “He didn’t tell me the details. He just wolfed down his pie and left.”
“Disappeared?” That got Beulah’s attention and she turned, too. “You mean, like in ‘ran away’?”
“Or got kidnapped?” Verna asked with interest.
“Kidnapped? Oh, surely not, Verna.” Beulah was horrified at the thought. “Not here in Darling.”
“I don’t know why not,” Verna said. “It doesn’t just happen in books, you know. They finally caught the man who kidnapped the Lindberg baby—Bruno Hauptmann. That’s real life for you. A lot more dangerous than fiction.”
Bettina shuddered. “I keep thinking about that sweet little Lindbergh baby,” she murmured. “And his poor mama and daddy. It’s sad as sad can be, that’s what it is.”
“And it’s not just that baby,” Verna went on, warming to her subject. “People are getting kidnapped everywhere. Didn’t you read that story in the Dispatch a couple of weeks ago? More than two thousand people in this country were abducted and held for ransom in just the last two years. Two thousand! Why, it’s a crime wave! And it’s happening in little towns and big cities, everywhere. Nobody’s safe.”
Bettina’s eyes were big. “You’re right, Verna,” she breathed. “All a crook has to do is grab you and tie you up and hide you in the coal shed or an abandoned cellar.” She shuddered. “And then send your relatives a note saying how many thousands of dollars they have to fork over, or he’ll kill you.”
“Thousands of dollars?” Still combing and snipping, Beulah gave an ironic chuckle. “That’s why a crook would never bother to kidnap anybody in Darling, Bettina. People in this town have barely enough money to pay the rent and buy a week’s groceries. You could turn all of us upside down and shake us and you wouldn’t get more than a pocketful of loose change.”
“Not everybody in this town is dead broke,” Verna retorted. She gave a knowing sniff. “Who do you suppose keeps businesses like Kilgore Motors alive? Some people have enough money to buy new cars.”
Beulah turned to Bettina, feeling that they had done enough speculating and really ought to get down to brass tacks. “Did Buddy actually say somebody was kidnapped?”
Bettina smoothed the wrinkles out of her apron. “Not specifically, no,” she said. “What he said was that somebody disappeared. Which could mean almost anything, I guess. Somebody didn’t get home after the movies last night, or got drunk and is sleeping it off in a barn somewhere, or—”
“And he didn’t say who it was?” Verna asked, turning her head again. “Or when or how much—”
“Verna, sweetie.” Patiently, Beulah turned Verna’s head straight and began to snip. “If you will just let me finish cutting you, you can go right over to the sheriff’s office and ask Buddy yourself. If he won’t tell you, walk down the block and ask Charlie Dickens. He’s in the news business. If somebody’s been kidnapped, he’ll know who it is.”
But Verna didn’t have to wait until Beulah had finished cutting her, for at that moment, Bessie Bloodworth opened the door and came in. Short, heavy-set, and fifty-something, Bessie had thick, dark eyebrows and loose salt-and-pepper curls that always looked mussed, as if she’d been combing them with her fingers. She was wearing a dark blue straw boater with a red ribbon and a navy cotton dress with a red rickrack border on a white sailor collar—which Beulah knew for a fact Bessie had bought from the Sears and Roebuck summer sale catalogue for 99 cents, because she remembered seeing it there.
Bessie didn’t bother with her usual cheerful “hello” or “how is everybody this morning?” or even “I hope that coffee is hot.” She just jumped right in with “Have you heard the news?”
From the tone of Bessie’s voice, Beulah knew right away that it wasn’t good news. Bessie (who owned and managed the Magnolia Manor, a boarding house for genteel elderly ladies) was Darling’s resident historian. She knew everything there was to know about every single one of the local families, but she rarely bothered her head with current events. When Bessie announced gleefully that she had “news!” it was usually about something that had taken place twenty-five or fifty years before, and she had just dug it out of a letter or a newspaper clipping and couldn’t wait to tell you about it so you could be as thrilled and excited as she was.
/> All three of them turned to look at her. “What news?” Bettina asked nervously.
Beulah paused in mid-snip. “Has one of your ladies died?” This was a continuing concern, since the Magnolia Manor residents were of advanced years and in varying stages of decrepitude.
“I guess you haven’t heard, then.” Bessie took off her hat and headed for the coffeepot.
“No, we haven’t heard, Bessie,” Verna said tartly. “But you obviously have. What’s going on?”
Bessie picked up the pot and a cup and began to pour. Still holding onto her news but aware that her audience was getting annoyed, she gave them a hint. “It’s Whitney Whitworth.”
“What about Mr. Whitworth, Bessie?” Beulah asked.
“Mr. Whitworth?” Bettina frowned. “Who is he?”
“Mr. Whitworth is the reason your party line is out of order, Bettina,” Verna said crisply. “And why Beulah and I have no private lines.”
“What?” Beulah and Bettina chorused at once, and Beulah added, “Just what are you saying, Verna?”
“It’s a fact,” Verna replied flatly. “Ask Myra May—she’ll tell you. She has all these plans for modernizing our telephone system. But Whitney Whitworth owns fifty percent of the Exchange, and he just flat refuses to chip in his share. Which is a mystery to me, since the Whitworths have plenty of money. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “I understand that the money came from Mrs. Whitworth’s side of the family, which I suppose might make some difference.”
“Maybe not,” Bessie said in an ironic tone. “Never having married, I’m no expert on husbands. But from what I hear, most of them think it’s their responsibility to manage all the money in the family, regardless of where it comes from.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover Page 7