Charlie Dickens, the Dispatch editor, was sitting at his desk, frowning about something. He had just picked up the candlestick telephone when he looked up and saw Myra May. He put the phone down, pushed back his chair, and came to the counter. He wore a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, red suspenders, and a green celluloid eyeshade.
Charlie had grown up in Darling, but he had left when he was young, soldiered in France in the Great War, hoofed it through Europe and the Balkans, then became a reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Baltimore Sun, and the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. His nomadic experiences had given him a slantwise, skeptical view of settled, small-town life. In fact, it was such an un-Darlingian view that most folks figured he stayed only because—given the depressing economic effects of the Depression—he couldn’t afford to leave. This was just about right, as Charlie might tell you if you happened to ask him when he’d been helping himself from the bottle of Mickey LeDoux’s bootleg corn whiskey he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. When he was sober, he’d just say it was none of your damn business.
“So what’s this?” Charlie asked in an ironic tone, looking down at the ad copy Myra May handed him. “Auditions at the diner? You and Violet planning to add some supper-time entertainment?” He tipped his eyeshade back with his thumb. “Some hootchy-kootchy? A sword-swallowing act?” He seemed to find this amusing.
Myra May explained the predicament they were in and what they wanted to do, and Charlie pursed his lips. “Maybe you better put ‘cooking’ in front of ‘auditions,’” he said. “To get your meaning across.” When Myra May nodded, he penciled the word in, then turned and shouted, “Ophelia! Hey, Ophelia. I got an ad for you. And a story.”
While Myra May was writing out her ad, the Linotype machine had been clunking slowly away at the back of the big room. It stopped, and the woman who had been operating it slid out of her seat and made her way through the maze of type cases and makeup tables to the front counter. People (mostly men) sometimes said that a woman didn’t have the kind of muscle a Linotype operator needed to pull the casting lever, but that was a lot of hooey, according to Ophelia Snow, who had been pulling that lever for over a year.
“If I can wrestle Jed’s wet denim overalls through the crank wringer on that antique washing machine of mine,” she liked to tell her friends, “I can wrestle that Linotype. It takes about the same amount of muscle.”
“Hi, Myra May,” Ophelia said, tucking her brown hair back under her blue kerchief. Ophelia worked full time as the Dispatch’s advertising and subscription manager, Linotype operator, and society reporter, assigned to cover clubs and civic organizations. (Charlie handled what he laughingly called the “city desk.”) Married to Jed Snow, the owner of Snow’s Farm Supply and the mayor of Darling, Ophelia had never planned to “work out,” as the Darling matrons disdainfully put it, for she considered taking care of her husband and two children job enough. But she had gotten in over her head the previous year when she bought a smart living room suite on Sears’ time-payment plan and needed to find the money to make the monthly payments. She couldn’t ask her husband because too many of the farmers were behind on their seed and equipment bills at the Farm Supply. And while being mayor of Darling allowed Jed to swagger around with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, looking important, it didn’t pay one red cent in salary.
In fact, scarce as jobs were, Ophelia counted herself lucky that she happened to come into the Dispatch office the same afternoon that Mr. Dickens was trying to figure out how to replace Zipper Haydon, who was retiring from several decades at the Dispatch. (It was surely time, for Mr. Haydon was old enough to remember when the rabble of Union soldiers had ripped their way through Darling in the last days of the War for Southern Independence.) Mr. Dickens needed somebody who could type and correct copy, operate the Linotype, get to work on time and sober—and do it all for ten dollars a week. Ophelia could type sixty words a minute, spell like a dictionary, never touched a drop on principle, and thought ten dollars sounded like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Jed had sulked when he first learned that she was going to work, but he quit complaining when he saw the extra money coming in.
Charlie handed Ophelia Myra May’s ad. “The girls are gonna audition cooks for the diner—like a chorus line or something. Might be a story in it. You write something up, we’ll run it on the local page for Friday.”
“Audition cooks?” Ophelia glanced in surprise at the ad. “What happened to Euphoria?”
Myra May explained again. “A story would be swell,” she added enthusiastically. “It would get a lot more attention than an ad.” As an afterthought, she said, “Violet wondered if Florabelle’s sister might like to try out.”
Ophelia frowned. “Wisteria—that’s her name—would be great for fried chicken. Her biscuits are middling. But I’m telling you as a friend that you’d be disappointed in her piecrust. You’d have to find somebody else to bake pies.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” Myra May said thoughtfully. “A different pie cook, I mean. That way, we wouldn’t have all our eggs in one basket, so to speak.” She sighed, thinking of the party. They’d had their eggs in Euphoria’s basket, and now they were smashed, all over the floor. How in the world could they handle that party?
The door opened, and the three of them turned to see Elizabeth Lacy, one of Myra May’s best friends. She was slender and summery in a pink print silk crepe dress with organdy ruffles at the neck and arms. Her brown hair was cut short, parted on one side, and fell in soft waves on either side of her heart-shaped face. She looked like Loretta Young, who was featured on a recent cover of Movie Classic magazine.
Liz wasn’t just pretty, but warm and caring, as well. She worked as a secretary and legal clerk in the law office of Moseley and Moseley, upstairs over the Dispatch. And even if she didn’t always get the credit due her, most Darlingians knew that Mr. Moseley couldn’t manage without her. She handled the paperwork, met the filing deadlines, and kept the office running during her boss’s frequent absences. People said that the only thing she couldn’t do was appear for him in court. Old Judge McHenry couldn’t see very well, but he’d know the difference between Liz and Mr. Moseley right off.
“It’s Tuesday, so here’s Mr. Moseley’s legal advertisements,” Liz said, handing Charlie a typed page. She looked from Myra May to Ophelia. “What’s this?” she asked, laughing lightly. “A meeting of the Dahlias’ officers—and you didn’t invite me?” Ophelia was the vice president and secretary, and Myra May was the communications chairwoman. Liz, of course, was the president.
“Auditions,” Ophelia said. “At the diner.” She held up Myra May’s ad, which required Myra May to tell her story one more time.
“I’m sorry you’ve lost Euphoria,” Liz said. She tilted her head to one side, considering. “Mrs. Alexander is letting her cook go. Pearly is a good hand with pies and biscuits, and Grady says she definitely has to find another job. You could give her a try.”
Grady Alexander, the Cypress County agriculture agent, was Liz’s boyfriend. Just the month before, his father had died when the M&R locomotive he was driving derailed at the river crossing. Myra May had heard that his mother had to cut back on expenses.
Liz paused, then qualified her recommendation. “Pearly’s meat loaf is only so-so, though. And I wouldn’t recommend her pies, especially her meringue. It’s weepy.”
Charlie snorted. “Lord deliver us from weepy meringues.”
Myra May pressed her lips together, thinking that hard times for some folks—like poor Mrs. Alexander, who had not only lost her husband but her husband’s paycheck—meant hard times for even more folks. “Euphoria is one of a kind,” she said with a sigh. “It might take two, maybe three, to replace her.”
“Well, look at it this way,” Ophelia said in a practical tone. “You get yourself seven cooks to come in and audition, you’ve got free cooking for a week.”
Charlie looked down his nose at Ophelia. “Free advertisin’, too, if Ophelia gets right on that story.” He turned to Liz. “I was just reaching for the phone to call you when Myra May came in with her ad.”
“What’s up?” Liz asked.
“It’s the Dare Devils,” he replied. “The air show.”
Liz looked apprehensive. “Uh-oh. What about it? Don’t tell me that something’s gone wrong!”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Charlie said in a deliberate, matter-of-fact tone. “But since you’re in charge of the festival, I think you ought to know how things stand. I just got off the line with Lily Dare. She called because I’m supposed to interview her when she flies in, for the story we’re running. But there’s been some trouble. They did an air show down in Pensacola last weekend. Seems there was a problem with Miss Dare’s plane.” He pulled his eyebrows together. “She thinks it was sabotage.”
“Sabotage,” Ophelia echoed blankly. “Why, who would do a thing like that?”
“Sabotage!” Myra May’s eyes widened. “That sounds serious.”
“Sabotage?” Liz asked uncertainly. “What kind of sabotage?”
Charlie shrugged. “How should I know what kind of sabotage? I’m just repeating what Miss Dare told me. The bottom line is that the plane needs a new propeller, which has to come from St. Louis. Nobody’s just real sure when it’ll arrive. She said she’d call as soon as she had any news.”
“Rats,” Myra May said expressively, and Ophelia groaned.
“Oh, dear.” Liz’s voice was low and anxious. “There’s no chance the show will be canceled, is there?”
“Dunno,” Charlie said. “But it didn’t sound too good.”
“I sincerely hope they don’t cancel,” Myra May said, pursing her lips. “If they do, Darling is going to be very disappointed.”
“I hope not, too,” Ophelia said fervently. “This air show is the biggest thing that’s ever happened in this town.” She paused. “I guess I’d better tell Jed. He’s vice president of the Lions Club, you know. And Roger Kilgore will have to be told, of course. He’s the one who arranged all this—and he’s got that special promotion going on. If you buy a car, you get a free airplane ride.” She turned to Liz. “Maybe you ought to let Mildred know, too, Liz. Miss Dare is supposed to be the guest of honor at her party. And she’s staying at their house.”
“Yes, I think I’d better,” Liz said slowly. “Although I hate to bother her before we know anything for sure. Mildred seems to have had a lot on her mind lately.”
“Then maybe you should wait until Charlie hears back from Miss Dare,” Myra May said. She was torn. She hoped that the Kilgores’ party wouldn’t be canceled, since she and Violet were counting on the extra money. But if they couldn’t find another cook, they’d be in serious trouble.
“I’m afraid not,” Liz said reluctantly. “Once Jed and Roger know, Mildred is going to find out. So I’d better tell her.”
Myra May went to the door. “I’ve got to get back to the diner, girls. Violet’s in the kitchen all by herself.” Over her shoulder, she added, “Ophelia, if you want to write that story about our auditions, you just come on over. And Liz, you be sure to let me know if you need help with the festival.”
“You could call all the Dahlias and let them know about Friday afternoon,” Liz said. “The garden is producing like crazy and we need to get stuff picked and toted over to the fairgrounds. Everybody has to pitch in.”
“I’ll do the calls this afternoon,” Myra May promised. Most of the Dahlias were on party lines. It took only two or three phone calls to reach the entire membership.
Ophelia reached under the counter for her notebook. “I finished my work on the Linotype,” she told Charlie. “I might as well go on over to the diner with Myra May and get this story now, before you start the layout for the local page.”
Charlie fished in his pocket. “You could bring me a piece of pie when you come back,” he said, handing a dime to Ophelia. “Chocolate, if they’ve got any left.” He added a nickel. “And coffee. Black.”
“Yes, boss,” Ophelia said wryly, and they all laughed.
By this time, Myra May was feeling much more optimistic about finding a replacement for Euphoria. While Ophelia interviewed Violet for the newspaper story, she phoned up Raylene Riggs in Monroeville, who said she’d be glad to get somebody to drive her over so she could demonstrate her cooking skills.
And after Ophelia had finished the interview and returned to the Dispatch office with Charlie’s pie and coffee, Myra May and Violet agreed that if Euphoria decided she wanted to come back and cook at the diner, they would tell her they were sorry and wish her good luck in her new cooking career at the Red Dog.
Unless, of course, she agreed to come back and cook for the Kilgores’ party, in which case they would be very glad to see her.
FOUR
Charlie Dickens Has a Story to Tell
Lizzy was about to follow Myra May and Ophelia as they went out the door. But she stopped when Charlie put out his hand and said, in a lower voice, “Hang on a shake, will you, Liz?” When the others had closed the door behind them, he turned back to her, his expression grave.
“I didn’t tell the full story just now. There’s more about this business with Lily Dare.”
“More what?” Lizzy asked. Her earlier apprehension about the upcoming festival—her worry that something was bound to go seriously wrong—was returning with a vengeance. Only this time, it had a sharper focus: the air show, and Miss Dare. “What is it, Charlie? What’s happened?”
Charlie reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes, and fished out a cigarette. “It’s not so much about what’s happened.” He opened a book of matches, snapped one with his thumbnail, and lit his Lucky. “It’s about what might happen. Take it from me, Liz. Lily Dare spells trouble. Serious trouble.” He motioned with his head. “Come around to my desk and let’s sit down for a minute.”
“Trouble?” Lizzy went around the end of the counter. “You’re talking about the airplane sabotage?”
“That, among other things. Lily has a way of . . . well, of making enemies. Plenty of them.” He sat down at his cluttered wooden desk and pushed a straight-back chair toward her with his foot.
“I guess I’m not surprised,” Lizzy said, sitting down. “You can’t become famous as the ‘fastest woman in the world’ without wounding a few egos. She’s got to be highly competitive, which likely doesn’t sit well with a lot of men. And judging from the photos I’ve seen, she’s beautiful. She’s glamorous. Most women probably envy her.” She sighed and made an honest confession. “I do—although I’m not sure I’d be very comfortable taking the risks she must take every single day.”
Charlie pulled on his cigarette. “You’re right about both, Liz. She’s competitive. And she’s certainly beautiful. It’s a potent combination. But she’s . . . well, she’s a schemer.” He shifted uncomfortably. “And pretty is as pretty does, as my mother used to say. By that definition, Lily certainly wouldn’t win any beauty contests.”
“A schemer?” Lizzy asked, puzzled. “You must know her, then.”
She studied Charlie. She liked him and respected his opinions, partly because (like Mr. Moseley) he had a wider view of the world than most Darlingians. He’d been to more places, Europe, even, and Baltimore and Cleveland. He had more experience. Still, she was surprised that he knew the Texas Star. It seemed almost too coincidental. But maybe it wasn’t a coincidence.
“Maybe you had something to do with the fact that she decided to come to Darling,” she guessed.
“Nope. Roger Kilgore did that all on his own hook.” Charlie looked away, frowning. “I offered to put in a word with her, if that would help. But he said she had already agreed.”
“I see,” Lizzy said thoughtfully, wondering at Charlie’s evident discomf
ort. “Well, however it happened, everybody’s really excited about her coming.” She paused, then said again, “I suppose you know her.”
He caught her glance and held it for a moment, as if he were trying to decide how much to tell her. Then he answered, slowly, “I met her when I was working as a reporter at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Her name wasn’t Lily Dare—not then. It was Henrietta Foote.”
“I see.” Lizzy suppressed a smile. Henrietta Foote’s Flying Circus—it didn’t have quite the right appeal.
Charlie nodded. “At the time, she had a big, fancy ranch house on three thousand acres of Texas rangeland west of town. That’s where she gave her parties. And when I say parties, I mean parties.” He picked up an empty Hires root beer bottle and tapped his cigarette ash into it. “Henrietta’s friends from the West Coast—Hollywood types, mostly—would fly their own planes in for a weeks-long, round-the-clock open-door, open-bar party. Her bar was stocked like a San Antonio bawdyhouse. There was enough offshore rum, bathtub gin, and south-of-the-border tequila to keep her pals drunk as skunks for a month. And she had a big swimming pool where everybody skinny-dipped whenever the spirit moved them—which it did, very often.”
“Oh, my,” Lizzy said weakly. She had never been to a party like that, of course, but she had read about them. The magazines on the rack over at Lima’s Drugstore—Hollywood Life and Silver Screen and such—were full of stories about the sensational goings-on at such parties.
Charlie eyed her, judging her response, then went on. “Some years ago, a guy—Pete Rickerts—died when he flipped his plane when he was landing on the airstrip on her ranch. It was a dangerous strip, too short and full of potholes. Her pilot friends had been telling her so, and warned her to do something about it before somebody got hurt. She laughed at them. She said she didn’t have any trouble landing there. It was a test of flying skill, she said. After Rickerts died, she went out and made a dozen landings, touch-and-gos, just to prove it could be done.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star Page 5
