Lizzy shook her head. There might be plenty of new cars in the garages in Mr. Hoover’s neighborhood, but not here in Darling—and not many full dinner pails, either. What would it take to get things moving forward again, even if Governor Roosevelt were elected? What could one man—even somebody as powerful as the president of the United States—do in the face of such a difficult situation? Mr. Hoover was a decent, good-hearted man who cared about people. Surely he would have changed things if he could—but he hadn’t. Mr. Moseley said it was because members of his party wouldn’t let him put any spending programs in place to boost the economy, but Lizzy didn’t understand that. She had heard that the government was in debt to the tune of some sixteen billion dollars, an almost unimaginable sum. How could Mr. Hoover spend money the country didn’t have?
Lizzy was still pondering this question as she walked down the dim courthouse corridor and into the clerk’s office, where she put the folders on the desk. Donna Sue, the judge’s clerk, turned around from a file cabinet and asked if Liz had heard that Myra May and Violet had hired a new cook.
“I knew they were holding auditions,” Lizzy replied, “but I didn’t know they had found somebody already. That was quick. Have you tried her food yet?”
“I stopped in there this morning,” Donna Sue said. She was a hefty woman who ordered her dresses from the Montgomery Ward “stout ladies” pages and was obviously enthusiastic about food. She paused, an oddly puzzled expression on her round face.
“It was the strangest thing, actually,” she went on. “Last night, I dreamed about my mama’s grits and sausage casserole. She used to make it for Sunday breakfasts, and it was always so good. It’s my favorite memory of her. When I woke up from the dream, I could almost taste that casserole.” She closed her eyes and licked her lips.
Then her eyes flew wide open. “You are not going to believe this, Liz. But lo and behold, when I went into the diner to get my usual doughnut for breakfast, Raylene—that’s the name of the new cook—was just serving up a batch of—guess what!—grits and sausage casserole! And what’s more, it tasted like my mama’s, too—which is strange by itself, since there must be dozens of ways to cook up grits and sausage in a casserole.”
“That is hard to believe,” Lizzy replied, thinking that if anybody but Donna Sue had told her this, she would suspect that it was a made-up story. But Donna Sue was an unimaginative woman who did good work in the circuit court judge’s office precisely because she was such a no-nonsense, nothing-but-the-facts-please kind of person. “You dreamed about it, and there it was,” she mused. “You must have been surprised by the . . . coincidence.”
“Surprised? Was I ever!” Donna Sue exclaimed. “But to tell the truth, it didn’t feel like a coincidence. It felt like magic.” She added ruefully, “I’m afraid I made a pig of myself. That casserole was even better than my mama’s, if you can believe that. I told Violet and Myra May that Raylene is a much better cook than Euphoria and I hoped that she would be cooking in their kitchen forever.” She paused. “Really, Liz. You should go over there and give Raylene a try.”
“I will,” Lizzy said, and headed upstairs to the county treasurer’s office to have a cup of coffee with Verna.
Verna was not the most cheerful person in the world, but this morning, her frown was even darker than usual. “I have bad news about the tents for the Watermelon Festival,” she said, as she put Lizzy’s coffee mug on the desk. “Two men from the Masonic Lodge brought a truck to the depot to pick them up, but the tents weren’t on the train.”
“Oh, dear!” Lizzy exclaimed, suddenly apprehensive. The sabotaged airplane and now this! She sat down in the chair next to Verna’s desk. “Well, when are they coming?”
“No idea,” Verna said shortly. “I called the rental agency in Mobile as soon as I got the word, but nobody answered the telephone. I called twice more this morning. I’ll try again in a little while.” She shook her head. “Sorry, Liz. I know that isn’t what you wanted to hear. But I’ve got it under control.”
Lizzy chuckled wryly, and Verna gave her a suspicious look. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I’m remembering what you said Monday night, at the Dahlias’ clubhouse,” Lizzy replied. “‘When everything seems to be under control, that’s just the time when it isn’t. When everything just plain goes to hell in a handbasket.’” She sighed. “Far as I’m concerned, this festival is jinxed. Everything is already going to hell.”
“Uh-oh,” Verna said, with evident interest. She liked it when someone confronted her with a problem she could put her mind to. Verna was a natural problem solver. “What else has gone wrong?”
“Too much,” Lizzy said. Choosing her words carefully, she told Verna about the sabotage to Miss Dare’s airplane, the possibility that the air show might be called off, and Charlie Dickens’ concern for the physical safety of the Texas Star. Lizzy didn’t say anything about the rest of it, of course: Charlie’s relationship with Miss Dare (whatever it was) and the anonymous letters and photograph that had sparked Mildred Kilgore’s fears about her straying husband. Those things had been told to her in confidence and were too deeply personal to share—unless she felt she absolutely had to.
“And that’s the story,” Lizzy concluded. “If the air show comes off as planned, Charlie plans to hang around the airfield and make sure nobody monkeys with the airplanes. And I agreed to stay at the Kilgores’ while Miss Dare is there. I’m sleeping in the bedroom adjacent to hers, so I can keep an eye on her and make sure she’s safe.” Or to keep her away from Roger, she thought to herself. She laughed a little self-consciously. “I’m afraid this sounds a bit Miss Marple-ish, doesn’t it? But it seems like the right thing to do.”
Verna, a fan of true crime magazines and Agatha Christie’s detective stories, had recently loaned Lizzy her well-thumbed hardcover copy of The Murder at the Vicarage. The book had reminded Lizzy that things were not always as they seemed, and that even small towns—like the quiet and innocent-appearing St. Mary Mead, where nothing important ever happened—could harbor some sinister secrets, secrets that nobody in the world could guess. Nobody, that is, except for a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.
Innocent little Darling had its dark corners, too, as Lizzy knew from her own experience over the past few years. There had been the dreadful murder of young, pretty Bunny Scott, which might have gone unsolved if she and Verna and Myra May hadn’t gotten curious about a certain dentist in Monroeville. And that slick gangster from Chicago who had come to Darling looking for Al Capone’s ex-girlfriend, who had moved in with her aunt right across the street from the Dahlias’ clubhouse! And those sneaky shenanigans with the Cypress County bank accounts that had ended when the county treasurer drowned himself in a gallon of the local white lightning. You’d never in the world know that such ugly events could occur in such a lovely small town as Darling. But of course they could, and they had. And that was exactly the point. Bad things could happen anywhere.
“Personally, I think what this world needs is one or two more Miss Marples,” Verna replied. “But I sincerely hope that Miss Dare hasn’t collected as many enemies as Colonel Protheroe did. And that she doesn’t end up the same way he did.” She narrowed her eyes. “Stabbed to death.”
Lizzy stared at her. It was the murder of Colonel Protheroe—a man who was hated by half the village of St. Mary Mead—that the astute Miss Marple had solved in The Murder at the Vicarage. Lizzy swallowed. And Lily Dare, like Colonel Protheroe, had a great many enemies. But it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone might actually try to—
“You don’t think there’s a possibility of that?” Lizzy asked. She thought of the letters that Mildred had received and her mouth went suddenly dry.
“Obviously, somebody hated her enough to sabotage her plane. So yes, indeed, there’s a possibility of that.” Verna spoke with the grim assurance of someone who knows that wh
en she turns over a rock she will find a snake or a scorpion under it—and the experience of someone who never expects anybody to act any better than anybody else (and usually a whole lot worse). “Oh, and if you need me to help you keep an eye on things at the Kilgores,” she added casually, “you can count me in.”
“Really?” Lizzy put down her coffee cup. She hadn’t thought about asking someone else to help, but now that she did, it certainly made good sense to ask Verna, who was by nature a suspicious person.
“Really,” Verna said emphatically, and Lizzy could tell that she would like nothing better.
Lizzy paused. “Actually, I don’t know when Miss Dare is arriving—tonight or tomorrow, or perhaps not at all. And I have no idea what’s going to happen. But I’m sure that two pairs of eyes would be better than one.”
“And if nothing else, we can keep each other awake,” Verna said with a chuckle. She flashed a wicked grin. “We could equip ourselves with whistles, so we can wake up the household if we spot somebody climbing the drainpipe with a rope over his shoulder and a knife in his teeth.”
Lizzy had to laugh at this comical idea, which sounded like something out of a silent-film melodrama. “I suppose I am taking this a bit too seriously,” she said. “But Mildred said—”
She broke off abruptly. No, not Mildred. It was the anonymous letter writer who had said that Miss Dare was ruining innocent people’s lives. That somebody had to stop the woman. Stop her how? By sabotaging her airplane? By following her to Darling and stabbing her with a knife, like poor Colonel Protheroe?
“What?” Verna regarded her curiously. “Mildred said what?”
Lizzy cleared her throat. “Nothing. Just . . . nothing.”
She wanted to tell Verna about the letters, but if she did, she’d have to tell her about Roger Kilgore’s relationship with Miss Dare, and about the money he was paying her. And what Charlie had said about Douglas Fairbanks and wedding rings. And she couldn’t do that—at least, not yet.
“I’ll check with Mildred,” she added, “but I’ll bet she’ll be glad for you to stay. And I’m sure I’m just being a worrywart.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Verna said darkly. “Bad things happen. Let me know when you need me, and I’ll be available. We’ll keep an eye on the drainpipes, just in case.” She put down her coffee and reached for the telephone on her desk. “And I’ll call the rental place about those tents right now. That way, you’ll have the latest information.”
This time, Verna was able to get through to the rental office, but the news she heard wasn’t good. “The tents apparently went north,” she reported gloomily, putting the phone down. “For some mysterious reason, the railroad shipped them to Indianapolis.” She made a face. “They’re not sure they can get them back here by tomorrow evening.”
“Well, if we have to, we can manage without the tents, I guess,” Lizzy said slowly. “As long as it doesn’t rain.” Of course, if it rained, there would be more difficulties. If the flying circus got to Darling, could they fly in the rain? She paused. “Have you heard anything about the carnival?”
“I ran into Mr. Trice yesterday. He says it’s on the way. Cross your fingers.” She frowned. “There’s nothing we can do about those tents, so I suppose there’s no point in worrying. But I wonder how they happened to end up in Indianapolis, instead of here. Seems suspicious to me.”
“Everything seems suspicious to you, Verna,” Lizzy replied, rising from her chair. “But there might be something we can do. Mr. Moseley gave me the rest of the day off. I’ll go back to the office and phone around and see if I can find another supplier. Just in case.”
But Lizzy didn’t get back to the office right away. After all, she had finished her “Garden Gate” column and she had the rest of the day off. As she came out of the courthouse, she paused on the steps for a moment, hearing a rumble of thunder and putting her hand up to settle her yellow straw hat against possible gusts. The air was sultry and heavy with heat and humidity, and to the northwest, the sky was beginning to fill with dark clouds. They could certainly use the rain, Lizzy thought, glancing at the annuals—marigolds, zinnias, strawflowers, and dusty millers—that the Dahlias had planted around the courthouse. They looked a little dry and wilted. And if it was going to rain, better that it rained on Thursday than on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday—especially if those tents didn’t show up!
On this hot and muggy July morning, the streets around the courthouse square were busy, as usual. Deputy Buddy Norris, on his red Indian Ace motorcycle, swung around the corner and skidded to a stop in front of the Darling Diner, raising a fishtail of dust on the dusty street. He parked next to a string of cars in front of the diner. Lizzy spotted Toomy LeGrand’s truck and the Newmans’ Nash. Toomy and Hank Newman, who were brothers-in-law, were probably having lunch.
Lizzy glanced at her watch. Maybe she should go to lunch now, and see for herself whether the new cook that Donna Sue had told her about was really that good.
“Hey, Liz!”
Hearing her name, Lizzy looked across Franklin Street to see Charlie Dickens standing in front of the Dispatch office, his big leather camera bag slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a blue and white striped seersucker suit and a straw fedora tipped to the back of his head. He waved at her, and she crossed the street.
“Glad I saw you, Liz,” he said. “I phoned upstairs to your office but didn’t get any answer. I’ve got some good news. Lily Dare is on her way to Darling and is due to land in the next half hour. Looks like the air show is going to come off after all.”
“That is a relief!” Lizzy exclaimed. “I’ll go call Mildred Kilgore and let her know that her guest is arriving. What about the others? Rex Hart and that aerialist? Are they flying in today, too?”
“A little later in the day,” Charlie replied. “The rest of the team is driving in. But I’ve already called the Kilgores—I figured they’d like to know right away.” He hitched his camera bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m driving out to the airfield now. I want to get some pictures.”
“Okay if I go with you?” Lizzy asked eagerly. “Mr. Moseley is out of town. He gave me the rest of the day off, so I’m free.” She was dying to meet the fastest woman in the world, the beautiful, sexy woman who had tantalized Charlie Dickens and wormed her way into the heart (or at least the pocketbook) of Roger Kilgore.
Charlie eyed her. “Did you talk to Mildred Kilgore about . . . you know. What we discussed on Tuesday?”
“I told her what you said about the sabotage,” Lizzy said. “And that there had been some sort of . . . well, threat. Mildred agreed that it might be a good idea if I stayed at her house. I’m to have the room next to Miss Dare’s.” She paused, wishing that she could tell Charlie about those letters—and the compromising photograph, and the checks Roger Kilgore had written to Lily Dare. But she had promised Mildred, so she couldn’t.
“Oh, and Verna Tidwell has agreed to stay with me,” she added. “Between the two of us, we ought to be able to keep an eye on the situation and make sure that nothing happens.”
“Good,” Charlie said. “Yeah. Come on out to the airfield with me, Liz. It’s time you met Lily Dare.”
TEN
The Fastest Woman in the World
Charlie owned an old green Pontiac four-door sedan. He was in the habit of driving fast with the windows open, and the wind and the engine noise made it impossible for Lizzy to ask the questions that were going through her mind. By the time they got where they were going, her hair was blown every which way. She’d even had to take off her yellow straw hat and hold it on her lap to keep it from blowing away. As they drove, she saw that the dark clouds that had been piling up to the northwest now covered a third of the sky, and flickers of lightning danced from one towering thunderhead to another. It was going to rain.
Darling’s airfield was on the south side of town, past the Cypress Country Club and the
Cypress County fairgrounds. It was a narrow, grassy strip about two hundred yards long with sycamore and pecan trees growing along the fence rows at either end. Off to one side stood a plywood shed, weathered gray by the sun and rain. It was roofed with corrugated sheet metal and large enough to house a couple of airplanes. The shed had been knocked together back in the mid twenties, when barnstormers came to town sometimes three or four times a summer. These days, though, there were fewer flying circuses, and since nobody in town owned an airplane, the airfield wasn’t maintained. The grass and weeds grew hip-high around the unpainted shed and across the airstrip.
But today, the strip had been mowed, a wind sock was hung from a tall pole, and a row of wooden bleachers had been erected along one side of the field so that Darling’s dignitaries could watch the show in comfort. The rest of the crowd would park their cars and trucks on both sides of the field and sit on the hoods and car roofs.
As Charlie drove up, Lizzy saw that the tall sliding doors on the shed were open and the building was empty. There were several cars parked around the back. Three men were standing in front, shading their eyes with their hands and looking southeastward, into the sky.
One of the men was Roger Kilgore, nattily dressed in a light tan summer suit with a red tie and brown and white shoes and looking very much like Clark Gable. Another was Amos Tombull, the county commissioner that everybody called Boss, in a Palm Beach suit with a vest that was buttoned tight across his bulging midriff, a flat-crown white straw hat on the back of his head. As usual, the Boss was smoking a large cigar. The third man was Darling’s mayor and the owner of the feed store, Jed Snow. Jed was wearing his usual work clothes, a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and wash pants. Young Sam Snow and his little sister Sarah were with their father. Sam was carrying a cardboard, hand-lettered sign: Welcome to the Fastest Woman in the World! Sarah, dressed in a starched pink cotton dress with ruffles around the hem, had a huge armful of lilies, almost more than she could carry.
The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star Page 13
