The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Can you feature that?” Beulah was saying to Fannie. “In fact, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t held her wet hair in my very own two hands.”

  “What’s happened to Angelina Biggs?” Bessie asked curiously, remembering her odd encounter with the woman in front of the Dispatch office. “I ran into her this morning, and she seemed . . . well, strange. Very odd.”

  “She’s been poisoned!” Fannie Champaign exclaimed, taking off her hat and putting it on the hallway table. This one was yellow straw with a wide, floppy brim and a fine yellow feather band. Fannie owned Darling’s only hat shop and liked to wear her hats as an advertisement. If you admired the one she had on at the moment, she’d be glad to tell you how much it cost and encourage you to try it on in front of the nearest mirror. If you liked it, she’d sell it to you right off her head, with a nice little discount because it was “gently worn.”

  “Poisoned!” Bessie exclaimed, taken aback by this news.

  “Beulah will tell you all about it,” Fannie added, snatching a glance at herself in the mirror and patting her hair. “She’s the one who figured out what was wrong with the poor thing. Mrs. Biggs, I mean.” She shook her head at Beulah. “Beulah, I am just amazed at the way you put those clues together. I swear, honey, you are the sleuth-in-chief, just like Miss Marple. You know what Miss Christie says. Miss Marple ‘always knew every single thing that happened and drew the worst inferences.’” She laughed, a sweet, tinkling little laugh.

  A few weeks earlier, Fannie had given a talk at the Darling Literary Society on The Murder at the Vicarage, Agatha Christie’s new mystery, and had quoted a number of lines she liked. She had also read aloud bits of the New York Times review of the book. The reviewer had been patronizing in an unmistakably male sort of way, feeling that Miss Christie was far from “being at her best” in the book. “The local sisterhood of spinsters is introduced with much gossip and click-clack,” he had written. “A bit of this goes a long way and the average reader is apt to grow weary of it all, particularly of the amiable Miss Marple, who is sleuth-in-chief of the affair.” The members of the Literary Society (fully half of them were Dahlias) had giggled at the phrase local sisterhood of spinsters. That was exactly how they liked to describe themselves, although not all of them were spinsters.

  “There’s something wrong with Mrs. Biggs?” Miss Rogers asked, coming into the parlor with another plate of cookies. “I hope it’s not too serious. She is one of the library’s most supportive patrons.” She paused, and her tone became slightly disapproving. “She rather enjoys romantic novels. The Sheik seems to be her current favorite. In fact, I believe that the book is a day or two overdue. I shall have to telephone her.”

  Bessie refrained from rolling her eyes. She had started to read the novel, which was still wildly popular, even though it had been out for over ten years. But she stopped when she got to the part where the hero, Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan, had dragged the heroine, Lady Diana, into his tent and cruelly ravished her while she screamed and resisted. Bessie knew she was old-fashioned, but she didn’t feel that the hero of a book ought to behave in such a violently lecherous fashion, even if he was a lord of the desert. In the movie based on the book, Rudolph Valentino (Sheik Ahmed) had taken pity on Agnes Ayers (Lady Diana) and had been a great deal more romantic—it was Hollywood, after all. But the scenes were still shocking enough that the film had been banned in Kansas City. Bessie found it interesting that Angelina Dupree Biggs was a fan of the book.

  “The poor dear is losing her hair,” Fannie explained. She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that just too hideous for words?” She paused, reflecting. “Actually, I have a draped satin toque—teal blue—that would be appropriate for such a situation.” She looked at Beulah. “Do you think it would be too forward of me to offer to loan it to her until her hair starts coming back in? Assuming it does, that is,” she added thoughtfully. “It might not.”

  “I think you should definitely offer,” Beulah said, although the thought of Angelina Biggs in a teal blue satin toque made her lips twitch. It was something that Lady Diana would have worn, however, so maybe Angelina would accept. “Fannie, that is very gracious of you.”

  “Mrs. Biggs is losing her hair?” Miss Rogers asked in horror. She put the plate down with a little thud and her hand flew to her own hair, as if to assure herself that it was where it belonged.

  “I knew something was wrong the moment I saw her this morning,” Bessie said somberly, remembering how Angelina had blundered out of the Dispatch office—and how Charlie Dickens had disclaimed any responsibility. “But poisoned? Somebody has poisoned Angelina Dupree Biggs? Who in the world would do such a thing?”

  “She was doing it to herself,” Beulah said. “Can you imagine?”

  Fannie saw the sideboard and clasped her hands. “Oh, just look at those charming refreshments! Miss Rogers, they do look delectable! You are such a dear.” She started forward as if to help herself, but Miss Rogers stepped in front of her.

  “We usually wait until after we’ve finished a round, Miss Champaign,” she said primly.

  “Oh, sorry,” Fannie replied, disappointed, and turned away.

  “That’s all right,” Miss Rogers said in a comforting tone. “You’re new. We understand.”

  “What was she doing to herself?” Bessie asked.

  “Taking Dr. Baxter’s diet pills,” Beulah explained, seating herself at the card table. “Fannie, honey, you’re going to be my partner, so you sit opposite.”

  “Diet pills?” Bessie asked incredulously, taking the chair to Beulah’s right. Miss Rogers sat opposite her, straightening the white lace cuffs on her mauve dress. “How could a little thing like diet pills poison anybody?”

  “Because they have arsenic in them,” Beulah said.

  “Arsenic!” Bessie and Miss Rogers exclaimed in one voice.

  “Yes, arsenic—would you believe?” Beulah replied, fanning herself with her hand. “And who knows how much. I mean, I doubt that anybody’s watching when the pills are being made. They could make a mistake with their measurements and quantities and the like and nobody would be the wiser.” Without a pause, she added, “Miss Rogers, dear, those cookies look utterly divine. You’re sure you won’t relent and let us have just one before we start?”

  “I think we can wait until we’ve Rooked,” Miss Rogers said as Bessie reached for the box of cards in the middle of the table.

  “There was strychnine in them, too,” Fannie put in. “In the pills, I mean. And pokeberries. And goodness only knows what else.” She made a face. “I’m sure there are rules about such things, but the government can’t peek into every box.”

  “Pokeberries and strychnine may be bad, but it was probably the arsenic that made her lose her hair,” Beulah said. “I was giving her a shampoo and it started coming out by the handfuls. By the handfuls, I mean. I’ve read about arsenic making your hair fall out, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.” She sighed heavily. “That was when she threatened to sue me,” she added. “When her hair came out in my hands.”

  “Dear me,” Miss Rogers said, pursing her lips and looking distressed. “Oh, dear, dear me.” Miss Rogers disliked litigation of any sort, feeling that people ought to solve their differences outside of the courtroom if at all possible.

  “But there’s more,” Fannie said, clasping her hands under her chin and leaning forward eagerly. “Tell them, Beulah.”

  “I’m not sure I should,” Beulah said in a hesitant tone. “It’s sort of private. I mean, it’s really not a pretty thing to talk about.”

  “Nothing is private in this town,” Bessie replied matter-of-factly. She opened the box of Rook cards and began to take out the twos, threes, and fours. “Pretty or not pretty, we’re all going to hear it sooner or later. Sooner, probably. Word has a way of getting around, you know.”

  “I can’t argue wi
th that.” Beulah sighed. “Well, if you really want to know, she was threatening to sue her husband for carrying on an affair in the second-floor bedrooms at the hotel. And Mr. Dickens for trying to kiss her this morning. Assault with the attempt to molest was the way she put it.”

  “Molest!” Bessie exclaimed, nearly dropping the cards. “I don’t believe it! Charlie Dickens would never in the world do something like that!” But Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan certainly would, she thought grimly. Was that where Angelina had gotten the idea? From that dreadful romance novel?

  “It had to have been her imagination,” Fannie put in, and lowered her eyes. “Mr. Dickens is a complete gentleman. A gentleman through and through.”

  Bessie frowned. She wondered how Fannie Champaign knew what kind of a gentleman Charlie Dickens was, but she didn’t want to ask.

  Beulah nodded, agreeing with Fannie. “Her husband swears he’s never had an affair with anybody, and I believe him—if only because I am positive that I would have heard about it if he had. You’d be amazed what women say when their heads are in the shampoo sink. I hear about every affair in town, uncensored.”

  Miss Rogers tsk-tsked with her tongue.

  Beulah gave Miss Rogers an understanding smile. “I know—it’s just awful, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s my opinion that the pills were driving her crazy. Either they weren’t made right or she was taking too many of them.” She paused. “I talked to Mr. Lima at the drugstore this afternoon, and he told me that she bought three packages two weeks ago today. There are twenty-four pills in each package, so when Mr. Biggs counts them, he can tell how many she’s taken.”

  “Maybe it was the pokeberries that gave her hallucinations about Mr. Dickens,” Fannie said thoughtfully.

  “Or maybe it was Sheik Ahmed,” Bessie said. The others gave her a blank look and she added, “She’s been reading the book, hasn’t she? Maybe she started imagining that she was Lady Diana, and Mr. Dickens was the sheik and he intended to ravish her.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Fannie said doubtfully.

  “Books are powerful things,” Miss Rogers said in a cautioning tone. “I often think that it takes a person of high moral standards to resist the ideas that are found in some books.”

  Beulah’s sigh was full of compassion. “It’s such a pity. All she wanted to do was lose that weight and get beautiful again. You’ve got to give her credit for that. Beauty is every woman’s birthright.”

  “It’s a good lesson for all of us,” Miss Rogers said decidedly. “If someone needs to lose weight, they shouldn’t take pills. And certain books should be read with caution, so as not to inflame the imagination.”

  “I’ll say amen to that,” Bessie said, and picked up the cards. Since she was the hostess, she was the dealer for the first round, so she shuffled and cut the deck, then dealt the cards one at a time, dealing a five-card nest of rook in the middle of the table. She was dealing the last card when there was a knock on the door.

  “Drat,” she muttered, and got up. “Don’t anybody move. I’ll make short work of whoever it is.”

  It was Charlie Dickens, standing at the door with his Panama hat in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. “I wanted to talk to you about that pillow, Miss Bloodworth,” he said. “I have an idea that I’d like to test out, but I—” He looked over her shoulder and saw the group in the parlor. “Oh, sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize you had company. I’ll come back another time.” He turned to go.

  “Oh, it’s just the Dahlias,” Bessie said. “It’s our Monday-night card party.” Still holding the doorknob, she considered. “Are you saying that you think there’s something . . . well, interesting about that paper I gave you? Do you think it might really be a . . . a secret code?”

  “I do,” Charlie Dickens said. “And I have an idea about who your friend’s grandmother might be. I was hoping to see the pillow. It might give me something more to go on.”

  “Oh, really?” Bessie exclaimed with mounting excitement. “Then why don’t you come in and meet my friend. I’m sure the rest of us won’t mind delaying our game while you and Miss Rogers sort things out.”

  “Miss Rogers?” Charlie Dickens asked, surprised. “You don’t mean . . . It’s Miss Rogers’ grandmother who made the pillow?”

  Bessie sniffed, thinking that she smelled a whiff of whiskey on Charlie’s breath. But she only said, “Indeed. And I’m sure that she will be delighted to let you see the pillow. She has it upstairs in her room.” She hesitated, adding apologetically, “But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave your cigar outside. I hope you don’t mind. The Magnolia Ladies are not very fond of cigars.”

  “Sure thing,” Charlie Dickens said. He laid his unlit cigar on the porch railing and followed Bessie inside.

  And Bessie had been right. Miss Rogers (who turned petal pink when Mr. Dickens came in and Bessie explained why he was there) was thrilled to acknowledge that she was the owner of the pillow and then to scurry upstairs to her bedroom and bring it down. She also brought the twisted, gnarled hank of red wool yarn that Lucky Lindy had unraveled with his sharp claws and put it on the card table where everyone could see it.

  “A cat did that?” Fannie Champaign exclaimed incredulously. When Mr. Dickens came in, Fannie had slid him a glance that Bessie couldn’t read, which had made her even more curious about the two of them—although why it mattered to her, she could not have said. Charlie Dickens was only the brother of an old friend. She had no interest in him at all.

  Bessie cleared her throat. “Lucky Lindy was a cat of many talents,” she put in. “One of our Magnolia Ladies was quite fond of him—until he unraveled one too many of her knitting projects.”

  “He was a dreadful nuisance,” Miss Rogers said emphatically, “but I must confess that I am grateful to him for pulling that knitted cover apart. I had no idea that my pillow was embroidered with all these signs and symbols.” She held it up for everyone to see. “On both sides, too.”

  She handed the pillow to Charlie Dickens, who took it over to the bridge lamp for a careful examination.

  “But where did the pillow come from?” Beulah wanted to know, so of course Miss Rogers had to tell everyone the whole story, while Charlie Dickens continued to turn the pillow in his hand, studying it minutely as he listened to the tale.

  “Such a lovely story, Miss Rogers!” Fannie exclaimed. “To think that you have something that your grandmother made with her very own hands. I wish I had some reminders of my family.” She put her head to one side, adding, “Although perhaps I don’t. We weren’t a very happy family, come to think of it. I don’t think I’d care to be reminded.”

  Beulah smiled. “A family treasure, Miss Rogers. What you have is a wonderful family treasure.”

  “It’s more than that,” Charlie Dickens remarked. “Much more.” They all turned to look at him as he came to the table. “What you have, Miss Rogers, may be a national treasure. Or perhaps I should say, rather, a Confederate treasure. Something that all true daughters and sons of the South would be proud to call their own. Congratulations.” He bowed with a gallant flourish, and Bessie got another whiff. He had definitely been drinking. Nobody else seemed to notice it, though.

  “Con . . . gratulations?” Miss Rogers asked hesitantly, flushing. “But I don’t understand. It’s just a . . . it’s just a pillow, that’s all. A pillow with strange symbols all over it.”

  Bessie leaned forward urgently. “The symbols,” she said. “What do they mean, Mr. Dickens?”

  Instead of answering, Charlie Dickens asked, “Does anyone have a pair of sharp-pointed scissors?”

  Bessie got up and went across the room to the table next to her chair and fetched the scissors from her sewing basket. “Will these do?” she asked, handing them to him.

  “Perfect,” Charlie replied. To Miss Rogers, he said, “With your permiss
ion, I would like to open a seam along one side of your pillow. I will try very hard not to damage the material. May I?”

  Miss Rogers hesitated as if she might say no, then drew a breath. “Of course, if you feel it’s necessary,” she said, and then added, impetuously, “Oh, but do be careful, Mr. Dickens. It’s an antique. That pillow is as old as I am.”

  “That can’t be so very old,” Charlie Dickens said in an unusually chivalrous tone, and began snipping at the seam on the left side of the pillow. The thread was thin but the stitches, which had obviously been put in by an expert seamstress, were firm. The snipping took several moments.

  The Dahlias, their Rook game forgotten, watched Mr. Dickens intently. “What is he trying to do?” Beulah whispered, and Bessie said, “Just wait, dear, you’ll see.”

  When he was finished, Charlie Dickens opened the seam with his fingers and began fishing around inside the pillow, gently and carefully. And then he found something. As the Dahlias watched, holding their collective breaths, he drew out several folded papers.

  “Why, what on earth!” Miss Rogers exclaimed in great surprise. “I’ve had that pillow since I was a child and I had no idea there was anything in it—except for the stuffing, of course. What is it, Mr. Dickens? What have you found?”

  Charlie Dickens had unfolded one of the papers and was scanning it quickly, his expression changing from curiosity to amazement and then to exultation.

  “I was right!” he exclaimed. “I knew it—I was right!” He tossed the paper down in front of Miss Rogers. “Take a gander at that, Miss Rogers. Just take a gander at that!”

  Miss Rogers gave it a fearful glance, as if it held some bad news, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she looked up and asked, in a strained, breathless voice, “What’s all this about, Mr. Dickens? Please explain.” She took out a white lace-edged hanky and touched her lips. “Does it . . . does it have to do with my grandmother?”