The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies Read online

  Beulah’s natural sense of beauty had been enhanced by a degree (the certificate was framed and hung on the wall at her haircutting station) from the Montgomery College of Cosmetology. She saw herself as a true artist, especially where hair was concerned. She could cut the latest bob, manage a marcel iron, work miracles with a curling iron, and color hair in all shades. In fact, Beulah sometimes worried (just a little) that her training and talents were wasted in Darling, for most of the ladies who came to her Beauty Bower merely wanted a quickie shampoo and set, or a trim and shampoo, and sometimes a permanent wave. They plucked their own eyebrows, used lemon to bleach the age spots on their hands, and even made their own dry skin lotions, rather than purchasing the products she displayed on glass shelves beside the door. Still, Beulah was for the most part happy and fulfilled in her work, even though she occasionally wished for a greater artistic challenge.

  Of course, a big chunk of the reason for Beulah’s happiness was the fact that she owned her very own Beauty Bower, which was a beautiful place to work. The first thing she did when she and her husband Hank bought the house on Dauphin Street was to paint a beautiful sign for the front of the house and decorate it with a basket of lush pink roses. BEULAH’S BEAUTY BOWER BLOOMING SOON!! (In addition to her other talents, Beulah could paint beautiful pictures of flowers.)

  While she was doing this, Hank enclosed the screened porch across the back of the house so it would be comfortable during cold weather and installed two shampoo sinks and haircutting chairs and two big wall mirrors in front of the chairs. He also wired the place for electricity so that Beulah could have the latest beauty equipment. The new Kenmore handheld hair dryer she coveted, for instance, and the electric permanent-wave machine with amazing drop-down curlers that heated the hair to create a long-lasting curl, not to mention the electric hot water heater, which meant that there’d be no more pouring hot water out of teakettles and pitchers, with the danger of scalding somebody. Beulah added the finishing touches, painting the wainscoting peppermint pink (her favorite color), wallpapering the walls with fat pink roses, and spatter-painting the pink floor with gray, blue, and yellow. Then she painted out the BLOOMING SOON on the sign and replaced it with BY APPOINTMENT & WALK-INS WELCOME and she was in business.

  After a few months, the Beauty Bower was such a runaway success that Beulah advertised for a helper, which resulted in Bettina Higgens. Bettina was not what you might call pretty (her brown hair was stringy and thin and she was as skinny as a bean pole) and she had never been to beauty school. But Beulah saw an innate talent in Bettina’s nimble fingers and knew that she had what it took to make women beautiful. Within a couple of weeks, the two were wearing twin pink ruffled aprons embroidered with Beulah’s Beauty Bower and working elbow-to-elbow at the shampoo sinks.

  One of the things that Beulah and Bettina liked best about their workplace was its conviviality, for each day of the week brought its regulars who looked forward to seeing their friends, saved up their tidbits of gossip to share, and even brought cookies and cupcakes to go with the hot coffee and iced tea that Beulah always kept ready, depending on the season. Beulah was careful not to schedule the day’s appointments so tightly that they couldn’t accommodate somebody with a hair emergency, though. She hated to turn away a potential customer. Why, the person might get in over at Conrad’s Curling Corner and be lost to the Bower forever!

  Fridays and Saturdays were always the Bower’s busiest days, with people getting prettied up for Saturday night parties and Sunday morning church. Monday mornings were usually fairly quiet, with Myra May Mosswell and Miss Dorothy Rogers coming in at nine and Bessie Bloodworth and Leona Ruth Adcock at nine thirty.

  But on this particular Monday morning, both nine o’clocks had already canceled, Myra May because she was shorthanded at the diner and the telephone exchange (Violet Sims was still out of town), Miss Rogers ostensibly because she was coming down with a head cold and didn’t want to sit around with wet hair. Beulah suspected that it was because Miss Rogers was short of funds again, and the thirty-five cents she spent on a shampoo and set had a better use elsewhere. But of course Miss Rogers couldn’t be blamed for she, like so many others, was in a very difficult predicament. Beulah was just grateful for every customer who could still afford the luxury of becoming beautiful.

  So this morning, when the clock said nine and there was still a half-hour before the regular nine-thirties arrived, Bettina sat down with a tray of metal Kurley Kew curlers in her lap and began to sort them by size, while Beulah went out to her backyard garden to pick an armload of chrysanthemums, gerbera daisies, and zinnias, along with some ferns for greenery. Flowers, she always thought, gave the Bower the “salon look.” She had brought them in and was arranging them in a big glass bowl when the door opened and a stranger walked in.

  Beulah knew right away, however, that this woman was no stranger. She was a kindred soul who obviously cared deeply about beauty. Her platinum blond hair (Beulah always saw hair first, before she saw anything else) was styled in loose, soft curls like Jean Harlow’s, although the roots were in definite need of some attention and the curls were a trifle untidy. She was stylishly dressed in a bright blue dress with a bolero jacket trimmed in blue velvet (which did nothing to hide her generous bosom), a blue pillbox hat with a veil, blue gloves, and shiny patent shoes with tasteful rhinestone-trimmed buckles on the straps, just as if she had stepped off the streets of New York or out of the pages of Vogue. She had a pretty face, with pencil-thin plucked eyebrows, a delicate nose, a rosebud mouth, and a dark beauty mark just above her lip. Beulah, whose experienced eye could catch the flaws and imperfections in even the most expert makeup job, noticed that there were a few crow’s-feet wrinkles around the woman’s eyes, and if you looked close, you might see a sprinkling of largish pores on either side of her nose. But as Beulah often put it to her customers, what did a few wrinkles and pores really matter? A beautiful woman was beautiful at any age. And in Beulah’s expert opinion, this stranger was a beautiful woman who was simply in need of a few touch-ups here and there.

  Beulah’s feeling of kinship was reinforced when the stranger lifted her hands, gasped at the flowers, and cried, “Oh, how stunning! What a lovely thing to see on a Monday morning. Flowers do get the week started out just right, don’t they?” She sounded like a Yankee, but as far as Beulah was concerned, anybody who loved flowers was a true sister.

  “They purely do,” Beulah said happily. She turned to Bettina, who was staring, openmouthed, at this platinum-haired vision of feminine loveliness. “Bettina, honey, would you fill this bowl with water, please?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Bettina said, and jumped up, scattering Kurley Kews all over the floor.

  Beulah left Bettina scrambling to pick up the curlers and turned back to her customer. “Now, dear, how can we help you on this beautiful mornin’?”

  The woman’s face became serious, and she looked around, as if she were making sure she had come to the right place. “I hope you do coloring,” she said hesitantly. “Not just shampoos and sets.”

  “’Course we do colorin’,” Beulah said, in her most comforting voice. “We do tints, dyes, and color rinses, in all shades. And it sure looks like you could use some fresh color, honey, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. Those roots are gettin’ just a teensy bit dark. And you’re way too pretty to let that happen, Miz-” She paused, letting the word hang delicately in the air.

  “Jamison,” the woman said, holding out her gloved hand. “I’m Nona Jean Jamison. I’ve come from Chicago to stay with my aunt, Miss Hamer, over on Camellia Street. She needs a little taking care of, and I’m between… projects.”

  “So nice to meet you, Miz Jamison,” Beulah said cordially, taking her hand. Chicago. She wasn’t surprised. She knew that bright blue bolero dress hadn’t come from Darling, or even from Mobile or Montgomery. Carson Pirie Scot and Company, on the Loop, maybe. Beulah had never been to Chicago but she had read that Carson’s on the Loop was the place to
shop for women’s fashions. “I am Mrs. Beulah Trivette, owner of the Beauty Bower. And that’s Bettina down there on the floor, pickin’ up the Kurley Kews.” Bettina lifted a hand, waved, and smiled nervously. “Welcome to Darlin’, Miz Jamison. We’re a real friendly little town, and we’ll do our best to help you feel at home for just as long as you’re here. Now, if you’ll just let me have your hat, we’ll get started on those roots.”

  Miss Jamison took off her hat and handed it to Beulah, who put it carefully on a shelf. “Actually,” she said, putting a hand to her hair and fluffing it up, “I don’t want the roots retouched. I want you to dye my hair dark. And bob it.”

  Beulah blinked. “Dark?” she asked incredulously. This was the last thing in the world she would have expected. “You mean-”

  “Dark brown.” Miss Jamison’s voice held a mournful quiver. “Black always looks so dead, I think. A rich, dark brown is what I have in mind. Like dark brown chocolate.”

  Beulah paused, frowning doubtfully. She always said that her customers knew best, but when it came to beauty, she considered herself an expert.

  “Are you real sure ’bout this, Miz Jamison?” She put her head on one side, studying the woman. “That platinum color is just right for you-with your skin tone and all, I mean. It looks so light and stylish. Dark is goin’ to muddy you up and make you look… well, older. And a bob-” She pressed her lips together. “Don’t you think it would be a shame to lose those pretty waves?”

  She didn’t want to come right out and say so, but she hated to see all that beauty going out the window. Bob that beautiful hair, dye it dark, and Miss Jamison wouldn’t look anything like the extraordinarily stylish woman she was at this moment. She’d look like… well, she’d look ordinary. She’d look just like everybody else. That’s how she’d look.

  “I know all that.” Miss Jamison sighed heavily and began to strip off her gloves. “I hate it, too, Mrs. Trivette. But I have my reasons. Believe me, this is not something I want to do. But when I think-” Her chin was quivering and she looked as if she were about to cry. She turned away, but not before Beulah (who was an empathetic person) glimpsed something like fright in her eyes.

  Fright? Now, that was strange. Sadness, maybe, at losing all that beauty. Or even regret. But fright? Something else was going on here under the surface and Beulah knew it. But she had worked with women’s hair for a long time and understood that big changes were always scary, whether you were going dark to blond or blond to dark again, or getting bobbed after you’d had your hair long for your whole, entire life. When it came to that, getting bobbed could be a whole lot scarier than getting dyed.

  Sympathetically, she patted Miss Jamison’s arm. “Well, hon, whatever your reasons are, I’m sure they gotta be good ones, to push you into takin’ such an important step.” She almost added “toward ugliness,” but thought better of it.

  “Oh, they are good reasons.” Miss Jamison sighed. “But before we get started, there’s something else I need to ask. Do you happen to have a wig catalog I could order from?”

  “Well, I do,” Beulah said, now more than a little confused. “But I thought you were wantin’ to color your-”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Jamison said hastily. “Yes, I have to go brown. But I was thinking about an auburn wig, maybe even really red? Not short, but not long, either. Doesn’t have to be real special.”

  Beulah frowned a little. “As it happens, I might have what you’re lookin’ for right here in the shop. It’s a copper-red wig I used to practice on when I was at the beauty college up in Montgomery. I’ve loaned it out a time or two so it might not be in the very best condition. But it’s clean, and if you don’t care about a bare spot here and there-”

  “Copper-red would be wonderful and a few bare spots wouldn’t matter one bit,” Miss Jamison said eagerly. “Could I see it?” And when Beulah found it in the closet and brought it out, she was delighted. “It’s perfect,” she exclaimed. “And better yet, I can take it with me. How much do you want for it?”

  Beulah looked at the wig, thinking that it wasn’t as frayed as she remembered. It had cost three dollars, she recollected, and she’d already gotten as much good out of it as she was going to get. “How does a dollar fifty sound?” To her, that sounded a little high, so she brought it down. “Let’s make it a dollar.”

  “A dollar fifty sounds good to me, considering that I won’t have to order and wait and wait,” Miss Jamison said generously, and watched while Beulah put it in a box. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to get that.”

  Beulah couldn’t imagine why a platinum blonde who wanted her hair dyed brown would also want to pay a dollar fifty for a red wig, but that was none of her business. “Well, now,” she said, taking a pink cape off the rack, “you just come over here and sit down in the shampoo chair and we’ll get you started.” She raised her voice. “Bettina, darlin’, before Miz Bloodworth gets here, would you go into the kitchen, please, and fetch Miz Jamison a cup of coffee. One for me, too. Black.”

  She had the feeling she was going to need it.

  TEN

  Bessie Bloodworth Learns a Thing or Two

  The story Bessie had told Liz and Verna on Sunday afternoon had awakened memories in her heart and a painful longing that she thought she had put away long ago, and for good. A longing for Harold? No, that wasn’t quite it, she told herself. Not a longing for him, for the man himself. Too much time had passed for that, and Bessie had already lived too much of her life on her own terms to wish it otherwise. No, what she felt was more of a longing to know why Harold had left and what had happened to him, and why he had never gotten in touch. She sighed. Maybe it was time to finally sit down and talk to Miss Hamer. Harold’s sister surely had to know more than she had let on.

  At the thought of Miss Hamer, Bessie frowned. What exactly was going on at the house across the street?

  This question had become even more interesting after Bessie and the Magnolia Ladies had heard Miss Hamer shrieking on Sunday evening, so loudly that she could be heard over the vocal acrobatics of the operatic soprano they were listening to. Miss Rogers enjoyed classical music, and it had been her turn to choose. So they were sitting out on the front porch after supper, with the Victrola volume turned up and the parlor window open so they could hear it. Rosa Ponselle, the Metropolitan’s soprano sensation, was singing one of her famous arias from the opera Norma when the shouting began.

  By itself, this was not unusual, for Miss Hamer shrieked whenever she felt like it-and apparently for the fun of it-as often as once or twice a week. Miss Rogers said she thought it was entertaining, because the yelling seemed to go with Miss Ponselle’s music. Mrs. Sedalius supposed that Miss Hamer might be singing along (although it didn’t sound all that melodic) and maybe they should turn down the volume, which they did. But still, as the shrieking went on and on and got so loud that it could be heard over Rosa Ponselle, Bessie wondered. What was going on behind that closed front door, those curtained windows?

  She wondered about Miss Jamison, too. If Miss Hamer’s niece was also Lorelei LaMotte, the dancer, why had she come to Darling? There was no place around here to perform-and certainly not in the kind of costume she was wearing in the photo on Verna’s playbill. The Dance Barn occasionally featured burlesque, but even there, she couldn’t dance half-naked. She’d have to wear a lot more clothes.

  And-the essential question, now that Bessie had had a chance to think about it-was this woman really Miss Hamer’s niece? If she was, could she prove it? If she wasn’t, how would they know?

  These intriguing questions were at the top of Bessie’s mind the next morning when she put on her third-best mauve cambric dress (the one with the purple buttons and the Peter Pan lace collar), set her black felt hat on her salt-and-pepper curls, and started out for Beulah’s Beauty Bower to keep her nine-thirty appointment for her weekly shampoo and set. She was still puzzling over the question of Miss Jamison’s real identity as she walked up the steps to the Bower. And
when she opened the screen door and saw who was sitting in Beulah’s haircutting chair in front of the mirror, big as life and twice as natural, she had to blink to make sure she hadn’t conjured up the vision.

  But beyond a doubt, the woman sitting in that chair truly was Miss Nona Jean Jamison. Or Miss Lorelei LaMotte. Or both. Caped in pink, she was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other and watching in the mirror as Beulah smoothed her damp platinum locks with a comb and snipped them with a pair of barber scissors. She was getting her hair cut.

  Bessie covered her surprise with a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Beulah,” she said cheerfully, taking off her hat. “Good morning, Bettina. I’m afraid I’m a teensy bit early. If you-all aren’t ready for me, I can wait.” She looked into the mirror and met Miss Jamison’s startled eyes. “And good morning to you, too, Miss Jamison. You probably don’t remember me. I’m your neighbor across the street-Bessie Bloodworth. I met you and Miss Lake the day you arrived at Miss Hamer’s.”

  Miss Jamison flushed and dropped her glance, and Bessie thought she saw a glimpse of something like apprehension. But she took a drag on her cigarette and managed a slight smile.

  “Why, hello, Miss Bloodworth.” Her voice was thin. “Such a surprise.”

  “No surprise,” Beulah chirped. “Miz Bloodworth is one of our regulars. Never misses a Monday mornin’-her and Leona Ruth Adcock. Good to see you, Bessie.” She glanced up at the clock. “Leona Ruth will be along here d’rectly. Bettina, you can go ahead and get started on Miz Bloodworth right now.”

  Bessie put a hand to her hair. “I was thinking I’d ask Bettina to trim me this morning.” She put a hand to her hair. “Feel like I’m getting a mite shaggy.”