The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose Page 14

  “Gif me a vhisky,” Myra May said, in a husky imitation of Garbo’s voice. “Ginger ale on the side, and don’t be stingy, baby.”

  It was the famous first line of Garbo’s most recent movie, Anna Christie, with Charles Bickford. Mr. Greer, who owned the Palace Theater, had made a special effort to get the movie, which was a talkie. The whole town had turned out for the grand occasion. Darling was still buzzing about it, and everybody was trying to find an excuse to use Garbo’s line.

  “You sound just like Garbo, Myra May.” Beulah laughed, a generous, full-throated laugh that made people naturally smile when they heard it. “And you hold your horses, Alice Ann. What I was about to tell you was that you can make your own settin’ lotion that’s near ’bout as good and a durn sight cheaper than that expensive stuff in the fancy bottle. All you do is stir up a teaspoonful of honey in a half cup of warm water and add a tablespoon of lemon juice and maybe a drop or two of your favorite perfume. You can spray it on or just dab it on your pin curls when you set your hair at night. Works real fine.”

  “Oh, that’s swell, Beulah,” Alice Ann said eagerly. “Honey is one thing I got plenty of these days. Arnold keeps two hives out behind the barn. We don’t hardly have to buy sugar. And we’re thinkin’ we might could have some honey to sell come fall.” Alice Ann’s husband had lost his leg in a railroad accident. The railroad said it was his fault (which it wasn’t) and wouldn’t pay him any money—wouldn’t even help with the doctor bills. He whittled wooden whirligigs and other garden art objects to bring in some extra cash.

  “Honey and lemon juice,” Myra May said thoughtfully. “Sounds like something Violet would like to know about.” She looked around. “Bettina’s not here today?” Bettina was Beulah’s helper.

  “She had to run to the Mercantile to pick up some material for the new smocks she’s sewin’ up for us,” Beulah said, turning back to Alice Ann’s hair. “She’ll be back in a jiffy to shampoo you. Or if she isn’t, I’ll do you myself when I’m done cuttin’ Alice Ann. Sit down and have a cup of coffee while you’re waitin’, sweetie. Oh, and Miz Adcock brought some cupcakes. She was Bettina’s nine thirty, so there’s still plenty left.”

  Beulah liked it when her clients (she never thought of them as customers) brought something for their friends to nibble on while she and Bettina made them beautiful. She herself always provided a pot of coffee, and in the summer, there was iced tea in the icebox. It made the day seem more like a pleasant tea party with friends than a long day of standing on her feet behind the hair-cutting chair or bent over the shampoo sink.

  Beulah’s Beauty Bower, on Dauphin Street, was one of the two places where every Darling woman went to get beautiful. The other was Conrad’s Curling Corner, on the north side of town. The Dahlias always preferred the Bower, of course, because it was owned and managed by one of their own, and because everybody agreed that Beulah beat Julia Conrad hands down when it came to style and creativity. Beulah was a serious artist of hair.

  Beulah had been raised by her single mother on the wrong side of the railroad spur that connected Darling to the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, just outside of Monroeville. Her innate talent for hair made itself known as early as high school, where she was the first to bob hers, creating a fad for bobbed hair that swept like a spring tornado through the school and caused all the Darling mothers to pull theirs out in sheer agony at the sight of all those bobs.

  On the day after graduation, fired with an artist’s ambition, Beulah filled a brown cardboard suitcase with all the clothes she had, climbed on the Greyhound bus, and rode to Montgomery to pursue her dream. She got a job as a waitress to make ends meet and signed up for the full course at the Montgomery College of Cosmetology, where she learned all she needed to know “to make the ordinary woman pretty and the pretty woman beautiful,” as the college proclaimed in its advertisements. Beulah wielded a mean marcel iron, made pin curls and finger waves with an astonishing flair, and finished first in a final exam that covered everything from the basics of beauty to the safe use of toxic chemicals.

  Beulah graduated at the top of her class and earned the MCC’s first-class certificate of achievement. Flushed with success, she got back on the Greyhound and rode home to Darling, determined to introduce all the women in town to the fine art of beauty, whatever their ages and social station and whether they knew they needed it or not.

  Beulah was petite, pretty, blond, and significantly endowed, and many Darling young men (especially the bunch that hung out at the Watering Hole on Saturday nights) were wild to sample her considerable charms. But Beulah possessed an admirable brain and a generous helping of self-discipline as well as beauty and ambition. Instead of letting herself go gaga over one of the town rakes and rascals, she married Hank Trivette, the son of the pastor of the Four Corners Methodist Church, a sedate young fellow who came from the right side of the spur tracks. Hank loved Beulah not only for her outstanding physical attributes, but for her unaffected compassion and her generous good humor. Beulah (who had a practical soul hidden beneath those other endowments) loved Hank for his good common sense, his respectability, and his handy way with tools. He was marrying beauty and sweet spirit. She was marrying up.

  Beulah and Hank had two children, Hank Jr. and Spoonie. After Hank was born, they bought a nice frame house on the best end of Dauphin Street, big enough for their growing family and for Beulah’s business. Hank enclosed the screened porch across the back for the beauty shop, repaired the back steps so the ladies wouldn’t turn an ankle, wired the place for electricity, and installed shampoo sinks and hair-cutting chairs and big wall mirrors. Beulah (who was as talented with a paintbrush as she was with a pair of scissors and a comb) wallpapered the walls of the Bower with her favorite fat pink roses, painted the wainscoting pink, and hung her Montgomery College of Cosmetology certificate of achievement beside the door, where everybody could see it when they came in. Then she painted the words Beulah’s Beauty Bower on a white wooden sign and decorated it with painted flowers. Hank hung the sign out front, where anyone walking or driving down Dauphin Street would be sure to see it. She was open for business.

  The Bower was so attractive and Beulah was such a skilled beautician that every single customer walked out the door feeling much more beautiful than when she walked in. So she naturally made a second appointment and then a third and told all her friends that the Bower was the very best beauty parlor in town. A few months later, business was so good that Beulah hired Bettina Higgens, not the prettiest flower in the garden (as Bettina herself put it) but a willing worker who quickly came to share Beulah’s commitment to beautifying Darling, one lovely lady at a time.

  But of course, people didn’t come to the Bower just to get pretty. They came to talk about what was on their mind, to brag about a new grandchild or to complain about a new daughter-in-law, and to discuss what was going on with their neighbors. It was right up there with the party line as the best way to get an earful of the latest Darling news.

  As Myra May poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to wait for Bettina, Beulah said to Alice Ann, “Alice Ann, honey, you got something on your mind? You’re awfully quiet this morning. Everything all right out at your house? Arnold ain’t sick again, is he?”

  It was a kind and caring question, not asked out of nosiness or prying. Beulah’s heart was as large and soft as her other endowments and she was truly concerned about her clients’ welfare—and her own, as well, but in a roundabout way. In her philosophy, beauty really was more than skin deep, and if something nasty and ugly was nagging at you, eating away at your insides like a mean old weevil munching the insides of a cotton boll, you could never be truly beautiful. Your beautician would fail. And Beulah hated to fail.

  Alice Ann sighed. “No, Arnold isn’t sick, and, yes, everything’s all right at home, more or less.” She lifted her head and said, to both of them, “Is something going on with Verna Tidwell? I’
m worried about her.”

  “Verna?” Beulah asked, surprised. “I don’t believe I’ve heard a thing about her recently.” She click-clacked her scissors. “In fact, I haven’t seen her outside of our Dahlia meetings in a while. Seems like she’s been working long hours over at the courthouse.” She leaned forward, lifted her comb and scissors, and snipped a lock over Alice Ann’s right ear. “Her job has just about doubled, you know. Mr. Scroggins is now the county treasurer, as well as probate clerk.”

  “I know,” Alice Ann said seriously. “When Mr. DeYancy was treasurer, he put some of the county’s money in our bank. I’ve seen the accounts—several of them, actually. But not all the money,” she added. “One of the tellers told me that a lot of it’s over in Monroeville, in a couple of the banks over there. I’ve never figured that out. Seems to me it all ought to be in one place so people could keep better track of it.”

  Myra May had been silent for a moment, listening to this. Now, she took a sip of coffee. “So how come you’re worried about Verna, Alice Ann?”

  Her tone was casual, but Beulah picked up on something—some sort of tension or apprehension, something—beneath it. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at Myra May, who always knew what was going on in Darling. She worked the switchboard and waited tables and the counter at the diner, which gave her the chance to hear all kinds of things. What she missed, her friend Violet was bound to pick up.

  Myra May returned Beulah’s inquisitive glance, her expression carefully blank. Not even her eyebrow twitched.

  Now Beulah was sure of it. Something was going on. “Yes, Alice Ann,” she said, echoing Myra May’s question. “How come you’re worried about Verna?”

  Alice Ann met Beulah’s eyes in the mirror. She hesitated, frowning, and Beulah knew that she was debating whether and how much she could tell without breaking one of the bank’s standard rules. “Well, because of something that happened on Friday. Of course, I’m not supposed to talk about what goes on at the bank, and I’m definitely not supposed to criticize. But . . .”

  She took a breath and her voice became indignant. “But if I were Verna, I’d want to know what they did. And speaking personally, I don’t think it’s right for somebody at the bank, even if he is the president, to go poking around in people’s bank accounts. That’s private.”

  Beulah knew that Alice Ann was talking out of her own bitter personal experience. Not long ago, she had been suspected—wrongly, of course—of taking money from the bank. She must be remembering what had happened and how it felt.

  “If this has got something to do with our Verna, we should hear it,” Beulah said decidedly. “She’s a Dahlia.” She bent over and whispered into Alice Ann’s ear. “When we’re talkin’ about another Dahlia and wantin’ to help her, it ain’t gossip, and that’s the good Lord’s truth.” Beulah never encouraged talk that was mean and hurtful. But when one of her friends was in trouble, she definitely wanted to know.

  Myra May obviously felt the same way. “Please, Alice Ann,” she said quietly. “If Verna has a problem, we might be able to help.”

  “Well, maybe just this once,” Alice Ann said, pretending reluctance, and Beulah stepped back, suppressing a smile. Alice Ann had been primed to tell and hoping that somebody would give her a little nudge. “It’s got to do with some money that turned up in Verna’s savings account not long ago. I don’t feel right telling you how much, but it was a tidy little sum. I know because I’m the one that wrote in the numbers.” Her laugh was brittle. “And I don’t mind telling you that I’d be tickled pink if somebody put that amount of money into my bank account. I’d pay off all our bills and get Arnold fitted for an artificial leg at the hospital down in Mobile. Oh, and a roof on the house. And a new water well. I’d still have plenty left over, too.”

  “Well, hooray for Verna,” Beulah said enthusiastically, and flicked the comb down the back of Alice Ann’s head, looking for ends she needed to snip off. She was thinking that Verna’s financial windfall, whatever its source, must have been fairly substantial. It cost a bundle to dig a well and put on a roof—not to mention buy a new leg. “So she’s got some extra cash. Doesn’t sound like much of a problem to me.”

  Myra May put down her coffee cup, got up from her chair, and came to stand behind Beulah, where she could see Alice Ann’s face in the mirror. Beulah felt her tautness, as if Myra May were a wound-up watch spring about to let loose and let fly.

  “Yes,” Myra May said, trying to sound casual. “What’s the problem, Alice Ann?”

  Alice Ann fidgeted under her pink cover-up cape. “Well, the problem is that Mr. Scroggins—Verna’s boss—came in on Friday and asked to see Mr. Johnson. They went into Mr. Johnson’s office and closed the door. A little while later, Mr. Johnson came out and asked me to get out the records of Verna’s account. He looked them over and made some notes and took them back to his office, where Mr. Scroggins was waiting. I’m sure Mr. Johnson must have showed him the notes.”

  Beulah was incensed. “What a lot of nerve!” she exclaimed hotly. “Bank accounts are supposed to be private! I don’t want Mr. Johnson makin’ notes about how much money I’ve got in the bank and givin’ the information to other folks. If he can do it to Verna, he can do it to anybody. To me or—” Indignantly, she pointed her rattail comb at Myra May. “Or you, Myra May. Or Violet or Liz or anybody! What gives that jerk—pardon my French—the right to go pokin’ around in people’s personal business?”

  “That bothered me, too, Beulah,” Alice Ann confessed. “All weekend long, I kept thinking how wrong it was, what Mr. Johnson had done. Mr. Scroggins, too. I kept wondering whether I should phone up Verna and let her know about it. But Arnold, he didn’t think I should rock the boat. If Mr. Johnson found out, I could lose my job.” She bit her lip. “But after what happened this morning, I am really sorry I didn’t.”

  “Why?” Myra May’s voice was still casual, but Beulah heard that note of deep unease. “I mean, what happened this morning to make you sorry, Alice Ann?”

  Alice Ann gulped. “What happened was that Mr. Scroggins showed up again, just before I came over here.” She looked up and her eyes met Beulah’s and Myra May’s in the mirror. “And this time, he had the sheriff with him. They both went into Mr. Johnson’s office.”

  “The sheriff!” Beulah and Myra May exclaimed in alarmed unison.

  Alice Ann nodded. “And then Mr. Johnson came out and got the book with Verna’s account in it. This time, he didn’t bother taking any notes. He just carried that book back into the office with him. A little while later, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, Mr. Scroggins and Sheriff Burns left. That’s all I know.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, I do wish I hadn’t listened to Arnold! If I had given Verna a word of warning, she might . . . Well, maybe she could figure out what to do. And whatever they’re thinking about her and that money, I know they must be wrong.”

  “Oh, dear goodness,” Beulah said, truly distressed. “I wonder what in this blessed world is goin’ on. What do you suppose, Myra May? What can it mean?”

  But Myra May was striding toward the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “Beulah, I’ll have to reschedule my appointment. Maybe tomorrow—I’ll phone you up. Okay? Oh, and tell Bettina I’m sorry I missed her, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” Beulah said, but Myra May was already flying out the door and down the back steps, the screen door banging shut behind her.

  “My goodness,” Alice Ann said weakly, and didn’t say another word until Beulah brushed the hair from the back of her neck and whipped the cape off her. Then she took two quarters out of her purse and handed them to Beulah.

  “Thank you, Beulah,” she said. And then, “I wish . . . I just wish—” She looked away. She didn’t finish her sentence.

  “I know,” Beulah said sympathetically. “But you did the best you knew how, Alice Ann. And thank you for telling us about Verna�
�s situation. I know it wasn’t easy. But us Dahlias have to stand together. We’re all we’ve got.”

  Mutely, Alice Ann threw her arms around Beulah and they gave each other a long, hard hug.

  A little while later, Beulah was sweeping Alice Ann’s hair off the floor. Bettina, a tall, gangly young woman in a red print dress, had come in with three yards of pretty rose pink print cotton from the Mercantile and was happily chattering about the smocks she was going to make. But Beulah was only half listening. She was thinking about what Alice Ann had told them and wondering what Myra May knew about the situation. She obviously knew something. What was it?

  Bettina looked up at the clock. “Eleven,” she said, folding the cotton and putting it back into the bag. “I wonder where Miz Biggs is. She’s almost never late.” Angelina Biggs had a standing appointment for a shampoo and set on Mondays at eleven.

  As if on cue, the bell tinkled, the door opened, and Mrs. Biggs burst in. Her hat was askew, there was a fresh coffee stain on the skirt of her green rayon dress, and her face was red and blotchy, as if she’d been hurrying—not a good idea in this heat, especially when you were as oversized as Mrs. Biggs, who found it hard to fit comfortably into the chair at the shampoo sink without parts of her hanging out.

  Beulah was almost never judgmental when it came to beauty or the lack of it. She was confident that every woman had in her what it took to be truly beautiful. All a woman had to do was get shined up—with a little expert help, of course. But Beulah had seen photographs of Mrs. Biggs when she was young and gorgeous, with a full head of luxuriant blond hair and a curvaceous shape. She couldn’t help thinking that under all that regrettable stoutness was a perfect figure, just dying to come out and be admired by all. In fact, she had heard that Mrs. Biggs was trying to reduce by taking some of Dr. W. W. Baxter’s famous patent-medicine diet pills—the extra-strong ones. Beulah sincerely hoped that the pills would turn the trick. But from what she had seen on Mrs. Biggs’ plate at the last church social (the Biggses were members of Hank’s father’s congregation), it wasn’t likely. The lady had tucked into several helpings of Granny Mitchell’s potato salad, four pieces of Jed Snow’s mother’s fried chicken, three big spoonfuls of Mrs. Vaughn’s green beans and fatback, and two generous slices of Doris Wedford’s pecan pie, topped with Aunt Hetty Little’s pecan praline ice cream. Beulah had the feeling that even Dr. Baxter’s diet pills—extra-strong or not—were no match for Mrs. Biggs’ very healthy appetite.