The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star Page 23

  For a long moment, Raylene didn’t answer. At last, she countered with her own question. “Let me ask you this. If Rex Hart is in love with Lily, why doesn’t he just tell her so? He’s a grown-up and so is she. Nothing is standing in their way.”

  Verna raised a surprised eyebrow at her. “You mean, he hasn’t? From the way Lily talked, I thought he’d told her he loved her—maybe even asked her to marry him—and she turned him down. I got the impression that he’s a disappointed lover trying to get even.”

  Raylene shook her head emphatically. “He isn’t. In fact, I happen to know that Rex is seriously involved with somebody else.”

  Verna was surprised. “Oh, really? Who?”

  “A young woman in Tampa, named Sarah. She and Rex have known one another for several years, although they only got together about six months ago. The two of them have kept it secret because of Sarah’s mother, who’s terminally ill. And because Lily is . . . well, possessive about the members of her team. If she knew about Rex and Sarah, she might—” She shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Ah,” Verna said.

  Raylene nodded. “Anyway, they’re keeping it to themselves, which is one reason why Lily can persuade herself that Rex is in love with her. Although she can persuade herself of that sort of thing pretty easily,” she added with a small smile.

  Liz leaned forward. “But if this love affair is such a big secret, how do you know about it, Raylene? Did Sarah or Rex tell you?”

  Raylene bit her lip and her glance slid away. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “They didn’t tell you,” Liz said at last. She looked squarely at Raylene. Myra May is right, isn’t she? You know because you’re psychic. Isn’t that right?”

  Raylene sighed. “I don’t like to make a big point of it,” she said at last. “It’s relatively easy when it comes to knowing what people want—like Lily’s pulled pork sandwich, or your friend’s sausage and grits casserole. When somebody wants something, there’s always a great deal of . . . well, energy around the wanting. So it’s easy to get the message—sort of like turning on a radio, to a station that comes through loud and clear.”

  “I suppose it works better with a Ouija board,” Verna remarked ironically.

  “Yes, sometimes.” Raylene smiled. “It’s okay to be skeptical about it, Verna.” She spoke as if she understood Verna’s feelings. “Lots of people don’t understand how it works. Lots more don’t believe—or don’t want to, which amounts to the same thing. And even psychics themselves aren’t always very happy with it.”

  Liz cleared her throat. “But if you know what somebody like Donna Sue wants to eat for breakfast, surely you know who wrote the letters and sent the telegrams.” She paused, then added, “And who sabotaged Lily’s airplane.”

  “Yeah.” Verna chuckled dryly. “Why are we sitting around wondering who’s behind all of this? Why don’t you just tell us, Raylene? Let us in on the secret?”

  “Verna, please.” Liz put her hand on Verna’s arm. “Let’s just . . . listen. Okay?” To Raylene, she said, “Please, tell us whatever you think we ought to know so we can help to get this all cleared up.”

  Raylene hesitated. “Well, it’s complicated,” she said, after a moment. “There are some things I know for sure. The easy things that people want you to know, or have no special reason to hide. But other things . . . well, they’re not so easy. This business we’re talking about, the letters and the telegrams and the sabotage—somebody is trying to hide what’s going on. There’s a lot of conflict, even guilt. The energies are all confused and contradictory. It’s like static on a radio. And remember that I heard about all this for the first time last night, from Lily—who is blaming Rex Hart for everything.”

  Verna stared at Raylene, wanting to flatly refuse to give any credence to such out-and-out nonsense but at the same time, feeling an odd desire to hear more.

  Liz was nodding. “Yes, I can see that,” she said. “It’s all very complex. Lots of layers. It would take a while to get to the truth.”

  Raylene leaned forward. “But I am sure of what I know about Rex Hart and Sarah. I know why they haven’t told Lily. And since I know that much, I have to question what Lily says. If Rex isn’t in love with her, he has no reason to be jealous. No motive for writing anonymous letters or sending telegrams asking for money.”

  Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate, Verna thought. If there was no passion, then there’d be no jealousy—or hate. Right?

  Liz sighed. “Which leaves us with the big question, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Verna said. “If Rex Hart didn’t do it, who did? Who cares enough to do things like that?”

  With a thoughtful expression, Raylene turned her coffee mug in her fingers. “Let me tell you a little story. Before Mabel Hopkins joined the flying team—”

  “Mabel Hopkins?” Verna interrupted.

  “That’s Angel Flame’s real name,” Liz told her. “I guess she thought she needed a more exotic name, as a performer.”

  “I can understand that,” Verna muttered. “‘Mabel Hopkins’ Dive of Death’ sounds like a joke, not an aerial stunt.”

  “Before Mabel joined the team,” Raylene went on, “Lily and Rex worked with another aerialist, a young woman named Bess. She was very good, one of the best, Rex used to say. She was strong, with excellent coordination, and she’d trained as a trapeze artist in the circus. She had no fear, so wingwalking was easy for her.”

  “I heard Miss Dare telling Charlie Dickens about her,” Liz said. “But she had an accident and had to quit, didn’t she?”

  “She had an accident and died,” Raylene said gravely. “They were doing an air show in Tampa. Bess was hanging from a trapeze under Lily’s plane during one of the stunts. One side of the trapeze broke loose from the plane and she fell to the ground. She was killed instantly.”

  “Oh, dear,” Liz said. Her hand went to her mouth.

  “It’s a hazardous profession,” Verna said. “The fatality rate must be pretty high. But I don’t see—”

  “Bess was Mabel’s sister,” Raylene said. “Mabel was in the crowd, watching, when the trapeze let go and Bess fell.”

  There was a silence. After a moment, Liz said, very slowly, “Are you suggesting that Angel Flame—Mabel—could be responsible for the letters and the telegrams?”

  “She certainly has a motive,” Raylene said. “When the accident first happened, Mabel was distraught, understandably. I was in the crowd, too. I heard her say that Lily was responsible for what happened—that she didn’t maintain the equipment the way she should. That’s why I was surprised when I heard, a couple of months later, that Mabel had taken her sister’s place as an aerialist for the team.” She smiled. “You see? Even psychics don’t know everything.”

  “She could do the work?” Verna asked in surprise. “Wingwalking seems . . . specialized.”

  “Mabel and Bess had worked together as trapeze artists in a Florida-based circus,” Raylene said. “And she was always out at the airfield when her sister was practicing. I don’t suppose that part of it was hard for her. But flying with Lily—”

  “That must have been hard,” Liz said, shaking her head. “I wonder how she could do it.”

  Raylene nodded. “Anyway, as Lily was telling me about the letters and telegrams, I got the feeling—” She broke off, glancing almost apologetically at Verna. “I got the very strong feeling that Mabel was behind it. I didn’t want to say anything to Lily—and anyway, she wouldn’t believe me. She was focused on Rex Hart.” She turned to Liz. “Is there anything you and Verna can do to help straighten this out?”

  “I don’t know what we could do,” Liz said helplessly. “We don’t know everyone involved and we—”

  But Verna’s mind was already racing through the possibilities. “Wait, Liz,” she said. “Let’s think about this for a minute. There might
be a way.”

  Raylene pushed back her chair. “If you can help, I’d be grateful,” she said. “I don’t blame Lily for being afraid. If I were in her shoes, I’d feel that way, too.” She stood up and smiled down at them. “Myra May is going to start yelling at me any minute now. I’d better get back to work.”

  She had walked no more than a few paces when Myra May stuck her head out of the kitchen and called “Raylene! Hey, Raylene, we need you back here.”

  Liz nudged Verna. “See?” she whispered. “Psychic.” Verna rolled her eyes and Liz laughed. “Okay, Verna,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

  In a low voice, Verna told Liz what she had in mind.

  Liz listened, frowning a little. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Do you really think she’ll go for it?”

  “Have you got a better idea?” Verna countered.

  “I’m fresh out,” Liz confessed. “I’m not sure yours will work, Verna, but we don’t have a lot of choices. I guess we ought to give it a try. Where do we start? And when?”

  “We have to start with Mildred,” Verna said. “And the sooner, the better.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  They took their cups to the counter and said good-bye to Myra May, who was filling catsup bottles. As they went out the door, Verna found herself humming, “Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate . . .”

  As they went out on the square, they heard the clattering, metallic thunder of an airplane engine. They looked up and instinctively ducked, for the plane seemed to be coming straight at them along Robert E. Lee, not a hundred feet above the buildings and trees. As it came closer, Darling citizens spilled out of their houses, offices, and shops onto the street. Men stamped and whistled, women gasped, girls shrieked, boys shouted, dogs barked, pigeons and blackbirds squawked and fluttered, horns blared. Down the street, hitched to the rail in front of Hancock’s Grocery, Leroy Whittle’s old white mare Dolly reared up, whinnying and pawing the air with her forelegs more wildly than she ever had in her filly days. Mr. Whittle barreled out of the store and grabbed Dolly’s bridle to calm her down. He raised his fist at the sky and yelled, “Dad-blasted airplanes! You got the sense of a goose, flyin’ into town and scarin’ the horses! Whoa there, Dolly. Whoa, you old nag!”

  The airplane was towing a large red and white advertising banner that screamed: Sky Rides TODAY. And perched on the top wing of the bi-plane, in a red bathing suit that bared her long legs and revealed other attention-getting attributes, was Angel Flame. As Verna and Lizzy watched, she began throwing handfuls of white cards into the air. They fluttered down like small white birds. One fell at Verna’s feet and she stooped to pick it up.

  “Write your name on this card,” she read aloud, “and deposit it in the basket at Kilgore’s Motors for the drawing, 3:30 p.m. Sunday. Winner receives one free airplane ride after the show.”

  “Clever advertising,” Liz remarked admiringly, still following the flight of the plane as it swooped overhead. “A good way to get people to pay to come to the show.”

  Behind them, Mr. Musgrove had come out of the hardware store and was peering nearsightedly into the sky. “I’ll be dad-blamed,” he muttered, under his breath. “That woman up there, she’s near naked! She better watch out. She’ll get sunburnt.”

  At that moment, the airplane made a sweeping turn and began another earsplitting pass over the street. On the ground, there was more stamping, whistling, gasping, shrieking, shouting, barking, squawking, honking, and whinnying.

  And high in the air, on the wing of the airplane, Angel Flame did a handstand.

  SEVENTEEN

  Who Is Raylene Riggs?

  During the past few days, Myra May and Violet had gone over the party menu several times, with Mildred’s caution in mind: “Please be thrifty. I’ve got to cut every corner I can.”

  In the end, they had agreed on a light buffet supper: sausage puffs; slivers of ham with slices of fresh cucumber on buttermilk-cheese biscuits the size of silver dollars; finger sandwiches in three shapes, made with a variety of fillings; small tomatoes stuffed with chicken salad and topped with sprigs of mint; deviled eggs; Southern banana pudding with whipped cream; and watermelon and cantaloupe cubes. When Raylene looked at the menu, she suggested that they add a cheese custard pie with onions and sausage.

  “Custard pie with . . . cheese?” Violet had asked dubiously. “Never heard of it.”

  “I saw it in a cookbook called The Joy of Cooking, by Irma Rombauer,” Raylene said. “It’s a book she published herself, a couple of years ago. The recipe uses lots of eggs, which are cheap, and you can scrimp a bit on the cheese if you add more eggs. My version includes onions and sausage and a few herbs. Oh, and you can make it ahead and serve it warm or cold.”

  “Well, I guess we can give it a try,” Myra May said. Armed with the shopping list, she went down the block to consult with Mrs. Hancock, who had ordered what she didn’t already have in stock—for example, two boxes of vanilla wafers for the banana pudding and extra bread and fresh buttermilk.

  On Thursday night, after the diner closed, Myra May and Violet stayed up late, boiling eggs, slicing ham, baking cheese biscuits, and making sandwich fillings. On Friday, as soon as the noon lunch crowd left, Myra May and Violet put all the prepared food and groceries into big baskets, which they loaded into Myra May’s Chevy touring car, Big Bertha. Bertha was a genuine antique but was still bravely running. (Just in case, Myra May always said a fervent “Bless your heart, Bertha,” every time she turned the key in the ignition and patted the dashboard affectionately when Bertha coughed into life.) Violet was staying behind at the diner with a cook who was coming in to try out for part-time work.

  Myra May and Raylene drove Bertha, fully loaded, out to the Kilgores’ house. They planned to assemble and prepare everything in Mildred’s kitchen, add the finishing touches, and be ready to serve to the guests around eight o’clock that night.

  At the Kilgores’, Myra May pulled around the back and parked near the kitchen door so they could start unloading. When Mildred came out to give them a hand, Myra May was a little startled to see that her friend’s eye was purple and puffy. She thought about making a joke out of it (“What does the other person look like?”) but she didn’t want to hurt Mildred’s feelings, so she didn’t.

  “I’m glad to see you two,” Mildred said, taking the small basket Myra May handed her. “Things were a little chaotic this morning, but we’re back to normal now, more or less. I think everything is all set for tonight—except for the food, of course.” She called to the two neatly uniformed colored girls from the Darling Academy that she had hired for the day and evening. “Girls, come and help carry this stuff to the kitchen.”

  With everyone’s help, they made quick work of unloading the car. In the spacious, fully modern kitchen, Myra May and Raylene put on their aprons and began organizing their team of helpers for the greatest efficiency. As they worked, Myra May was delighted with Raylene’s proficiency in handling a large party prep, which she chalked up to her experience in a hotel kitchen. She wondered once again why a woman with Raylene’s skill and talent would want to bury herself in the small town of Darling. Surely there was a mystery here.

  Myra May was also mystified by the obviously serious conversation that Raylene had had with Verna and Liz at the diner that morning. But she couldn’t think of a way to open the subject and Raylene didn’t volunteer any information. Raylene seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful, though, as she organized the making of the dozens of party sandwiches Mildred had ordered. She set out loaves of fresh bread and bowls of the sandwich fillings that Myra May and Violet had made and put the helpers to work at the long table in the dining room, where there was plenty of clear workspace.

  “Okay, girls, here’s how you do it,” she said, speaking as she worked. “You lay out eight slices of bread and butter them, which keeps the filling
from soaking through. Then spread the filling evenly on four of the slices and top each with another slice. Then you trim off the crust on each side, like so.” She deftly demonstrated. “Then slice each sandwich into four fingers. Stack the fingers over here on this cookie sheet and cover them with a damp towel. Then start over again with eight more slices, except this time, cut the sandwich into four triangles and put them on the other cookie sheet. The third time, cut your sandwiches into four squares. That way, we’ll end up with a variety of fillings and shapes. Got it?”

  The sandwich preparation underway, Raylene began browning the sausage for the sausage puffs that they would mix and bake later, while Myra May started peeling the cold hard-boiled eggs. Myra May had just finished the first dozen eggs when the kitchen door opened and Aunt Hetty Little—a neighbor of Mildred’s—came in. She was carrying four large, ripe melons, fresh from her garden. Her white hair was twisted into a bun at the back of her neck and she was wearing the shapeless old green print dress that she wore in the garden.

  “Hi, Myra May,” she said as she put the melons on the kitchen counter. “I’m getting ready to meet the Dahlias over at the clubhouse garden and wanted to deliver these first. I promised them to Mildred for her party tonight.”

  “Oh, these look good,” Myra May said, pausing in her egg-peeling to have a look at the melons. “We’ll let Mildred know they’re here—and put one of the girls to work cubing them.”

  Over the tops of her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, Aunt Hetty peered curiously at Raylene. “And who’s this?” With her customary bluntness, the old lady added, “I don’t think I know you.”

  “I guess you haven’t met Raylene Riggs yet,” Myra May said. “Maybe you heard that Euphoria is now cooking over in Maysville at the Red Dog? Well, I’m happy to say that Raylene is her replacement, as of a couple of days ago. Raylene, this is Aunt Hetty Little. She’s a member of our Dahlias’ garden club.”