The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star Page 25

  Below the fold, there was a follow-up story on the suicide of Violet Sharpe, one of the servants in the rural New Jersey home of Charles and Anne Lindbergh. The woman had killed herself after being repeatedly questioned by the police about the kidnapping and murder of little Charles Jr., whose body had been discovered in May, some two and a half months after the crime. According to the article, she had nothing to do with it; she was the victim of police bullying. The cops had no other suspects, and while some of the ransom money had turned up, they hadn’t been able to track down the rest.

  From that depressing news, Charlie turned to page six and the lighter side: “Out Our Way” and “Our Boarding House,” with the comically big-headed Major Amos Hoople, two comic strips that always gave him a chuckle. But even though things weren’t as bad in Darling as they were on the east coast, there wasn’t a whole lot to smile about. Charlie was practically giving the newspaper away (twelve cents a week, including two cents for postage), but the circulation kept on going down as people cut back on their expenses—only 427 subscribers as of this month. Ophelia was working hard to bring in more advertising and print jobs, but both the ad revenue and the printing business were declining as well. The local merchants couldn’t afford to put money into advertising when they could barely pay their other bills.

  Charlie didn’t like to think about what was likely to happen when the cost of the paper and ink and ready print and Ophelia Snow’s twelve bucks a week amounted to more than the little bit he took in every week. Maybe he’d just lock the door and hang a big CLOSED sign on it. If people wanted newspapers, they could subscribe to the Monroe Journal, over in Monroeville. Yes, he had lied to Fannie Champaign when he told her that the newspaper was in debt. (Why had he done that? He couldn’t remember.) But there wasn’t any money, either. Not one extra red cent, and Charlie was still fighting his way up a steep mountain of personal resentment for having been saddled with his father’s business in the first place. It wasn’t what he had expected or wanted and he still hadn’t reconciled himself to it.

  His father, Randolph Dickens, had been owner, publisher, and editor of the Darling Dispatch for four decades, along with running a small job printing business on the side. Charlie had taken the newspaper over when the old man died of lung cancer several years before—not so much because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to do instead.

  That was the way Charlie had lived most of his adult life, floating from here to there as possibilities and opportunities presented themselves, doing first one thing, then another. Some people were driven by desire, but Charlie wasn’t one of them. He was driven by nothing at all. He drifted along with whatever current pulled him, and Darling was just another backwater he’d gotten stuck in—temporarily. As soon as the spirit moved, finances improved, and he could unload the Dispatch, he’d be on his way again. In the meantime, the ordinary tasks of putting out the weekly paper were a kind of crutch to get through the days and weeks and months, limping along, managing to keep himself and the business going, with the help of liberal doses of Mickey LeDoux’s bootleg medicine.

  Printing 427 newspapers plus a couple of dozen extra for the boxes in front of the hotel and the diner didn’t take long. The press run finished, Charlie stopped the Babcock, shut off the motor, and raised the ink rollers. He pulled off the forms and carried them to the makeup table, where he washed the ink off the type with a gasoline soaked rag, then went back to the press and cleaned it off, as well. He carried the folded papers to another table, where he took out the long galleys that held the names of the dwindling numbers of his subscribers. He inked each galley, placed it into the mailing machine, then fed the folded newspapers into the mailer. Each one came out with the name and address of a subscriber printed at the top and went into a large cardboard box.

  The last paper labeled, Charlie cleaned the mailing machine and then took off his canvas apron and his printer’s cap and washed his hands at the sink in the back corner of the room. He glanced at the old octagon Regulator clock on the wall—nearly noon, he saw. It was time for lunch, and he thought hungrily of the possibility of a pulled pork sandwich on the noon menu at the diner. But he had two things to do, and decided that he’d better take care of the first—getting the papers to the post office—before Mr. Stevens closed for lunch.

  He picked up the box of newspapers, hefted it onto his shoulder, and took his straw boater off the peg. Jamming it on his head and kicking the door shut behind him, he headed for the small frame building that housed the post office. It was just down the block on Franklin Street, past Hancock’s Grocery and the Palace Theater, then a right turn onto Rosemont.

  But in front of the Palace, he ran into Don Greer, the owner and operator of the theater, who was sweeping the dust off the sidewalk with a straw broom. He paused in his work, leaned on his broom, and gave Charlie a knowing wink.

  “Hello, you sly old dog, you,” he said, and chuckled. “Saw you last night with that Texas Star. Quite some gal, ain’t she? Looked like you two was havin’ yourselves a high ol’ time, back there in the next to the last row, in the dark.”

  Charlie paused, frowning. “Don’t know what you mean, Greer,” he said stiffly.

  “Oh, yeah?” Greer’s chuckle became a broad leer. “Just remember that folks are lookin’ over your shoulder, and one or two of ’em might carry tales.”

  “Carry tales?” Charlie asked, and immediately regretted his question.

  Greer lifted both eyebrows. “To that other lady you’re sweet on. The one that makes hats. The missus told me she heard that you and her are figurin’ on gettin’ hitched sometime soon.”

  Charlie, who was normally pretty swift with a comeback, found that he had no ready answer to this. The best he could do was a muttered “Don’t believe everything you hear, Greer.”

  “I’m just repeatin’ what folks’re sayin’,” Greer replied cheerfully. As Charlie walked away, he began pushing his broom with a greater energy, whistling the tune to “Falling in Love Again.”

  Gritting his teeth, Charlie rounded the corner and went into the post office. “Here’s this week’s batch of newspapers,” he said to old Mr. Stevens, the post master, and slid the box over the counter.

  “A little late, ain’cha, Charlie?” Mr. Stevens had bushy white chin whiskers and wore sleeve garters and suspenders and a green eyeshade. “Y’ missed the morning mail run. Guess you stayed up too late last night with your out-of-town ladyfriend, huh?” He snickered. “I seen you and her, comin’ out of the picture show.”

  Charlie bit his tongue. It didn’t pay to talk back to Mr. Stevens. “I’m a little late,” he acknowledged stiffly. “But no matter, so long as the papers go out tomorrow.”

  “Oh, they’ll go out all right,” Mr. Stevens said. “But it may not be tomorrow. Tom Wheeler’s old car broke down halfway through his deliveries this mornin’ and had to be towed. May be next week before he gets it fixed. In the meantime, he’s puttin’ Old Fred to work.” Old Fred was Tom Wheeler’s horse, which he hitched to his buggy when his car wasn’t running. “The post office ain’t made of money, you know,” he added sternly. “The best we can do is the best we can do. And the best we got right now is Old Fred.”

  Charlie nodded. There was never any point in arguing with Mr. Stevens. He had, once, and regretted it, when he learned that after their argument only half of the press run had reached his subscribers. Not that Mr. Stevens was nasty. He was just inclined to be irritable, and it was better to stay on his good side if you could, so he wouldn’t misplace your mailings—temporarily, of course. The missing papers had arrived two weeks late. The post office always delivers, Mr. Stevens had told him knowingly.

  The newspapers taken care of (and their final delivery date resting on the weary shoulders of old, slow Fred), Charlie thought once again about lunch, but felt that he would rather accomplish his second objective without any further delay. He we
nt out onto Rosemont, crossed Franklin, and walked past the Darling Savings and Trust to the second building on the block, Fannie Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux.

  As he walked, Charlie’s heart grew lighter and his steps swifter, for he planned to correct the regrettable impression about his character that he had left with Fannie on Wednesday night. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to do this—that is, exactly what he was going to say. But he was confident that the right words would come when he saw Fannie’s sweet, tremulous smile and felt the encouraging touch of her hand.

  Now feeling a sudden rush of surprised eagerness and the unexpected warmth of actually wanting something, he took the wooden steps two at a time and grasped the brass handle to push open the front door.

  But the door was locked. And in the window, there was a hand-lettered sign:

  Miss Champaign Is Out of Town

  Closed Until Further Notice

  NINETEEN

  Purple Ink, Pink Paper,

  and Two More Black Eyes

  When the airplane topped with a half-naked Angel had disappeared back in the direction of the airstrip, Lizzy and Verna climbed into Verna’s LaSalle and headed for the Kilgores’ house.

  Lizzy wasn’t very enthusiastic about the plan Verna had suggested. For one thing, they might be barking up the entirely wrong tree. After all, the main thing they had to go on was Raylene’s intuition, although it had already proved fairly powerful and was supported by a fact or two, such as the death of Mabel’s sister, Bess. But basically, they were operating on Raylene’s say-so, which might or might not be accurate.

  Still, as Lizzy and Verna both knew, they didn’t have a whole lot of choices, so they agreed they should give it a try. And since Mildred Kilgore had the documents that were the key to the plan’s success, they would begin with her.

  When they arrived, Lizzy was startled to see that Mildred’s eye looked a lot worse. It was turning purple, with green streaks and shadows, and was almost swelled shut. But neither she nor Verna were so impolite as to call attention to it.

  Mildred was overseeing the boys who were setting up the tables in the garden and the girls who were working in the kitchen, but she was ready to take a few moments out to talk. They took glasses of iced tea to the back veranda, where Mildred could keep an eye on the boys. When they were settled at a table, Verna said, “We’ve got news, Mildred,” and told her about finding Lily Dare in Raylene Riggs cottage at the Marigold Motor Court.

  Mildred shook her head as she listened, then gave a disgusted little hmph. “I’ll have somebody take her things over there,” she said. She stiffened her shoulders and raised her chin. “I may have to be civil to that woman tonight,” she said thinly, “but she’s not going to be sleeping here.”

  “We can take her things,” Verna offered. “We’re driving past the Marigold on our way out to the airstrip. That way, you won’t have to bother.”

  “Thank you,” Mildred said, slightly mollified. “I’ll be glad to have them gone.”

  Then Lizzy told Mildred about the conversation she and Verna had had with Raylene at the diner that morning—most importantly, Raylene’s surprising story about Bess and Mabel Hopkins (aka Angel Flame), and Raylene’s hunch. And then Verna told her about their plan.

  “We don’t know if it’ll work,” Lizzy said when Verna was finished. “But we think it’s worth a try. Of course, we’ll have to apologize if it turns out that we’re wrong. But that’s a small price to pay for the possibility of getting to the bottom of that nasty business of the letters and the checks. Don’t you agree, Mildred?”

  Mildred wore a doubtful look at first, but she listened with a growing interest and when Verna and Lizzy had finished, she agreed that it was worth a chance. She went indoors, got the items they asked for, and came back down.

  “I hope you won’t show these to anybody else,” she said, handing them over. “I’d hate for them to fall into the wrong hands. Darling is such a horrible place for gossip. Everybody would be talking about it.” She sighed and touched her eye. “As it is, I don’t see how I can face people tonight. What will I tell them?”

  “If you want to tell them that you walked into a door,” Lizzy said sympathetically, “we’ll be glad to back you up.”

  “Roger’s got a black eye, too,” Mildred said.

  “And so does Lily Dare,” Verna put in.

  Lizzy tried to think of something snappy, but all she could come up with was “I don’t think anybody will believe three doors.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Mildred replied gloomily. She looked from one to the other of them, pushing her mouth in and out. “But I wonder,” she said. “What if each of you had a black eye? That way, none of us would stand out.”

  Verna blinked. “You want us to whap one another in the eye just to—”

  “No,” Lizzy said firmly. “We’ll do what we can to help, but that is not a good idea, Mildred.”

  Mildred threw up her hands. “Well, it’s the only idea I have.” She stood. “I need to get back to work now. Black eyes or not, I have a reputation to uphold.” She sighed. “And from the looks of the bank account, this will be the last big party I’ll give.”

  Back again in the LaSalle, Verna drove first to Lizzy’s house, where Lizzy went inside and got one of the fliers they’d printed up to publicize the air show and the Watermelon Festival. They made another stop in town, where they talked for a few moments to Buddy Norris, letting him know what they were up to and why—without spilling more of the private details than they could help. And then they drove out to the Marigold Motor Court and dropped off Lily Dare’s bag.

  By this time, it was nearly noon, and the morning had turned into one of those glorious days that sometimes bloom in the middle of a hot summer. The air was cool (well, cooler than it had been, anyway), the sun was cheerful but not overbearing, and the trees and grass were the color of polished emeralds. A pattern of birds wheeled overhead, their wings flashing silver against the serene blue sky.

  “Perfect weather for the Watermelon Festival,” Lizzy said happily. As they drove past the fairgrounds, she was glad to see that the ticket booth was in operation and decorated with a flock of tethered red, white, and blue balloons left over from Darling’s Fourth of July parade. The tents were all erected and the carnival rides were up. The merry-go-round was playing a cheerful hurdy-gurdy tune, the Ferris wheel was turning, and threaded through the hubbub Lizzy could hear the shouts of the carnies going about their work. The odor of fresh hot buttered popcorn filled the open car.

  “I love the smell of popcorn,” Lizzy said. “Before we go back to Darling, let’s stop at the fairgrounds so I can have a look around. I want to be sure that the tent where Aunt Hetty will put our Dahlias’ garden stuff is set up and ready to go.”

  “Yeah, we can do that,” Verna said grimly. “But we need to get this other business settled before we do anything else.”

  She was staring straight ahead and driving more carefully than usual. Clearly, she was already concentrating on what they were planning to do. In Lizzy’s estimation, though, their scheme depended way too much on luck. It was a gamble, and Lizzy wasn’t optimistic. Raylene’s hunch could be completely wrong, and then what?

  When they got to the airstrip, they saw that the airplane with its advertising banner had done its job, and then some. There was already a sizeable crowd, with cars, wagons, and bicycles parked along both sides of the grassy landing area and more arriving all the time. Dozens of onlookers—mostly men and boys, in farm overalls, work clothes, and battered old hats—were wandering across the grass or sitting on the hoods of their vehicles, the men smoking cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and occasionally pulling a surreptitious flask out of a back pocket.

  Rex Hart’s yellow Stearman, with a passenger, was already taxiing out to the end of the grassy runway, like an eager bird maneuvering to get airborne. Lily Dare was seate
d in the cockpit of the Jenny, and a young man wearing the team’s distinctive red shirt was helping Jed Snow climb into the plane for a ride. When Jed was securely buckled in, the young man ran around the front of the plane and pulled the propeller, then pulled it again. The engine caught, the propeller began to spin, and as the watching crowd cheered, Lily revved the motor and turned the plane to taxi for a takeoff, scattering onlookers from the field. A third plane, blue, with an American flag painted on its nose, waited on the grass to take on the next passenger.

  Angel Flame had abandoned her red bathing suit and was dressed in tight-fitting white pants, the team’s red shirt, a blue spangled scarf, and lightweight canvas shoes—her aerialist outfit, Lizzy guessed. She was standing just inside the big sliding doors to the shed, next to a scale with a big sign on it. Ride High for Only a Penny a Pound! Angel weighed each passenger, noted his weight, took his money, wrote his name on a list, and handed him a ticket. From the length of the line, Lizzy guessed that people would be waiting their turns for airplane rides for the rest of the day—a good thing, as far as the Dare Devils were concerned. With three planes in the air, they ought to turn that profit Lily was hoping for.

  Lizzy did a quick mental calculation. If the flights lasted twenty minutes, a plane could do maybe three flights in a little over an hour, if they turned the passengers around very fast. If there were three planes in the air, that would be nine flights an hour times—what? An average of a dollar fifty or sixty per flight? That would be thirteen, fourteen dollars an hour. If they could keep it up for six or seven hours, they could maybe earn a hundred dollars for a day’s flying. And if a hundred automobiles showed up tomorrow, that would be another hundred. Two hundred dollars.

  She frowned. It sounded like a lot of money. But was it enough to buy fuel and parts and repairs—not to mention food for the flying team and ground crew and beds for the night, and for all the nights until the next air show? She thought of her comfortable little house, with her garden in the back, Daffy on the front porch, and plenty of food in her big G.E. Monitor refrigerator, and she shook her head. She had imagined that Lily Dare—the fastest woman in the world, a stunt pilot for Hollywood films—led a glamorous life. Now, she knew that wasn’t true. Once, she had envied the Texas Star. Now, no more.