The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (2 page)

“I've Got the World on a String”

In less than an hour, Violet Sims' well-ordered life was going to change. But right now, she was enjoying what in her opinion was the very best hour of a summer's day—the earliest hour. That was the time when she went out to work in the vegetable garden behind the Darling Diner, which she owned and managed with her friend, Myra May Mosswell. And
this
hour, on
this
Saturday, seemed especially perfect. It had been hot and sultry all week, and the day ahead was likely to be another hot one, with the prospect of a storm in the afternoon. But the morning air was still cool and fresh, the dew was a silvery sheen on the ripe and flawless tomatoes, and the sun had just begun to peer over the rooftops of the little town of Darling to see if something of interest might be happening there on this very last day of June 1934.

And yes, things were already happening, interesting or not, depending on your point of view. Next door to the diner
on the east, J.D. Henderson, who helped Mr. Musgrove in the hardware store, was burning trash in an old metal barrel behind the store. Across the alley and two doors to the north on Robert E. Lee, Mrs. Vader's rooster was letting Mr. Vader know that it was high time he jumped out of bed and started for his foreman's job at the Pine Mill Creek, where another big lumber order from the new CCC camp down by Briar's Swamp was waiting to be filled. In fact, Camp Briarwood had placed so many orders recently (construction materials for officers' quarters, a headquarters building, and a mess hall) that Mr. Vader had to get up extra early to supervise the three new men he'd just hired. But he didn't complain. Everybody was happy that the sawmill was hiring again.

On the other side of Robert E. Lee, Bill Board, the milkman, was whistling as he delivered two quarts of Board's Best milk and a pint of Board's Best cream to Mr. and Mrs. Hart and the three little Hart grandchildren, who lived next door to Hart's Peerless Laundry. Bill Board was whistling because the Harts had not only doubled their dairy order but paid their bill, to boot. The laundry business was flourishing, so much so that the Harts had had to hire two colored girls from Maysville to help with the extra washing. More jobs!

And from the diner's kitchen window came the not-so-melodic sound of Myra May Mosswell singing along with Bing Crosby's rendition of “I've Got the World on a String.” The song made Violet smile as she bent over and began filling her lard bucket with fresh green beans for the noon lunch. Actually, she thought, she'd better fill two buckets while she was at it. Now that the CCC camp was shifting into high gear, business was picking up nicely. In fact, it had gotten so good that she and Myra May were finally able to pay themselves a halfway decent salary. Under her breath,
Violet hummed along with the radio. She had the world on a string and the morning was off to a glorious start.

Which was exactly how she felt for the next, oh, ten minutes or so. After that, the storm clouds began to gather (metaphorically speaking) and the day went downhill in a hurry.

*   *   *

In the sunshine-filled kitchen, Myra May glanced up at the clock over the sink. It was six thirty, and the diner would be open for business in a half hour. Violet's sourdough bread was baking in the oven, and it was time to get the breakfast items started. She opened the refrigerator and took out eggs and milk, in preparation for stirring up pancake batter. On the menu, the pancakes were paired with her mother Raylene's Southern fried apples and bacon or ham. Raylene's fried apples had become a big hit with the Darling Diner's breakfast customers.

Over in the corner, three-year-old Cupcake was dressing her Patsy doll and warbling gleefully with the radio. “Sittin' on a rainbow, gonna make the rain go!” she crowed, and danced the Patsy doll up and down in time to the music. Seeing the morning sun glint off her soft strawberry curls, Myra May thought that Cupcake was much cuter than little Shirley Temple, the child movie star. She was an even bigger hit with the customers than her grandmother's fried apples. In fact, she was such a popular little girl that she had been selected as Little Miss Darling for the town's Fourth of July celebration coming up next week.

On the other side of the kitchen partition, behind the diner's long counter, Cupcake's grandmother, Raylene Riggs, had just finished making a pot of coffee, and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. Myra May could hear Raylene singing
along, too, in her odd little tuneless way:
Life's a wonderful thing as long as I've got that string
.

The song had it right, Myra May thought as she began breaking eggs into the heavy yellow pottery bowl. Life was a wonderful thing these days—well, it was going in that direction, anyway. She was her own boss, serving good, wholesome food to customers and friends in her very own place of business. Around her were gathered the three people she loved most in the world: her dear friend Violet, their little Cupcake, and her mother, from whom she had been separated for most of her life. Best of all, the gray skies of the Depression were finally beginning to lighten, at least here in Darling, where people seemed to have more money than they'd had in the past three or four years.

And the credit for this improved state of affairs, in Myra May's opinion, was almost entirely due to the Civilian Conservation Corps camp, a half-dozen miles south of town. Some of the local people were working at the camp in various capacities, so they had a little extra money to spend. The camp quartermaster bought supplies, equipment, and services from local merchants, like the Pine Creek Sawmill and Mann's Mercantile and Hart's Peerless Laundry. The camp advertised its needs in the
Dispatch
and bought milk, butter, eggs, and produce for the camp kitchen from the local farmers. And when the CCC boys came to town on weekends, they spent their money at the Palace Theater, the dime store, the new roller rink, the pool hall, and (of course!) the diner. A couple of months ago, Myra May had started staying open late on Friday and Saturday nights just so the boys could stop in for a hamburger or a milk shake after the last picture show.

All of these new customers added up to a
lot
more money flowing into Darling. Why, according to Mayor Jed Snow, the camp had pumped some forty-five hundred dollars into
Darling's economy in just the last month alone! Which in turn meant that Darlingians who had been flat broke and despairing could now afford to pay thirty-five cents for a meal at the diner or a dollar fifty for a new pair of shoes at the Mercantile or a quarter for a kite or an O-Boy Yo-Yo for the kids at the Five and Dime.

Sitting on a rainbow.
Myra May was smiling as she beat the eggs and milk together
.
Yes, it was actually beginning to seem that they had put the worst of the dark clouds and hard times behind them. Life was good and getting better and better every day.

At least, that's how Myra May felt at that instant. She would be feeling very differently a few moments from now.

*   *   *

On the other side of the partition, behind the lunch counter, Raylene finished with the coffee percolator and began wrapping the silverware in paper napkins, so they would be ready to set the tables as the customers came in. She was making extra wraps this morning, because she had the feeling that today was going to be a busy day—and something of a strange day, she thought, wrinkling her nose and frowning just a little.

Raylene had learned long ago to trust her feelings, for she was psychic. “Not very much, actually,” she told people when they noticed. She liked to downplay her ability so folks wouldn't pester her to read their palms or tell their fortunes. “And mostly just about little things.”

Like what things people wanted to eat. At today's lunch, for instance, Raylene already knew that Sheriff Buddy Norris was going to change his mind and order liver and onions instead of the usual meat loaf, while Mayor Jed Snow would go with the meat loaf instead of fried chicken, and the county commissioner,
Amos Tombull, would top off his stewed chicken and dumplings with peach pie and ice cream. It was a good thing to be psychic about, as she told her daughter, Myra May. It meant having a pretty good idea of how much of everything to cook.

But occasionally there was something else. Like right now, she had a disquieting feeling that she couldn't quite shake when she thought of the day ahead. She frowned again, catching a fleeting glimpse, in her mind's eye, of men traipsing through the diner's backyard and strangers coming into the place and asking questions about—

“Miz Raylene,” came an uncertain voice. “Miz Raylene, you busy?”

Raylene looked up. It was Lenore Looper, a slight, brown-haired young woman who worked the eleven-to-seven shift on the switchboard three times a week. The Darling Telephone Exchange was located in the back room of the diner. When the Exchange first opened, with only a couple of dozen customers, it had operated from seven in the morning until seven at night. Now, practically everybody in town had a phone and the Exchange had to be staffed around the clock. The girl who worked the night shift was allowed to nap on the narrow cot along one wall, as long as she kept an ear cocked for emergency calls. It looked to Raylene as if Lenore had been doing just that, for the bobby pins were falling out of her hair, her print dress was twisted, and she was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Raylene reached up and turned down the volume of the Philco radio that sat on a shelf behind the counter. “What is it, Lenore?”

Lenore pulled at the bodice of her dress to straighten it. “It's Bettina Higgens, who works over at the Beauty Bower. She just called the switchboard, askin' about Rona Jean.”

“Rona Jean?” Raylene asked, frowning. The room seemed
suddenly darker, as though a couple of the light bulbs over the counter had just burned out. “She worked the three-to-eleven shift yesterday, didn't she?”

“Yes, ma'am. But it seems she didn't come home last night.” Lenore yawned, covering it with a dainty hand. “Bettina is Roma Jean's roommate. She's asking if anybody here knows where Rona Jean might've went. If they do, she says would they please call her.”

Feeling a flutter of apprehension, Raylene went to the pass-through and leaned across the shelf into the kitchen. “Myra May, Bettina Higgens is calling about Rona Jean, her roommate. Seems she didn't get home last night.”

“She didn't?” Frowning, Myra May dropped the big whisk into the crockery bowl. “Where did she go?”

“That's what Bettina wants to know. Any ideas?”

“Afraid not.” Myra May wiped her hands on the cotton apron she wore over her slacks and plaid blouse. “I checked her out at eleven last night, when she finished her shift. I didn't ask where she was headed—I just figured she was going home.” She quirked an eyebrow. “But you know Rona Jean.”

As a matter of fact, Raylene did know Rona Jean, who—while she was an excellent switchboard operator when she paid attention—was a little on the wild side. She'd be late to work or ask to get off early. Or she'd be talking to one of her friends when she was supposed to be on duty and let the calls get ahead of her on the switchboard. Worst yet, she had listened in at least once on a private telephone call, which was against the Exchange's hard-and-fast rule. Myra May had cautioned her that if she was caught listening one more time, she'd be looking for another job.

By now feeling distinctly uneasy, Raylene turned back to Lenore. “Myra May says that Rona Jean finished up here
at eleven last night, and that's the last we've seen of her. If Bettina is worried, she should let Sheriff Norris know, so he can keep an eye out for—”

At that moment, the back door banged open and Raylene turned to see Violet, ashen faced and trembling, in the doorway. “Come quick!” she cried breathlessly, clinging to the doorjamb for support. “It's awful! Oh, please, please, come!”

“Awful?” Myra May was peering through the pass-through. “Come where? What's going on, Violet?”

“It's . . . it's Rona Jean,” Violet gasped. “In the garage. She's . . . she's . . .”

But whatever Violet was going to say was lost in a long sigh. She slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

Myra May left Raylene to tend to Violet and dashed out to the ramshackle garage where she parked Big Bertha, her large green 1920 Chevrolet touring car. With 29,012 miles on her odometer, Bertha was cruising on her third carburetor and sixth set of tires, and she occasionally suffered from the hiccups. But the red-painted spokes in her wheels were bright, her green canvas top was sound, and her chrome-plated headlights twinkled. When Myra May climbed behind the wheel and revved Bertha up to her top speed of thirty-five miles an hour, she always imagined that the car was smiling.

But Bertha wasn't smiling now, and it wasn't Myra May behind her wheel. It was Rona Jean Hancock. She was sprawled across the front seat, the top buttons of her red dress undone, her legs splayed in an unladylike way, her head bent back at an awkward angle. On her left leg, she was wearing a silk stocking, held up by an elastic roll garter just above her knee. The right leg was bare, and her other silk stocking was wound tightly around her neck.