Bessie was about to step off the front porch when the front door opened behind her.
“Miss Bloodworth, please.”
Bessie turned, startled. At first she didn’t quite believe her eyes, but she knew it had to be true. It was Miss Jamison, a print scarf tied around her brown hair. She was wearing a shapeless gray cotton housedress that must have once belonged to Miss Hamer, felt bedroom slippers, and not a trace of makeup. She looked, Bessie thought, like a sharecropper’s wife.
“What happened at the beauty parlor today-” Miss Jamison raised her voice, to be heard over Miss Hamer’s anguished cries. “I hope it won’t go any further, Miss Bloodworth. I don’t want the whole town gossiping about me. Or about Miss Lake, either. As it is, the poor thing is so distraught that she can’t sleep. I tried to get her some of her Veronal, but the druggist refused to fill her prescription.”
Bessie hadn’t meant to tell this, but maybe it would relieve Miss Jamison’s mind. “If you’re worrying about Frankie Diamond, you can stop right now. Deputy Norris put him on the train back to Chicago earlier this afternoon.”
“He-what?” Miss Jamison’s hand went to her mouth. “Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I saw him collared myself,” Bessie replied. “On the square, in front of Mann’s Mercantile. We-” She was about to mention about what Verna had found out in her telephone conversation with the talkative Mrs. O’Malley, but she was interrupted by the sound of an automobile. She turned.
Mr. Bailey Beauchamp’s lemon yellow Cadillac Phaeton was purring along Camellia Street. The canvas top was folded back, Lightning was at the wheel, and Mr. Beauchamp was sitting in the back seat. As they approached Miss Hamer’s house, Mr. Beauchamp leaned forward and tapped Lightning on the shoulder with his cane. The car slowed and Mr. Beauchamp slid over in the seat, peering at the street numbers. He saw the house and the two women on the porch, smiled broadly, and began to raise his hat. Then he got a good look at Miss Jamison. He stared, frowned, jammed his hat back on his head, and spoke curtly to Lightning. The Cadillac sped up.
Miss Jamison’s disguise was a success.
NINETEEN
Lizzy took her column-neatly typed, double-spaced, the pages numbered-to the Dispatch office downstairs, which smelled of ink and cigarette smoke. Charlie Dickens was sitting at his battered wooden desk, typing fast with two fingers on an old black Royal typewriter, a cigarette stuck crookedly in one corner of his mouth. He wore his usual green celluloid eyeshade, a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tie askew, and a gray vest. Rolls of newsprint were stacked along one wall, and behind him, at the back of the large room, loomed the silent newspaper press. Mr. Dickens and his helper, Boomer Craig, would crank it up and start printing the paper on Thursday evening, after Lizzy and Mr. Moseley had gone home for the day. The press rattled the building and made as much noise as a locomotive.
Lizzy put her column on Mr. Dickens’ desk. She hesitated, remembering that, just a couple of days ago, she had planned to talk to him about writing a feature story about Miss Jamison (aka Lorelei LaMotte) and her stay in Darling. That was out of the question now, of course-as was Verna’s notion of getting the two ladies to put on an act for the talent show. But depending on what happened tonight, there might be a different story to tell. Of course, it would take a while to get all the facts and write it up.
She cleared her throat. “What’s the deadline for news this week, Mr. Dickens?”
“Thursday morning,” Charlie said, without looking up. He was balding and fleshy, a large man pushing fifty, with sharp, hard eyes that seemed out of place in his round face. He ripped the paper out of his typewriter. “Here’s a very important piece of news, don’t you think? Think I’ll run it on Page One, right next to the story about construction beginning on Boulder Dam.” He read it out loud in a mocking, sarcastic voice. “On Wednesday morning Mrs. Campbell Young entertained very delightfully at her charming home on Rosemont Avenue. The affair was a morning bridge party given on the vine-covered porch. At noon a luncheon of garden salad, cold cucumber soup, and tiny ham sandwiches was served to the appreciative guests. Prizes were awarded to the winning players.”
“Well,” Lizzy began politely, “I’m sure that Mrs. Young’s friends-”
“Wait, there’s something else. This goes on Page Two.” He picked up another piece of paper, which Lizzy could see was an ad. “Ironing Board and Electric Iron, $3.95. A convenience no modern housewife can afford to be without.” He snorted. “And a rattan porch rocker for three dollars and fifty cents, so the housewife can take her leisure when she’s finished ironing. Both of these swell bargains are courtesy of Mann’s Mercantile. Ain’t that just the bee’s knees?”
Lizzy might have said that an electric iron was a great improvement over the heavy flatirons that had to be heated on the cook stove, which Charlie would know if he had to iron his own white shirts, especially in the summertime. But of course she didn’t. There wasn’t any point in saying anything at all, really. Charlie Dickens was given to fits of depression, often brought on by what he thought of as the inconsequentiality of the things he had to put into the newspaper. It sounded as if he was at one of his low points today.
He raised one finger. “But don’t give up yet, Liz. Here’s something else for your edification, from one of the feature services.” He read:
“Benito Mussolini of Italy professes principles of government which are bitterly hated by the American farmers, stout defenders of democracy-but just the same, he has solved the farm relief problem. While the American Congress has passed laws which are of doubtful help to the troubled tillers of the soil, and while Ramsay MacDonald’s government in Great Britain is still talking about helping the sadly crippled British farmer, Mussolini is doing something. He intends to make Italy almost, or entirely, self-supporting in the matter of food, so the country can spend more money on raw materials, increase the prosperity of its factories, and cut down the adverse balance of trade. Not incidentally, this will also increase the well-being of the Italian farmer.”
He put down the paper and looked up at her. “This opinion piece ran a couple of weeks ago in the Anniston Star, right here in Alabama. And to my knowledge, nobody has burned the newspaper office or lynched the editor.” He squinted at her. “Do you think I ought to run it, Liz?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Lizzy said hesitantly. “Lots of Darling folks might not be too anxious to hear about what Mussolini is doing. Jed Snow says that he’s a Fascist dictator. He’s taken over the government. He’s outlawed political parties. He-”
“Yes to all that, Liz.” Charlie heaved a heavy sigh. “Jed’s right, of course. Mussolini is a dictator. But he gets things done, damn it. He gets things done.” He threw the paper down on the desk, pulled off his eyeshade, and dropped his head in his hands. “Why can’t we have a government that gets things done?”
Lizzy didn’t have an answer to that question. Instead, she said, “If I have a piece of news-important news-that I can’t turn in until Thursday noon, will there still be room for it?”
“Depends on how long it is and how urgent.” Charlie shrugged heavily. “I could cut Mrs. Campbell Young’s bridge party, I guess. Or I could move the Mercantile ad to the back page. Or-”
“Thanks,” Lizzy said, and fled.
When she got to her block on Jeff Davis, Lizzy could see her mother sitting out on the front porch. Not wanting to confront her just yet, she cut through Mrs. Hoffman’s side yard, walked up the alley, and entered her mother’s kitchen, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.