FOURTEEN

“And She Only Paid for One!”

Verna usually walked to work, from the small frame house at the corner of Larkspur and Robert E. Lee, where she lived with her black Scottie, Clyde. But Clyde had spent the night with Verna’s neighbor. And since she was already in the car, she just drove on into the middle of town and parked her LaSalle against the nearly empty curb in front of the courthouse, where old Mr. Tucker was just raising the flags, the U.S. flag on one pole, the flag of the Confederate States of America on the other. Out of respect for the fallen, he always raised the Confederate flag first and stepped back to salute it.

Getting out of the car, Verna glanced up at the clock on the tower. It was only seven thirty. She hated to admit it, but Liz had been right—she had skipped breakfast at the Kilgores’ because she wanted to avoid the unpleasantness. She felt like a heel, leaving Liz to cope with Mildred and Roger and Miss Dare, but she promised herself that she’d make it up to her.

Meanwhile, she needed some breakfast. Donna Sue, the clerk in Judge McHenry’s office, had raved about the sausage and grits casserole that she’d gotten at the diner the morning before, which (according to Donna Sue) tasted exactly like her mama’s casserole and maybe even a bit better. This was saying a lot, Verna knew, since Donna Sue had always claimed that nobody in the world could hold a candle to her mama’s cooking.

Grits and sausage casserole sounded good to Verna, along with a cup of Myra May’s strong, black coffee, Violet’s cheerful morning greeting, and the chortles of little Cupcake. She crossed the street, feeling the warm summer sunshine on her shoulders and smiling with anticipation. The night had been awkward (to say the least!), and she was sorry that she had volunteered to snoop into something that was really none of her business. That’s what came of indulging her regrettable habit of poking around under rocks. A satisfying breakfast with her good friends at the Darling Diner would go a long way to restoring her balance—and her self-confidence.

But when Verna opened the door and went in, the diner was such a scene of noisy chaos that she simply stopped and stared. The stools at the counter were almost all taken, the tables were full of chatting patrons, and Myra May, Violet, and Earlynne Biddle’s boy, Bennie, were running back and forth with plates of food and pots of coffee, all three wearing anxious and harried expressions. Obviously, word about the new cook had gotten around. Myra May was going to have to hire additional help.

Verna took the nearest available seat at the counter, sliding in next to Mr. Greer, the owner of the Palace Theater. Over a full plate of eggs and ham, he was telling Mr. Musgrove about the large and enthusiastic crowd they’d had at the showing of Hell’s Angels the night before. The film had featured several aerial dogfights, with one of the planes flown by Miss Lily Dare, the Texas Star—who would be flying at the air show that weekend.

“And the Texas Star herself came to the movie,” he announced, speaking over the morning farm market report (corn was up, beans and pork bellies were down) on the white Philco radio behind the counter. He spoke loud enough to be heard three stools down by Archie Mann, from Mann’s Mercantile.

Archie Mann leaned forward to reply to Mr. Greer past Lester Lima (the owner of Lima’s Drugstore) and Jake Pritchard (who owned the Standard Oil filling station out on the Monroeville Highway).

“That pilot lady’s a real looker, too, by damn,” he said with a sly chuckle. “Ol’ Charlie Dickens, he’s landed hisself a stunner this time. That Miss Dare, she can fly my plane any day of the week,” he added, and broke into a raucous guffaw that was echoed along the counter by all the men who were listening—and all of them were.

Lester Lima, a thin, stoop-shouldered, fussy man with gold eyeglasses, frowned down at his eggs and bacon. “It is my understanding,” he said prissily, “that Mr. Dickens is engaged to Miss Champaign, the little lady who makes the hats.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Jake Pritchard put in, slathering grape jelly on a biscuit. “My missus heard Miss Champaign say so at the beauty salon.”

“Well, if they was engaged, they ain’t engaged no more,” Mr. Greer replied in a knowing tone. “At least, ol’ Charlie ain’t. Lily Dare was hangin’ on to him like a tick on a hound dog, and I didn’t see him objectin’ none.”

Mr. Greer, who operated the movie projector at the back of the theater, kept a running score of the developing romances of the Palace patrons, especially among the younger crowd. He could be counted on to know who was courting who and whether the courting looked like it was going to lead somewhere it shouldn’t, at least in his theater. When things got too steamy, he’d been known to take a flashlight and roam the aisles, throwing a little light on the offending couples.

Jake Pritchard laughed. “Well, I reckon ol’ Charlie’s found out why it’s good to stay a bachelor, although the missus is gonna be plumb disappointed. She was figurin’ on a new hat for the weddin’.”

Verna listened, at first with a frown and then with a growing dismay. She had heard about Fannie and Charlie from several different sources, although (in her usual skeptical fashion) she hadn’t quite believed the part about the engagement. Still, she knew that Fannie and Charlie were an item, and that Fannie (a fellow Dahlia) probably cared more than she should for Charlie. Poor Fannie was much too sweet for her own good, while Charlie had always struck Verna as the footloose-and-fancy-free type. When Fannie found out that Charlie had been seen at the movie house with Lily Dare, it would be a blow.

Verna shook her head disgustedly. This was exactly why she had decided, after her husband Walter stepped out in front of that Greyhound bus, that she didn’t need another man in her life, thank you very much. You couldn’t trust a one of them any farther than you could throw him.

Myra May rushed around the end of the counter and skidded to a stop in front of Verna. “Mornin’, Verna,” she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Sorry it took so long to get to you. We’re a little rushed this morning.” She picked up the coffeepot and slopped coffee into a mug, pushing it across the counter. “What’ll you have, hon?”

“Donna Sue Pendergast raved about your new cook’s grits and sausage casserole,” Verna said with happy anticipation. “That’s what I’ll have.”

“Oops, sorry,” Myra May said regretfully. “Raylene didn’t come in this morning. You can have eggs any way with bacon or ham, plus grits, and gravy. That’s all we’ve got. Oh, and biscuits, of course. Violet just made another panful.”

“She didn’t come in?” Verna asked, surprised. She took a couple of sips of her coffee. “But I thought—”

“So did we,” Myra May said glumly. “We thought our problems were solved. Raylene is a swell cook, great with the customers, seems to be able to come up with exactly what they want, like it’s by magic. Really, Verna. You gotta see it to believe it. Magic.”

“What happened?” Verna asked. “Did she quit?”

“I wish I knew,” Myra May said. “Maybe she just overslept. Or maybe she’s sick, although she seemed okay when we closed up last night. If I could get away, I’d drive out to the motor court and see what’s wrong. She’s staying out there until she can find a cheap place to live in town.” Myra May wiped the counter with a rag. “We can get by here for today, but she’s supposed to help us with the catering for Mildred’s party. If she’s skipped, Violet and I will have to figure out something.” She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “What, I don’t know,” she said wearily, “but something.”

Verna took another drink of coffee. “She’s staying at the Marigold? Why don’t you call out there and see what’s happened?”

“There’s no phone in any of the cottages,” Myra May replied. “I called the office to ask Pauline to skip over and knock on Raylene’s door, but nobody answers. Pauline’s probably cleaning or doing the laundry. I’ll just have to keep on trying.”

“Myra May!” Violet yelled from the kitchen. “Myra May, I need you!” At the same time, little Cupcake, corralled in her playpen at the back of the dining room, began to wail, adding to the general cacophony.

Verna looked at her watch. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ve got my car this morning. I’ll run across the street to the office and get Melba Jean and Ruthie started for the day.” She gulped the last of her coffee and slid off the stool. “Then I’ll drive out to the Marigold and find out what’s what. If she’s just overslept, I can drive her back. Her name is Raylene, you said? Which cottage is she in?”

“Oh, would you, Verna?” Myra May asked happily. “You’ll earn our undying gratitude. Right—Raylene Riggs. She’s in Number Four.” She grabbed a paper napkin and two biscuits off a plate, wrapped them up, and thrust them at Verna. “Here. Take these with you so you won’t starve. And when we get ourselves organized again, you’ve got a couple of free breakfasts coming.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything,” Verna said.

From the kitchen came the ominous sound of grease crackling. “Myra May!” Violet yelled, louder this time. “Help!”

Verna had been working late recently to reorganize the county bank accounts, so she felt justified in taking a little time off this morning. She got Ruthie and Melba Jean—her two employees—settled on the day’s work, signed a couple of documents, and returned a telephone phone call. Twenty minutes later, she was back in her LaSalle, heading out to the Marigold Motor Court.

Pauline and Floyd DuBerry had built the motor court back when people were upbeat and hopeful and could spend a little extra money to put gas in their tanks and new tires on their cars and drive somewhere for a vacation. They had lost their only child, Herman, in the Great War, and they had nothing except the motor court cottages, their house, a few chickens, and a garden. And then Pauline had lost Floyd to heat stroke, one hot July afternoon two years before, when he shouldn’t have been out mowing but was anyway, because it needed doing. That was Floyd, she said sadly, out there in the noon sun without a hat. Stubborn as an old mule. You couldn’t tell that man a blessed thing.

With Floyd gone, Pauline had to hire Jake Pritchard’s boy to come over from the Standard Oil station across the road and cut the weeds and fix the plumbing and do whatever had to be done to keep the motor court looking attractive. The Marigold income was all she had to keep her going in her old age, which she had already reached, since Pauline was sixty-two and wishing she could slow down.

Unfortunately, things weren’t working out that way. When she stopped by the courthouse to pay the property tax, Pauline (a chatty little old lady) told Verna that she was lucky to have more than two guests on any one night and there were lots of nights when all the cottages were vacant and she was out there by herself. What little she made was barely enough to keep the electric lights on and the toilets flushing, let alone pay down the mortgage Floyd got from Mr. Johnson at the Darling Savings and Trust to build the cottages.

“A measly seventy-five cents a night is all I charge for one, plus a quarter for two,” Pauline said, but folks still couldn’t afford it. They’d sleep in their cars, sometimes right there in the parking lot beside the CLEAN SHEETS AND TOWELS sign.

“I’d give just about anything if Senator Huey P. Long would run for president instead of that rich man Roosevelt,” Pauline had added wistfully. Many Southerners favored Long over Roosevelt, who was not only wealthy but had an aristocratic look and talked like a college man and a Northerner, to boot. Long, on the other hand, was a down-home good ol’ boy. He talked just like everybody else and looked out for the people’s good.

As she counted out ten ones and twenty-six cents for her property tax payment, Pauline had said, “Did you know that Senator Long is in favor of old age pensions for everybody over sixty? If I had one of them, I could sit back and put my feet up.” She had sighed heavily. “Of course, I’d still have my swolled-up ankles, but my money troubles would be over.”

Verna pulled into the motor court, parked her car, and looked around. The seven one-room frame cottages were arranged in a half-circle around the sides and back of the DuBerry house—each cottage painted a different color because Floyd had bought the paint in a closeout sale at Musgrove’s Hardware. A red neon VACANCY sign blinked hopefully in Pauline’s parlor window, which was also the motor court office. There was only one car in sight, a dilapidated black Model A Ford, missing both its front and back bumpers, parked in front of Cottage Two.

Verna got out of the car and hesitated a moment, wondering if she should go and look for Pauline, then decided to try the cottage first. Number Four was painted a bright lemon yellow, with orange window frames and a blue door. Pauline had carried out the color motif at the front window with yellow print curtains edged with several rows of bright orange rickrack. A battered tin water bucket planted with red and gold marigolds stood beside the door.

Verna rapped, listened intently, and rapped again, louder. There wasn’t so much as a footstep inside, at least one that she could hear. She rapped a third time, much more loudly. Still no response.

Verna frowned. If Raylene Riggs was inside, she was either asleep or sick. If she was just sleeping late, she would surely be glad to be awakened so she could get to work. If she was sick, she might need help. It was time to take some action, and Pauline would have a key. Verna turned away to go to the house, and as she did, she saw the corner of the yellow curtain twitch.

She hesitated, watching to see if the door would open after all. But it didn’t. The curtain twitched again, this time decidedly, and Verna frowned. Maybe Raylene was neither asleep nor sick. Maybe she had decided that she didn’t want to work at the diner after all and was getting ready to skip town. But Myra May was counting on Raylene and she needed to know one way or another. It wasn’t fair for Raylene to simply hide out and refuse to answer the door.

Verna turned and went in search of Pauline, whom she found gathering eggs in the small chicken coop directly behind the main house. She was a plump little lady with a face as round as a melon, dressed in a faded lavender print wash dress and muslin apron, her gray hair tidied up in a hair net. She wore a pair of Floyd’s old shoes. After Verna told her what was going on, she agreed, a little reluctantly, that they ought to check out the situation.

Trailed by two Barred Rock hens and a bedraggled red rooster, they went to the parlor-office, where Pauline took a ring of keys from a hook beside the front window.

“I hope there hasn’t been trouble,” she said, as they went down the front steps. “I had to call the sheriff a couple of days ago, y’know. There was some rowdies in Cabin Seven, liquored up and shootin’ off a gun and scarin’ the chickens—three of ’em, when they had only paid for two. Buddy Norris rode his motorcycle out from town and shushed ’em up good, though. And made ’em pay for the extra.” She set her mouth. “What I hate is when somebody comes in and pays for one in the cabin and then he starts unloadin’ the car and I look out there and see three or four sneakin’ in. Shame on ’em, is what I say. Cheatin’ an old woman!”

“Are you ever afraid, out here by yourself?” Verna asked. Most older Darlingians relied on their family for help when they got to the point where they couldn’t do for themselves, which was natural, because families stuck together. But Pauline didn’t have a family. She was vulnerable, especially at night, with strangers in the cottages and who-knows-what-kind-of-people drinking and shooting guns around the place.

And as times got harder, people got more dangerous, it seemed, and not just in the big cities, either. In Oklahoma, a couple of tourist camps and motor courts had been robbed and people shot to death. In rural Ohio and Kentucky, Pretty Boy Floyd and his gang were shooting things up. And in little Sherman, Texas, Machine Gun Kelly’s boys robbed the Central State Bank to the tune of $40,000; later, his girlfriend handed out spent shell casings as souvenirs. Even in Darling, folks were on edge, and more so in outlying areas, where the law could be miles away.

Pauline nodded, jingling the keys. “Well, yes, I’m afraid sometimes, especially with business so slow, the way it’s been and me here all alone.” She brightened. “But with the festival this weekend, I’m hoping for more business. And Miz Riggs, well, she’s booked herself for a full week, which is good, since it means less laundry. I even gave her a free night, just four dollars and fifty cents for the week instead of five and a quarter, seein’ as how she paid in advance. She seemed like a nice lady. I surely hope she’s not sick or been boozin’ it up all night so she can’t work this mornin’.” She shook her head sadly. “As I told the preacher man last Sunday, prohibition is all well and good but it don’t mean a blessed thing when a person is bound, bent, and determined to drink.”

Boozing. Verna frowned. She hadn’t considered that possibility. Myra May’s cook might be new to town, but anybody would be glad to tell her that she could get a bottle of good corn liquor from Archie Mann, at Mann’s Mercantile. If Raylene Riggs had got herself so soused after her first day on the job that she couldn’t get up and go to work, it didn’t bode well for her future at the diner. Myra May was not a teetotaler, Verna knew. But she wouldn’t put up with a cook who drank, especially with little Cupcake around.

By that time, they had reached the cottage. Pauline banged with her fist on the door and called out, “Miz Riggs! Miz Riggs, you got a friend here lookin’ for you.”

Nothing. Pauline banged and called again, and again.

Still nothing.

“Well, I don’t usually do this,” Pauline said with a sigh, “but I guess I need to find out if she’s sick or drinkin’.” She located the key and stuck it in the lock. “We’re comin’ in, Miz Riggs,” she called cheerily. “Hope you’re decent.”

“No!” a voice cried. “I’m not decent! Don’t come in. I—”

But it was too late. Pauline pushed the door open and went in, Verna on her heels. Pauline stopped a few paces inside the door and put her hands on her hips.

“Who the dickens are you?” she demanded brusquely. “You ain’t Miz Riggs. And she only paid for one!”