SIXTEEN

“Hearts Full of Passion . . .”

Verna looked over Pauline DuBerry’s shoulder. The motor court cottage was dim, since the cotton curtain was drawn across the only window. But enough daylight filtered into the small, low-ceilinged room to see that the walls were painted a dirty gray and the floor was covered with green linoleum. The furnishings were spartan: a pine chest of drawers with a wall mirror over it, a wooden straight chair, and two narrow single beds with a lamp table and a lamp between them. Both beds were unmade, and a dark-haired, good-looking woman was sitting on one of them, wearing a peach-colored, lace-trimmed nightgown with a raggedly torn hem. Her hair was mussed from sleep and her left eye was purpled and puffy. She was smoking a small cigar.

“I said, ‘I’m not decent,’” the woman said in a testy voice. “I’m not dressed for company.”

“And I’m askin’, who the dickens are you?” Pauline DuBerry repeated sternly, hands on hips. “Miz Riggs paid for one. If there’s goin’ to be two of you sleepin’ in this cottage, she’s goin’ to have to pay for two. Means more laundry, you know. Bed sheets and towels gotta be washed.”

“Don’t nag, I’ll pay,” the woman said, reaching for her leather handbag. “And Raylene didn’t invite me, so don’t be mad at her. I knocked on her door in the middle of the night, looking for a place to stay, and she was sweet enough to let me in. How much do I owe you?” She put her cigar in the ashtray and took out her wallet. “And while we’re at it, could I book a cottage for myself? I’d like it for tonight and Saturday night.”

“Oh, well,” Pauline said, mollified. “If you’re bookin’ for you, we’ll just forget last night. A dollar fifty. Seventy-five cents a night for two nights.”

“Here’s two dollars,” the woman said, and handed over the bills. “Keep the change.”

“Why, thank you.” Pauline smiled as she tucked the money into her apron pocket. “Stop by the office and get a key. I’ll put you in Number Five. The one with the red door.” She opened the door, then turned back. “If you want something for that shiner, I can brew up some sage tea and make you a compress. That’s what my mama did for us kids when we was little. Works, too.”

“Thanks,” the woman said, and put her handbag on the floor beside her. “Maybe later. I have some things to do this morning.”

“Later will be too late,” Pauline cautioned. “Black eyes—you gotta get to ’em quick, or they’ll be around for a while.”

“I’ll risk it,” the woman said.

Pauline shrugged and left but Verna stayed behind, now very puzzled. “Miss Lily Dare?” she asked tentatively. The cigar, the black eye, the sheer peach negligee—it had to be her, although as far as she knew, Miss Dare was either still asleep in Mildred Kilgore’s guest bedroom or sitting at Mildred’s breakfast table. So what was she doing here?

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the woman said coolly. She picked up her cigar, saw that it had gone out, and laid it back in the ashtray. “Yeah, I’m Lily Dare. How’d you know? And just who the devil are you?”

“Er, ah . . .” Verna was almost never at a loss for words, but she was now. She didn’t want to confess that she had been playing amateur detective the night before and had intentionally eavesdropped on the unpleasant conversations in Miss Dare’s room. She doubted that Agatha Christie had ever let Miss Marple get cornered in such a sticky wicket.

“I . . . I was at the movie last night and somebody pointed you out,” she lied. “Hell’s Angels. That was a really good flick—loved that air combat. I heard you were staying at the Kilgores’, so I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“I was staying at the Kilgores’,” Miss Dare said. “In fact, I was invited to spend the weekend. But I changed my mind. I’m staying here.” She gave Verna a pointed look. “Just what did you say your name was?”

Verna stared at the woman, thinking that she had to have left the Kilgores’ after Liz talked to her—and how did she get all the way out to the Marigold Motor Court in the middle of the night? It must be at least a mile. Had she walked? In that see-through negligee she was wearing?

“Your name?” Miss Dare asked again.

“Oh, sorry,” Verna replied hastily. “I’m Verna Tidwell. Actually, I came here looking for Raylene Riggs. She didn’t show up at work this morning, and Miss Mosswell, her boss at the diner, is worried about her.”

Miss Dare got up and went to the mirror over the dresser, touching her eye tenderly. “Raylene is on her way to work. We were up kind of late talking and we both overslept. But she got a lift into town. She should be at work by now.” She leaned toward the mirror, peering at her reflection. “Does this eye look very bad to you?”

“Not too bad,” Verna said diplomatically. She paused. “How did it happen?”

“I walked into a door,” Miss Dare said in a bored voice.

Oh, right, Verna thought sarcastically. More like Mildred’s fist.

Miss Dare opened her handbag and took out a little jar, deftly applying something to her face. She regarded herself in the mirror, added a few touchups, then turned around. “There. Does that look better?”

“Oh, much,” Verna said, although the black eye was still quite noticeable. She was dying to ask Miss Dare how in the world she got here, to the motor court, and why. But she couldn’t think of a way to do it.

“Good.” Miss Dare took a comb out of her bag and began to work on her hair. “I’ve got a party to go to tonight, and I don’t want to look like I’ve been trading punches with the local heavyweight. Say, Verna, I need to get out to the airstrip this morning. Does this burg have a taxi?”

“Not really,” Verna said, suppressing a smile. “That is, it does . . . I mean, we do. But Mr. Clinton mostly goes between Darling and Monroeville, and the airstrip is out of his way.” She added, deferentially, “I could drive you out to the airstrip, Miss Dare. I have my car here.”

“Oh, would you, dear?” Miss Dare asked warmly. “Please call me Lily.” She picked up a small canvas bag. “I’ll get dressed—it’ll just take a jiffy—and then go pick up my key at the office. I’m glad I came,” she added confidentially, as she headed for the bathroom. “This place may not be fancy, but it’s clean and private. And I can lock the door and keep folks from barging in on me.”

I can lock the door. Verna flinched, remembering her own role in the invasion of Lily Dare’s privacy. Did she leave because she knew that people could overhear every word that was said in her room? Or was there some other reason? If so, could she get Lily to tell her what it was?

Maybe, maybe not. But Verna vowed to give it her best shot.

It was over an hour later when Verna pulled her LaSalle into a parking place in front of the courthouse, next to Judge McHenry’s old gray Buick. The judge’s bluetick coonhound, Buck, was sitting erect behind the steering wheel. He barked cheerfully at Verna when he recognized her—Buck was a frequent visitor to the courthouse and remembered Verna, who always scratched his ears.

She knew she ought to run up to the office and check on Melba Jean and Ruthie. But she had something else on her mind, so she went straight across the street to the diner, where she found Myra May wrapping silverware in paper napkins for the noon rush. It looked as if peace and sanity had finally been restored. The morning crowd was gone, the tables were empty, and Rudy Vallee was crooning (on the Philco) “As Time Goes By,” one of Verna’s favorite songs. “Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate . . .” Somehow, it seemed apropos to what she had just heard from Lily Dare.

“Did Raylene make it to work okay?” Verna asked. “She had already left by the time I got out to the Marigold. Her roommate told me she got a lift into town.”

“Yes, she got here,” Myra May said, “and we were plenty relieved. She’s back there in the kitchen right now, working on the food for the noon crowd. After lunch, we’re going out to the Kilgores’ and get started on the party stuff.” She picked up the coffeepot. “Coffee? You got out of here earlier without a full cup. We owe you.”

“Just what I need,” Verna said gratefully, sliding onto a counter stool.

Myra May filled a mug and pushed it across the counter. “Raylene’s got a roommate?” she asked with a curious, sidelong look. “She didn’t mention it to me.”

“It was a one-night thing,” Verna said, and then, when both of Myra May’s eyebrows went up, added, “A woman she’s known for several years. An old friend.”

Myra May’s eyebrows went back down. “Ah,” she said.

Verna added sugar to her coffee and stirred. “Myra May, would it be okay if I had a talk with Raylene? Something . . . well, puzzling has come up. Disturbing, actually. I think she may be able to shed some light.”

“She’s pretty busy right now,” Myra May said doubtfully. “Could you maybe do it after the party?”

“That could be too late,” Verna said. “Or maybe not. The thing is, I just don’t know. Maybe it can wait, or maybe not. It all depends on—”

The diner door popped open and Liz rushed in. “Verna!” she cried excitedly. “I went up to your office and Melba Jean told me you were out this morning. And then I saw your car and I thought you might be here. I’m so glad I found you!” She gulped a breath. “You will never guess what’s happened!”

“Oh, I think I can,” Verna said. “Lily Dare disappeared from her room sometime after you left her last night. You don’t know where she is and everybody’s looking all over for her. You want me to help.”

Liz stared at her, uncomprehending. “Yes, but how did you know? How could you know, Verna? You left the Kilgores’ before Mildred and Angel Flame and I discovered that she was gone!”

“I’m psychic,” Verna said with a smug chuckle. She sipped her coffee.

“Ha!” Myra May hooted. “Verna, you are the most un-psychic person I know.” She leaned her elbows on the counter and turned serious. “Raylene Riggs, on the other hand, is really psychic. She knows what people want to eat, she knows things that are going to happen, she even knows—”

“Excuse me, Myra May,” Liz said impatiently. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but this is important.” She sat down on a counter stool beside Verna. “Verna, you are not psychic, and if you were, you would never in the world admit to it. Now you tell me. How did you know Miss Dare has disappeared?”

Verna picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “Because I found her,” she said calmly.

“You found her?” Liz leaned forward, her eyes widening. “Is she okay? Where is she? How did she get there? Why did she—”

Verna held up her hand, damming the flow of Liz’s words. “Yes, she’s okay. Right now, she’s out at the airstrip. I drove her out there just a little while ago. As to why, that’s a long story.” She put her cup down. “Oh, by the way, Liz. I stopped at the fairgrounds on my way back to town. You’ll be glad to know that the carnival got in last night. They’re setting up this morning. The rides look as if they’re in pretty good repair and the sideshows actually look decent for a change. The Masons are putting up the tents for the exhibits. I think we’re in pretty good shape for the festival weekend.” She paused. “As for the air show, well, that’s something else. We need to talk about that.”

“But I want to talk about Miss Dare!” Liz exclaimed. “I want to know why she—”

Myra May picked up the coffeepot again. “Liz, you sound like you could use a cup of coffee, on the house. How about it?”

“Yes, thanks. But I want—” Liz broke off. “Where, Verna?” she asked urgently. “Where did you find her?”

But before Verna could answer her question, there was another interruption.

“Hi,” a voice said, and a woman came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She was Myra May’s height, and her auburn hair, gray-streaked, was cut short and curled around her ears. She was wearing a white cook’s apron over a red print dress.

“Somebody’s wanting to talk to me?” she asked in her soft Southern voice. To Myra May, she added, “I just finished putting three pecan pies and two pans of meat loaf in the oven. The potatoes and eggs are cooked for potato salad, so all we have to do is chop the celery, onions, and pickles and put it together.” She hung up the towel. “I’m ready to take a little break.”

“There,” Myra May said with satisfaction, and poured Liz’s coffee. “You see? Violet and I have decided that Raylene is positively psychic. Nobody told her that you two were out here, wanting to talk to her. She just knew. Same way she knew that Donna Sue was dreaming of her mother’s grits and sausage casserole and that J.D. wanted some sweet potato meringue pie. It’s a gift she has.”

“Well, now that she’s here and ready to take a break,” Verna said, “is it okay if we talk to her?”

Myra May rolled her eyes. “Who am I to say no?” She muttered an answer to her own question. “Just the boss, that’s all.” She picked up a mug and poured coffee for Raylene. “Sure. Go ahead and take a break. And take those leftover doughnuts with you. But maybe you’d better go over to that back table, in case somebody comes in.” She turned away. “You want me, I’m in the kitchen.”

Raylene put three doughnuts on a plate and led them, coffee mugs in hand, to the back table. They took seats under the Ferguson Tractor Company calendar from the feed store. As they sat down, Verna introduced herself to Raylene.

“I came in here for breakfast this morning,” she went on. “I happened to have my car, so when Myra May said you were late for work, I volunteered to drive out to the motor court and check on you. I didn’t get an answer when I knocked on the door of your cottage, but I saw the curtain twitch so I knew someone was inside. I got Pauline DuBerry to bring the key and—”

“And you found Lily.” Raylene smiled. “You must have been surprised. Did you wake her? We stayed up and talked pretty late. She said she was going to sleep late this morning.”

“Lily? Lily Dare?” Liz exclaimed excitedly, and the questions began to spill out. “She’s at the Marigold? So that’s where she went! But why? And how did she get there? The motor court is a good mile from the Kilgores’. She’s never been to Darling, and it was dark. How come she didn’t get lost?”

“She walked,” Raylene replied. “Walking a mile isn’t any big challenge for Lily. She’s always liked to stay in shape—says she couldn’t fly if she didn’t have plenty of physical stamina. And when she’s up in the air, she often has to find her way by flying along roads and railroads in marginal conditions, so she’s always mentally storing away information. She knew where the motor court was because she noticed it when Mr. Dickens drove her into town. And I happened to mention it to her when she was here for lunch yesterday. It wasn’t hard for her to figure out how to get there.”

As Raylene talked, Verna thought that there was something familiar about the strong set of her jaw—or maybe it was her penetrating gaze, the way she held your eyes and didn’t let you look away. Had she met this woman somewhere before? But the impression was fleeting, and the question was gone almost as soon as it occurred to her.

“Oh, and the moon was out last night, you know,” Raylene added, picking up a doughnut. “Lily said it was almost as bright as day.”

“I take it that she didn’t walk that mile in her negligee, barefoot,” Verna remarked dryly. “Especially with the moon as bright as it was.” She reached into her handbag and took out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Raylene.

Raylene shook her head. “No, thanks. No, Lily was fully dressed—pants, shirt, the clothes she wears when she’s working around the airplanes. She brought her nightie in her bag.” She turned to Liz. “You’ll remember that I saw you and Lily here yesterday, after lunch, Liz. That’s when I invited her to drop in and see me at the motor court while she was here in Darling.”

“Yes, but in the middle of the night?” Liz asked, taking a doughnut.

Raylene laughed. “It was a bit of a surprise when she knocked on the door and woke me up, I’ll admit. But Lily has always been . . . well, impulsive.” She tilted her head to one side. “And unpredictable. She’s like a kid that way. There’s no daylight between her idea and her doing. She gets herself in trouble sometimes, not thinking things through.” She said the last sentence regretfully and in a lower voice, almost as if she were talking to herself. “I’m not being critical,” she added, biting into her doughnut. “That’s just Lily. It’s the way she is.”

“But I still don’t understand why she felt she had to leave the Kilgores’,” Liz protested, looking from one of them to the other. “Especially the way she did it.”

“I can answer part of that.” Verna flicked a match to her cigarette. “We talked when we were driving out to the airfield. She told me she didn’t want to face Roger and Mildred across the breakfast table. She knew they would all three have matching black eyes and it would be just too embarrassing. And she was very upset at the idea that somebody—I’m afraid she was talking about you, Liz—was in the next room. She’s going to be staying at the motor court, where she can have some privacy.”

“You were there, too,” Liz said accusingly. “You were listening right along with me.”

“I know.” Verna sighed, feeling guilty. “But she didn’t know about me. I was trying to get her to talk to me and I didn’t think she’d want to if I told her that part of it. So I let you take the blame. Sorry about that.”

“Thanks,” Liz muttered dryly, and sipped her coffee.

Raylene sat forward on the edge of her chair. “How much of the rest of it did Lily tell you, Verna? Did she say anything about her . . . suspicions?”

“Well, some,” Verna said. “But I have no way of knowing if she told me everything.” She tapped her cigarette into the Darling Savings and Trust Bank ashtray on the table. “And of course, I can’t guarantee that what she was telling me was the truth.” She glanced at Raylene. “That’s what I hoped you could help with. Figuring out how much of what she says is true.”

“Yeah.” Raylene finished her doughnut, licked powdered sugar off her fingers, and leaned back in her chair. “With Lily, it’s hard to sort the truth from . . . well, the stories. She loves drama. She loves anything exciting—which is why she loves flying. She invents. And sometimes she gets carried away with her invention, to the point where she’s not sure about the difference between it and the truth.”

“Well, I for one would sure like to know why she invented an abduction,” Liz said testily. “She could have sneaked down the stairs and gone out the front door without overturning the furniture and snagging her nightgown on the sill and throwing her slipper out the second-story window, all of which made us think that somebody carried her off.” She crossed her arms on the table and looked at Verna. “Did she tell you about that?”

Verna nodded. “I’m not sure she was thinking straight when she was doing all that. She said that by the time she got to the motor court, she wished she’d just walked out and left a note. But she was scared.”

“Scared?” Liz asked, frowning. “Scared of what?”

“Scared of who is more like it,” Verna replied. She turned to Raylene, who was listening intently. “But you probably know more about that than either of us, Raylene. That was really why she came to your place, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Raylene acknowledged. “She came to me because the more she thought about it, the more afraid she got. She thought she needed a friend. Somebody she could talk to—and trust. And she didn’t trust anybody in the Kilgores’ house.” She looked at Verna with that penetrating gaze. “She told you that?”

“Some of it,” Verna said slowly. “It was the anonymous letters and the photograph that scared her. And Mildred’s charge that she—Lily, I mean—was blackmailing Roger. Finding out about that stuff really frightened her. It made her feel vulnerable.”

Raylene looked from Verna to Liz. “So both of you know about the letters and the telegrams?”

“Yes,” Liz said. She picked up her coffee cup. “Mildred told me a couple of days ago—in fact, she showed me the second letter and the incriminating photograph. And I told Verna.”

“And we both overheard Mildred accusing Miss Dare of sending the telegrams,” Verna said. “Of blackmail.”

“Extortion would be a better way to describe it,” Liz added, sipping coffee.

“Extortion, yes,” Raylene said, shaking her head. “An ugly word. She swears she had nothing to do with that and hates it that Roger Kilgore thought those telegrams came from her—that she was asking for money. She’s sorry she let herself get into a relationship with him and she says she’s going to break it off permanently. But the letters and those telegrams—together with the sabotage—have convinced her that somebody’s out to get her.”

Verna nodded. They were getting to the heart of it now. “But if you ask me,” she said, “it was when she figured out who sent those letters and the telegram and connected it to the sabotage of her airplane—that was when she got scared.” She looked at Raylene. “Did she tell you who she suspects?”

“Yes,” Raylene said slowly. “But I . . .” She stopped.

“Well, who?” Liz demanded eagerly. “Come on, Verna, who?”

“Rex Hart,” Verna replied.

“Rex Hart?” Liz frowned. “But Charlie Dickens said that he couldn’t have been involved. He was at the airstrip all night.” Her frown deepened. “No, wait. That’s not right. Charlie was talking about the abduction, not the letters or the telegrams. Or the sabotage.”

Verna looked at Raylene. When she didn’t say anything, she said, “Lily has decided that it’s Rex Hart who sent the letters. He was in New Orleans when the photograph was taken. He wasn’t with them at the café—Lily and Roger, that is—but she knew that he was nearby. She believes that he took the photo and wrote the letters to Mildred. And sent the telegrams to Roger.”

“Why?” Liz asked, puzzled. “I mean, why did he do it? What was his motivation?”

“She thinks it’s because he’s jealous,” Verna replied. “Because he’s in love with her himself. He figured he could convince Roger that the relationship with Lily was too costly—and too dangerous—to pursue. That it could wreck his marriage, and maybe his business. She says Hart wrote the letters to Roger’s wife so she would pressure Roger to break it off.”

“It makes sense, I guess,” Liz said slowly. “But what about the sabotage? Is that his work, too?”

“That’s what Lily says.” Verna frowned. “I could understand the letters and telegrams, but that’s where I lose it. I mean, if Rex Hart loves Lily enough to be jealous of her other relationships, why would he sabotage her aircraft? If he loves her, he wouldn’t try to kill her, would he? And there’s the damage to the show, in which he has a financial investment.” She turned to Raylene. “That was what I wanted to ask you, Raylene. Lily said that you and she met in Tampa several years ago, when your husband was taking flying lessons from Rex Hart. You know both Lily and Hart. Is she right about him?”

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.