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“DID EVERYONE LEARN ‘My Little Red Carnation’?” Fleurette called.

“She’s not still out singing that sappy old thing, is she?” Tizzy groaned in that languid way she had. Her tent-mates followed suit, rolling their eyes and grumbling about the stilted, old-fashioned songs.

“Of course she is, and they beg her to sing it if she leaves it out,” Fleurette said. “It’s one of her most popular songs.”

May Ward’s concert was by then only a week away. An upright piano had been delivered for the occasion, and Clarence had been pressed into service. Fleurette had selected her chorus and begun a series of rehearsals in the mess hall after supper. Beulah refused to take part in the singing and dancing, but she attended rehearsals anyway, and helped with the costumes and whatever other small favors Fleurette asked of her. She wanted the concert to go off well, for Fleurette’s sake, but she had to admit that Tizzy was right: the songs were tired and held little appeal for the young women at camp.

The song was written for a man and a woman, but when May Ward performed it, one of the girls stepped up and sang the man’s part. Fleurette took that role. The others were supposed to harmonize behind her.

My little red carnation,

Sweetest in all creation,

Why all this meditation?

I love you fond and true;

I’m filled with desperation,

Caused by your hesitation,

My little red carnation,

I love no one but you.

Tizzy couldn’t bear the song and led a full revolt. She sang in a squeaky, grotesque voice, aping Fleurette’s dance steps behind her, and the others followed suit. Soon their voices dissolved into laughter.

“Oh, that’s enough of little red carnations,” Tizzy called, jumping down from the stage. “Let’s have a look at these costumes.”

May Ward liked her chorus in frilly white dresses reminiscent of the Dresden dolls after which her act was named. Fleurette had done her best to put something together with whatever material she had on hand. Even a tablecloth was pressed into service. The result was a set of aprons that could go over the shirtwaists and skirts the girls wore every day.

They were neatly hung from a rope that ran alongside the stage. Tizzy flung herself at them and tossed them to the other girls in the chorus.

It enraged Beulah to see Tizzy behave so spitefully. Fleurette was too stunned, at first, to react, but Beulah had been saving up plenty of sharp words for Tizzy and didn’t hesitate to deploy them.

“Get your hands off of her costumes,” Beulah said, grabbing the aprons away from Tizzy. “If you’re too high-and-mighty to sing the song, you won’t be wearing one anyway.”

Although Tizzy was surrounded by girls shrieking and laughing, she remained perfectly still herself in the face of Beulah’s criticism. Like ice, this one.

“Let’s see what you look like in a costume, Roxanna,” Tizzy said. Beulah didn’t like the way she leaned on that made-up name. “How about you try on the bonnet, see if you like it?”

Fleurette had made little white bonnets out of handkerchiefs to go with every frilly apron. They were tucked inside the pockets. Tizzy pulled one out and slammed it down on Beulah’s head. This brought more giggles and whistles from those cowardly girls who followed Tizzy everywhere.

“Oh, that’s pretty!” shouted Liddy.

“All you need now is a red carnation!” called Ellie.

But Tizzy, once again, was an island of calm among them. “You remind me of somebody in that bonnet,” she said. “Who is it?”

There was a mirror propped up across from the stage so the girls could watch themselves dance. Beulah glanced over at it and saw the resemblance at once.

It was the same kind of bonnet she wore in that picture that all the newspapers ran.

There she was again, six years older but not so terribly changed from before: Beulah Binford, the Other Woman in the Richmond Murder Case.