The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies Read Online Free PDF

May, she had written a feature story about a young woman who had been shot in a green Pontiac roadster that belonged to a dentist and the car pushed into Pine Mill Creek. The story was based on her own investigation into the life and death of Eva Louise Scott, the girl in the car, and everybody told her what a great piece of reporting it was. It was a sad story, too, for Bunny—that was the girl’s nickname—had been beautiful and gay and young. And even though she was a bit reckless and heedless and wanted jewelry and other pretty things more than was probably good for her, Bunny hadn’t deserved to die, which of course was the main point of Lizzy’s article.
    After that successful debut as a feature writer, Mr. Dickens had told her that if she came up with another interesting story idea, he’d be glad to consider it. Lizzy had thought of several, but none seemed to be exciting enough. The summer had passed with its customary sedateness, with nothing more explosive than the fireworks blowing up at the Elks’ Club Fourth of July picnic or more tragic than the swimming hole drying up in the long August drought or more unexpected than the out-of-the-blue emergency landing of a Cessna Model A airplane on the grassy airstrip near the county fairgrounds—none of which put a match to Lizzy’s creative fire.
    But this was different, Lizzy thought excitedly. A story about Lorelei LaMotte, famous Broadway performer, would give her a chance to do some serious writing about a woman who surely had a fascinating personal history of success in a difficult profession, with a few intrigues and adventures here and there. It would definitely be a literary challenge, which was just what she had been looking for.
    For years Lizzy had read everything—good, bad, and indifferent—that she could get her hands on. She kept a notebook, writing little stories about people she knew and places that captured her attention and events that took place here in town. And even though nothing very big or exciting ever happened in Darling, there were always lots of little things going on, surprising crises that poked up unexpectedly out of the serene surface of the day like . . . well, like those lilies, those naked ladies shooting suddenly up out of the grass when you had absolutely no idea they were there and dazzling you with their astonishing blooms. They weren’t the kinds of stories you’d read in the newspaper, which was usually full of facts and figures, but Lizzy enjoyed writing them.
    But while Lizzy was a small-town girl who knew she could comfortably write about Miss LaMotte’s small-town beginnings, she couldn’t even begin to imagine the life of a vaudeville performer. She would have to do a huge amount of research—talk to Miss LaMotte at length and maybe Miss Lake, and read entertainment magazines like Variety and Billboard —before she could even think of writing anything. She frowned. But if she couldn’t imagine Miss LaMotte’s life, maybe she’d never be able to write about it, no matter how much research she did. It’s hard to write about something that is entirely foreign to you.
    Occupied with these thoughts, Lizzy had crossed Dauphin and Franklin and reached her block of Jefferson Davis. She was home almost before she knew it, walking up the steps to the front porch, putting her key into the lock and turning it, with the special happiness that she felt every time she stepped through the green-painted front door and into the tiny front hall, which was just big enough for a single shelf, an oval wall-hung mirror, and a row of coat hooks, where she now hung her floppy-brimmed hat.
    Home. The word had taken on a new and very special meaning a couple of years before. Until then, Lizzy had lived her whole life with her mother. Her father had died when she was a baby, leaving his widow a nice little cache of money, safely and prudently invested. It wasn’t enough to allow her mother to live an extravagant life, but it was