The old black woman hurried in. “Best you go now, Miz Bloodworth.” She bent over and put her arms around the shaking woman. “There, there, now, honey,” she crooned, rocking her. “I’ll git you some o’ dat ol’ Miles Nervine Miss Nona Jean bought for you. It’ll be all right. It’ll be jes’ fine.”

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 Lays Down the Law

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.