Mr. Lima examined the paper. Frowning, he handed it back to Miss LaMotte. “I am sorry, madam,” he said, “but I can’t fill this prescription.”

“And why not?” Miss LaMotte demanded. She jabbed her finger at the paper. “It’s got the doctor’s signature on it. Right there. Can’t you see?” She spoke fast, in a high, clipped voice. She seemed to have lost any Alabama accent she might have once had. She sounded, Verna thought, like a Yankee. An impatient Yankee.

Verna stepped past the toothpaste, moving a little closer, not wanting to miss anything. She bent over, pretending to read the label of a bottle of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. She couldn’t see Miss LaMotte’s face, but she could see the line of her jaw, which was a bit saggy. Still, the platinum blonde hair looked pretty much as it had ten years ago, and while the lady was wearing far more clothing than she had worn on Mr. Ziegfeld’s stage, the line of her generous bust was very obviously the same. Verna turned and caught Benny staring at Miss LaMotte’s figure. He colored, dropped his head, and went back to his soapsuds.

Mr. Lima cleared his throat. “I can’t fill it, madam, because it’s over a year old. I suggest that you visit Dr. Roberts. Show him this and tell him why you need it. I’m sure he’ll be able to—”

“But Dr. Roberts is out of town!” Miss LaMotte shrilled. “He won’t be back until Tuesday or Wednesday.” She pushed the paper back across the counter. “I need this filled today. Right now! It’s vitally important. It’s a matter of life and death!”

Life and death? Verna pulled in her breath. Really, if Miss LaMotte’s health was in danger, Mr. Lima ought to sell her enough of whatever it was to tide her over until she could get in to see Doc Roberts. Or maybe she needed the medicine for Miss Hamer. Either way—

“My dear lady,” Mr. Lima said. “Veronal is a dangerous barbiturate. I cannot and will not fill a prescription for it unless the patient—I assume that is yourself—is under the care of a doctor. Preferably a Darling doctor.” He looked down at the prescription. “Not a doctor in Illinois.”

Veronal. Verna let her breath out. Sleeping pills. So it wasn’t a matter of life and death, after all—although insomnia wasn’t pleasant. Verna knew, because she sometimes suffered from it herself. Her favorite remedy was a glass of warm milk and a handful of soda crackers. The combination usually put her to sleep.

“It’s not for me.” Miss LaMotte tapped her foot impatiently. “But if you won’t fill it, you won’t. What can I buy instead? Something to make her sleep.”

“It’s for an adult?” Mr. Lima asked.

Miss LaMotte gave a short laugh. “When she’s not acting like a spoiled child. But yes, she’s an adult. What can I buy that will get her a good night’s sleep?”

“Well, let’s see.” Mr. Lima turned, scanned the shelves behind him, and reached for a bottle. “I can suggest Dr. Miles’ Nervine. It comes in either pill form or liquid. We sell a great deal of it here, particularly to the ladies.” He held up the bottle and read the label aloud. “For sleeplessness, nervousness, irritability, nervous headache, and functional hysterical disturbances.”