As Lizzy pulled out a chair to sit down, Verna leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “I talked to Miss LaMotte after you went home,” she said, without preamble. “I swear, Liz. Something about this situation is really fishy. She denies being who she is.”

Lizzy blinked. “You mean, she isn’t Nona Jean—”

“No, no, no, the other way around. She denies being Lorelei LaMotte. She swore up and down that she’d never been on Broadway, doesn’t know Mr. Ziegfeld, and has never been a dancer.”

“When did you talk to her?” Lizzy pulled off her blue gloves and folded them into her lap. “Where?”

“This afternoon, just outside the drugstore. She was trying to get a prescription for Veronal filled but Mr. Lima wouldn’t do it because the prescription was out of date. She was really upset—said it was a matter of life and death. He sold her some Dr. Miles instead.”

“That old snake oil medicine.” Lizzy rolled her eyes. “My mother takes it. But how did you happen to be at the drugstore, Verna? The last time I saw you, you were headed for home.”

“Well, I—That is, I—” Verna stopped, embarrassed. “To tell the truth, I followed her.”

“Followed who?” Myra May asked, appearing at the table with a loaded tray. She had taken off her white bibbed apron and was wearing her usual beige linen trousers and a red button-front rayon short-sleeved blouse, with a loose paisley scarf. She began setting plates on the table. “No, no, hold on a minute. Whatever you’re telling, wait until I get back with the iced tea. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Which meant that Verna had to start all over again when Myra May came back with the pitcher, and Lizzy had to explain who Nona Jean Jamison was before she became Lorelei LaMotte. The story was a little confusing, but finally Myra May had it clear.

“So this woman is incognito,” she said, buttering a piece of hot corn bread. “I guess that means she doesn’t want anybody in town to know that she was in vaudeville.”

“But why?” Verna asked, waving her fork. “I mean, for heaven’s sake, Myra May. She’s famous! Why wouldn’t she want anybody to know?”

“Maybe she’s trying to get away from the newspaper reporters and all that attention,” Myra May replied. “Maybe she just wants some peace and quiet. People do, you know. And it probably isn’t all that easy to earn a living as a performer these days. Since Prohibition, I mean. And since the Crash. People don’t have as much money as they used to.”

“Peace and quiet?” Verna laughed shortly. “If that’s what she wants, she’s going to have to hang that red dress in her closet and wash that makeup off her face. Putting a bag over her head wouldn’t hurt, either. Bailey Beauchamp was about to jump right out of that fancy Cadillac of his and gobble her up right there in the middle of the street, like she was a piece of candy.”