“A vaudeville act?” she exclaimed incredulously. “You’re sure?” She paused, pursing her lips and thinking about her own first reaction to Miss Hamer’s niece. “Although Nona Jean does rather look like . . .” She laughed a little. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. She certainly has the figure for it. Still—”

“Go on, Verna,” Liz urged. “Show her what you showed me earlier this afternoon, before the meeting.”

Verna’s black leather handbag was on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and pulled out a creased piece of paper. “Lorelei LaMotte signed this playbill for me, Bessie, backstage at the New Amsterdam Theater after her act. That’s her signature.”

“My gracious.” Bessie took the playbill and studied the picture for a moment, feeling her mouth drop open. Miss Hamer’s niece, revealing all that bare skin? What would the old lady do if she saw this? She took a breath. “Well, I must say it does look like her, platinum hair and all—although she’s certainly not showing so much of herself these days.”

“It’s her,” Verna said flatly, “although for some reason or another, she doesn’t want to admit it.”

Bessie took one last look—really, those breasts! And all that bare skin!—and handed the playbill back. “Well, Darling is a quiet little place. I don’t suppose she wants people here in town—most especially her aunt—to know what she’s been up to since she left Monroeville.” She looked from Verna to Liz, trying to calculate just how much she should say. “And I don’t doubt that she is Miss Hamer’s niece, if that’s what you’re wondering. Miss Hamer really did ask her to come, although not very willingly, I have to say. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t have done it if DessaRae’s back hadn’t gone bad. And if Doc Roberts hadn’t insisted.”

“That’s actually what we wanted to ask you about,” Liz said. “Since you know Miss Hamer so well, we thought you might be able to fill in the details. Forgive us for being nosy,” she added. “Miss Jamison is . . . well, an unusual person. Here in Darling, anyway.”

Bessie couldn’t help herself. She gave a sarcastic chuckle. “What makes you think I know Miss Hamer? To tell God’s honest truth, often as I’ve talked to that old lady, I don’t really know her. Nobody does. She’s a mystery,” she added darkly. “And not a very pleasant one, in my considered opinion.”

“But we thought you were helping her,” Liz said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “That you were a friend.”