The story Bessie had told Liz and Verna on Sunday afternoon had awakened memories in her heart and a painful longing that she thought she had put away long ago, and for good. A longing for Harold? No, that wasn’t quite it, she told herself. Not a longing for him, for the man himself. Too much time had passed for that, and Bessie had already lived too much of her life on her own terms to wish it otherwise. No, what she felt was more of a longing to know why Harold had left and what had happened to him, and why he had never gotten in touch. She sighed. Maybe it was time to finally sit down and talk to Miss Hamer. Harold’s sister surely had to know more than she had let on.

At the thought of Miss Hamer, Bessie frowned. What exactly was going on at the house across the street?

This question had become even more interesting after Bessie and the Magnolia Ladies had heard Miss Hamer shrieking on Sunday evening, so loudly that she could be heard over the vocal acrobatics of the operatic soprano they were listening to. Miss Rogers enjoyed classical music, and it had been her turn to choose. So they were sitting out on the front porch after supper, with the Victrola volume turned up and the parlor window open so they could hear it. Rosa Ponselle, the Metropolitan’s soprano sensation, was singing one of her famous arias from the opera Norma when the shouting began.

By itself, this was not unusual, for Miss Hamer shrieked whenever she felt like it—and apparently for the fun of it—as often as once or twice a week. Miss Rogers said she thought it was entertaining, because the yelling seemed to go with Miss Ponselle’s music. Mrs. Sedalius supposed that Miss Hamer might be singing along (although it didn’t sound all that melodic) and maybe they should turn down the volume, which they did. But still, as the shrieking went on and on and got so loud that it could be heard over Rosa Ponselle, Bessie wondered. What was going on behind that closed front door, those curtained windows?

She wondered about Miss Jamison, too. If Miss Hamer’s niece was also Lorelei LaMotte, the dancer, why had she come to Darling? There was no place around here to perform—and certainly not in the kind of costume she was wearing in the photo on Verna’s playbill. The Dance Barn occasionally featured burlesque, but even there, she couldn’t dance half-naked. She’d have to wear a lot more clothes.

And—the essential question, now that Bessie had had a chance to think about it—was this woman really Miss Hamer’s niece? If she was, could she prove it? If she wasn’t, how would they know?