The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

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.”
    “ ‘Functional hysterical disturbances.’ ” Miss LaMotte laughed bitterly. “That’s rich.” She opened her red handbag. “Well, if you say it’ll work, I’ll take it.”
    “Liquid or pills?”
    She considered. “Liquid. Better give me two bottles. No, make it three. Just in case.” Three bottles? In case of what, Verna wondered. Miss LaMotte added, grudgingly, “It might be a while before Dr. Roberts can see her.”
    “That will be three dollars,” Mr. Lima said, and took the money she handed him. “I hope it helps—at least, until the doctor is available.”
    “I do, too,” she said grimly. “This situation is driving me abso-lute-ly bonkers.” The red bow on her hat jiggled.
    Mr. Lima gave her back two dollar bills and put the bottles into a paper bag. Unbending a little, he said, “You’re new in town, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. I’m Miss Hamer’s niece. Nona Jean Jamison. I’m staying with her—helping out. She’s ill, you know.”
    “I know that she has been under the weather for some time, yes.” He gave her a thin smile. “Well, then, welcome to Darling, Miss Jamison. Your aunt has been a customer of ours for a good many years.”
    Miss LaMotte made a huffing sound. “Then I would’ve thought you could’ve helped me out with that prescription.”
    Mr. Lima looked humble. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can get for you this afternoon?”
    “No, thank you,” Miss LaMotte said, lifting her chin. She took the bag and turned to go.
    By this time, Verna had decided on a course of action and a way to introduce herself. She followed the lady out of the store and caught up with her just as she turned onto Rosemont.
    “Miss LaMotte,” she said, “I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Mr. Lima were talking about. I’ve had some experience with insomnia, and I would like to recommend warm milk and crackers.” She smiled cordially. “It may sound simple, but it works for me every time.”
    Miss LaMotte had turned and was regarding her with some disdain. Verna was suddenly conscious that she was wearing her gardening clothes—a plaid cotton blouse and a green twill skirt, neither of them clean or pressed.
    “You are speaking to me?” Miss LaMotte asked, frowning.
    “Well, yes,” Verna said, thinking that this was obvious. She held out her hand. “My name is Verna Tidwell. I had the privilege of seeing you perform ten years ago, at the New Amsterdam Theater, in New York City. You were swell. ”
    At that moment, Mr. Bailey