No staff reporter or photographer had covered the event for any local newspaper. All local media attention had gone to Ken Knowland's air show that only got tepid reviews.
But a freelance reporter who had been in the stands at Barbara's air show phoned in the story to the Bakersfield Bugle. It got picked up by newspapers in Los Angeles and San Diego and from there made it onto the Associated Press wire service.
Aviation fans all across America who searched the papers daily for news about flying were excited to read about "two young women in Mohave, California, who out-barnstormed some of the West Coast's greatest male daredevils of the air."
As frequently happened when men or women fliers set new racing records or performed unusual air stunts, Barbara Markey and Leila Jackson were vaulted overnight into a select Valhalla of pioneering pilots.
Barbara was ecstatic over the publicity, hoping it could bring even bigger crowds to her next air show. In her excitement, she could not guess that it might bring her great happiness and also do her harm.
When Ken Knowland heard of Barbara's success, he ordered two dozen long-stemmed red roses delivered to her at her airport. With the crowds' cheers still ringing in her ears the next day, she became almost intoxicated by their sweet, fresh aroma and the card that came with them that read, "Congratulations. Wish I could have been there to witness your triumph. Dinner together to celebrate? Soon as you can tear yourself away from your other admirers? (Signed) Ken."
Barbara liked his flowers, but his note even more. She could hardly wait then, for their dinner together.
Two days after the air show, two men in Chicago read the story in The Chicago Examiner.
In a barber's chair in the Hilton Hotel barbershop on Wabash avenue, a handsome young socialite first mistaken for Errol Flynn by a manicurist sat bare-chested, having removed his white silk shirt so the barber would not get any hair clippings on it. He had been reading the society pages. Turning then to the sports section, he read on page two that "two young women pilots, Barbara Markey, recently of Chicago, and a black woman, Leila Jackson, have flown their airplanes in aerobatic maneuvers at a local air airport in Mohave, California, owned by Miss Markey. Their flying rivaled the stunt-flying of the best male barnstormers in America."
Chet Armstrong the Fourth smiled and carefully folded his newspaper as his barber began clipping his sideburns.
Less than a mile away, in a Salvation Army soup kitchen on west Madison street's skid row, a man with half a face read the same item while dunking a donut into his cup of black coffee. When no one was looking, he tore out the article and sneaked it into his worn overcoat pocket. A smile crossed the good side of his face that rarely had been visited by such a sensation.