The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (12 page)

“Oh yeah?” Charlie asked. “Who would that be?”

He'd heard that Hick was a close friend of Mrs. Roosevelt's, and everybody knew that the First Lady liked to stick her nose into all of her husband's New Deal programs. “Eleanor Everywhere,” people called her. If she got interested in Camp Briarwood, he would
really
have a big story on his hands. Maybe it would even win a Pulitzer, every newspaperman's dream of glory.

“Never mind who.” Hick chuckled. “That's my business. You let me know what you've got, and I'll take it from there. But you be careful,” she cautioned. “It's no secret that
there are bad guys who have their hands in Uncle Sam's pockets. We don't live in a perfect world.”

Hick's response had convinced Charlie that he had to go ahead. But this wasn't an investigation he could handle by himself. He needed somebody who had legitimate access to the camp and who could do some surreptitious on-the-scene investigating. And luckily, he knew just the person: Ophelia Snow, who worked part-time in the quartermaster's office out there and knew her way around the camp.

So yesterday, he had asked Ophelia if she would agree to do some “research” for him as an investigative journalist. He had told her that he didn't have the vaguest idea who Mata Hari was, and that while her claims sounded legitimate, he couldn't be sure. That's what Ophelia's investigation was designed to prove. She had been reluctant at first, but he had reminded her how important Camp Briarwood was to Darling and suggested that if there was something crooked going on out there, it could endanger the success of the camp and might even result in its closing. (He didn't really think so, but it was a possibility, wasn't it?) She had finally said yes. Charlie glanced up at the clock. In fact, if all was going according to plan, she might be getting started right about now.

And here in the
Dispatch
office, it was time to get started on the story of Rona Jean's murder. Charlie rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, lifted his elbows, flexed his fingers, and leaned forward. The juices were flowing now, and he was ready to write.

He'd been working steadily for ten or fifteen minutes when the telephone on his desk jangled. Charlie raised his voice. “Hey, Baby, pick up that call. I'm busy.” He'd had a second phone installed in the composing area, to save steps.

“Oh, yessir,” Baby said importantly. He loved answering
the phone. Charlie heard him say, “
Dispatch
office, Purley Mann speakin'. Speak your piece.”

Charlie made a mental note to talk to Baby about his telephone manners, then stopped listening and went back to his typing. But after a moment, he heard a scuffling sound.

“Not now, Baby,” he said. “I'm working on a story for the special edition. Get a number and I'll call him back this afternoon.”

Baby ducked his head and shifted his feet. “Uh, Mr. Dickens, it's a lady. She says it's important. Says it cain't wait.”

Charlie kept his eyes on his work and his fingers going, rat-tat-tat. “Tell her to call back in ten minutes, then. I need to finish this first.”

Baby disappeared, but a moment later he was back again. “Says she cain't call back, 'cause of where she's callin' from. Says she's gotta talk to you this minute or not at all, and if you don't, you'll be plenty sorry.”

“Damn,” Charlie growled. “Who the hell is it?”

“Nobody I ever heard of.” Baby cleared his throat apologetically. “Says her name is Miz Mattie Harry.”

Charlie stopped typing and reached for the phone.

Sheriff Norris Learns More Facts of Life

Edna Fay's revelation had thrown Buddy for a loop.
Four months?
Catching his breath, he thought for a moment, then pulled Roy's desk calendar toward him and flipped back to April. He and Rona Jean had their last date on Saturday, April 28—the night that she had invited him over for supper. If Doc Roberts was right, at that point she would have been just about two months along. Maybe she suspected she was pregnant and already knew that she didn't want to marry the father. She'd rather marry
him
. He shivered, feeling he had escaped by the skin of his teeth.

Or maybe she didn't just suspect. Maybe she knew for sure. He opened the top drawer, took out the brown envelope, and slid the diary onto the desk. He opened to April and thumbed through the month until he came to April 23. On that day, she had written
DR
and a Monroeville phone number. April 23, five days before their last date.

With the diary open on the desk before him, he picked
up the phone and gave the Monroeville number to the operator. When it began to ring, he said mildly, “Henrietta, honey, this is sheriff's business. I'd appreciate it if you'd click off right about now.” He smiled when she did.

“Doctor DuBois' office,” a pleasant-voiced woman said into his ear. “This is Linda June speaking. If you're calling about seeing the doctor, just to let you know, we're full up today, but if it can wait till tomorrow, we can fit you in then.”

Buddy pulled in his breath. He'd guessed right.
DR
wasn't somebody's initials, it was the abbreviation for “doctor.” “Ma'am, this is Sheriff Norris, over in Darling. We've had ourselves a murder here. I'd like to speak to the doctor about it.”

“Oh dear,” Linda June said. “Oh, my goodness gracious, that is just too bad. Well, if you'll hold on, Sheriff, I'll see if I can get him to the phone.”

A moment later, Buddy was talking to an elderly doctor with a deep, rumbling voice and a persistent cough. “Sheriff Norris?” Dr. DuBois boomed. “So Roy Burns finally retired, did he? Been telling him for years he oughta quit and take it easy.” He coughed. “You got a lot to live up to, son. Roy Burns was the best damn sheriff in the whole state of Alabama.”

“I'm afraid he's gone, sir.” Buddy cleared his throat, feeling suddenly and unaccountably guilty for having the nerve to think he could step into the shoes of the best damn sheriff in the state. “Dead, I mean. Got bit on the wrist by a rattlesnake down in Horsetail Gorge when he was fishing.”

“Aw, hell.” There was a silence, then, “Wonder how I missed hearing 'bout that. Must've been out of town and nobody thought to tell me.” Another silence, another cough. “Well, that's the way I'd like to go when my time comes. So, Sheriff, Linda June says you've had a murder over there in Darling. Somebody go crazy with this heat and start shooting up his
favorite saloon? Seems like it happens at least once every summer now.”

“Nothing like that, sir,” Buddy said. “The victim's name is Rona Jean Hancock. She was strangled. With her stocking.” He didn't mention the rope. He had asked Edna Fay to tell Doc Roberts to keep it quiet, too, so the killer would be the only other person who had that important little detail. You never knew when something like that might come in handy.

“Strangled?” the doctor said, in a raised-eyebrow voice. “Well, that'll sure spoil your day.”

“Yessir. According to Doc Roberts' autopsy report, she was four months pregnant. Her diary says she had an appointment with you on April 23. I'm wondering if she said anything at all about who the baby's father was. Gave a name, maybe.” He could feel the apprehension lance through him. What if she had given
his
name? It wouldn't have been true, but he would have no defense.

“Ah.” A long exhale, and a cough. “Well, you just hold your horses, Sheriff, and I'll have a look.” A moment later, Buddy heard the squeak of a chair being moved and the rustle of papers, and DuBois was back on the line. “April 23, yes. Rona Jean. Pregnant, yes, some seven weeks, maybe eight—hard to be sure at that stage, but that's my guess. Health, good, a little anemic but nothing to worry about. First pregnancy, says here she was unmarried. I don't remember any mention of the father, and there's nothing in the file. Back when I was a young man, you know, the girl's father would have her namin' a name, and her and the boy would be up in front of the preacher faster'n green grass through a goose.” He sighed. “These days, modern girls and all that, it's diff'rent. It's nobody's business but theirs. So no, she didn't name the father and I didn't ask.”

Buddy let out his breath. He hadn't known he'd been holding it. “Did she seem upset when you told her about the . . . pregnancy?” Today was a day of firsts, Buddy thought.
Pregnancy.
He couldn't remember ever saying that word out loud.

“No, the way I remember it, she seemed pretty much unconcerned. She didn't volunteer any information about her situation, and I didn't ask.” There was a pause. “So she's dead. I'm sorry to hear that. Strangled, you say? A man's crime, although I remember once—it was down in Mobile, as I recall—a woman strangled her husband's mistress. I always wondered about that one. Must've been one helluva strong female. An Amazon, wouldn't you guess?”

“Yes, sir.” An image of Myra May flashed through Buddy's mind. He had seen her carrying trays loaded with a tableful of crockery. She was plenty strong.

Another cough, followed by a reflective sigh. “You said Roy was fishing? Too damn bad, but it comes to us all in the end. Remember me to his missus next time you see her. We were in school together, about a hundred years ago.”

“I will, sir, and thanks.” They exchanged good-byes and Buddy replaced the receiver on the telephone hook. He looked down at the diary.
Seven weeks, maybe eight.
Flipping the pages, he counted back from April 23 to early March. The first weekend, Rona Jean noted that she had gone to the movies with Beau Pyle. According to the diary, they drove over to Monroeville to see
Today We Live
, starring Joan Crawford and Gary Cooper. Rona Jean had worn her purple dress with the polka dots, and Beau was a good (underlined twice) kisser. The next night, Sunday night, she had gone to the Roller Palace with Lamar Lassen, where she also skated with Jack Baker, whom she apparently met for the first time at the rink. The next Saturday night, she'd gone out with Baker,
who (she noted) was from nearby Thomasville and was
a swell skater, even better than Lamar, but not much of a kisser
.

So it could've been Pyle, Lassen, or Baker—but maybe not Baker, who wasn't much of a kisser. And then he noticed that on the pages that mentioned Beau Pyle and Lamar Lassen, Rona Jean had drawn those little Valentine hearts. Staring at them, a realization flickered. Rona Jean had been twice as experienced as he had imagined, for both Beau Pyle and Lamar Lassen were candidates for fatherhood. Was there anybody else?

He glanced through the previous weeks, and while both Pyle and Lassen were mentioned, he saw no other men's names, and no hearts. Then he paged through the rest of March and April, remembering that Doc Dubois had said that it was “hard to be sure at that stage.” Baker's name appeared again, and there was somebody named Ray. But none of those names had been awarded the Valentine heart. The symbol of Rona Jean's sexual favors belonged exclusively to Lassen and Pyle.

Buddy closed the diary and regarded it for a moment, imagining Mr. Moseley holding it up in court for all to see:
Your Honor, we have here People's Exhibit One—the document that gave Sheriff Norris the facts he used to solve this horrific crime.
Buddy smiled, picturing the jurors leafing through it, reading Rona Jean's entries, and drawing the same conclusion he had drawn.

Then he reddened, remembering that she hadn't written very favorably about
him
and imagining the jurors' reactions to her comment that he wasn't a very good kisser. At the same time, and contradictorily, he felt grateful to whatever caution had kept him from accepting Rona Jean's invitation to go to bed with her. There was no Valentine heart on
his
page.

He put the diary back in its envelope and locked it in the drawer and sat for a moment, thinking. His job now: find
out which of the two men—Lassen or Pyle—had fathered Rona Jean's baby, since he would be the likeliest candidate for the killer.

Buddy frowned, feeling confused. But that wouldn't work. Unless one of them upped and confessed and the other one said that it couldn't be him because he'd used protection, there was no way to know, let alone prove, which of the two was the actual father. What he had to find out was which of the two
Rona Jean
had fingered as the father, which might or might not be the same thing. And he'd better get on it right away, which meant that he'd need to assign Wayne to the job of checking the garage for rope and something that could've been used to hit Rona Jean on the head. And he was going to have to interview the neighbors, to see if anybody saw or heard anything around the time of death.

The phone rang again, and Buddy picked it up. The woman on the other end of the line was screaming, half hysterical. It took a while to calm her down long enough to get the details. When he did, he stepped to the door and spoke to his deputy.

“Wayne, Miz Parker out on the Livermore Road claims her neighbor stole her old brown mare, and she's promising to take a shotgun and go over to his place and settle his hash.” He held out the card on which he'd written the directions. The one drawback to Wayne, so far, was that he didn't know the country. “You better hightail it out to the Parkers' and take care of whatever the hell is going on. I'd go, but I need to talk to a couple of suspects in the Hancock case. Oh, and when you get back, stop at the garage where Miss Hancock was killed and look around for some rope. Hemp rope. Doc Roberts says she was strangled with a rope, not the stocking.”

“Oh yeah?” Wayne said, raising both eyebrows. “The stocking was to make it look like a sexual assault, huh?”

“Yeah. But it wasn't. There wasn't any sexual assault.” Buddy thought of telling him about the pregnancy, but didn't—why, he wasn't sure. Instead, he said, “While you're there, look around for something the killer could have used to hit her with. She was conked on the right temple, Doc says, hard enough to give her a skull fracture. Maybe a beer bottle, something like that.”

“Got it, boss.” Wayne stood, reaching for the gun belt that was slung on the back of his chair. “On my way.”

Buddy watched him buckle on his belt, feeling regretful. He supposed it would be smart to wear his .38 when he went to see Lassen and Pyle, just in case. And now that he thought of it, he wished he could take Wayne with him, too.

*   *   *

Lassen lived at Mrs. Meeks' boardinghouse on Railroad Street, two blocks from the rail yard and depot, and since it was Saturday, he was likely to be there. The Meeks place was a two-story frame house that had been recently painted a bilious shade of green (a batch of paint Mr. Musgrove had on sale). There were eight small rooms upstairs, on both sides of a long hall, which Mrs. Meeks rented as sleeping rooms (usually two or three to a room, so there wasn't much space for anything
except
sleeping) to men who worked at Ozzie Sherman's sawmill or on the railroad.

Buddy knew the place well, because he'd lived there after his dad got so cranky he thought it would be better if he moved out. The rooms were clean, if crowded, and the sheets were washed once a week, regular. You got out of bed in the mornings to eggs, bacon, oatmeal, hot buttered biscuits, and coffee, and came home in the evenings to beef stew and dumplings or meat loaf and biscuits and sometimes baked ham and mashed potatoes, plus green apple pie or stewed pears or even
chocolate cake. And all this, including the room, for just $9.50 a week plus $2 for laundry, extra for ironing. Or $35, if you took it by the month and did your own washing and ironing. It was, Buddy thought, a sweet deal for a man who didn't much like to cook and do his own washing.

Lassen apparently had the day off, because he was still asleep upstairs when Buddy knocked at Mrs. Meeks' front door and explained what he wanted. She invited him into the parlor, but he opted for the front porch. The thermometer on the porch wall said it was eighty-eight, but there was a breeze. He cast an eye toward the sky, remembering what Wayne had said about the storm. It was a flat, pale gray, with a kind of silvery sheen to it. A storm sky, his old man would call it. But if there was a storm coming, it wasn't there yet.

Five minutes later, Lassen came downstairs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was broad-shouldered and bulky, with gingery hair, a round, ruddy face, and muscular arms. From the size of him Buddy judged that he was making the most of Mrs. Meeks' generous boardinghouse table. His brown wash pants were held up with red suspenders, and he wore a blue, coffee-stained shirt with the shirttail untucked, and brown leather work boots. A bent and misshapen cigarette, hastily hand-rolled, dangled from one corner of his mouth. He seemed surprised to see Buddy and even more surprised—genuinely shocked, Buddy thought—when the two of them went out on the front porch, where it was marginally cooler than the parlor, and Buddy told him, coming out with it hard and fast and without any cushion, that Rona Jean Hancock was dead.