The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (23 page)

But she had collected what she came for and it was time to get out. She replaced the file, closed and locked the drawer, and replaced the key, then went back into her own office, shutting the sergeant's door behind her. At her desk, she slipped the two lists into her large handbag. And just in the nick of time. She heard a heavy step in the hall and the rattle of a key in the lock, and the door opened. Ophelia
turned, sucking in her breath and feeling her stomach lurch. But the figure was a familiar one.

“Raymond!” she gasped. “Gosh, I'm glad it's you! You scared the living bejeebers out of me!”

Corporal Andrews laughed. “Who did you think it was? King Kong come to carry you away?”

A man of thirty-five, maybe forty, he was out of uniform and dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt the same pale blue as his eyes, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ophelia thought again how good-looking he was. He turned on the light.

“I must say, you're a bit of a surprise, too, Ophelia. What are you doing here in the dark? Getting in some overtime?”

Ophelia picked up the thin sheaf of papers from her desk. “A little job I didn't quite finish yesterday,” she said glibly, waving the papers. “My daughter and I were shopping in Monroeville this afternoon, and I wanted to show her the camp. While we were here, I thought of the job and just popped in to pick it up.” She grinned—disarmingly, she hoped—and made a show of putting the papers into her handbag. “I've been in Sergeant Webb's doghouse so often the past week or two, I figured I'd try to burnish my image by having this stuff on his desk when he comes in on Monday morning. Maybe even get a little raise.”

To her great relief, Corporal Andrews didn't question her excuse. He chuckled wryly. “I don't know about a raise, but if you find the key to that man's heart, I hope you'll let me know what it is. I'm in his doghouse as much as you are, maybe more. You can type and I can't, you know. My image could sure use a little burnishing.”

Ophelia laughed a little. “Well, don't say I haven't tried to teach you.”

It was true. The sergeant could type, and often prepared his own reports. He had told the corporal to learn to type. It hadn't quite been an order, but almost, and both Corporal Andrews and Ophelia had made a good-faith effort. But the corporal seemed to be all thumbs. He just couldn't get the hang of the typewriter. The best he could do was hunt-and-peck, and even that was full of errors, which didn't please the sergeant, either. They had both finally given it up as a bad job.

“You gave it your all,” the corporal said, “and I'm grateful. I guess I was just never meant to type.” He gave her a curious look. “That pretty girl I saw out there in the car—you're not going to tell me you're her
mother
?”

Ophelia nodded proudly. “That's my Sarah.”

Andrews shook his head. “I am amazed,” he said with an admiring look. “Honest to Pete, Ophelia. You can't possibly be old enough to have a teenaged daughter!”

“You're sweet.” Ophelia laughed lightly. “Actually, I'm glad to hear that she followed my orders and stayed in the car with her Nancy Drew mystery. She made noises about wanting to walk over and watch the baseball game, which I strictly forbade.”

“Smart mama,” Andrews said approvingly. “A pretty girl like that—those boys would lose their heads.” He went to his desk. “Well, I won't keep you. Hope you and Sarah have a great afternoon.”

“You, too, Raymond,” Ophelia said. As she went back down the hall, she couldn't help remembering what he had said—
You can't possibly be old enough to have a teenaged daughter!
—and feeling a small, warm glow deep down inside. She loved her husband very much, even if he was a bit old-fashioned. But she had to admit that it was nice to be admired, especially by such a good-looking man as Corporal Andrews. Even if he was involved with Lucy Murphy.

Charlie Dickens Has Lunch with His Wife and Is Enlightened

The telephone conversation that Charlie had held with Mata Hari (or Mattie Harry, as Baby Mann called her) had been brief and intriguing. She had to talk to him in person, she said, and it
had
to be today, no
ifs
,
ands
, or
buts
about it. She told him to meet her at two thirty that afternoon, out at the old Loblolly School. Which left him plenty of time to finish the piece he was writing, then put on his hat and walk home through the oppressive noontime heat, for a leisurely lunch with his wife.

When he had returned to Darling to take over his father's newspaper, Charlie had fallen into the habit of eating lunch at the diner, where he caught up on the news that hadn't yet reached the
Dispatch
office. But now that he and Fannie were married, he almost always went home for lunch—an easy walk, kitty-cornered across the courthouse square to the small apartment above Fannie's Darling Chapeaux shop, where the newlyweds lived.

Charlie's life had changed in several other ways, major and minor, now that he and Fannie were married. He still played poker with the boys, but only once a month, instead of once a week. He only occasionally dropped in at Pete's Pool Parlor, rather than making it his regular Saturday night stop. He only smoked at the office, because Fannie didn't like the smell of cigarettes. And instead of his local white lightning, one of Fannie's Atlanta friends kept them supplied with several good dinner wines, which they shared over Fannie's good meals.

His weekends had changed, too. They used to be primarily valuable for sleeping off hangovers and having some of the hair of the dog that bit him. But now, when the weather was good, he and Fannie liked to get out into the countryside and ride around in his old blue roadster, stopping to pick flowers and admire the scenery. When it rained or was chilly, they stayed home and puttered around their neat little apartment, Charlie reading aloud to Fannie, while she cooked something special for him. Or they might listen to the
Palmolive Beauty Box Theater
on the radio (sentimental crap, Charlie thought, but he never said so for fear of hurting Fannie's feelings), or play dance records on the Victrola. Charlie wasn't much of a dancer, but he liked band music, and dancing gave him an excuse to hold Fannie, who fit so sweetly into his arms and was light as a feather on her feet. After a nice dinner (with wine), they could often be found dancing to “More Than You Know” and “It's Only a Paper Moon” in their attractive living room, which Fannie had tastefully decorated, with stylish furniture, airy curtains, and art prints on the ivory-painted walls.

This weekend, though, Fannie was working, finishing a large order in the small workroom behind her shop, where she made the most amazing hats. That Charlie thought they were amazing should come as no surprise to anyone. (He was,
after all, a fond husband.) But it was true that other people were genuinely impressed with her work. Lilly Daché, for example, a glamorous French milliner who had discovered Fannie's work at a shop in Atlanta and now sold her hats on commission in her famous Daché shop on New York's Fifth Avenue. Mme Daché also provided custom-made hats for the Hollywood studios. Thus, most amazingly of all, film stars (Marie Dressler, for instance, in
Dinner at Eight
) were wearing Fannie's hats in the movies! Which meant that even though the
Dispatch
still paid only a few dollars a week to its editor and publisher, Fannie Dickens was bringing in a pretty penny every month, and Mr. and Mrs. Dickens were living quite comfortably—especially since Fannie had bought the building they lived in and they didn't have to pay any rent.

But Fannie's success was a two-edged sword, and Charlie felt its bitter blade all too keenly. She was bringing in most of the money, while—financially speaking—Charlie was a loser, tethered to a small-town newspaper that would never bring him anything but grief. Charlie hated the thought that he couldn't support his new wife—that she had to work to keep their little family afloat. Although he had lost maybe thirty pounds in the past year and wasn't as thick around the middle as he had been, he was well into middle age, with thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and (he couldn't help it) a newsman's skeptical frown. He could not for the life of him figure out what sweet, attractive, clever,
successful
Fannie Champaign had seen in him, or why she wanted to marry him. Add to that his fear that he had lost his reporter's nose for a good story, and it wasn't any wonder that beneath Charlie's more or less contented exterior lurked a discontented soul. Discontented, that is, with himself, and not in the slightest with his new wife, whom he loved to distraction and desperately wanted to please.

Which in part accounted for Charlie's mood when he sat down to lunch at the small table in front of the open window that overlooked the courthouse square. Fannie liked to have things looking nice, so their luncheon table was covered with a flower-printed luncheon cloth and centered with a glass bowl of red roses. She had made Charlie's favorite grilled cheese, tomato, onion, and bacon sandwich and served it with a cup of her homemade tomato soup—better, even, Charlie thought, than the tomato soup he got at the diner, which was pretty doggone good—and glasses of cold lemonade.

As Charlie sat down across from Fannie and bowed his head while she said grace, he thought again how lucky he was to have found her, how smart he was to have married her, and how
much
he would like to impress her by getting at least one of his two big stories on the wire. He allowed himself one swift moment of fantasy, like a gossamer dream, with President Roosevelt introducing him to an assembled throng at the White House (with Fannie, of course, in the front row), and praising him for having broken the Pulitzer Prize–winning story of—

“It's just the saddest thing about Rona Jean,” Fannie said, unfolding her napkin in her lap. “Have they captured the man who killed her?”

She seemed troubled, Charlie thought, and looked at her more closely. Her eyes were red. He could swear that she had been crying. But then, Fannie was a compassionate person. She had a soft heart. Sad things, like the death of a friend, affected her deeply—although he hadn't been aware that she knew Rona Jean, except as a voice on the other end of the telephone line, saying, “Number, please,” and “I have your party now.”

“If they have, I haven't heard,” Charlie replied. “I asked the deputy to phone the newspaper when they caught him.” He
picked up his sandwich. “I got some swell photos of the victim, though. Before the sheriff showed up and made me stop.”

Fannie's response was not what he expected. “Photos?” Her brown eyes widened. “You took photos of Rona Jean? After she was
dead
?”

Charlie nodded, his mouth full of delicious sandwich. When he could, he said, “I was lucky to get them, too.”

“Well, I certainly hope you're not going to use them,” Fannie said in a low voice.

“Not in the
Dispatch.
” Charlie licked mayonnaise off his fingers. “I'm planning to send the best of them to both the AP and the UP, though, along with my story. I'm betting both wire services will run them, which would mean—”

Fannie dropped her spoon and it splashed into her soup bowl. “Oh, dear, oh, Charlie, please
don't
!” she exclaimed.

Charlie was nonplussed. “Don't? But why? It's a great story, Fannie. And the photos make it
real.
Without them, it's just another murder—”

“Because it's . . . it's disrespectful, that's why. And it's not just another murder. She was . . .” Fannie's voice trembled. “She was going to be a mother. That's pretty special, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but . . .” Charlie frowned. “Wait a minute. How did you know she was pregnant? Did Edna Fay tell you? Doc told her not to talk about it with anybody but me and the sheriff.” Of course, the news could be all over Darling by now. But Fannie had spent the morning in her workroom, out of touch with the normal gossip networks.

Fannie shook her head. “No, it wasn't your sister. She told me herself. Rona Jean, I mean.”

Charlie leaned forward, his eyes on her face. “
She
told you? When?”

Fannie's eyes met his with something like defiance. “She
liked hats. She said they made her feel pretty and special. I knew she didn't have much money so I always gave her a bit of a discount. She bought a new one a couple of weeks ago—a pretty little peach-colored straw with pink and white silk flowers. That's when she told me that she was having a baby.” She looked away. “She said she didn't like the baby's father well enough to marry him.”

Charlie was surprised at this, and then he wasn't. Fannie was a good listener, and supportive. The more she listened, the more you wanted to talk, and the more things you thought of to tell her about. At least, that had been Charlie's experience. It probably wasn't any different for her clients.

“Who
was
the father?” Charlie asked. “Did she say?”
Did she know?
he wondered.

Fannie picked up her spoon again. “You're not going to put it in your story, are you?”

“No,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn't do that.”

“She wasn't sure,” Fannie said. “It was either Lamar Lassen or the youngest Pyle boy. Beau, he's called. She didn't want to marry
either
of them—and I couldn't say I blamed her.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “
Two
possibilities? My goodness. She was a busy girl. Not to mention working three to eleven on the switchboard.”

“I don't think she was brought up right,” Fannie said with a sigh. “She didn't seem to feel she had done anything terribly evil, although I'm sure that when people find out she was pregnant, some will say she got what she deserved.
I
don't feel that way. I feel that she was just a mixed-up young woman who made a mistake. Twice.”

At
least
twice
, Charlie thought. Aloud, he said, “I won't name names in the story, of course. But the sheriff ought to know who they are. He might want to question them.”
Because one of them
, he thought grimly,
is likely the killer.

“He's already talked to Lamar Lassen,” Fannie said. “I ran into Mrs. Meeks at the grocery this morning. Lamar Lassen boards with her. The sheriff came by to see him this morning. If he knows about Lamar, he probably knows about Beau, too. But give him the names, if you think that's the best thing to do.” Not looking at him, she took a spoonful of soup. “When I heard that Rona Jean was dead, I decided I didn't have to tell you. But now that we're talking about it, I think I'd better. Because of the money, you see.”

“Didn't have to tell me
what
?” Charlie felt he had somehow lost track of the conversation. “What money are you talking about? Fannie, you're not making sense. You—”

She pushed her soup bowl away and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “Rona Jean was going to give us her baby.”

Charlie stared at her, speechless. Finally, with a croak, he managed, “Give
us
her baby?”

Fannie nodded, her mouth trembling. “I knew you wouldn't be in favor of it. That's why I didn't tell you. Right away, I mean. Of course I was going to tell you, before he arrived. Or she. And in plenty of time for you to get used to the idea.”

Charlie shook his head, now feeling entirely in the dark. “I don't understand, Fannie.
Why
was this girl going to give us her baby?”

“Because.” Fannie's eyes were bright with tears. “Because she didn't want a baby, and
I
do.”

And all of a sudden, the light dawned. Like any couple about to be married, he and Fannie had talked about having a family. But Fannie had told him, tearfully, that this was out of the question for her; if he wanted children, he would have to find another wife. Charlie hadn't asked for the details, so he didn't know why this was true. But to tell the honest truth, he was just as glad. He was old enough to be somebody's
grandfather. All he knew about little babies was that they cried a lot and monopolized their mother's attention and created mountains of dirty diapers. Having been perfectly happy as a career bachelor for over two decades, he wasn't eager to take on a young family. And anyway, he didn't want another wife, he wanted Fannie, and there was nothing more to be said. In fact, he had thought the question was firmly settled, so this confession—
she didn't want a baby, and I do—
was . . . well, it was baffling, that's what it was.

He frowned, not sure what to ask next. “So what kind of arrangements did you make with her?”

She half turned away. “She had been to a doctor in Monroeville, Dr. DuBois. She needed to pay his bill. She was going to need money for the hospital, of course, and a train ticket, and money to start a new life—somewhere else, which I thought was a good idea. I didn't want to risk her seeing the baby,
our
baby, and deciding that she wanted to take him back. Or her.” She pressed her lips together, and Charlie saw how close she was to tears. “So I . . . I gave . . .” She couldn't finish the sentence.