The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (20 page)

Lucy nodded. “Thanks for listening, Opie.” She raised her hand. “I suppose I'll see you at the clubhouse early on the Fourth.” The Dahlias were decorating the Miss Darling float that morning, for the parade.

“Count on it,” Ophelia said. She waved good-bye, reached into her handbag, and took out the key to her office, which also unlocked the front door. Like the other buildings, this one was so new that it still smelled of fresh pine, roofing tar, and paint. No effort had been made to pretty it up or make it anything other than functional. Inside, the pent-up heat was stifling. The hallway went through the middle of the building, with offices on either side. Lit only by a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling midway to the far end, it was hot and dark and . . . well, creepy.

It was silent, too, and Ophelia's heels tapped on the bare wooden floor. Suddenly aware of the clatter, she stopped, slipped out of her shoes, and picked them up. Nobody worked on weekends if they could help it, which meant that there was nobody around to hear her footsteps—and nobody around to catch her doing what she was about to do, which now struck her as more than a little dangerous, and risky, too. It might not be strictly illegal—after all, government
records were public records, weren't they? But it was definitely not in her job description, and if she got caught, it was probably a firing offense.

A shiver started at her tailbone and ran up her spine to her shoulders. The place seemed different than it did on weekdays, when all the lights were on, the office doors were open, and the hallway was bustling with busy people. The conversation with Lucy, unsettling as it was, had pushed Ophelia's earlier apprehension to the back of her mind. Now, it returned in a chilly flood, heightened by the darkness and shadows. Why hadn't she thought to ask Lucy to come in with her? Lucy would have no idea what she was doing, and two women would surely be safer than one woman alone. Being alone meant that there was nobody around to hear if she called for help—although, of course, that wouldn't be necessary. Would it?

And then, with a sudden chill, she thought of Rona Jean Hancock. Rona Jean must have struggled, must even have called for help, but there was nobody around to hear—except her killer.

Of course, there was no connection between the murder and the job Charlie had sent her to do. But the thought of Rona Jean made Ophelia's breath come fast and her heart pound so hard she could feel the thudding in her bones, and she broke into a run toward the safety of her office at the far end of the hall. Her hands shaking, she stuck the key in the lock and fumbled it open. Then she shut and locked the door behind her, leaning against it and breathing hard, her eyes squeezed shut.

In here, at least, she felt
safer.

Sheriff Norris Collects More Clues

Before Buddy went into the diner for lunch, he paused at the wire newspaper rack beside the front door to read the front-page headline of the
Mobile Register
. It announced, in big, bold letters:
Roosevelt Orders $150,000,000 Spent in Drought Relief
.

Buddy had been following the news about the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma and Nebraska, and thought that nature had suddenly thrown a temper tantrum and was making it very hard for people who just wanted to grow their crops and their cows and their kids and get on with their lives. The federal money sounded like a good idea, even though the smaller headline noted that FDR had “borrowed” it from the $525,000,000 fund to support CCC camps. Buddy hoped the president wouldn't “borrow” any money from Camp Briarwood, which seemed to be doing good things for Cypress County. He was looking forward to meeting the camp commander at Verna's house that night.

The lunch rush was just tapering off when Buddy took his usual place at the counter, right in front of the big black Emerson electric fan, where it could blow directly on him and cool him off. The day was hot and sultry and—unless you were sitting in front of a fan—the air wasn't moving.

He always had meat loaf on Saturdays, but today the liver and onions sounded good, so he ordered that, with mashed potatoes and skillet corn and cabbage slaw and a piece of Raylene's lemon chess pie, all for thirty-five cents. He ate to the accompaniment of the weather report from radio station WALA (which was supposed to stand for “We Are Loyal Alabamians”) down in Mobile. A ship out in the Gulf had registered a barometric low of 979 millibars, and winds of 85 miles an hour had been reported at a nearby weather station. Hurricane flags were flying for Mobile Bay and the northern Gulf of Mexico. Inland, the forecast was for rain and plenty of it, which was good, Buddy thought. The crops and pastures needed it—as long as they didn't get too much. There were miles of unimproved roads in the county, and rain turned them into bottomless goo.

The weather report was followed, as usual, by the noon market report: pork bellies were up, feeder calves were down, corn and beans were both down. And then the national news. FDR had just signed something called a “credit union” act, whatever that was. The Yankees had beaten the White Sox 13 to 2 in Yankee Stadium, with Lou Gehrig—who had a .366 batting average for the season—slamming a double, a triple, and a home run. And the mayor of Shreveport, Louisiana, had threatened to organize a lynching party for Senator Huey P. (“Kingfish”) Long. “If it is necessary to teach him decency at the end of a hempen rope,” the mayor cried, “I, for one, am willing to swing the rope!” Buddy, who had heard from law enforcement friends in Louisiana that the Kingfish
ran a mighty corrupt shop over there, thought that in this case, lynching might be acceptable.

While Buddy listened and ate, he fielded questions about the murder from Mr. Dunlap, owner of the Five and Dime, and old J.D. Henderson, who helped Mr. Musgrove at the hardware store next door. They wanted to know when he was going to catch Rona Jean's killer and what was slowing him down—as if they thought he should pull the murderer out of his hat, like some vaudeville stage magician or a slick cop in a detective story. Well, real life was nothing like that. In real life, there weren't any parlor tricks and nobody was standing there, feeding you the clues one at a time so all you had to do was put them together, like a jigsaw puzzle. In real life, each clue led off in a different direction, and there was so much confusion and contradiction (as there was in his head right now) that it was a wonder
any
crime got solved, let alone a murder.

Finally, he got fed up with the questions. He threw down his fork and yelled, “Will you two just quit the heck pestering me? You'll find out who killed her when I do, and not a durn minute sooner.”

A couple of ladies he didn't recognize—visitors from out of town, probably—stared wide-eyed at him from a table in the corner, then put their heads together, murmuring apprehensively, as Buddy hunched his shoulders and began on his pie.

When the customers had mostly cleared out, Violet and Myra May left Henrietta on the switchboard and Raylene and her helper, Holiness Hatfield, to clean up the kitchen, then took Buddy upstairs. But before they could begin their talk, Violet had to put Cupcake down for her afternoon nap, which took a little while because Cupcake resented taking a nap while her two moms were having an interesting conversation with a man in the kitchen. And Myra May was called
back downstairs to solve an urgent culinary mystery involving a missing mess of catfish that had been brought in by Old Zeke, who sold them his day's catch twice a week. It turned out that Zeke had put the fish in a burlap bag with some ice in the old soda pop cooler beside the back door without telling anybody where they were.

But at last the three of them were together, sitting around the kitchen table. Violet and Myra May were drinking coffee, and Buddy was finishing the orange Nehi (his favorite soda pop) that he had carried upstairs and was wishing he had brought another piece of pie upstairs with him.

For Buddy, the green and white kitchen was a familiar place. When old Mrs. Hooper ran the diner (years ago, before Myra May and Violet bought it), she used to pay Buddy a nickel an hour to weed her vegetable garden. He'd been about ten years old then, and when he was finished pulling weeds, she'd sit him down at the kitchen table—the very same table where he was sitting now—and give him a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. Then she'd open the window wide so the breeze would cool him off, and pat him on the shoulder and say, “Buddy, you did a real good job with those weeds. But you know how fast they sprout back up. I hope you'll come back and tackle them next week.”

Now, the window was open and the breeze carried the delightful fragrance of the apple pie that Raylene was baking downstairs, along with the distant sound of the diner's radio, playing “I Got Rhythm.” But even in that pleasant setting, he didn't get the questioning off to a very good start. “I was wanting to see you both together because I . . . well, because—” He stopped, feeling clumsy.

“Because you didn't want us comparing stories,” Violet offered helpfully. She had put on a fresh pale green dress
with puffy little sleeves and was looking much better than she had that morning.

“Because you want to surprise us with your questions, and you don't want us putting our heads together to agree on an answer.” Myra May reached into the pocket of her slacks for her cigarette packet and tapped out a Lucky Strike. “That's how they do it in detective stories.”

Buddy grinned sheepishly. “Actually, what I want from you is a little help. There are some things I don't understand.”

To tell the truth, there were quite a few things he didn't understand, but “some” would do to start with. He took out his notebook and flipped to the page where he had copied the passage from Rona Jean's diary.

“This morning, I found something Rona Jean had written. She said that Violet was the only person she could count on to help her out of the mess she was in. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Myra May said shortly. “She took advantage of Violet.”

Violet shook her head. “I didn't exactly see it that way. She was in trouble and I felt sorry for her. I wanted to help, even though she didn't always take my advice.”

“What kind of trouble?” Buddy asked.

“Gosh, we figured you knew that already,” Violet said. She traded glances with Myra May. “From Doc Roberts' autopsy report.”

“About Rona Jean being pregnant,” Myra May clarified. “You're the sheriff, Buddy. You must have heard about the report even before we did.”

“Not necessarily,” Buddy said. “You know how fast news gets around this town. So being pregnant—that's the ‘mess' she was thinking of when she wrote that?”

Violet said, “Yes, but there was more, of course.”

“Violet is saying,” Myra May added, “that Rona Jean had a knack for making things even more of a mess than they really were.” She took out a match, scratched it with her thumbnail, and lit her Lucky Strike.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Buddy asked, finding a new page in his notebook and taking his pencil out of his pocket. He liked Myra May. She might be gruff and sometimes a little short with people, but she didn't beat around the bush. She said what she meant and she meant what she said.

Violet answered. “It means that Rona Jean was . . . well, she was pretty mixed up about herself and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Promiscuous,” Myra May said darkly, and breathed out twin streams of tobacco smoke.

“Excuse me?” Buddy asked, wondering how that was spelled.

“Fast, as my mother would say,” Violet added, and went on. “When she found out she was going to have a baby, the first thing she thought about was getting married.”

Myra May pulled on her cigarette. “But there were two guys, and she wasn't sure which one was the father.”

“And when she thought about marrying one of them,” Violet said, “it didn't seem like such a good idea. I couldn't blame her,” she added candidly. “I wouldn't have wanted to marry either one of them, myself.”

“Their names?” He knew—at least he knew what Rona Jean had written in her diary—but he wanted to know what
they
knew.

Violet hesitated. Myra May reached out and touched her hand. “Tell him, Violet. He's just doing his job.”

“She said it was Lamar Lassen and Beau Pyle,” Violet said reluctantly.

Myra May gave Buddy a direct look. “She said it wasn't you, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't,” Buddy said. “I
knew
it wasn't me.” He spoke emphatically, but inside, he was shivering as he thought again of his narrow escape. If he had accepted Rona Jean's invitation to tumble into bed with her, she might have tried to convince him that the baby was his, and his guilty conscience would have prodded him into believing her. He might have married her and ended up raising some other man's baby.

There was a light tap on the kitchen door and Raylene came in. “This is for Buddy,” she said, and put a piece of lemon chess pie on the table in front of him, with a fork and a paper napkin.

Buddy looked up at her, shaking his head at her ability to know what people wanted. “Miz Riggs, you do beat all.” He picked up his fork. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said with a little smile, and left.

Myra May picked up the story. “After Rona Jean decided she wasn't going to marry anybody, she decided she'd get an abortion. She knew how dangerous it is, but that didn't matter—Rona Jean was the kind who thought it was fun to take risks. She thought she could get Lamar or Beau or both to pay for it, but that didn't work out. Lamar said no because he wanted to get married, and anyway, he didn't have any money. Beau's always got money in his pocket, but he was too smart to give her any.”

“Those were the only two she asked?” Buddy asked, around a bite of pie. He was remembering the stack of twenties he'd found in Rona Jean's room. The money hadn't come from Lassen or Pyle, so where
did
it come from?

“They were, so far as we know,” Violet said. “But Rona Jean wasn't . . .” She shrugged. “Well, she wasn't always
very careful with the truth. It wasn't that she lied, exactly,” she added hastily. “It was . . . well, she mixed up what she wanted to happen with what was actually happening, if that makes any sense. She sometimes convinced herself, and then she wasn't lying—to her way of thinking, anyway.”

Buddy nodded, understanding. He had met other people who operated that way. But that still didn't explain where the money came from. He put down his fork and opened his notebook. “She wrote in her diary that if she went through with it—the pregnancy, I guess—that Violet would give her the money to pay her bills, before and after.” He glanced back up at Violet. “Is that right?”

“Not quite.” Violet shook her head. “I mean, we talked about doing it that way, but—”

“But we decided against it,” Myra May interrupted. “We paid Dr. DuBois, the doctor she saw over in Monroeville. And we were planning to pay the hospital for her expenses. But we didn't want to give
her
the money, because we weren't sure . . .”

“Because
Myra May
wasn't sure,” Violet said pointedly, “that she would actually use it to pay the bills.”

“You agreed,” Myra May said, frowning.

“I let you talk me into it,” Violet retorted. “But I still think we should have trusted her.”

Myra May rolled her eyes. “That's because you're such a sweet and softhearted person, Violet. If we had given Rona Jean the money, she would have left town and we'd never have seen her again.”