The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (7 page)

“If that was her plan, she didn't tell me. But then, she didn't tell me she wasn't, either.” Bettina gave a half-discernible shake of the head. “Rona Jean was free as a bird, or she liked to think she was. She pretty much came and went as she pleased.”

Buddy closed his notebook. Now was the time. “When I asked you a minute ago who were her friends, you said, ‘You mean, friends like
you
?' It sounded like you don't think I'm the kind of friend a girl should have.” He looked at her steadily. “Is that it? Is that what you were thinking?”

“Well, why wouldn't I?” Bettina was defiant. “After what happened.”

“What happened when?”

“When you . . . slapped her around.” Bettina dropped her eyes, as if he were too ugly to look at.

“Slapped her around? I never laid a hand on that girl.” Buddy colored, remembering where exactly he had laid his hands. “Well, not in anger, anyway,” he muttered.

“That's not what she told me,” Bettina retorted.

Buddy opened his notebook again. “What
did
she tell you? I want to know.”

“Why?” Bettina challenged. “Don't you remember?”

“Come on, Miss Higgens,” Buddy said grimly. “This is a murder investigation. What did she tell you? I want it straight.
All
of it.”

She stumbled clumsily through it and Buddy wrote down what she said. When she finished, he said, “Thank you.”

She cast a doubtful glance in Buddy's direction. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren't you going to . . . deny it or something?”

“No point,” Buddy said quietly. “I don't behave like that. Never have, never will. If you knew me, you'd know that without me having to tell you. But since you don't know me, I doubt you'll believe me.”

Bettina's eyebrows went up. “But the sleeve of her blouse was torn. There was a bruise on her arm and she was hysterical. She . . .” She swallowed. “You're saying she made it all up? You didn't . . . ?”

Buddy gave her a steady look. “I am saying she
lied
to you, Miss Higgens, pure and simple. It's true that Rona Jean got mad at me after we had supper together, but it wasn't because I slapped her around.” He was too much of a gentleman to say that Rona Jean had gotten mad at him because he rejected her advances. “It's also true,” he added evenly, “that she wrote me a letter afterward.”

Now that he thought about it, he wondered if some of
the things Rona Jean had written to him had come to her mind after she had talked to Bettina. He didn't know much about psychology, but he'd seen hysterical people. Maybe the things she put in the letter began to seem real to her when she told them to her roommate, especially if her roommate believed her and commiserated with her.

“A letter?” Bettina asked uncertainly. “What kind of letter?”

Buddy met her eyes. “Not a nice one, and that's all I'm going to say about it.”

It hadn't been out-and-out blackmail—somehow, it was more naïve than that, or maybe she was only half trying. But the letter had ended with several thinly veiled threats that could have been read as blackmail. Buddy wasn't the kind of person who was easily intimidated, but he'd admit to being relieved when that letter wasn't followed by a demand of some sort. Relieved, yes, and angry, too. But mostly angry at himself, for getting into that position. He was just damned lucky. She could have caused all kinds of nasty trouble for him, and since there weren't any witnesses, it would have been hard to defend himself.

And then another thought came to him. If Rona Jean had behaved that way toward him, maybe she had done the same thing with one of the other fellows she was seeing. Maybe the letter to him was just practice, and with her next attempt, she got serious. Something like that—blackmail, more or less—could very well be a motive for murder, couldn't it?

Buddy stood. “You mentioned a diary. I need to see it. I'd like to take a look at her room, too. And then I'll get out of your hair.”

Without a word, Bettina got up and left the room. Buddy followed her.

The Dahlias Do Business

Verna closed the Dahlias' treasurer's ledger and sat back in her chair, satisfied. “Looks to me like we did pretty well, girls. We netted forty-two dollars and seventy-four cents, after expenses. That's not shabby.”

“It's a lot better than last time,” Liz replied. “And the time before that, we didn't even break even.”

“The difference is that we sold a lot more plants,” Ophelia put in. “Getting members to commit to the plant sale a couple of months ahead was a real good idea. They had everything potted up and ready to go, and the plants looked great. They practically sold themselves.”

Three of the garden club officers (Elizabeth Lacy, president; Ophelia Snow, vice president; and Verna Tidwell, treasurer) were holding an early morning business meeting in the clubhouse kitchen to discuss the results of the recent Dahlias garden club tour and plant sale, held at the beginning of June, when the gardens were at their peak.

Twice a year, the Dahlias—Darling's only garden club—invited the public to tour their famous gardens. They charged a small admission fee and donated the money to the town's relief fund, where it was needed and welcomed. The Depression had hit Darling hard. Businesses had failed, people were out of work, and those who had nothing needed all the help they could get. Of course, it went without saying that nobody wanted to be on government relief. They were all used to working hard and making their own way in the world, and taking money when you hadn't earned it was a terrible blow to a person's pride.

But people did what they had to do to keep their families together, and if that meant accepting help from neighbors and friends . . . well, that seemed somehow different from accepting handouts from Uncle Sam—and better. For one thing, it wasn't called relief, it was called “community assistance.” For another, it was a comfort to know that their fellow townspeople cared and were willing to pitch in and help where they could. It meant they weren't alone.

Still, in such dire times, it would be easy to say that the town could do without a garden club. Who cared about pretty flowers when mothers couldn't afford to buy milk? But the Dahlias had proved themselves to be a valuable asset to Darling. Their vegetable garden helped to feed the town's hungry families (on both sides of the L&N tracks). The flowers they tended on the courthouse square kept people's spirits from flagging. And their garden tours raised money for the relief fund. Nobody could say that the Darling Dahlias' interests were purely decorative.

“One more item,” Liz reminded them. “The flowers for the Miss Darling float.” The Fourth of July parade was coming up next Wednesday, and the Dahlias were responsible for decorating the float that would carry Miss Darling and
Little Miss Darling. This year, it would be a special treat to decorate the float, since Violet's and Myra May's daughter, Cupcake, had been chosen as Little Miss Darling. “Earlynne is in charge of this project. She asked Myra May to call all the club members and remind them that we need their contributions early that morning. If they don't show up by nine o'clock, we can't guarantee that we'll use their stuff.”

“I hope Myra May remembers to tell people that potted plants—especially marigolds and zinnias and begonias, annuals with lots of color—are better than cut flowers,” Verna remarked. “Especially if it's windy.” One year, they had decorated the float entirely with cut flowers and the wind made a mess of everything.

“I'm bringing three big ruffled ferns,” Ophelia said. “They'll make a nice display around the throne. And Aunt Hetty promised her parlor palm—the same one she brought last year.”

“Sounds good,” Liz said. “We need rain, but let's hope it doesn't rain on our parade. The kids always look forward to it. I hate to see them disappointed.”

“The WALA weather forecast said we could get thunderstorms today,” Ophelia said. “That big storm south of Mobile—the one that crossed Florida and ended up in the Gulf—is predicted to head inland.”

“Maybe it'll break the heat,” Verna said, pushing her hair off her forehead. “It's another hot one.”

The business part of their meeting finished, the officers could relax and chat. Ophelia brought a plate of old-fashioned jam thumbprint cookies to the table. Liz, who was wearing a yellow voile dress with cap sleeves and peasant-style embroidery, put their papers away. And Verna took a pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator.

“I guess you heard about Rona Jean Hancock getting killed,” she said, refilling everyone's glasses. Stylishly thin,
of medium height, Verna had recently adopted a new look, with short, straight, easy-care hair that fitted her head like a glossy dark helmet. Today, she was wearing a khaki shirtwaist dress with pockets in a flared skirt.

“My mother heard it on her party line first thing this morning and hurried across the street to tell me,” Liz said. “I didn't really know Rona Jean, but I felt I did, just because she was there on the other end of the telephone line. I was
shocked
.”

In a way, Lizzy thought, the girls who worked on the Exchange were the best-known girls in town, even if you didn't always recognize them when you saw them on the street. Everyone could identify their voices when they said, “Number, please,” or “Sorry, that line is busy,” or “Mrs. Musgrove just went over to the church to help get the tables ready for the supper tonight. If you need her, I'll ring the Baptist parsonage.” Every single person in town would be touched by Rona Jean's loss—and wondering who in the world could have killed her, and why.

“It's a tragedy,” Verna agreed, sitting down.

Lizzy took a cookie. “Does anybody have more details?” She worked in Mr. Moseley's law office and had learned the truth of what Mr. Moseley liked to say: the devil was truly in the details.

“Charlie told me that Doc Roberts is doing an autopsy,” Ophelia replied. Short and nicely rounded, with a cherubic face, flyaway brown hair, and an irrepressible optimism, Ophelia usually wore a wide smile that showed pretty white teeth. She wasn't smiling now, though. “I'm sure that Charlie will handle the story,” she added, and if Liz and Verna thought they heard some envy in her voice, they would be right.

Ophelia worked part-time for Charlie Dickens at the
Dispatch.
She operated the Linotype machine, sold advertising, and wrote up stories for the women's page. She was dying to
do some serious reporting, but Charlie was in the habit of assigning her to “soft” news—the baby shows and women's club meetings—and keeping the hard news (what there was of it) for himself. When she had started her new part-time job at Camp Briarwood, though, he'd asked her to write a column about the camp's activities. And he'd come up with a new investigative assignment for her that sounded intriguing. In fact, the story was so important that he'd made her swear not to tell anybody—not even her Dahlia friends—about her investigation, which intrigued her even more.

“An autopsy?” Lizzy turned her lemonade glass in her long, slim fingers, her nails clipped short because she spent hours at the typewriter every day. “But they already know how Rona Jean died, don't they? I understand that she was . . . strangled. With her own stocking.”

In Benton Moseley's law office, Lizzy often had to deal with the grimier, grittier side of life. But murder wasn't often on the agenda, and it certainly wasn't something she liked to dwell on. She was creative and imaginative, a romantic who preferred to think of things that gave her pleasure, like her sweet little house and her garden and especially her writing—her new book, for instance. At least, she
hoped
it was going to be a new book. She didn't know for sure yet, but she had her fingers crossed.

Liz's best friend Verna, on the other hand, operated out of an entirely different frame of mind. Pragmatic, realistic, and unsentimental, Verna served as the Cypress County probate clerk and newly elected county treasurer—the first woman in the entire state of Alabama to be elected to that important job. From her office on the second floor of the courthouse, she witnessed most of the grimier doings that went on across the county. Just last month, for instance, she had found out that the contractor who had low-bid the new bridge out on the
Jericho Road was billing the county for twice as many steel trusses as the specifications called for. She hadn't let him get away with it, either. She reported it to the county commissioners, who made him return the trusses, reduced his billing accordingly, and levied a sizable fine. Verna's habit of cracking down on wrongdoers didn't earn her a lot of friends, but she never apologized for it.

“Yes, an autopsy.” Verna sat back down at the table and took a Pall Mall cigarette out of the handbag hanging on the back of her chair. “To find out if she was sexually assaulted. She was strangled with her stocking and her body was found in a . . . suggestive position. In the front seat of Myra May's car. I heard that from Myra May herself,” she added, “when I stopped at the diner for a cup of coffee.”

“Oh dear.” Lizzy closed her eyes, not wanting to think about it. “Oh, poor Rona Jean.”

“Maybe it was just sex,” Ophelia remarked hopefully. “Without the assault, I mean. I wonder if Doc Roberts can tell the difference.” She made a rueful face. “Either way, of course, Charlie can't print it in the paper. He says that if the
Dispatch
had a motto, it would be ‘Only the news that's fit to be read—by your mother.'” She took a cookie for herself.

Liz shook her head. “Poor Charlie. He's a serious newspaperman. I know he hates to leave stuff out.”

“Doesn't have to be in the
Dispatch
,” Verna reminded them, lighting her cigarette. “You know Darling. News—especially if it's got anything to do with sex—gets around so fast it'll make your head swim. An hour after Doc Roberts is finished, the autopsy result will be all over town.”

“Make that half an hour,” Ophelia said.

Verna pulled down her mouth. “Unfortunately, getting the news fast doesn't guarantee that it'll be accurate. Somebody
will get it wrong, and the next person will get it even more wrong, and so on. The news you hear may not be the
real
news.”

“Well, Doc Roberts can set people straight,” Lizzy said. “And Buddy Norris. I'm sure he'll get all the facts in his investigation.”

“Maybe not Buddy Norris.” Verna sipped her lemonade. “I stopped at the post office before I came over here, and I heard that there might be a problem with Buddy Norris working on this case.”

Ophelia gave her a puzzled look. “But Buddy Norris is the sheriff. Why
wouldn't
he investigate? And if he doesn't, who else could?”

“That's a good question, Opie,” Verna said thoughtfully. “I suppose Deputy Springer might, but—”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, Verna,” Ophelia scoffed. “Wayne Springer is new on the job and besides, nobody knows him. He comes from Birmingham. People won't even want to talk to him.” She paused. “Anyway, you didn't answer my question. What's wrong with Buddy Norris? He's the sheriff now—why shouldn't he do his job?”

“Because he was involved with the victim.” Verna got up to find an ashtray.

“Involved?” Lizzy frowned. “How do you mean?”

Verna put the ashtray on the table and sat back down. “I overheard Leona Ruth Adcock telling Mrs. Magee that she looked through Rona Jean's kitchen window and saw the two of them hugging and kissing. Buddy and Rona Jean, I mean.”

“Through the
window
?” Lizzy rolled her eyes. But she wasn't surprised. Leona Ruth had a reputation for looking where she shouldn't be looking and then telling all her friends what she had seen.

Ophelia shook her head disgustedly. “Nobody ever believes
more than half of anything Leona Ruth says. Anyway, even if it's true, there's no law against a kiss or two.”

“No, but there could be a problem if the kissee gets killed and the kisser is supposed to find out who dunnit,” Verna pointed out. “Some people might suspect a cover-up—or a frame-up.”

Taking a second cookie, Lizzy suppressed a smile. Verna was a mystery fan, and her vocabulary sometimes gave her away.

“Anyway,” Verna went on, “it doesn't matter whether Leona was telling the truth or not. Mrs. Magee seemed to believe her. She'll probably tell everybody in her Sunday school class tomorrow, and they'll think they got the word from God.”

“I hadn't heard about Buddy Norris,” Lizzy observed, “but Rona Jean was certainly seeing somebody else. She got quite a few hugs and kisses from that guy, too.”

“Oh yeah?” Verna tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Who was he?”

“Somebody from the CCC camp,” Lizzy said. “He was wearing a uniform. Mr. Moseley and I saw the two of them at the movie house over in Monroeville.” Just thinking of it made her blush. “They were sitting a couple of rows in front of us.”