The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (9 page)

“But I'm not Dorothy Sayers,” Lizzy pointed out. “
Sabrina
is my first book. Miss Fleming says I'm lucky to have a paying job. And now that this book is done, she told me to immediately start writing another. That way, even if
Sabrina
doesn't make it, I'll have something else to send out.”

“Sounds like good advice,” Verna remarked as they crossed Dauphin Street and came onto the town square, with the imposing brick courthouse in the center. On the far side, Mr.
Greer was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the Palace Theater, getting ready for the afternoon matinee. Above his head, the marquee advertised a double feature:
King Kong
, with Fay Wray, and
Dora's Dunking Doughnuts
, featuring Shirley Temple, the curly-haired little girl that everybody had fallen in love with.

Since it was Saturday, trading day, the square was crowded with people. Farmers and their families had driven their mules and wagons or ancient Model T Fords into town to trade eggs and butter—and live chickens and fresh-picked sweet corn and watermelons—for coffee and sugar and salt and washing powder at Hancock's Grocery. Others had come to buy tools or equipment at Musgrove's Hardware or Mann's Mercantile. Young women, dressed in their best pastel voiles and floral print chiffons and white summer shoes, had come to be seen and admired, while the young men leaning nonchalantly against the storefronts had come to see and admire—and occasionally, to dare a low wolf whistle that the young women in question demurely pretended not to hear.

As Lizzy and Verna paused on the corner, surveying the crowd, Lizzy went back to the subject of the murder. “I'm afraid I can't get Rona Jean out of my mind,” she confessed. “It must be awful for Bettina, too, losing her roommate that way. I hope she'll be able to find somebody else to move in with her.”

“She'll have to,” Verna replied. “She doesn't earn enough at the Bower to afford the rent on that house all by herself.” She frowned. “You don't suppose Bettina is somehow involved in the murder, do you? I mean, I could imagine a scenario where a woman stole her roommate's boyfriend and the roommate got angry and killed her. Can't you? Theoretically, I mean.”

“I suppose so,” Lizzy said, as they were about to cross the street. “But I can't imagine Bettina Higgens doing that. I don't think she's the type to get jealous, even theoretically. Do you, really?”

“Well, still waters run deep, you know. It's very hard to know what's going on inside her. And anyway, she might know something that would give us a clue to Rona Jean's murder.”

Give
us
a clue? Lizzy smiled to herself. She understood the way Verna's mind worked. If there was something mysterious going on anywhere, Verna always wanted to know what it was, who was involved, and what they were up to—and she went to great lengths to find out, even when it was none of her business.

“Don't you think Sheriff Norris has already talked to her?” she asked. “I'd imagine that she would be at the top of his interview list.” They paused on the sidewalk. Lizzy was going straight ahead, to the post office, and Verna was turning right, to go to the grocery.

“Probably. But that doesn't necessarily mean that she told him everything she knows,” Verna remarked. “And she may know something she doesn't know. If you know what I mean.”

“Ah,” Lizzy said, with a light laugh. That was Verna, always on the case. “You're probably thinking of having a little talk with her, aren't you?”

“I'd like to,” Verna said, “but I'm not sure I'll have time today. Which brings me to the favor I wanted to ask you, Liz. Captain Campbell is coming for dinner this evening. That's why I'm going to the grocery. Mrs. Hancock is saving a stewing hen for me—only twenty cents a pound. I'm going to make a chicken pot pie.”

“Captain Campbell?” Lizzy asked. “Who's he? Didn't you just tell us you are still seeing Alvin Duffy?”

Verna had been a widow since her husband, Walter, stepped out in front of a Greyhound bus on Route 12. Their marriage had not been a happy one, and she had always sworn that another man was the last thing in the world she wanted. But
when she met Alvin Duffy, she had changed her tune. She had updated her hairstyle, gotten several chic new hats from Fannie Champaign, and bought herself some stylish new clothes.

The “new Verna” had definitely impressed Alvin Duffy. Now president of the Darling Savings and Trust, he had taken the position after the previous president, George E. Pickett Johnson, had died of a sudden heart attack. Actually, every citizen of Darling thanked the good Lord that Mr. Alvin Duffy had come along, for he was the man who—practically single-handedly—had kept the town going during the banking crises of the previous year.

“Yes, I'm still seeing Al,” Verna replied, with a wave of her hand. “Captain Campbell is a friend of his. He's also the commandant at the CCC camp and
very
good-looking—tall, dark hair, blue eyes, in his forties. His first name is Gordon. And he's a widower. I think you'll like him, Liz, even if he is a Yankee. I'm sure he'll like you.”

“
I'll
like him?” Lizzy asked, surprised.

“When you meet him. Tonight.” Verna gave her a look that just missed being anxious, and Lizzy understood that for some reason, this was important to Verna. “You will come for dinner, won't you? I mean, four for dinner is much more fun than three. Al speaks
very
highly of the captain. And of course, the CCC is doing important things for Cypress County—and can do much more, with a little encouragement.” She shook her head. “It's amazing, what a little government money can do.”

“I'm sure it is, Verna, but I don't see what that has to do with my coming to dinner.”

But Verna wasn't listening. “You probably already know about the upgrade to the Jericho Road,” she went on enthusiastically, “and the new bridge that's been built over Pine Mill Creek, to replace the one that was washed out a couple of years ago. But maybe you haven't heard about the dam they're
thinking of constructing out there. Al says it could create a sixty-acre lake. He's hoping that the CCC will build some boating and camping facilities, like the ones they built over at Sipsey River, and maybe even a lodge. Why, it might even become a state park!”

“Oh, really?” Lizzy murmured. “Mr. Duffy is such a cheerleader.” She was beginning to get the picture.

“Yes, really!” Verna waved her arms excitedly. “Just think what that would do for Cypress County, Liz! The lake would attract people from all over the state. And everybody would have to drive right through Darling to get there!” She dropped her arms. “Of course, this is all in the thinking stages now, but if it happens, it could change sleepy little Darling forever. It could catapult us into the
future
.”

Lizzy wanted to say that she liked sleepy little Darling pretty much the way it was, with its small-town heart planted, like a green and pleasant garden, in the past, not the future. But she was afraid that might sound selfish, especially when Verna was so excited about the possibilities. And maybe she was wishing for something that couldn't be. Maybe a town and its citizens always had to look toward the future, with more people and more businesses and more roads and schools and everything else that went with it. Except, of course, in fiction. Maybe that was why she had set her novel in the past.

She smiled and said what any friend would say. “So you would like me to come to dinner and be sweet to the captain. Make him want to give Darling a lake and boating facilities and a lodge.”

“Exactly!” Verna exclaimed, beaming. “Al and I first met him at a town meeting a couple of weeks ago, when he came to report on some of the possibilities for land development that the CCC officials are considering. That's when I thought of having him over for dinner—but Al didn't tell me until
this morning that he's available for tonight. Al is going to bring a map of the county and some photographs, to give the captain an idea of the terrain around the new lake.”

“It doesn't sound much like a double date,” Lizzy said with a little laugh. “It sounds more like a sales meeting—you and Al selling him on the beauties and benefits of Cypress County and the possibilities of a state park.”

Verna was unfazed. “Well, you might think of it like that, I suppose. The men are coming about seven. You'll do me a very large favor and come, too? Pretty please?”

Lizzy nodded. “Yes, I'll come. And I'll be sweet as pie to your captain.” She narrowed her eyes. “But you are going to owe me, Verna.”

“Anything you say.” Verna looked vastly relieved. “Oh, and if you see your chance, you could mention that man you saw at the movie with Rona Jean. He might be able to tell us who it was, right off the bat.”

“Yes, Miss Marple,” Lizzy said. “Can I bring something for dinner? A salad, maybe? I have cucumbers in the garden and the last of the spring lettuce. Oh, and tomatoes.”

“Perfect. We'll have chicken pot pie and fresh sweet corn, and Raylene has promised to save one of her famous lemon meringue pies for me.”

Lizzy grinned. “Well, gosh, Verna. With all that, you should be able to wrap the captain around your little finger.”

“No.” Verna returned the grin impishly. “Around
your
little
finger.”

Sheriff Norris Learns a Few Facts of Life

When Buddy followed Bettina into Rona Jean Hancock's bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the heat, for the room had been closed all night and the air was heavy and hot. The second was Rona Jean's perfume, a floral fragrance that tickled the back of his throat and made him want to sneeze.

“Blue Waltz,” Bettina replied when he asked. “From Lima's Drugstore.” She went to the window and heaved up the sash. “It's a nice perfume, as long as you don't wear too much of it.”

He agreed about the “too much” and was glad she had opened the window. The room could stand a good airing. “Maybe you could tell me where she kept her diary.”

“I have no idea. She hid it. The bedroom doors don't have any keys, and I guess she didn't trust me not to read it if she left it lying around.” She stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed. “If you don't need me, I'd better go to
work. It's a holiday coming up, and Beulah and I are going to be behind. I don't mind if you stay and look for . . . whatever.”

“Thank you.” He was glad that she wouldn't be standing there, looking over his shoulder. He added, “You've been a big help. I appreciate it.”

She looked away. “I owe you an apology. About that slapping business, I mean. I should have known that you wouldn't . . . I mean, being a sheriff and all. It's just that—well, it's happened to me, and to other girls I know. I guess I just thought . . .” She brushed a lock of brown hair off her forehead. “That all men are alike when it comes to that, I mean. It was easy to believe.”

For a moment, Buddy was struck by her vulnerability—by the vulnerability of all women. “I'm sorry,” he said. “That it happened to you, or to anybody else. That's not right.” He wanted to add that being a gentleman had nothing to do with being a sheriff, but he didn't. “Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt. I'll lock the front door when I leave.”

“Please do,” she said, and turned away. A few moments later, he heard the front door close.

He looked around, feeling large and bumbling and intrusive, like a bully on the school playground. Rona Jean's bedroom was messy. The bed was unmade, and clothes were strewn on the floor and the only chair in the room. He tried not to look at the filmy underwear, and the stockings reminded him of how she'd been strangled. There were dresses and blouses and skirts hanging haphazardly in the closet and three or four pairs of shoes on the floor. The closet shelf was crowded with various hats (Rona Jean seemed to be a collector), and a couple of hats hung on hooks on the wall. He recognized one of them, an olive green felt helmet-like affair with a peacock feather trim—the hat she had worn when they went to the Methodist pie social. He remembered it because the preacher's
wife had come up and admired it loudly and asked Buddy if he didn't like it, too, and he'd had to say that he did, when he didn't.

He wandered over to the dressing table, with bottles and tubes and little jars of makeup scattered on its top and dance cards and tickets and mementoes stuck into the mirror frame. He noticed a couple of photographs, one of Rona Jean and a man he didn't recognize, the other of Rona Jean and Violet. The photograph with the man had the name
Lamar
written on the back, and a date in the previous month. He took both and put them into his notebook.

A few moments later, he found Rona Jean's red leather diary in the bottom bureau drawer under a blue cardboard box of Kotex. He felt himself blushing as he picked up the box. One end was open and something fell onto the floor, a long and narrow white rectangular pad covered with gauzy stuff with long flaps on both ends. He picked it up quickly and stuffed it back in the box, then noticed a narrow pink elastic belt lying on the floor, probably also fallen out of the box. He picked it up, fingering it curiously and noticing two little cloth tabs with tiny brass safety pins. He had seen ads for Kotex, of course, but he'd had no clear idea what they looked like, or that a girl
pinned
them on. The rig must be pretty damned uncomfortable, he thought. Then, feeling suddenly that he had no right to be looking at something so intimately
female
, he dropped the belt back into the box and put the box in the drawer and pushed it shut.

After the Kotex and belt, the small red leather diary did not seem all that personal, and he sat down on the bed and began to leaf through it. The cover bore a gilt-embossed
1934
, and there was a separate lined page for each day, with the day's date and the day of the week printed at the top. The pages carried the scent of Rona Jean's perfume, and she
wrote in purple ink, in a loopy feminine script with a flourish of capitals and small circles for the dots over the letters
i
and
j
—the same ink and the same script in the letter she had sent him.

Unfortunately, Rona Jean had not been a dedicated diarist, and only about half of the pages were filled, mostly with rambling complaints about her work at the Telephone Exchange and her irritation with her roommate, who was (as Rona Jean put it) “not a very fun person to live with and as bad to nag as my mom about keeping things picked up.” He would study it in detail later, but he thought he should give it a quick once-over, in case there was something immediately useful. And besides, he was curious, especially about (
admit it, Norris
) what she had written about him.

He went back to April, when he had first taken her out, and found notations of their dates on three consecutive weekends. The first was headed,
Buddy Norris, church pie supper.
On that day, she wrote that she had worn her green dress and green felt hat—he'd forgotten about the dress.
Likes to have me laugh at his jokes, kissed me good night (not a very good kisser)
. Buddy squirmed, feeling his face redden. What the hell was wrong with the way he kissed? Other girls had never objected, and
she
had certainly seemed to be enjoying it at the time.

The following weekend, it was,
Buddy, CCC dance, not a very good dancer
(which was undeniably true: he didn't know his right foot from his left)
but got to dance with lots of guys.
He hadn't minded her dancing with lots of guys. In fact, he had thought it was swell that she was having so much fun. Afterward, they'd sat on the back porch where he'd kissed her and a little more, but she didn't write anything about that, whether she thought it was good or bad or just plain indifferent.

The weekend after the dance, the last weekend in April,
was when things changed.
Buddy for supper
, she had written, and under that, contemptuously,
Babe in the woods
, with a frowning face. Well, she had him pegged there, he reckoned, as far as sex was concerned. He wasn't a totally new hand at the game—there was Claudia back in high school and Irma Joy a couple of years ago and a couple of brief encounters that he didn't remember with a great deal of pride or even pleasure. But it was obvious that Rona Jean knew a heckuva lot more about sex than he did. And after his talk with Mr. Moseley this morning, he was relieved that things had turned out the way they had.

That was it for his appearances in her diary. During the first week of June, she wrote that as soon as she got the money for a ticket, she was going to hop on the railroad train and ride it to Nashville or Chicago or New York, or maybe even to San Francisco. But a couple of pages later, she wrote that leaving Darling meant leaving Violet behind, and Violet was her “one true friend.” She went on:

I haven't told Bettina anything about it, because she would only frown and make ugly faces at me. And anyway she won't do a thing but lecture. Violet is the only one I can count on in this whole entire town to help me out of this mess. She says if I go through with it, she'll give me the money for all the bills, before and after, and I can leave it there.

Which means I can save my money for a ticket. But Myra May is right. It's going to take more than just a train ticket. I want to have enough to keep me going until I can find work. Which might take a while, bad as things are these days. So I need to hold out for more.

Puzzled, Buddy took out his notebook and copied both paragraphs, noting the day they were written and underlining
help me out of this mess
and
give me the money for all the bills, before and after, and I can leave it there
. He would have to ask Violet to tell him what kind of mess it was and what kind of before-and-after bills Rona Jean was talking about. Or maybe he should ask Myra May. Or both. He considered. Yeah, maybe it would be good to get them together and ask them both at the same time—surprise them with the question, so they couldn't put their heads together and agree on an explanation. He wanted the
truth.

He went back to the beginning of the year and noted all the names of friends that he found on the pages, both men and women, along with the dates and places they'd gone, if that was included. There were other notations and abbreviations, too. On the small calendar for December 1933, and in January and February, she had made Xs on five or six of the pages, all during the first week of the month—maybe Bettina would know what that meant, or Violet. And on a couple of the pages on which she had written a name or mentioned going out with someone, she had also drawn a little Valentine heart with an arrow through it in a lower corner of the page. There were no hearts on his pages, though. Another mystery. He would definitely have to ask.

When he was finished, he looked down at his list, seeing the names of two men he knew (not including his own): Beau Pyle and Lamar Lassen, whose photograph had been displayed on Rona Jean's mirror. There were names of two other men he didn't know: Jack Baker and Ray (no last name). There were two others—not clear whether these were men or women—with just initials: B.P., who was mentioned twice, recently; and DR mentioned once, with a phone number over in Monroeville. For Friday night, last night, the night she'd been killed, there was no notation. The last name in the diary was
Violet's. They'd gone to the movies on the Sunday afternoon before Rona Jean was killed.

Buddy put his notebook in his pocket, then began looking through the drawers in the vanity table for stationery and envelopes, hoping to find an address book and maybe even a few letters. He found a flat gold box of the same unlined pink writing paper Rona Jean had used to write the letter to him. But there was no address book, and if she was saving letters other people had written to her, they weren't in the box. But he found something else of even greater interest: a stack of twenty-dollar bills—$140, when Buddy counted them out—with a rubber band around it. He looked down at the money, trying to decide what to do with it. Finally, he put it in his wallet, then wrote out a signed and dated receipt for $140 on one of his notebook pages and stuck it in Rona Jean's dressing table mirror.

He thought for a moment, remembering what Bettina had said about Rona Jean always borrowing from her. But here was $140 in twenties—a lot of money. How had she gotten it? Who gave it to her? Why? And was there more money stashed around the room?

There wasn't, at least not that he could find. A few moments later, taking the diary with him, he put on his hat, locked the front door, and left.

*   *   *

Even though Buddy left the windows rolled down as much as he could, the upholstery in the patrol car still smelled of Sheriff Burns' cigars, the cheap ones Roy bought at Pete's Pool Parlor. Buddy missed the cranky old man who had become his friend as well as his boss, and it saddened him to think he'd gotten the job of sheriff over Roy's dead body, so to speak. Well, that
was the way life was, he reckoned. You might could get what you wanted, but it came with strings, some of which you couldn't see until they started pulling on you. Roy hadn't wanted to die down in that creek canyon, Buddy knew that much. But if Roy had had a choice in the matter, Buddy was about 99 percent sure he would have pinned the star on
him.

He started the car, drove up to the corner, and made a right, then a left on Rosemont, heading toward the square. Today was Saturday, and as he drove past the Cypress County courthouse, the streets were already crowded. The courthouse was an imposing two-story red brick building with a bell tower topped by a white-painted dome. The tower had a clock that struck the quarter hours so regularly you could set your watch by it. Built in 1905 after the big tornado tore down the earlier structure, the courthouse was surrounded on all four sides by an apron of green grass bordered with pretty yellow and orange flowers planted by the Darling Dahlias. The club maintained several gardens around town, on the theory that when times were hard, a few pretty flowers went a long way toward uplifting people's low spirits. And when times were better, the same pretty flowers made people feel like celebrating the fact that they lived in a town where other people cared enough to keep things looking spiffy.