The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Charlie shook his head. “I really don’t think you need to—”

“Money’s tight these days.” Buddy pulled the desk calendar toward him and tore off the day’s page. “You take it and keep your mouth shut.” He pushed the page toward Charlie, with the pencil. “Just you write me a receipt, signed and dated. That’ll take care of it.”

“If you insist,” Charlie said, and wrote the receipt. “Thanks, Buddy. I appreciate it.” He took the money and folded it into his wallet. “Rona Jean also told Fannie the names of the men she’d been with, either of whom could have been the father. She named Lamar Lassen and Beau Pyle.”

“Yeah, those are the names I have.” Buddy paused. “Did she mention Bodeen Pyle?”

Charlie shook his head. “No, but I don’t suppose that means much. There could be somebody else. Somebody who couldn’t marry her because he was already married. Maybe she threatened to tell his wife if he didn’t cough up enough to take care of her and the kid. Maybe he was trying to protect his reputation—and his job. Maybe—”

Buddy sighed. “All that, too,” he said. “Look, Charlie, I know you’re a newspaperman and you like to print stories, and even speculations, when they fit your story.”

That’s true, Charlie thought. Sometimes speculations were the story. And sometimes a speculation could itself be a fact, even a valuable fact.

“But I’m in law enforcement,” the sheriff went on, “and speculation isn’t enough for me. I need real facts—who did what, when, how, that kind of thing. If you’ve got any facts, I’ll be glad to hear them.” He paused, pushing his lips in and out. “Especially anything connecting Rona Jean with somebody out at the CCC camp.”

Charlie raised both eyebrows. “You think maybe some fellow out there—”

“Not namin’ names,” Buddy said. “But I’ve been told that Rona Jean was seeing some guy who rides one of those Army motorcycles. You see that bike around town, you give me a holler. Okay?”

“Okay,” Charlie said, then added, “I was in the diner yesterday and heard somebody talking about a motor pool out at the camp. Maybe that’s something you could check out.”

“Oh yeah?” Buddy said. “Sure. I can do that. Thanks for the suggestion.”

Charlie stood up, thinking that Buddy Norris, hometown boy or not, had the makings of a pretty fine sheriff, after all. He thought briefly of mentioning Mata Hari’s tip, then decided against it. Buddy might think he should be involved, and Charlie wasn’t ready to hand any part of his story to anybody else—at least, not yet. Anyway, it wasn’t connected to the Hancock murder. And that’s what Buddy had to focus on right now.

“Thanks, Sheriff,” he added. “And yes, you’ll hear from me if I turn up anything that’s connected to your case.” He chuckled ruefully. “But don’t count on it. I just report the news. I don’t make it.”

Charlie didn’t know it, of course, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.


*

After Charlie left, Buddy picked up his hat and went into the workroom. To his deputy, he said, “What I was saying when Charlie Dickens came in was that Miz Hart saw somebody from the camp over behind the diner, night before last. He rode off on a green military Harley. I’m going out to the CCC camp. If there’s a motor pool out there, maybe there’s a log or some way of checking out vehicles. If I can find out who drove a motorcycle into town last night, I’ll bring him back with me.” He grinned crookedly. “I’d rather question him here than at the camp, where he might have friends.”