The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“And of course, once the suppliers have accepted the terms,” Mata Hari said, “they’ve broken the law, too. They’ve become criminals, and if they balk, they’ll be reminded of that fact.” Charlie could hear the bitterness in her voice. “Which means that nobody’s going to tell what he’s done. Everybody will keep on bidding and keep on paying the bribe. Even if they don’t get another contract, they’ll keep their mouths shut.”


Charlie fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and his pants pocket for his lighter. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours was the rule everywhere. But when it came to government funds, quid pro quo was strictly illegal. Of course the supplier would keep his mouth shut. Bribery was a two-edged sword. Both the person who gave the bribe and the person who accepted it were equally guilty, under the law.

But still . . . He flicked a flame to his cigarette and pulled on it. “What if somebody decides not to play? What happens then?”

She laughed ironically. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Ah,” Charlie said, pocketing the lighter. And then, “Isn’t that . . . kind of dangerous?”

“I haven’t told him yet,” she said simply. “I’m hoping you’ll run the story and then it’ll all be out in the open and everything will change.”

Him. Him who? Now they were getting to the interesting part. “Okay,” Charlie said, “we’ve gotten to the part where you name names. I need to know who’s setting this up, who’s taking the bribes. I’ll be careful how I use the information, but you’re going to have to tell me.”

Something heavy smashed against the building—a limb off that old sycamore, maybe—and Charlie heard a window shatter. By the time the storm was over, he thought, every pane of glass would be gone.

“I’ll tell you,” she said flatly. “But not yet.”

Charlie scowled at Silent Cal, whose gaze seemed more sour than ever before. “Why not tell me now?”

She cleared her throat. “Because it’s bigger than I’ve said. It’s . . . this is the part where it gets really bad.”

“Sounds pretty bad already.” Charlie looked down at his notes. “I don’t know what the sentence is for bribery, but we’re talking multiple counts.” And if the man was Army, which he almost certainly was, he wouldn’t be tried in a civilian court. There would be a military court-martial, and the sentence was likely to be stiffer—not to mention that he’d be doing time in a military prison. Charlie made a note. “Any idea how many contracts we’re talking about?”

“Not really. He didn’t put the bite on all the bidders, just on the ones he thought would pay up. Where there was a lot of competition among bidders. Or where the contract was really big and he thought the bidder was anxious to get it. The first lumber contract alone, I know, was worth ten thousand dollars.”

“Yeah,” he said ironically. “Pretty damned big. He must be raking it in by the thousands, getting ready to do a quick fade.” He made another note. The money—in cash somewhere, in a bank account? In cash, if the man was smart. Bank accounts were easily traced. “Do you know where he’s keeping it?”

She didn’t answer the question. Instead, she said, “But when I say it got bad, I don’t mean that it just got big. I mean—” She broke off. When she spoke again, Charlie could hear the tears in her voice. She was speaking so low that he almost couldn’t hear what she said next. “This is where it gets to be more than just a newspaper story, Mr. Dickens. This is the part where I think you have to go to the sheriff.”

Charlie stopped writing. It had been hot when he arrived, and he’d left his jacket in the car. The storm had dropped the temperature dramatically, and his sweaty shirt was as cold against his shoulders as if he’d just taken it out of Fannie’s icebox. He shivered.

“Go to the sheriff? But a minute ago you said—”

“I know what I said.” There was a long silence. Outside, the wind was pushing like a live thing, a savage thing, against the building, and Charlie thought he could feel it shudder.