The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“You think he killed her.” Charlie was suddenly frozen in the understanding that his two big stories—Rona Jean’s murder and the kickback scheme—were one single story, a story that was bigger than anything he had ever written.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so. I don’t know for sure, but I think so.” She was struggling with the words. “I don’t think he planned it, though. I think she taunted him until he got so angry that he lost his head and just . . . just did it. I can’t prove any of this—I don’t have even a single clue, except what I know about her demand. But I know him and I heard what happened to her and I can’t live with myself if I don’t tell what I know.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you his name. But I can’t go to the sheriff. You’ll have to do that for me.” Another breath. “Please.”

She’s desperate, Charlie thought, understanding. She’s trying to do the right thing, but she’s scared. She wants to see justice done, but she doesn’t want anybody in Darling to know that she’s been romantically involved with a man who isn’t her husband, who is running a kickback racket, who might even be a killer. She’s hoping to go back to her marriage without being found out. She’s using me as a conduit to law enforcement—and a screen to hide behind.

But he couldn’t blame her for any of this, could he? He had fallen in love unwisely a time or two himself, and he understood the desperation she must be feeling. She’d paid a bribe, yes—but so had dozens of other people. And she had come forward with her suspicions about the murder, and about the suspect’s possible motive, even though she might still care for him. She could have kept quiet, but she hadn’t. He had to give her credit for that.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him. “Okay. But I still think the sheriff will want to talk to you. He won’t take my word for any of this, because it’s secondhand. It’s . . .” He groped for the legal term. “It’s hearsay. He’ll be looking for evidence. He’ll need—”

“No, please!” she cried. “I can’t talk to him. I can’t! I have to stay out of it entirely.” She hurried on. “You’ve got everything you need to expose the kickbacks and print your story. For Rona Jean’s murder, you can tell the sheriff that you got an anonymous tip that he should question Corporal Raymond Andrews, out at Camp Briarwood. And if he needs evidence, tell him to take a look at the motorcycle pool roster at the camp. Ray had to check the motorcycle out every time he drove it to town and check it in when he brought it back. He didn’t have any other way to get around.”

Corporal Andrews? Charlie was surprised. And then he wasn’t. The quartermaster’s assistant, the man who placed the ads every couple of weeks, was a good-looking man, mid-thirties, maybe forty, affable and quite charming. He was the kind of guy who could ask for a bribe and make it seem like he was doing the other person a big favor.

“Corporal Andrews,” he said aloud. “I see.”

“Yes,” she said. He could hear the muffled misery in her voice. “Tell the sheriff everything, if you want, and take all the glory. For breaking the story, for giving the sheriff a lead to the man who might have killed Rona Jean. But leave me out of it, please.”