The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“The vehicles in this lot are for—” He saw the badge and blinked.

“Sheriff Norris,” Buddy said, and took out his official wallet ID. Sheriff Burns had never bothered with identification, since everybody in Cypress County knew him. But it had come in handy for Buddy a time or two, as it did now. The young man put the comic book aside and straightened his shoulders.

“Yessir,” he said. “Lookin’ for something in particular?”

“A log of the vehicles that are checked out. You got one?”

“Yessir.” The young man hesitated. “But maybe you should ask Captain Campbell.”

“I can do that,” Buddy said. “Or I can get a warrant. But all I really want right now is just to take a quick look. That okay with you?”

The young man considered. “You’re the law,” he said after a moment. He reached behind him, took a canvas-covered ledger off a shelf, and handed it over.

“Thanks,” Buddy said. He raised an eyebrow. “You got a name?”

“Homer,” the young man said. “Homer Kennedy. Sir.”

“Thanks, Homer.” Buddy opened the ledger to the most recent entries and ran his finger down the ruled columns. Yes, there it was, he saw, with mounting excitement. On Thursday night, one of the motorcycles—the Harley—had been checked out at seven thirty p.m. and checked in at eleven forty p.m. Next to that entry was the pencil signature R. Andrews. Last night, the Harley had gone out at eight fifteen. There was no name next to the Harley checkout time, though, and it hadn’t been checked back in.

Buddy looked up. “You on duty last night, Homer?”

“Yessir.” The young man sighed and rubbed his short-clipped hair. “Just my luck. I was goin’ to town to play some pool. But Jerry—he was supposed to be here last night—cut his foot on a shovel real bad and had to go to the infirmary. So I got his duty. Three to eleven.”

“No curfew?” Buddy asked. “No specific time these vehicles have to be back in?”

“You kiddin’?” Homer laughed shortly. “Not for the Army guys. They pretty much come and go as they please. Us CCC boys, we got rules. We got to take the bus.”

Buddy turned the book so Homer could see the empty space next to the Friday night entry. “Who took the Harley out last night?”

Homer scowled down at the page. “Must’ve forgot to sign for it when he took it out. Reckon he brought it back after I went off duty last night, ’cause it was here this morning.” He pointed toward the motorcycle shed. “That’s it, the one on the left, the big one. It’s what he always rides.” He opened a drawer and looked inside. “He put the ignition key back where it belongs, too. So we’re square. But I’ll remind him to sign before he takes it out again.”

“And who was that?” Buddy asked, although he already knew.

“Corporal Andrews,” Homer answered. “Same one who took it out on Thursday night. Like I said, he likes to ride that Harley.” He cast a judicious eye to the sky. “Reckon he won’t be takin’ it out today, though. Not unless he figures on gettin’ wet.”

“You’re a good man, Homer,” Buddy said, handing the ledger back. “I’m going to need this. Don’t let anybody walk off with it.” He paused, thinking out his next steps, since this was about to become very official. “Where can I find your camp commander?”

“Captain’s quarters,” Homer said promptly, stowing the ledger. “He brought one of the cars back thirty minutes ago, and I saw him hoofin’ it back to his place.” He pointed. “Over that way, second building on the left.”