The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

The rain was coming down harder now, and the wind was beginning to blow in gusts that whipped tree branches and whirled flying leaves through the air. Buddy drove to the small cabin and ducked through the rain to the porch, where he knocked on the captain’s door. The man who opened it was a slender forty-five or so with round wire-rimmed glasses, thick brown hair, and a precisely trimmed mustache. He was wearing a neatly pressed uniform.

“Captain Campbell?” Buddy asked, and pulled out his ID. “Buddy Norris, sheriff over at Darling. Need to talk to you about a problem we’ve got in town.”

“Sheriff,” the captain said in a clipped Yankee accent, and put out his hand. “Looks like you and I won’t be having dinner together tonight, after all. I just learned that Mrs. Tidwell has postponed our little party because of the storm.”

“So I heard,” Buddy said, shaking the captain’s hand. “Too bad for us. That lady makes the best chicken pot pie in town.”

“About your problem,” the captain said. “I was about to call and offer our assistance. It looks like the worst of the storm will stay south of us, but there’ll be plenty of rain. If you anticipate any flooding in Darling, I can send some of our boys to help out—equipment, too, depending on what you need.”

“Thanks,” Buddy said. “I may take you up on the offer. But the storm isn’t my problem, Captain. At least, it’s not my only problem.” He took a deep breath, feeling rattled. “I mean, it’s not what I’m here for. We had a murder in Darling last night. I have reason to suspect that one of your men may be involved.”

“A murder?” the captain asked, startled. He took his glasses off and regarded Buddy with concern. “One of my men? Who? Are you sure? What’s your evidence?”

“No, I’m not sure. Not yet. And the evidence is mainly circumstantial—at this point, anyway. That’s why I need to talk to him.” Buddy outlined the situation briefly, ending with, “I would like to take your motor pool log as evidence. And I want to take Corporal Andrews back to the sheriff’s office in Darling for questioning, and for fingerprinting.”

“Andrews?” With a troubled look, the captain put his glasses back on. “There were fingerprints at the scene of the crime?”

“Yes,” Buddy said truthfully. There were, indeed, quite a few fingerprints. It was not yet clear whether the murderer’s prints were among them.

He added, “If you feel that you need to send an officer with the corporal, or accompany him yourself, I have no problem with that.” He wasn’t sure about Army protocol or where federal law fit into this—he’d have to ask Mr. Moseley. But he was damn sure that a murder in Darling was his business, and that it was an Alabama law that had been violated.

A muscle twitched in the captain’s jaw. “I’d like to take a look at that log first. Andrews is here at the camp—I saw him heading for the mess hall a little while ago. I’ll go with him when you’re ready to take him into town.” He took down the khaki-colored raincoat that hung on the rack beside the door. “I’m hoping it’s all just a mistake, and that Corporal Andrews is innocent. But of course I want to see it straightened out, and the guilty man brought to justice.”

“I do, too, Captain,” Buddy said fervently. “And the sooner the better.”

A few moments later, the two of them were in the shack next to the motor pool parking lot, their raincoats streaming water onto the floor. They were looking at the log, with Homer standing at attention, blinking. The afternoon had darkened to the point where he had gotten out an oil lamp and lit it, since the shack had no electricity. Outside, the lightning flared and the wind was blowing the rain almost horizontal.