The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“Yessir, Captain,” Homer said, in answer to Captain Campbell’s question. “Corporal Andrews forgot to sign for the Harley, but I was here when he took it out last night. He brought it back after I went off duty at eleven. He had it on Thursday night, too, the way the log says.” He glanced up and through the window and his face brightened. “Say, here he comes now. You can ask him yourself. He’ll tell you.”


The door opened with a gust of wet wind that nearly blew out the lamp, and a broad-shouldered, well-built man stepped inside. He had pale blue eyes and close-clipped brown hair. He was wearing civilian clothes—a plaid shirt, jeans, and rubber boots—under a half-open hooded yellow slicker, and carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and dropped the heavy bag on the floor.

“Hey, Homer,” he said, “I’m going to need a—” He broke off when he saw the captain and Buddy. “Sorry. I see you’re busy.” He stooped to pick up the duffel bag. “I’ll come back later.”

“Corporal Anderson,” the captain said crisply, “this is Sheriff Norris, from Darling. He’s investigating an unfortunate incident that took place in town last night, and I’m placing you in his custody. You can leave that duffel bag here. I’ll have somebody stow it in your quarters.”

The corporal straightened up and looked at Buddy, whose open raincoat showed the sheriff’s badge pinned to his shirt pocket. His mouth dropped open, snapped shut. There was an instant’s sheer panic in his pale eyes, then determination. His face hardened, and he whirled on one foot, yanked the door open, and bolted through it into the rain.

“Hey!” Homer yelled. “You forgot to sign the Harley in last night!”

“Corporal Andrews!” the captain shouted. “Stop! That’s an order! The sheriff wants to talk to you about—”

But the corporal didn’t obey the order and Buddy wasn’t wasting his breath on talk. He sprinted through the open door and out onto the parking lot. Andrews was hotfooting it across the open space, dodging puddles and aiming for a patch of woods on the other side of the road. But Buddy had been a champion sprinter in high school, and he had never failed to win the hundred-yard dash. He may not have run much in the past few years, but he still had the legs and the wind, and he was younger. And definitely faster.

Andrews vaulted a split-rail fence that ran along the road. He stumbled, staggered, caught himself, and half turned, shoving a hand into his raincoat pocket. He pulled out a handgun and raised it to fire, then turned, gun in hand, and kept running across the road, toward the nearby woods.

Buddy cleared the fence easily. He caught up with Andrews, threw a flying tackle at the back of his knees, and brought him facedown, hard, in a patch of gravel. The gun went flying and skidded under a flowering clump of Joe Pye weed. Swearing, Andrews struggled to push himself up, but Buddy scrambled to his feet, pushed the struggling man’s shoulders down, and planted a knee squarely in the middle of his back. Breathing hard—the sprint across the parking lot was more exercise than he’d had for a while—he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt, pulled Andrews’ arms together behind his back, and cuffed his wrists.

Captain Campbell ran up. He took one arm and Buddy the other, and together they pulled Andrews to his feet. His forehead, nose, and mouth were bleeding where he had slammed into the gravel. His head was hanging and he was gulping air, but he still had some fire left in him.

“What the devil—” he sputtered. He raised his head and licked the blood off his lips. “What’s all this? Why did you—?”

“Because you ran,” Buddy said. “It would have been smart not to, Andrews. And smart not to draw a gun on a police officer. It’s a good way to get yourself shot.” He retrieved the gun, a Colt 1911 automatic, and handed it to Captain Campbell. In his official voice, he added, “I’m taking you in for questioning in the murder of Rona Jean Hancock.”

“Murder? The hell you say!” Face working, eyes wide and showing panic, Andrews appealed to the captain. “I’m innocent, Captain! I don’t even know Rona Jean Hancock!”

“Then you won’t object to having your fingerprints taken and answering the sheriff’s questions,” the captain replied calmly.