The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“Fingerprints?” Andrews sounded surprised.

“Yeah.” Buddy chuckled. “Darling may be a rinky-dink town, but that doesn’t mean it’s got a rinky-dink police force.”

The captain pocketed the Colt. “I’m confiscating your weapon, Corporal. You may retrieve it when the sheriff clears you and returns you to the camp.”

Buddy felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. A bolt of electric-blue lightning split the air and was followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap. The storm was getting too close for comfort.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and pushed his handcuffed prisoner toward the patrol car.


*

By the time Charlie had dragged the fallen schoolhouse roof timbers off Lucy Murphy, her eyes were open and she was able, shakily, to get to her feet. “I guess there’s no need for fake names now,” she said disconsolately. “You know who I am.”

It was true. Charlie knew Lucy—and knew her husband, Ralph, who worked on the railroad and was gone during the week. “I understand why you didn’t want to reveal yourself,” he said. “I’ve always protected my confidential sources, and I’m not changing that practice now. But you’ve got to talk to the sheriff, Lucy. He needs to know what you know. It might mean the difference between catching Rona Jean’s killer and losing him.”

“What you said about that bag over my head,” Lucy said, leaning on Charlie’s arm. Her hair was wet and her blouse stuck to her revealingly. “Maybe I could do that?” She chuckled wryly, to show that she was joking.

“I hope you won’t want to,” Charlie said in a neutral tone. “The sheriff will see that your part in this is kept confidential. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope you’re right.” Lucy was glum. “I’d do anything to keep Ralph from finding out what a fool I’ve been.”

A tree had fallen across the car Lucy had parked back of the building, so they took Charlie’s, leaving the ruins of the school behind. It should have been a short drive to town, but the storm was howling around them and the few miles seemed to take forever. The wind rocked the car, the lightning struck perilously close, and the rain sheeted down so heavily that the windshield wipers were powerless to clear the glass. Driving was like running an obstacle course. At several points, downed pine trees made Loblolly Road impassable, and Charlie had to get out and slog through the driving rain and the thick, gooey mud to pull the fallen limbs and small trees out of the way. Lucy took the wheel and drove cautiously behind him, struggling to keep the car from sliding sideways off the slick track.

But at last they managed to get to the highway. Soaked to the skin, with mud up to his knees, Charlie crawled behind the wheel and drove the rest of the way to town. The streets were flooding, and trees and utility wires—electric and telephone—were down everywhere. By the time Charlie pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office, next to the sheriff’s patrol car, he was shaking.

“You ready?” he asked Lucy, who was huddled in the front seat beside him.

“No.” She sighed. “But I don’t think I have any choice. At this point, all I want to do is keep this from Ralph, if I can.”

“Hmm.” He considered this for a moment. “Look, Lucy. I think you should wait out here. I’ll go in and . . . kind of lay the groundwork. That might make it easier for you. But you’ve got to promise not to run off,” he added.

She threw up her hands with a despairing laugh. “On a day like this? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Inside the sheriff’s office, the electricity was out and the deputy was at his table, working by the light of a kerosene lamp. There was an empty Dr Pepper bottle in front of him, covered with dark gray fingerprint dust. He turned to look at Charlie. “Man, oh, man, you are wet.”