The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“I have,” Charlie agreed. “But I didn’t reckon on setting foot in the middle of a murder investigation.”


“Snow,” Wayne muttered, taking a handful of pink slips off his table. “Snow. Ophelia Snow. There’s a message here somewhere— Here it is.” He handed the pink slip to Charlie. “Said she called your apartment and your wife told her you headed here after lunch, so she left a message.”

Charlie took the pink slip. On it, the deputy had written: Mrs. Snow’s got the list Dickens asked for and something else he didn’t. Call her or go over there as quick as you can. He looked up at Wayne.

“Something else? Something I didn’t ask for?” he asked curiously. “Did she say what it was?”

“Nope. She was pretty excited about it, though.” Wayne picked up a yellow tablet and headed for the door. “On my way to take care of the Murphy interview.”

The sheriff put out his hand. “Thanks, Dickens. I owe you. I’m going back in the office and lay out what you’ve given us. Andrews is pretty spooked just now. This might be all we need to get a confession out of him.”

Charlie grinned. “You owe me. That must mean that I get the story. Right?”

“That’s what it means,” Buddy said. “You get the story.”


*

Charlie left Lucy at the sheriff’s office, then drove around the corner to the apartment to let Fannie know that he was safe. But despite her entreaties, he couldn’t stay. He changed into some dry clothes and drove through the pouring rain and branch-littered streets to Ophelia’s house.

“Charlie!” she gasped when she opened the door. “You shouldn’t have come out in this! It’s terrible out there!”

“It’s not as bad as it was earlier this afternoon,” Charlie said, thinking of what he and Lucy Murphy had been through. “The wind has died down and people are starting to clear their streets. I think the worst of the storm missed us. But there are still a lot of limbs down.”

“And wires,” Ophelia said, leading him into the parlor. “Our lights have been out for several hours.” She took matches out of a drawer and lit a kerosene lamp on the table next to the overstuffed chair and another on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “The family’s in the kitchen playing cards, so we’ll talk in here. But first I’ll go and get the papers I want to show you. And something for us to drink.”

A few moments later she was back with a sheaf of papers under her arm and a tray with two cups, a teapot, and a sugar bowl. She sat down next to Charlie on the sofa and poured their tea.

“I went to the quartermaster’s office this morning and got what you asked for—a list of all the suppliers who are due to get checks. I knew what to look for, because it’s the voucher list I typed last week. Here it is.” She put down a two-page list.

“Swell!” Charlie said with enthusiasm. “That’s what I was hoping you’d get.” He picked up the list and flipped through it. “The sheriff can use it to corroborate Lucy’s claims about the bribery.”

“What?” Ophelia frowned at him, puzzled. “The sheriff? What bribery? And how is Lucy Murphy involved in this?”

“It’s a long story,” Charlie said, feeling that he’d jumped the gun. “Let’s finish this part of it first.”

“Well . . .” Still frowning, Ophelia put down another typed list. “When I took my list out of the file, I found this one there, too. It had to have been typed by Sergeant Webb, because I didn’t do it, and Corporal Andrews doesn’t type.” She smiled ruefully. “Sergeant Webb asked me to teach him, but the poor guy just can’t seem to get the hang of it. It’s a real problem for him.”

“Mmm,” Charlie said, thinking that the corporal’s inability to type was the least of his problems now. He was facing indictment for murder. He could get the death penalty.