The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

There was a moment’s silence. “I don’t know.” Bettina’s voice was apprehensive. “I guess about Rona Jean. About—you know. Who it was might have wanted to . . . kill her.”


Beulah laughed lightly. “I don’t know what makes Buddy Norris think you know anything about that.” She paused, then couldn’t help asking, “You don’t, do you?” What a silly question. Of course Bettina didn’t know anything. What could she possibly know?

There was another silence. Bettina took a breath. “Anyway, I’ll be in as soon as the sheriff is finished with his questions. I hope it won’t be too long.”

Now, Earlynne met Beulah’s eyes in the mirror. “Murder is a terrible thing,” she said in a significant tone. “I sincerely hope Bettina isn’t involved.”

“I can’t think of a reason why she should be,” Beulah replied evenly, plying her scissors and comb.

“The two of them were living together, weren’t they?” Leona Ruth put in. To Beulah’s annoyance, she got up, walked across the room, and plunked herself down in Bettina’s empty haircutting chair, where she turned one of the fans directly on herself.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean Bettina is in on any of Rona Jean’s secrets.” Quietly, Beulah reached for the fan and moved it to its original position. She didn’t like to disagree with her customers—clients, she preferred to call them. She believed that true beauty came from within. It was produced by a harmony of spirit, and disagreements were definitely inharmonious. But Leona Ruth was disagreeable and mean-spirited. She could start an argument all by herself in an empty room, and Beulah had long since given up on making her truly beautiful. The most she could do was keep Leona Ruth’s hair curled, and even that was a challenge.

“Well, I hope not.” Leona Ruth pursed her lips and looked down her long, thin nose. “If you’re interested, I can tell you that Rona Jean herself was keeping a secret or two.” With a knowing look, she hummed a bar or two of “Say It Isn’t So.”

“A secret or two?” Bessie lowered her magazine and regarded Leona Ruth with a frown. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, no special reason,” Leona Ruth replied with an elaborate carelessness. Shoving with the toe of her leather lace-up pump, she rotated Bettina’s chair so she could look at Bessie. “Everybody has secrets, Bessie. Lots of them.”

Aunt Hetty pushed up the hair dryer, scowling. “Other folks’ secrets have nothing to do with Rona Jean Hancock getting murdered, Leona Ruth. If you are going to tell us something, say it straight out. Don’t imply. It isn’t polite.” Aunt Hetty, who was past eighty and Darling’s acknowledged grande dame, was probably the only person in town who dared to talk snippy to Leona Ruth, who wouldn’t dare make a retaliatory move against Aunt Hetty.

Leona Ruth folded her arms across her thin chest. “You ladies may not be aware of this,” she replied defensively, “but Bettina and Rona Jean live in that little yellow house behind me, on the next street over from Rosemont. My bedroom window looks right across the alley into their kitchen.” She dropped her voice. “And their bedrooms.”

Beulah stopped snipping. Earlynne took a breath. Aunt Hetty’s eyes narrowed.

“So?” Bessie asked. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying that I am an eyewitness,” Leona Ruth said. “I can see—”