The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Buddy swallowed. He didn’t want to think about that.

Mr. Moseley sat forward and put his elbows on his desk. “All right, then, Sheriff, here is the opinion you asked for. Seems like you already know several rather important things about this young lady’s modus operandi. What you know may be a help as you try to find out who killed her and why, which clearly puts you at an advantage in this investigation. Furthermore, if we bring in the state police, they’re going to take matters out of our hands. There’s no telling what’ll happen after that, or whether they would be any more or less successful than you would be. But I would prefer not to lose local control.”

Modus operandi. Buddy frowned, remembering that he had read about that in the scientific crime detection manual he had bought. “Her . . . mode of operation?”

“Well, you just reflect on it for a minute, son.” Mr. Moseley put his pipe in his mouth and leaned back again. “What makes you think you were the only lucky fella whom this young lady favored with her attentions?”

Now Buddy felt even more foolish. “Yeah,” he muttered.

Of course. He’d already had the idea that he wasn’t the first guy she was with—she was too experienced for that. She knew where to put her hands and what to do with them once she got them there. But he hadn’t thought of it as Rona Jean’s modus operandi. Just an awkward situation that he had gotten himself into and hadn’t managed very well. Mr. Moseley’s question put what had happened into an entirely different context. He would have to think about it.

Mr. Moseley eyed him. “Doc Roberts is doing an autopsy?”

“Right. We put her in Lionel Noonan’s hearse and Lionel drove her over to Monroeville.”

“Well, we’ll know soon enough, then.”

Know what? Buddy was still trying to figure that out when Mr. Moseley knocked his pipe into the green glass ashtray on his desk and said, in a formal tone, “With regard to this criminal case, Sheriff Norris, and acting as Cypress County attorney, I am instructing you to go ahead and do whatever has to be done to apprehend Miss Hancock’s killer. If anybody gives you any trouble about your relationship with her, don’t try to explain, just refer them to me. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.” Buddy felt a great relief. “Thank you, Mr. Moseley,” he said again, emphatically. “I really appreciate it.”

“That’s what they pay me for, although they don’t pay me much.” Mr. Moseley gave him a cheerful smile. “What’ve you got planned for today?”

“Well, I’ve talked to Violet Sims—she found the body. The two of them were real good friends.”

“Ah,” Mr. Moseley said thoughtfully. “Good friends, were they?”

Buddy nodded. “Next up on the list is Bettina Higgens, the roommate. I’m hoping she can give me a list of girlfriends, names of the men Rona Jean—Miss Hancock—went out with.” He colored and added hurriedly, “I’ll talk to them, then canvass the neighborhood, find out if anybody saw or heard anything last night or this morning. Also, I’ll talk to the girls she worked with at the Exchange. And Myra May,” he added.

Mr. Moseley put his pipe into the holder on the desk and gave him a sharp look. “You think Myra May could be involved?” His voice had a particular edge.

“I don’t know,” Buddy replied, wondering what exactly Mr. Moseley meant by “involved.” He spoke tentatively. “Violet told me that Myra May was working in the kitchen until midnight. Maybe she heard something.”