The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Buddy sat down on the chair that Bettina Higgens pointed out, and put his hat on the floor beside him. She sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped nervously.

“Sorry to have to barge in on you, Miss Higgens,” he said. “I’m sure this has got to be really tough for you, so I’ll make it as quick as I can.” Taking out his notebook, he glanced around. The little parlor was neat but sparsely furnished, and with a few feminine touches here and there—the embroidered pillow on the sofa, the anemic plant on the windowsill, a frilly doily under the lamp.

The young woman on the sofa was tall and thin, with a wide forehead, gray eyes, and high cheekbones. She didn’t think she was attractive, Buddy guessed from the way she held her shoulders. She had dressed quickly or carelessly, misbuttoning her red dress, and her shoulder-length brown hair looked as if she hadn’t taken the time to comb it since she got out of bed. She clasped and unclasped her hands and then hunched over, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I don’t know what I can tell you.” Her voice was hesitant, doubtful. “Rona Jean worked three to eleven at the Telephone Exchange five days a week, and I work eight to five at the Beauty Bower every day but Sunday. We weren’t what you’d call bosom buddies, I guess. We didn’t go places together. To tell the truth, we weren’t even home together all that often.” She cleared her throat. “To tell the truth, about the only time we talked was when she wanted to borrow money.”

Buddy glanced down at his notebook, where he had written thick as theives. But she was making it sound as if they were no more than a pair of strangers sharing the same house. Which was right?

“Borrow money?” he asked, remembering that Rona Jean’s pocketbook, which he had found on the floor of Myra May’s car, had contained one two-dollar bill in a billfold and forty-seven cents in a coin purse, along with the usual comb and makeup items.

Bettina nodded reluctantly. “She was always broke and, most months, behind on the rent.”

Always broke, Buddy wrote. “Had you been living together long?”

“Four or five months.” Bettina frowned. “No, six. We rented this place in January. It was either move in here with Rona Jean or get a room at Mrs. Brewster’s.” She told the rest of the story simply, as Buddy took notes. When she stopped talking, he jotted down just roommates. At least, that’s how she’d put it.

He cleared his throat. “What about Miss Hancock’s friends?”

Bettina lifted her eyes. “You mean, friends like . . . you?” Her expression was unreadable, but there was an unmistakable challenge in her voice. “I bet you didn’t call her ‘Miss Hancock’ the night she had you over here for supper.”

Buddy met her eyes without flinching. He wanted to answer her challenge, but now wasn’t the time. “Yes, ma’am, friends. Men, women, anybody she spent time with.”

Bettina looked away. “Well, in addition to spending time with you,” she said pointedly, “she also went out with Lamar Lassen—he works over at the sawmill. And Beau Pyle.”