The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

When Buddy followed Bettina into Rona Jean Hancock’s bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the heat, for the room had been closed all night and the air was heavy and hot. The second was Rona Jean’s perfume, a floral fragrance that tickled the back of his throat and made him want to sneeze.

“Blue Waltz,” Bettina replied when he asked. “From Lima’s Drugstore.” She went to the window and heaved up the sash. “It’s a nice perfume, as long as you don’t wear too much of it.”

He agreed about the “too much” and was glad she had opened the window. The room could stand a good airing. “Maybe you could tell me where she kept her diary.”

“I have no idea. She hid it. The bedroom doors don’t have any keys, and I guess she didn’t trust me not to read it if she left it lying around.” She stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed. “If you don’t need me, I’d better go to work. It’s a holiday coming up, and Beulah and I are going to be behind. I don’t mind if you stay and look for . . . whatever.”

“Thank you.” He was glad that she wouldn’t be standing there, looking over his shoulder. He added, “You’ve been a big help. I appreciate it.”

She looked away. “I owe you an apology. About that slapping business, I mean. I should have known that you wouldn’t . . . I mean, being a sheriff and all. It’s just that—well, it’s happened to me, and to other girls I know. I guess I just thought . . .” She brushed a lock of brown hair off her forehead. “That all men are alike when it comes to that, I mean. It was easy to believe.”

For a moment, Buddy was struck by her vulnerability—by the vulnerability of all women. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That it happened to you, or to anybody else. That’s not right.” He wanted to add that being a gentleman had nothing to do with being a sheriff, but he didn’t. “Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt. I’ll lock the front door when I leave.”

“Please do,” she said, and turned away. A few moments later, he heard the front door close.

He looked around, feeling large and bumbling and intrusive, like a bully on the school playground. Rona Jean’s bedroom was messy. The bed was unmade, and clothes were strewn on the floor and the only chair in the room. He tried not to look at the filmy underwear, and the stockings reminded him of how she’d been strangled. There were dresses and blouses and skirts hanging haphazardly in the closet and three or four pairs of shoes on the floor. The closet shelf was crowded with various hats (Rona Jean seemed to be a collector), and a couple of hats hung on hooks on the wall. He recognized one of them, an olive green felt helmet-like affair with a peacock feather trim—the hat she had worn when they went to the Methodist pie social. He remembered it because the preacher’s wife had come up and admired it loudly and asked Buddy if he didn’t like it, too, and he’d had to say that he did, when he didn’t.