The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“Mornin’, Mr. Dickens. Wasn’t lookin’ for you to come in today—it bein’ Saturday and all.”


Taking a deep breath of the combined fragrances of ink, kerosene, and newsprint that always hit him when he came into the office, Charlie turned to see Purley Mann leaning on a broom, an inky rag sticking out of the rear pocket of his overalls. Purley’s fine, silvery blond hair, cherubic face, and mild manner had earned him the nickname Baby when he was a kid, and he’d never outgrown it. Folks said that Baby hadn’t been at the head of the line when the Lord was handing out smarts, but Charlie had found him to be a good worker. He kept the place clean and helped operate the presses—the arthritic Prouty job press that had to be coaxed into producing handbills and advertisements and the like and the demonic Babcock that shook the floors and rattled the windows. The blasted thing had always given Charlie heartburn, but for Baby, who spent hours fixing and fine-tuning and polishing it, the Babcock purred like a kitten.

Ophelia Snow was Charlie’s other helper. To his surprise, she had proved to be a whiz at the Linotype, a balky machine that women weren’t supposed to have the strength to operate. She was a good writer and willing to report on the Darling social events—women’s clubs, church events, and bridal and baby showers—that Charlie himself hated to cover. And recently, she’d taken a part-time office job at the CCC camp, so Charlie had given her a weekly assignment, “The Camp Briarwood News,” under her byline. She had already written three columns and was doing a commendable job, picking up little anecdotes here and there and weaving them into a readable, often amusing little story. And yesterday, Charlie had talked her into doing some extra investigating on the side.

“Wasn’t lookin’ to come in today, Baby,” Charlie replied, going to his desk. “But then I got the news about Rona Jean’s murder. Figured it might be a good idea to put out a special edition. So let’s get ready for an extra print run on Tuesday.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. It was another hot day, after too many hot days. The radio had mentioned the possibility of a storm. A good thing, if it would break the heat.

Baby had brightened at the mention of a special edition. The Babcock was his pet and he loved to run it. But then he remembered what the special edition was about and put on a doleful expression. “Terrible thing, that murder.”

“That’s right,” Charlie said. Terrible for Rona Jean, he thought—but good for circulation. There was nothing like a murder to entice folks to read the newspaper. He could charge thirty-five cents for the special edition, and who knows? They might sell as many as three or four hundred papers, and the only out-of-pocket cost would be the extra ink and newsprint.

Charlie had grown up in Darling and returned after a long and successful career as an investigative reporter. He had worked for the Baltimore Sun and the Cleveland Plain Dealer and the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, assignments sandwiched between a couple of stretches in the Associated Press wire service office in New York. He could smell a story a mile off and refused to rest until he had tracked it down, no matter how far he had to go or what he had to do to get it. The stories that paid off in the most column inches were sensational crime stories, of course—murders, kidnappings, bank robberies—and stories about fraud or political corruption. Crime made scorching front-page news, and Charlie had scrapbooks crammed with his bylined clips to prove it.