The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

A moment later, Buddy was talking to an elderly doctor with a deep, rumbling voice and a persistent cough. “Sheriff Norris?” Dr. DuBois boomed. “So Roy Burns finally retired, did he? Been telling him for years he oughta quit and take it easy.” He coughed. “You got a lot to live up to, son. Roy Burns was the best damn sheriff in the whole state of Alabama.”


“I’m afraid he’s gone, sir.” Buddy cleared his throat, feeling suddenly and unaccountably guilty for having the nerve to think he could step into the shoes of the best damn sheriff in the state. “Dead, I mean. Got bit on the wrist by a rattlesnake down in Horsetail Gorge when he was fishing.”

“Aw, hell.” There was a silence, then, “Wonder how I missed hearing ’bout that. Must’ve been out of town and nobody thought to tell me.” Another silence, another cough. “Well, that’s the way I’d like to go when my time comes. So, Sheriff, Linda June says you’ve had a murder over there in Darling. Somebody go crazy with this heat and start shooting up his favorite saloon? Seems like it happens at least once every summer now.”

“Nothing like that, sir,” Buddy said. “The victim’s name is Rona Jean Hancock. She was strangled. With her stocking.” He didn’t mention the rope. He had asked Edna Fay to tell Doc Roberts to keep it quiet, too, so the killer would be the only other person who had that important little detail. You never knew when something like that might come in handy.

“Strangled?” the doctor said, in a raised-eyebrow voice. “Well, that’ll sure spoil your day.”

“Yessir. According to Doc Roberts’ autopsy report, she was four months pregnant. Her diary says she had an appointment with you on April 23. I’m wondering if she said anything at all about who the baby’s father was. Gave a name, maybe.” He could feel the apprehension lance through him. What if she had given his name? It wouldn’t have been true, but he would have no defense.

“Ah.” A long exhale, and a cough. “Well, you just hold your horses, Sheriff, and I’ll have a look.” A moment later, Buddy heard the squeak of a chair being moved and the rustle of papers, and DuBois was back on the line. “April 23, yes. Rona Jean. Pregnant, yes, some seven weeks, maybe eight—hard to be sure at that stage, but that’s my guess. Health, good, a little anemic but nothing to worry about. First pregnancy, says here she was unmarried. I don’t remember any mention of the father, and there’s nothing in the file. Back when I was a young man, you know, the girl’s father would have her namin’ a name, and her and the boy would be up in front of the preacher faster’n green grass through a goose.” He sighed. “These days, modern girls and all that, it’s diff’rent. It’s nobody’s business but theirs. So no, she didn’t name the father and I didn’t ask.”

Buddy let out his breath. He hadn’t known he’d been holding it. “Did she seem upset when you told her about the . . . pregnancy?” Today was a day of firsts, Buddy thought. Pregnancy. He couldn’t remember ever saying that word out loud.

“No, the way I remember it, she seemed pretty much unconcerned. She didn’t volunteer any information about her situation, and I didn’t ask.” There was a pause. “So she’s dead. I’m sorry to hear that. Strangled, you say? A man’s crime, although I remember once—it was down in Mobile, as I recall—a woman strangled her husband’s mistress. I always wondered about that one. Must’ve been one helluva strong female. An Amazon, wouldn’t you guess?”

“Yes, sir.” An image of Myra May flashed through Buddy’s mind. He had seen her carrying trays loaded with a tableful of crockery. She was plenty strong.