The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“And that—”

“Verna,” Buddy said, “I respect your interest in this case. I truly do. Everybody in town ought to be concerned when a girl gets murdered right here in our very midst. I appreciate your telling me about what Miss Lacy saw at the movie show. But I’d prefer that you leave the investigating to me and my deputy. If you don’t mind.” They had reached Verna’s house, next door to his dad’s place, and he pulled over to the curb and stopped. Without giving her time to respond, he said, “Hope I didn’t offend. You need a hand with those grocery bags?”

“Thanks, I can manage. And no, you didn’t offend. Roy Burns usually said pretty much the same thing whenever I offered my assistance.” She turned to him as if she had suddenly thought of something. “How would you like to come for supper tonight, Buddy? I’m asking because the commandant of Camp Briarwood is coming—Captain Campbell. If you haven’t met him already, you should. Mr. Duffy will be here, too, and Liz Lacy. We’re having chicken pot pie,” she added.

He didn’t have to think twice. It was time he met Captain Campbell, and he always enjoyed Mr. Duffy, who had Darling’s best interests at heart. “Thank you, Verna. You know how I feel about your chicken pot pie. I appreciate the invitation. What time?”

“Seven,” she said, and got out of the car. “Thanks for the lift, Buddy—see you then.”

On the porch of the house next door, Buddy saw his father sitting hunched in his rocking chair, his dog Zach—one part hound, one part beagle, and two parts something else—lying across his feet. It was a hot day, the temperature close to ninety, but the old man wore a crocheted afghan across his shoulders and was staring blankly into space. With a stab of guilt, Buddy thought he ought to stop and talk for a few minutes, see how the old guy was doing. He hadn’t been too well lately.

But Buddy could do that tonight, before he went to Verna’s house for dinner. Right now, he had to talk to Beau Pyle. So he put the car in gear and drove off, waving to his father.

His father didn’t wave back. Buddy didn’t think he even saw him.


*

Beau lived with his mother on the south edge of town, down Robert E. Lee to Natchez, east on Natchez six blocks to Pleasant View, and south to the end of the narrow dirt street. The street—not much more than an alley, really—was misnamed, for there was nothing pleasant about the view. It was lined on both sides by forlorn houses, some leaning one way, some leaning the other, their front yards filled with junked cars, piles of rusting equipment, energetic chickens, laconic dogs.

Buddy pulled to a stop behind a shiny 1932 black Ford three-window coupe with all four fenders stripped off. Buddy knew that Beau had dropped a V8 into it, giving him the kind of horsepower and torque that allowed him to outrun a sheriff’s car any day—or night—of the week. It was a lot of car for a kid, but then Beau was a lot of kid, eighteen going on twenty-eight and touchier than a hog that’d stepped down hard on a section of barbed wire and couldn’t shake it off. The Ford was parked in front of a dilapidated one-story frame house with a rusted metal roof, set up on stacks of bricks a couple feet high, in the middle of a bare dirt yard.