The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Beau blew smoke hard out of his nostrils. “I went out to take over the fire at six yesterday evening. I was out there all by myself. It don’t take two to mind the fire, if the wood’s cut and ready.”


Buddy knew that keeping the wood fires burning under the pot stills at the right heat and intensity was an art in itself, just one of the many minor arts that went into the larger art of cooking mash. Fire tending wasn’t a job that was taken lightly, and Bodeen would’ve come down hard on Beau if he’d let the fire go out.

“You were out there all night?” Buddy asked.

“Until six this morning.” Beau’s chin jutted out. “But I didn’t leave and drive back into town and strangle Rona Jean, if that’s what you’re thinking. Didn’t have no cause.”

Buddy grunted, a grunt that might have said, Now, that is purely a crock, or Yeah, reckon I can accept that. He didn’t know which it was, since there was nobody to confirm or dispute Beau’s alibi. The boy could’ve planned ahead and paid one of the Pyle cousins to tend the fire for a few hours. And he was certainly capable of killing Rona Jean. But on impulse, Buddy thought. It wouldn’t have been according to a plan.

He cocked his head and asked: “How’d you know she was strangled?”

“Got it from Bodeen. Strangled with her stocking. He got it from Myra May while he was having breakfast this morning.” His lip curled in a mirthless smile. “Said it damn near spoiled his grits and sausage.”

That rang a bell. Buddy frowned and took his notebook out of his shirt pocket, flicking to the page where he’d made the list of the people Rona Jean had mentioned in her diary. He ran his thumb down the list. B.P. Bodeen Pyle?

“Bodeen,” he said, looking up. “He ever take Rona Jean out?”

“Not that I know of,” Beau said. His voice took on a jagged edge. “Not that I better find out, anyway.”

Like that, was it? Buddy thought. Maybe there was a new angle here. What if Rona Jean hadn’t been killed because of the pregnancy? What if she had told Beau she was finished with him and turned right around and started seeing Beau’s brother? What if one of the brothers had killed her in a jealous rage? He drew a line under the initials and added a question mark. He’d have to check and see when the mentions of B.P. occurred, and how often. He closed his notebook and pocketed it, took out the toothpick, and stuck it in his shirt pocket, too.

“Reckon that’s it for now,” he said. “Don’t you be goin’ down to Mobile until I get this business straightened out. Or anywhere else.” He tightened his voice. “You hear?”

Beau nodded sullenly.

“Where will I find Bodeen?”

“Out at the still, I reckon,” Beau said, and pushed himself erect. He turned to look full at Buddy. “You think she was puttin’ the arm on somebody else? Was that why she got killed?”

Putting the arm on Bodeen? Was that what he meant? “Your guess is as good as mine.” Buddy gave Beau a stern look. “I’m going to talk to your brother. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your mouth shut about this conversation until I’ve seen him.”

Beau shrugged carelessly. “Yeah. Okay by me. Bodeen and me ain’t talkin’ much anyway, these days.”

Yes, like that, Buddy thought.

Back in the car, he sat for a moment, thinking. Then he opened his notebook and thumbed through the pages. If he had read Rona Jean’s Valentine heart code accurately, Lamar and Beau were the only candidates for paternity. But what if he hadn’t read it right? Or what if she had left somebody out, either accidentally or on purpose?