The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

She glanced down at her wristwatch. “Gosh, look at the time! I’d better get what I came for and head home. We’re having a backyard picnic for Sam’s baseball team tonight. If the rain holds off, that is.” She glanced toward the southwest. Did the sky look more menacing? “It might be a back porch picnic, if it doesn’t.”


Lucy nodded. “Thanks for listening, Opie.” She raised her hand. “I suppose I’ll see you at the clubhouse early on the Fourth.” The Dahlias were decorating the Miss Darling float that morning, for the parade.

“Count on it,” Ophelia said. She waved good-bye, reached into her handbag, and took out the key to her office, which also unlocked the front door. Like the other buildings, this one was so new that it still smelled of fresh pine, roofing tar, and paint. No effort had been made to pretty it up or make it anything other than functional. Inside, the pent-up heat was stifling. The hallway went through the middle of the building, with offices on either side. Lit only by a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling midway to the far end, it was hot and dark and . . . well, creepy.

It was silent, too, and Ophelia’s heels tapped on the bare wooden floor. Suddenly aware of the clatter, she stopped, slipped out of her shoes, and picked them up. Nobody worked on weekends if they could help it, which meant that there was nobody around to hear her footsteps—and nobody around to catch her doing what she was about to do, which now struck her as more than a little dangerous, and risky, too. It might not be strictly illegal—after all, government records were public records, weren’t they? But it was definitely not in her job description, and if she got caught, it was probably a firing offense.

A shiver started at her tailbone and ran up her spine to her shoulders. The place seemed different than it did on weekdays, when all the lights were on, the office doors were open, and the hallway was bustling with busy people. The conversation with Lucy, unsettling as it was, had pushed Ophelia’s earlier apprehension to the back of her mind. Now, it returned in a chilly flood, heightened by the darkness and shadows. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Lucy to come in with her? Lucy would have no idea what she was doing, and two women would surely be safer than one woman alone. Being alone meant that there was nobody around to hear if she called for help—although, of course, that wouldn’t be necessary. Would it?

And then, with a sudden chill, she thought of Rona Jean Hancock. Rona Jean must have struggled, must even have called for help, but there was nobody around to hear—except her killer.

Of course, there was no connection between the murder and the job Charlie had sent her to do. But the thought of Rona Jean made Ophelia’s breath come fast and her heart pound so hard she could feel the thudding in her bones, and she broke into a run toward the safety of her office at the far end of the hall. Her hands shaking, she stuck the key in the lock and fumbled it open. Then she shut and locked the door behind her, leaning against it and breathing hard, her eyes squeezed shut.

In here, at least, she felt safer.





THIRTEEN


Sheriff Norris Collects More Clues



Before Buddy went into the diner for lunch, he paused at the wire newspaper rack beside the front door to read the front-page headline of the Mobile Register. It announced, in big, bold letters: Roosevelt Orders $150,000,000 Spent in Drought Relief.