The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Violet said, “Yes, but there was more, of course.”


“Violet is saying,” Myra May added, “that Rona Jean had a knack for making things even more of a mess than they really were.” She took out a match, scratched it with her thumbnail, and lit her Lucky Strike.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Buddy asked, finding a new page in his notebook and taking his pencil out of his pocket. He liked Myra May. She might be gruff and sometimes a little short with people, but she didn’t beat around the bush. She said what she meant and she meant what she said.

Violet answered. “It means that Rona Jean was . . . well, she was pretty mixed up about herself and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Promiscuous,” Myra May said darkly, and breathed out twin streams of tobacco smoke.

“Excuse me?” Buddy asked, wondering how that was spelled.

“Fast, as my mother would say,” Violet added, and went on. “When she found out she was going to have a baby, the first thing she thought about was getting married.”

Myra May pulled on her cigarette. “But there were two guys, and she wasn’t sure which one was the father.”

“And when she thought about marrying one of them,” Violet said, “it didn’t seem like such a good idea. I couldn’t blame her,” she added candidly. “I wouldn’t have wanted to marry either one of them, myself.”

“Their names?” He knew—at least he knew what Rona Jean had written in her diary—but he wanted to know what they knew.

Violet hesitated. Myra May reached out and touched her hand. “Tell him, Violet. He’s just doing his job.”

“She said it was Lamar Lassen and Beau Pyle,” Violet said reluctantly.

Myra May gave Buddy a direct look. “She said it wasn’t you, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Buddy said. “I knew it wasn’t me.” He spoke emphatically, but inside, he was shivering as he thought again of his narrow escape. If he had accepted Rona Jean’s invitation to tumble into bed with her, she might have tried to convince him that the baby was his, and his guilty conscience would have prodded him into believing her. He might have married her and ended up raising some other man’s baby.

There was a light tap on the kitchen door and Raylene came in. “This is for Buddy,” she said, and put a piece of lemon chess pie on the table in front of him, with a fork and a paper napkin.

Buddy looked up at her, shaking his head at her ability to know what people wanted. “Miz Riggs, you do beat all.” He picked up his fork. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with a little smile, and left.

Myra May picked up the story. “After Rona Jean decided she wasn’t going to marry anybody, she decided she’d get an abortion. She knew how dangerous it is, but that didn’t matter—Rona Jean was the kind who thought it was fun to take risks. She thought she could get Lamar or Beau or both to pay for it, but that didn’t work out. Lamar said no because he wanted to get married, and anyway, he didn’t have any money. Beau’s always got money in his pocket, but he was too smart to give her any.”

“Those were the only two she asked?” Buddy asked, around a bite of pie. He was remembering the stack of twenties he’d found in Rona Jean’s room. The money hadn’t come from Lassen or Pyle, so where did it come from?