The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Still feeling bewildered about what Violet had said, Buddy picked up the phone when it rang. “Yeah, Wayne, what’s up?”


“Somebody named Liz Lacy just called,” Wayne replied. “She said you should maybe talk to the woman who runs the laundry—Adele Hart, her name is. Seems that Miz Hart told somebody, who told Miss Lacy, that she saw one of the CCC guys hanging out behind the diner. Not clear whether it was last night or another night. But it sounds like it’s worth looking into.”

“I’ll check it out,” Buddy said. “How’d it work out over at Miz Parker’s? You’re back at the office, I reckon.”

“Yeah, I’m here. Miz Parker’s got her mare back. The neighbor—Bob Denny—claims she owes him for a fence her bull broke down and a sow and eleven piglets that got loose and haven’t been seen since. That’s why he took the mare. Denny’s going to file a complaint in magistrate’s court about the fence and the pigs. That way, the judge can settle it.”

“Yeah. Did you check out the garage? Any sign of a bottle or something like that the killer might have used to hit Rona Jean?”

“Matter of fact, I did find something,” Wayne said. “It was layin’ under the car—a Dr Pepper bottle. I took a couple of photos of it, then brought it back here. There are prints on the neck, the way you’d hold a bottle like that to use it as a weapon. Most are smudged, but I’m still working on it.”

“Keep at it,” Buddy said. “Good work, Wayne.”

“Thanks. Oh, and I found a couple of lengths of rope. Could be what we’re looking for.” He paused. “How’s the investigation going?”

“Complications,” Buddy said. He was still struggling with Violet’s remark. Did she mean . . . No, he was sure she didn’t. “I’ll go across the street to the laundry and talk to Miz Hart. You need anything?”

“That list of people who’ve been in the car when you can get it. I want to be sure I’ve got comparison prints from everybody.”

“I’m picking it up in a minute or two,” Buddy said. “You’ll have it when I get back to the office.”

In the kitchen, he scanned the list Raylene handed him. It contained eight names, four of whom he knew hadn’t been fingerprinted. “Thanks,” he said, folding it into his notebook. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. I’ll get my deputy started on this right away.”

Myra May’s mother was a tall, competent-looking woman, with penetrating eyes under heavy brows, a firm mouth and chin, and short auburn hair streaked with gray. When Buddy looked at her, he knew he was seeing Myra May, in another twenty years. He was seeing something else, too, in her eyes.

“Excuse me, Miz Riggs,” he said hesitantly, “but I’m wondering . . .” Her “gift,” as Aunt Hetty Little called it, was known to everyone in Darling. Buddy couldn’t help thinking that she must have some knowledge about what had happened in the garage the night before.

“Yes, I do,” Raylene said, as if she had read his mind (as she probably had). “I don’t know as much as you think I do, but I have the feeling that this wasn’t about Rona Jean’s baby. It was about somebody—more than one person, I think—paying money to somebody to get more money. And about knowing too much, and trying to sell that knowledge.” Her voice seemed to take on an odd resonance, as if she were speaking in a cave. “Selling what you know can cause big problems. I’ve seen people do that, and it’s always dangerous. In this case, I’m afraid it was . . . deadly.”

That last word seemed to hang in the air between them. Buddy stared at her, wishing she wouldn’t talk in riddles. If she’d just come straight out with it— He sighed. “Thanks,” he said, even though he wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking her for.

“Oh, and Buddy,” she said, frowning a little. “You be sure and keep your eye on the weather, will you?”