The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

*

Hart’s Peerless Laundry was on the other side of Robert E. Lee, across from Musgrove’s Hardware. Outside, it was hot as the vestibule of Hades, as Buddy’s grandfather used to say, and the dark clouds piled up to the south gave the sky an ominous tint. But inside, it was just plain hot as hell, and the air was so heavy with the steamy smell of soap and bleach that Buddy could hardly draw a full breath. Behind the counter, Adele Hart, a plump, cheerful-looking woman in her early fifties, was folding a big basket of fluffy white towels marked “Old Alabama Hotel.” She wore a brown dress covered with a big white apron, and her face was flushed beet red.

“Oh, hello, Buddy,” she said, looking up. She laughed a little. “Oopsie, guess I should be callin’ you ‘Sheriff,’ huh? Seems kinda funny, since I can remember when you used to haul you and your daddy’s wash in your red wagon. You were a cute little boy—you had that funny cowlick, and your hair used to stick straight up.”

Buddy blushed, wishing that people would stop reminding him that he’d once been a kid. But she was right about the wagon, anyway. After his mother died, his father would load their dirty clothes into a big wicker basket, and Buddy would put it in his wagon and haul it up the street to the laundry, where Mrs. Hart, then a young woman, would wait on him. A day or two later, he’d pick up the clothes and towels and sheets, all clean and folded neatly into the basket, and haul them back home.

Buddy went straight to business. “Liz Lacy says she thinks maybe you saw somebody hanging around behind the diner at night. Is that right?”

Mrs. Hart wiped her sweaty forehead with her sleeve. “Word gets around, don’t it? I was sayin’ that very thing to Liz’s ma, just a couple of hours ago, when she brought in her damask tablecloth.” She tut-tutted. “Catsup and mustard both. Had to tell her I didn’t think we could get it all out, especially the mustard. If you don’t get on it right away, mustard’ll stain worse than almost anything. But at least it’s in the middle, where she can put a doily on it.” She picked up another towel, shook it out, and began to fold it. “And, yes, I reckon I did see a fella, late at night. Wouldn’t have thought much of it, but he was wearin’ one of them CCC uniforms. I heard those boys have to be in bed by ten, and I wondered if he was goin’ to get in trouble for being late.”

Buddy took out his notebook. “When did you see him?” Hopefully, he added, “Was it last night?”

“No, wasn’t last night.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “Poor little Mikey was throwing up last night, and I was sitting up with him until way past midnight, in the back bedroom. Mikey is my Bert’s youngest,” she added in a confiding tone. “We’re keeping all three of Bert’s kids just now. Junie died last year of TB—remember Junie Plunkett? She was Bert’s wife, and a real nice girl, gave her heart and soul to those kids. Bert’s gone over to Atlanta, trying to find work.” She shook her head regretfully. “Hard for fam’lies these days. Tears Bert up to be away from his babies.”

Not last night? Buddy felt disappointed. But the fact that Mrs. Hart hadn’t seen the man didn’t mean that he hadn’t been there.