The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“What day did you see him, then?” he asked. “What time?”


Mrs. Hart pushed her wispy brown hair off her forehead. “Let’s see—last night was Friday, right? So it would have been the night before, which would make it Thursday. And right after eleven, because my Artis had just got back from his poker game over at the Meeks’ place and gone into the house and up to bed. The kids were all asleep, and I was sittin’ on the porch, enjoying the cool, such as it was, and the whip-poor-will that sings from Mr. Vader’s big old willow across the street. We can see the back of the diner and the garden and the garage from our porch, you know. There was a right good moon that night, and I saw that girl—Rona Jean, the one that got killed—come out of the back of the diner and meet the man in the alley by the garage.”

“Had you seen this man before?” Buddy asked. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Hart pushed her lips in and out. “Far as I know, he ain’t been in the laundry, at least when I’ve been up front here. He’s kinda built big, like my Artis, with big shoulders.” She illustrated with both hands.

Built big, big shoulders. Buddy was taking notes. It wasn’t a very good description. But most of the young men he had seen out at the CCC camp were thin and underweight. Someone with a big build and wide shoulders might stand out. “Height?”

She eyed Buddy. “About as tall as you, maybe.”

Buddy wrote down 5’10”. “When you saw Miss Hancock and this man on Thursday night, did they seem . . . were they . . . well, friendly?”

Mrs. Hart frowned. “If you mean, were they huggin’ and kissin’—no, they weren’t. They were mostly talking, and neither of ’em seemed any too happy about it, either.”

Not happy. “Arguing?”

“Maybe,” she said slowly. “I couldn’t hear. They were serious, is all I can say. They weren’t funnin’ around.”

“How long did they talk?”

She considered. “Maybe four, five minutes. Then she walked off and he climbed on his motorcycle and rode away.” She frowned. “Blasted the night to smithereens, he did, revvin’ up that engine. Rode away mad was the way it looked to me.”

Motorcycle. Of course. “Can you describe the motorcycle?”

“Well, I couldn’t see it too good that night, but I’ve seen it before,” she said. “Around town, I mean. Green, with U.S. Army painted on it, and a rack on the back, and saddlebags. Leather saddlebags, with buckles.”

Instantly, Buddy knew the motorcycle she was describing. He had noticed it, too, here and there: an olive-drab 1930 Harley-Davidson, about the same size as his Indian Ace.

Mrs. Hart was going on. “Mostly when I see that motorcycle, it’s parked—like, out in front of the diner or the movie theater.” Her hand went to her mouth and she gave him a round-eyed look. “Are you thinking that maybe the one that drives it is the one that killed her?”

“Could be,” Buddy said. “If you see him or the motorcycle again, could you call the sheriff’s office right away?”

“Oh, I will, Sheriff,” she said. “I surely will.” She regarded him, shaking her head a little, marveling. “You know, I just can’t help remembering how you used to come in here, pulling that little red wagon piled up with your dirty underpants and socks. And just look at you now, all grown up and a sheriff.” She was beaming. “My, my, you have done us all proud.”

Buddy ducked his head, feeling himself coloring. He tried to think of something to say, but the best he could do was, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Her smile faded and she cocked her head, regarding him sternly. “Well, maybe I oughtta say that you’ll do us proud when you catch that killer and lock him up. We can’t have folks goin’ around stranglin’ other folks here in Darling. It ain’t right, Buddy. It just ain’t right at all. I’m sure your daddy has told you that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Buddy said contritely.





FOURTEEN


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