The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“Don’t worry about it, Violet,” Raylene said in a comforting tone. “Eva Pearl came in early to give us a hand at the counter. After the breakfast rush, I’ll send her out to pick up the beans. Or I could just open a couple of jars of that sweet corn the Dahlias canned for us last summer and make corn pudding instead. Most folks like that just as well as green beans.”


Buddy felt that the interview was getting away from him. “One more question,” he said. “Were you here when Rona Jean . . . when Miss Hancock finished her shift and left last night?”

He felt Raylene’s curious eyes on him and shifted uncomfortably. Both she and Violet and just about everybody else in town would recall that he and Rona Jean had gone around together fairly recently. He hadn’t called her “Miss Hancock” then. In fact, on their second date she had called him “sweetheart,” in that slow, sweet, suggestive Southern voice of hers. They were trading moonlight kisses on the back porch of the house she shared with Bettina Higgens, and the Victrola was playing in the parlor. Goodnight sweetheart, ’til we meet tomorrow. Goodnight sweetheart, parting is such sorrow. And then the third time they were together, when—

But that was when Rona Jean had proved to be too . . . “dangerous” was the word that came to mind. Not the kind of woman Buddy wanted, or could afford, at this point in his life. Still, Rona Jean was dead now, and it was his job to find out who had killed her. It didn’t seem quite respectful to use her personal name when he was asking questions about the last hours of her life.

“I was, yes,” Violet said slowly. “But I didn’t see her when she left. I was upstairs here, reading. Cupcake was asleep in her crib. Myra May had gone down to check on the shift change and do a last-minute check on the kitchen, the way she usually does. Rona Jean went off at eleven, and Lenore—that’s Lenore Looper, she’s Alva Looper’s middle daughter—was scheduled to come on. Myra May always likes to see that the next girl is ready to take her shift on the switchboard before the other girl leaves. Otherwise, there could be a gap, which wouldn’t be good.”

Buddy looked down at the words close friends with Violet. “Myra May came right back upstairs after the shift change?”

Raylene slid Buddy a puzzled glance, as if she was wondering what that had to do with anything. He was glad she didn’t put the question into words, for he couldn’t have answered if she had. He was remembering once when Myra May saw him talking to Violet and had gotten kind of bent out of shape about it, to the point where she put his cup down hard on the counter and splashed hot coffee on his hand.

There was a moment’s silence. Violet looked away, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and Buddy could tell she was thinking about his question. She frowned a little.

“Right back upstairs? Well, I guess maybe not. There’s always stuff to do in the kitchen. Sometimes one or the other of us is down there until midnight.” She looked up and managed a small smile. “Breakfast for twenty-five or thirty doesn’t get cooked by wishing it would, you know, Buddy. There’s plenty of night-before work that goes into it.”

“I reckon,” Buddy said, and wrote midnite in his notebook, after Myra May. “Well, I guess that does it for me, for now anyway. I’ll maybe think of something else later.” He pocketed the notebook and pencil. “You get some rest, now, Violet. Y’hear?”

“Thank you,” Violet said, but she didn’t immediately take his advice. She raised herself up on one elbow and put out her hand, catching at his sleeve. In a low, fierce voice, she said, “You go out there and get whoever did this, you hear, Buddy? Rona Jean might’ve been a little wild, but she was a good girl at heart. I was hoping—” She fell back, closing her eyes. “She . . . she didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody does.”

Buddy stood looking down at Violet, wondering what Violet had been hoping. But Raylene took his arm and walked him to the door. “If there’s any way Myra May and I can help,” she said in a low voice, “please let us know.”