The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Charlie was nonplussed. “Don’t? But why? It’s a great story, Fannie. And the photos make it real. Without them, it’s just another murder—”

“Because it’s . . . it’s disrespectful, that’s why. And it’s not just another murder. She was . . .” Fannie’s voice trembled. “She was going to be a mother. That’s pretty special, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but . . .” Charlie frowned. “Wait a minute. How did you know she was pregnant? Did Edna Fay tell you? Doc told her not to talk about it with anybody but me and the sheriff.” Of course, the news could be all over Darling by now. But Fannie had spent the morning in her workroom, out of touch with the normal gossip networks.

Fannie shook her head. “No, it wasn’t your sister. She told me herself. Rona Jean, I mean.”

Charlie leaned forward, his eyes on her face. “She told you? When?”

Fannie’s eyes met his with something like defiance. “She liked hats. She said they made her feel pretty and special. I knew she didn’t have much money so I always gave her a bit of a discount. She bought a new one a couple of weeks ago—a pretty little peach-colored straw with pink and white silk flowers. That’s when she told me that she was having a baby.” She looked away. “She said she didn’t like the baby’s father well enough to marry him.”

Charlie was surprised at this, and then he wasn’t. Fannie was a good listener, and supportive. The more she listened, the more you wanted to talk, and the more things you thought of to tell her about. At least, that had been Charlie’s experience. It probably wasn’t any different for her clients.

“Who was the father?” Charlie asked. “Did she say?” Did she know? he wondered.

Fannie picked up her spoon again. “You’re not going to put it in your story, are you?”

“No,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“She wasn’t sure,” Fannie said. “It was either Lamar Lassen or the youngest Pyle boy. Beau, he’s called. She didn’t want to marry either of them—and I couldn’t say I blamed her.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Two possibilities? My goodness. She was a busy girl. Not to mention working three to eleven on the switchboard.”

“I don’t think she was brought up right,” Fannie said with a sigh. “She didn’t seem to feel she had done anything terribly evil, although I’m sure that when people find out she was pregnant, some will say she got what she deserved. I don’t feel that way. I feel that she was just a mixed-up young woman who made a mistake. Twice.”

At least twice, Charlie thought. Aloud, he said, “I won’t name names in the story, of course. But the sheriff ought to know who they are. He might want to question them.” Because one of them, he thought grimly, is likely the killer.

“He’s already talked to Lamar Lassen,” Fannie said. “I ran into Mrs. Meeks at the grocery this morning. Lamar Lassen boards with her. The sheriff came by to see him this morning. If he knows about Lamar, he probably knows about Beau, too. But give him the names, if you think that’s the best thing to do.” Not looking at him, she took a spoonful of soup. “When I heard that Rona Jean was dead, I decided I didn’t have to tell you. But now that we’re talking about it, I think I’d better. Because of the money, you see.”

“Didn’t have to tell me what?” Charlie felt he had somehow lost track of the conversation. “What money are you talking about? Fannie, you’re not making sense. You—”

She pushed her soup bowl away and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “Rona Jean was going to give us her baby.”

Charlie stared at her, speechless. Finally, with a croak, he managed, “Give us her baby?”

Fannie nodded, her mouth trembling. “I knew you wouldn’t be in favor of it. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Right away, I mean. Of course I was going to tell you, before he arrived. Or she. And in plenty of time for you to get used to the idea.”