The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

And something else, too. Fannie’s compassion for Rona Jean and her difficult situation had turned his attention away from the mechanics of the murder and the murder investigation, and he found himself wanting to know more about Rona Jean herself. Beyond being “Hello, Central” and an unwed expectant mother, who was she? The first sentence of a story began to take shape in his mind. The victim—a dedicated telephone operator—was killed not long after she left the Telephone Exchange at the end of her eleven o’clock shift at the switchboard. Which gave him the idea for a title, “The Eleven O’clock Lady.”


And with the title came a spurt of energy, the kind of energy Charlie had always felt when he began to get his teeth into a story, a really good story. This wouldn’t just be a story about a murder. It would be a personality story, a story about the victim, about Rona Jean: where she grew up, where she went to school, who her people were, how she’d gotten her job at the Exchange—maybe even the motive for her killing, if Buddy managed to find it out before the paper went to press. He could interview the other “Hello, Central” girls at the Exchange and write an appealing description of how they all worked closely together, night and day, every day of the week, to keep the Darling telephones plugged in. And, of course, he could include a couple of paragraphs about Violet Sims, that hardworking young mother and co-owner of the Exchange, who had discovered the body when she was picking beans in the garden early in the morning. (That would be a nice, earthy touch.) And Myra May Mosswell, who not only owned the Exchange with her friend Violet, but owned the car where Violet found the body and where the murder had likely taken place.

In fact, that old green Chevrolet touring car (Myra May called her “Big Bertha” and treated her like one of the family) was already famous locally. Big Bertha had been bought new back in 1920 by Myra May’s daddy, a much-loved Darling doctor who had driven it to deliver babies and visit deathbeds all over Cypress County. Lots of Darlingians no doubt cherished fond memories of Bertha and would be saddened to know that one of their “Hello, Central” girls had died on her front seat. He could also mention the fact that Myra May took loving care of Bertha and did all the repair work on the car herself, including changing her oil and spark plugs. Yes, Charlie thought, the car, as the scene of the murder, would make a fascinating story all on her own.

He was still thinking of the stories he would write for the Dispatch—and sell to the Atlanta Constitution as a bylined special—when he reached the sheriff’s office, opened the door, and walked in. Buddy and his new deputy, Wayne Springer, were looking at a Dr Pepper bottle and talking about getting fingerprints of the people who had recently been in Myra May’s car. They broke off when Charlie came in.

“Well, hey, if it isn’t the press.” Buddy stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked his head to one side. “I hear you’re putting out a special edition on the murder.”

“Word gets around, doesn’t it?” Charlie said, noticing that Buddy wore a holster on his hip and that the deputy was armed, too. Roy Burns had rarely worn a weapon—Darling didn’t seem the place for it. But maybe the new sheriff and his deputy were a different breed of lawmen. Or maybe Darling was becoming a different place, now that the CCC camp had moved in. Did Rona Jean’s murder mark a turning point in the town’s history? Maybe that was yet another story.

“And when will that be coming out?” Buddy asked curiously. “The special edition, I mean.”

“I’m figuring on Tuesday, so there’ll be copies on the Fourth, when everybody comes to town for the big parade. There’ll be plenty of room for late-breaking news, so keep me posted on developments.” Charlie paused, raising an expectant eyebrow. “Got any?”

“If you’re asking has anybody been arrested,” Buddy said, “the answer is no.” His grin was crooked. “As Sheriff Burns used to say, ‘We ain’t caught up with that damn son of a gun yet, but we’re a-fixin’ to just as quick as he slows down.’”