The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Charlie remembered Roy Burns saying that, and had even quoted him once in print, which had made the sheriff laugh out loud—a memorable occasion, since Burns was notoriously surly. “I guess I won’t hold my breath, then,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ve got something I think you might want to know. About Rona Jean Hancock and that baby.”


“You mean, you’re not here to pump me for information for your story?” Buddy’s eyebrows went up. “Well, now, that’s a switch. Come on in here and let’s talk.”

He led the way into his office and pointed Charlie to a chair. Charlie hung his straw boater on the wall hook and took the chair, looking around at the bare office, thinking how many times he’d sat across this very desk from Roy Burns. He would be trying to pry story details out of the sheriff and Roy would keep saying, “No comment.” Roy was like that. He never wanted anybody looking over his shoulder, trying to see his hand. He had a poker face, too. You never knew what he was thinking—and you usually didn’t want to.

Now, Charlie wondered whether Buddy Norris would hold his cards close the way Roy had. He was young for a sheriff, and he was a Darling boy, which was both an advantage and a disadvantage. On the one hand, he’d grown up with the town’s secrets and knew where all the skeletons were hidden, so to speak. It’d be a lot harder to pull the wool over his eyes. But people—especially the older folks—might not be inclined to take a hometown boy seriously, especially one who hadn’t seen his thirtieth birthday yet. This might just be Buddy Norris’ make-or-break case, the most important case of his career.

Buddy pulled out a lower desk drawer and swung one boot onto it. “So what’s this about Rona Jean and her baby? You here to pass along some gossip, or you got something to add to the case?” He spoke with a smile and mildly, but the question was a deliberate challenge.

Charlie decided not to pick up the gauntlet. “I guess you’ll have to be the judge of that,” he replied, equally mild. “Fannie—my wife—just told me that Rona Jean was one of her regular customers. The young lady liked hats, it seems.”

“That’s the truth,” Buddy said, more to himself than to Charlie. “That girl did have a passel of hats.”

Charlie nodded and went on. “A couple of weeks ago, the two of them had a conversation. Rona Jean told Fannie she was pregnant and that she didn’t want to keep the baby. She wasn’t keen on Darling, either. What she wanted was to get out of town and make a new life for herself somewhere else. So Fannie gave her some money in return for her promise to give us the baby.” At the look on Buddy’s face, he added, “I know—it was a dumb thing to do. We’ve talked, and Fannie understands that. But she can’t have children, and she felt sorry for a baby whose mother didn’t want him. Fannie did—want him, I mean. She wanted him very much.”

Buddy gave him a look he couldn’t read. “Just how much did Miz Dickens give Rona Jean?”

“A lot, I’m afraid.” Charlie gave him a rueful look. “A hundred and twenty-five dollars. Rona Jean said she needed it to pay a doctor over in Monroeville and to handle the hospital. Fannie told her she could come up with more, if she needed it. We thought . . . Fannie and I thought we’d better tell you, in case you found some of that money in Rona Jean’s possession and wondered where she got it. And I thought you might want to know what she was up to.”

Buddy whistled. “A real con artist, wasn’t she?” There was an edge to his voice. “That girl was playing all the angles. It’s beginning to sound like one of her shakedown tricks caught up with her.”

“Con artist?” Charlie frowned. “All the angles? What angles?”

Buddy pursed his lips, thinking. After a moment, he said, “Are we off the record?”