The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“If that’s how you want it,” Charlie said. Of course, when he got something off the record, he could always try to get somebody else to confirm it. He’d played that little trick any number of times. And in Darling, nothing was truly off the record. Secrets had wings. And mouths. And legs.

“That’s how I need it,” Buddy said. “I’m not telling you this because you’re a newsman, Charlie. I’m telling you because your wife got caught in a con. Y’see, Rona Jean didn’t promise that baby just to Miz Dickens. She promised it to Violet and Myra May.”

“She what?” As the information sank in, Charlie felt a hot, mounting anger. “How much did they pay her?”

“They hadn’t given her any money directly, at least not yet. But they paid the doctor—Dr. DuBois, his name is—over in Monroeville. And they told her they’d pay the hospital and give her money to get a new start somewhere else. Like your wife, they wanted her baby.” Buddy picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser end on the desk. “At least, Violet did. Myra May maybe just went along to keep Violet happy.” He kept his eyes on the pencil. “Violet’s the one who wants kids.”

“Damn it!” Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think I can tell Fannie this, Buddy. She really wanted that baby, and she wanted to help Rona Jean. I don’t want her ever to know that she was the victim of a shakedown artist. That’s just going to rub salt into the wound.”

He stopped. But if he was going to write Rona Jean’s story, the whole story, this was just another part of it, wasn’t it? This was who she was—the kind of person she had been—as Buddy said, a woman who played all the angles. Or maybe, to put it more charitably, a woman who was dealt a bad hand in life and then played whatever cards she had, hoping to improve her hand. Maybe she didn’t play those cards fairly or honestly, but if he was going to write about her, he had to see things from her point of view and tell her side of the story, too. And even though Buddy had given him the information off the record, Darling was a small town. Rona Jean’s arrangement with Violet and Myra May was bound to come out, one way or another. Fannie would have to know, and it would be best if she heard it from him, rather than from somebody at the post office or the grocery store.

Buddy was tapping his pencil on the desk, perhaps keeping time with his thoughts. “The thing is, Charlie, that pair at the diner and your missus may not be the only ones who thought they were helping her out. Once Rona Jean got the idea that she could get money from people who wanted the baby, there was nothing to stop her from making the same promise to other people. In fact . . .” He frowned, then went on in a lower voice, thinking out loud. “In fact, that’s maybe what got her killed.”

“Got her killed?” Charlie asked uneasily.

Buddy was going on. “So Rona Jean figured out that she had this one thing to sell, this baby, and she was selling it to different people, and all of them thought they had a claim on it. If one found out about the others and threatened to blow the whistle . . .” He shrugged. “I guess you can see where I’m going with this.”

Charlie stared at him for a moment. As the idea sank in, he didn’t like it. “Well, you can count Fannie out as a suspect,” he said curtly. “There’s no way she’d have the strength to wrap a stocking around Rona Jean’s neck. And for what it’s worth, I can tell you that she was home in bed with me from ten o’clock until past daylight this morning.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Buddy said, swinging both feet onto the floor. “I don’t doubt you one bit.” He opened a desk drawer and took out an envelope. “How much did your wife give Rona Jean?”

“A hundred twenty-five, but—” He stopped as the sheriff opened the envelope and began to count twenties.

“Here’s a hundred and twenty,” Buddy said, pushing the money across the desk. “The rest of this is twenties, and I don’t have any change. I’ll have to owe you five.”