The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Sounds good,” Liz said. “We need rain, but let’s hope it doesn’t rain on our parade. The kids always look forward to it. I hate to see them disappointed.”

  “The WALA weather forecast said we could get thunderstorms today,” Ophelia said. “That big storm south of Mobile—the one that crossed Florida and ended up in the Gulf—is predicted to head inland.”

  “Maybe it’ll break the heat,” Verna said, pushing her hair off her forehead. “It’s another hot one.”

  The business part of their meeting finished, the officers could relax and chat. Ophelia brought a plate of old-fashioned jam thumbprint cookies to the table. Liz, who was wearing a yellow voile dress with cap sleeves and peasant-style embroidery, put their papers away. And Verna took a pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator.

  “I guess you heard about Rona Jean Hancock getting killed,” she said, refilling everyone’s glasses. Stylishly thin, of medium height, Verna had recently adopted a new look, with short, straight, easy-care hair that fitted her head like a glossy dark helmet. Today, she was wearing a khaki shirtwaist dress with pockets in a flared skirt.

  “My mother heard it on her party line first thing this morning and hurried across the street to tell me,” Liz said. “I didn’t really know Rona Jean, but I felt I did, just because she was there on the other end of the telephone line. I was shocked.”

  In a way, Lizzy thought, the girls who worked on the Exchange were the best-known girls in town, even if you didn’t always recognize them when you saw them on the street. Everyone could identify their voices when they said, “Number, please,” or “Sorry, that line is busy,” or “Mrs. Musgrove just went over to the church to help get the tables ready for the supper tonight. If you need her, I’ll ring the Baptist parsonage.” Every single person in town would be touched by Rona Jean’s loss—and wondering who in the world could have killed her, and why.

  “It’s a tragedy,” Verna agreed, sitting down.

  Lizzy took a cookie. “Does anybody have more details?” She worked in Mr. Moseley’s law office and had learned the truth of what Mr. Moseley liked to say: the devil was truly in the details.

  “Charlie told me that Doc Roberts is doing an autopsy,” Ophelia replied. Short and nicely rounded, with a cherubic face, flyaway brown hair, and an irrepressible optimism, Ophelia usually wore a wide smile that showed pretty white teeth. She wasn’t smiling now, though. “I’m sure that Charlie will handle the story,” she added, and if Liz and Verna thought they heard some envy in her voice, they would be right.

  Ophelia worked part-time for Charlie Dickens at the Dispatch. She operated the Linotype machine, sold advertising, and wrote up stories for the women’s page. She was dying to do some serious reporting, but Charlie was in the habit of assigning her to “soft” news—the baby shows and women’s club meetings—and keeping the hard news (what there was of it) for himself. When she had started her new part-time job at Camp Briarwood, though, he’d asked her to write a column about the camp’s activities. And he’d come up with a new investigative assignment for her that sounded intriguing. In fact, the story was so important that he’d made her swear not to tell anybody—not even her Dahlia friends—about her investigation, which intrigued her even more.

  “An autopsy?” Lizzy turned her lemonade glass in her long, slim fingers, her nails clipped short because she spent hours at the typewriter every day. “But they already know how Rona Jean died, don’t they? I understand that she was . . . strangled. With her own stocking.”

  In Benton Moseley’s law office, Lizzy often had to deal with the grimier, grittier side of life. But murder wasn’t often on the agenda, and it certainly wasn’t something she liked to dwell on. She was creative and imaginative, a romantic who preferred to think of things that gave her pleasure, like her sweet little house and her garden and especially her writing—her new book, for instance. At least, she hoped it was going to be a new book. She didn’t know for sure yet, but she had her fingers crossed.

  Liz’s best friend Verna, on the other hand, operated out of an entirely different frame of mind. Pragmatic, realistic, and unsentimental, Verna served as the Cypress County probate clerk and newly elected county treasurer—the first woman in the entire state of Alabama to be elected to that important job. From her office on the second floor of the courthouse, she witnessed most of the grimier doings that went on across the county. Just last month, for instance, she had found out that the contractor who had low-bid the new bridge out on the Jericho Road was billing the county for twice as many steel trusses as the specifications called for. She hadn’t let him get away with it, either. She reported it to the county commissioners, who made him return the trusses, reduced his billing accordingly, and levied a sizable fine. Verna’s habit of cracking down on wrongdoers didn’t earn her a lot of friends, but she never apologized for it.

  “Yes, an autopsy.” Verna sat back down at the table and took a Pall Mall cigarette out of the handbag hanging on the back of her chair. “To find out if she was sexually assaulted. She was strangled with her stocking and her body was found in a . . . suggestive position. In the front seat of Myra May’s car. I heard that from Myra May herself,” she added, “when I stopped at the diner for a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh dear.” Lizzy closed her eyes, not wanting to think about it. “Oh, poor Rona Jean.”

  “Maybe it was just sex,” Ophelia remarked hopefully. “Without the assault, I mean. I wonder if Doc Roberts can tell the difference.” She made a rueful face. “Either way, of course, Charlie can’t print it in the paper. He says that if the Dispatch had a motto, it would be ‘Only the news that’s fit to be read—by your mother.’” She took a cookie for herself.

  Liz shook her head. “Poor Charlie. He’s a serious newspaperman. I know he hates to leave stuff out.”

  “Doesn’t have to be in the Dispatch,” Verna reminded them, lighting her cigarette. “You know Darling. News—especially if it’s got anything to do with sex—gets around so fast it’ll make your head swim. An hour after Doc Roberts is finished, the autopsy result will be all over town.”

  “Make that half an hour,” Ophelia said.

  Verna pulled down her mouth. “Unfortunately, getting the news fast doesn’t guarantee that it’ll be accurate. Somebody will get it wrong, and the next person will get it even more wrong, and so on. The news you hear may not be the real news.”

  “Well, Doc Roberts can set people straight,” Lizzy said. “And Buddy Norris. I’m sure he’ll get all the facts in his investigation.”

  “Maybe not Buddy Norris.” Verna sipped her lemonade. “I stopped at the post office before I came over here, and I heard that there might be a problem with Buddy Norris working on this case.”

  Ophelia gave her a puzzled look. “But Buddy Norris is the sheriff. Why wouldn’t he investigate? And if he doesn’t, who else could?”

  “That’s a good question, Opie,” Verna said thoughtfully. “I suppose Deputy Springer might, but—”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Verna,” Ophelia scoffed. “Wayne Springer is new on the job and besides, nobody knows him. He comes from Birmingham. People won’t even want to talk to him.” She paused. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. What’s wrong with Buddy Norris? He’s the sheriff now—why shouldn’t he do his job?”

  “Because he was involved with the victim.” Verna got up to find an ashtray.

  “Involved?” Lizzy frowned. “How do you mean?”

  Verna put the ashtray on the table and sat back down. “I overheard Leona Ruth Adcock telling Mrs. Magee that she looked through Rona Jean’s kitchen window and saw the two of them hugging and kissing. Buddy and Rona Jean, I mean.”

  “Through the window?” Lizzy rolled her eyes. But she wasn’t surprised. Leona Ruth had a reputation for looking where she shouldn’t be looking and then telling all her friends what she had seen.

  Ophelia shook her
head disgustedly. “Nobody ever believes more than half of anything Leona Ruth says. Anyway, even if it’s true, there’s no law against a kiss or two.”

  “No, but there could be a problem if the kissee gets killed and the kisser is supposed to find out who dunnit,” Verna pointed out. “Some people might suspect a cover-up—or a frame-up.”

  Taking a second cookie, Lizzy suppressed a smile. Verna was a mystery fan, and her vocabulary sometimes gave her away.

  “Anyway,” Verna went on, “it doesn’t matter whether Leona was telling the truth or not. Mrs. Magee seemed to believe her. She’ll probably tell everybody in her Sunday school class tomorrow, and they’ll think they got the word from God.”

  “I hadn’t heard about Buddy Norris,” Lizzy observed, “but Rona Jean was certainly seeing somebody else. She got quite a few hugs and kisses from that guy, too.”

  “Oh yeah?” Verna tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Who was he?”

  “Somebody from the CCC camp,” Lizzy said. “He was wearing a uniform. Mr. Moseley and I saw the two of them at the movie house over in Monroeville.” Just thinking of it made her blush. “They were sitting a couple of rows in front of us.”

  “The CCC camp,” Verna mused. “I wonder . . . Did you recognize him?”

  Lizzy shook her head. “I only got a glimpse of him, but he seemed older than the other CCC boys. An officer, maybe.”

  Ophelia leaned forward. “Let me get this straight, Liz. You’re saying you went to the movie with Mr. Moseley? On a date?”

  Ophelia sounded so incredulous that Lizzy had to chuckle. “I guess you could call it that. But don’t go thinking romance, Ophelia. The movie starred Spencer Tracy, and we’re both fans, that’s all. You know that Mr. Moseley is involved with that girl in Montgomery.”

  That girl’s name was Daphne. She was a very pretty socialite, very rich, and very divorced (twice). Sometimes Lizzy felt a stirring of jealousy—an unreasonable stirring—when she thought about Daphne. But she always reminded herself that while she and Bent Moseley were friends, as well as employee and employer, the two of them inhabited very different universes. Daphne was in his universe, and Lizzy definitely wasn’t.

  “This CCC guy,” Verna said, frowning a little. “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Or a name?” Ophelia put in eagerly. “I work at Camp Briarwood three days a week, you know. Maybe I’ve met him.”

  Lizzy shook her head. “No name, and not even a very good look. But I can tell you that they weren’t there to watch the movie. They were . . . I think it’s called petting.” At first, it was amusing, but after a while, the kisses got so passionate that Lizzy had been embarrassed. She thought of finding different seats, but she was afraid that Bent—Mr. Moseley—would think she was being silly. She was glad when the movie ended and the lights came up.

  Verna blew a stream of blue smoke into the air. “When did this happen?”

  “Maybe three weeks ago?” Lizzy hazarded. “The movie was really worth seeing—The Power and the Glory. If you’re curious, you could check the Monroe Journal movie ads and see when it was showing.”

  Ophelia glanced at her wristwatch and pushed her chair back. “Oh golly. Can we adjourn? I’ve got Sam’s baseball team coming for a picnic tonight, and Sarah’s birthday is tomorrow. I promised I’d take her to Monroeville shopping this afternoon. I have to stop at Camp Briarwood, too, and pick up a couple of things I left on my desk.”

  Verna banged her glass in lieu of a gavel. “Meeting adjourned,” she pronounced.

  “Sarah’s birthday?” Lizzy asked. “I’ve lost track. How old is she?”

  “She’ll be fifteen—can you believe? She’s asking for a new bathing suit, and heaven knows she needs one. She’s getting . . .” Ophelia gestured with her hands. “Curvy. I’ll help you two clear up, and then I’ve got to run.”

  “Go now,” Lizzy commanded, pushing her chair back. “We’ll clear.”

  “And take the cookies with you,” Verna said. “They’re scrumptious. Sam’s team will love them.”

  SIX

  Verna and Lizzy Make Plans

  A few moments later, everything was put away and the kitchen was in order for the next Dahlia group that would be using it. Verna stuck her treasurer’s ledger in her handbag and went toward the door. “Are you headed home, Liz?”

  “Going to the post office first. I’m hoping for a letter.” Lizzy put on her straw hat, turned out the kitchen light, then followed Verna out the back door and waited while she locked it. “From Nadine Fleming—my agent.”

  “I’ve got a favor to ask you, so I’ll walk with you,” Verna said. “And I have to go to the grocery.” She put the key under the rock beside the back door and looked up with a smile. “The letter—you’re hoping for news about your novel, then?”

  “Yes.” Wishing it would cool off, Lizzy fell into step beside Verna as they walked up Rosemont in the direction of the courthouse square. The weather had been hot and sultry the past few days, and the gardens were in need of moisture. But if the storm in the Gulf blew ashore, it might cool things off and bring them some rain. She hoped so.

  “Nadine has promised to tell me whether the manuscript is ready to send out,” she added, as they stepped around a pair of young girls skipping rope on the sidewalk. “I have my fingers crossed that it is.”

  As Lizzy said the words, she found herself not quite believing them. Ever since she was a teenager, she had been promising herself that she was going to write a book, and now she had done it. She wrote it during the months she’d been working in Mr. Jackman’s law office in Montgomery—“in exile,” as Lizzy had thought of it at first. But now, she had to admit that if she hadn’t gone into exile, she probably wouldn’t have written the book.

  It was Mr. Moseley who suggested the job to her, with the idea that it might be better if she got away from Darling for a while. The suggestion was especially kind and generous, for it came right after she had received the shock of her life, when Grady Alexander—Lizzy’s longtime all-but-fiancé—had told her that he had to marry Sandra Mann, because they were expecting a baby. In fact, the wedding was planned for that very weekend. To make matters even worse (if that was possible), Lizzy had discovered that Grady and his new bride would be moving into the old Harrison house, just down the block.

  Grady’s betrayal had come as a terrible blow, and it took all of Lizzy’s strength to pretend that it didn’t hurt (although of course it did). For several days, she went around making excuses for Grady, holding her head high and wearing an artificial smile that fooled nobody, least of all Mr. Moseley. But at last, she decided to follow up on his suggestion that she take the temporary job with Mr. Jackman in Montgomery.

  This decision was made a little easier when it turned out that Ophelia was eager to fill in for Lizzy in Mr. Moseley’s office, in addition to her part-time work for the Dispatch. At the time, Snow’s Farm Supply was barely holding on and money was tight in the Snow household, so every extra dollar was a big help. If Lizzy went to work in Montgomery, Ophelia could take Lizzy’s place in Darling.

  The interview went well, and Mr. Jackman immediately offered Lizzy the job. She said yes, closed up her house, and set off for Montgomery, the Alabama state capital and the first capital of the Confederacy. There, she began looking for an apartment for herself and her cat, Daffodil, whom she couldn’t bear to leave behind.

  The adventure turned out much better than Lizzy could possibly have anticipated. She enjoyed her new job, where there was always something different and challenging going on. Mr. Jackman’s practice was wide-ranging, and once he learned how competent she was, he delegated more and more tasks to her. He often went out of town on business or spent long days at the legislature, leaving her in charge of the office. Self-confidence had never been Lizzy’s strong suit, but working for Mr. Jackman changed that. She couldn’t explain it except to say tha
t it was like finding yourself suddenly promoted two grades ahead in school and discovering—to your delighted surprise—that you could do the work with no trouble at all.

  What’s more, the three-room furnished apartment that Mrs. Jackman had helped her locate suited her to a T. It was at the back of one of the large old homes on a quiet Montgomery street. It had its own private entrance, decent furniture, a bookcase full of books left by the previous tenant, and a cute little kitchenette with a door that opened onto a splendid garden, where she and Daffy could enjoy warm evenings and quiet weekends. Mr. Moseley (now that they weren’t working together, he asked her to call him Bent) drove up on weekends to visit Daphne Stewart, with whom he was romantically involved. Occasionally, he would drop in at Jackman’s office to ask Lizzy to go out to dinner with him, or to a movie or a concert, and she always said yes. After all, she wasn’t working for him, she did enjoy his company, and Grady was out of the picture. Lizzy (who had always treasured stability and predictability) was learning to be comfortable with the idea of “temporary,” and it felt temporarily right to spend a few hours every couple of weeks with her former boss.

  But aside from seeing Bent, Lizzy didn’t go out. Instead, she gave herself permission to do something she’d been wanting to do for a very long time. With her second paycheck (her first went for two pretty dresses, a pair of summer shoes, and a new red leather collar for Daffy), she bought a reconditioned Royal typewriter. She put it on a little table in front of a window overlooking the garden, equipped herself with a comfortable chair, and began to write about the characters who had been living in a corner of her mind like a group of silent friends and neighbors.

  Lizzy had always been a good writer. For years, she had written the weekly “Garden Gate” column for the Dispatch, including notes about plants in local gardens and wild plants from the woods and fields and streams around Darling. Her readers began sending clippings to their friends in other cities, and it wasn’t long before she was receiving letters from all over the South, asking gardening questions or telling her about the writers’ experiences with the plants she had written about.