The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Rona Jean was no gun moll (or if she was, that fact had not yet come to light), and her murder wasn’t anywhere near as dramatic as the death of Bonnie Parker. But the photos that Charlie had taken were sensational, to say the least. Not to be insensitive about it, but the fact that the girl—a telephone operator—had been strangled with her very own silk stocking would make for excellent copy. Charlie could see the headline now: Hello Central, Give Me Heaven.

  And with this story, Charlie was going to break a Darling rule. Up until now, the Dispatch would not have dared to report to its readers the news that Doc Roberts’ autopsy had revealed that the unmarried victim was pregnant. (Yes, his sister, Edna Fay, who was married to the doctor, had let him in on the secret.) “Only the news that’s fit to be read—by your mother,” Charlie’s father used to grumble, when he couldn’t print everything he wanted to print. “Or your grandmother. Or your little sister. It’s a curse. It’s an obscene, profane, dad-blamed blasphemy, is what it is. No newspaperman worth his salt ought to put up with it.” With a sigh, he would add, “But I do. ’Cause if I don’t, I get canceled subscriptions from the Baptists and the Methodists and the Catholics and letters to the editor from the rest of ’em.”

  But Rona Jean’s murder was the story du jour, and Charlie had decided that it was high time the Dispatch joined the modern newspaper world. It was a true fact, attested to by a reliable physician, that the victim was pregnant. And regardless of the unspoken prohibition against printing the word “pregnant” in the Dispatch, that fact, and that word, was exactly what he intended to print. He wouldn’t put it in the headline, out of deference to tender sensibilities, but it would be there. All by itself, that word would make readers blink and make Rona Jean’s murder a very big story, worthy of a special edition.

  But the killing of Rona Jean Hancock wasn’t the only story Charlie had up his sleeve. In fact, the other one might be even bigger, because of its possible national repercussions. It had come to him the week before via a telephone tip from an anonymous source—a woman—who claimed that there was something seriously fishy and definitely illegal going on at Camp Briarwood. The voice sounded familiar, but Charlie couldn’t quite put his finger on who it was. Anyway, he had been in the newspaper business long enough to know that nine times out of ten, an anonymous tip wasn’t worth a plugged nickel.

  But then the second tip had come in, from the same source but by mail this time, in the form of a handwritten note. In four sentences, it spelled out what the tipster had said on the phone. It was signed with an obvious pseudonym: Mata Hari. Charlie did a double take when he saw that. Mata Hari was a famous exotic dancer accused of being a spy during the Great War.

  Now, confronted with these serious claims, Charlie realized that this could be his big story, an exposé, exactly the kind of story he needed to get him back into the newspaper game. If he investigated and found out that the charges were true, somebody ought to clean house at the camp and throw out whoever was playing dirty. But who could do that? It couldn’t be the camp commander, who might be in on the scheme, and it definitely wasn’t a job for Sheriff Norris, who had no jurisdiction. It had to be somebody in the government, didn’t it? But how would he get word to the right person?

  Charlie had no answers, but he knew someone who might. Using the long-distance line, he tracked down Lorena Hickok—Hick, her friends called her—who had been the top female reporter for the Associated Press when Charlie was working for the wire service in New York. Hick had left the AP the year before and gone to work as a roving chief investigator for Harry Hopkins. Hopkins was head of the Federal Emergency Relief Administration, one of FDR’s most important New Deal programs, and responsible for funneling half a billion dollars into federally funded, state-run work projects. FERA’s money was government money, big money, and that kind of funding always invited fraud and misuse. Hopkins, who was no dummy, was understandably eager to make sure it was going where it was supposed to go. So he had hired Hick as an investigator-at-large and ordered her to travel around the country, assess the operation of the programs, and report back to him.

  Charlie had caught up with Hick late one evening the week before, at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, where she was staying. As a political reporter during the Tammany Hall bribery scandals of the late 1920s, she’d had plenty of experience investigating bribery and kickbacks. She had listened to Charlie’s abbreviated version of Mata Hari’s allegations, asked a couple of probing questions, and told him point-blank that he ought to drop whatever else he was doing and start following up on the tip.

  “I’ve seen a few instances of that kind of monkey business in the FERA programs,” she said in her gritty, cigarette-roughened voice, “and there’s no reason to think the CCC is any cleaner. Sounds like you’re onto something, Charlie my boy. Handle it right, and you’ve got yourself a story—a big story.” Helpfully, she added, “If you latch onto something, give me a call. I know somebody who hates this kind of dirty dealing, who could maybe pass the word to the top.”

  “Oh yeah?” Charlie asked. “Who would that be?”

  He’d heard that Hick was a close friend of Mrs. Roosevelt’s, and everybody knew that the First Lady liked to stick her nose into all of her husband’s New Deal programs. “Eleanor Everywhere,” people called her. If she got interested in Camp Briarwood, he would really have a big story on his hands. Maybe it would even win a Pulitzer, every newspaperman’s dream of glory.

  “Never mind who.” Hick chuckled. “That’s my business. You let me know what you’ve got, and I’ll take it from there. But you be careful,” she cautioned. “It’s no secret that there are bad guys who have their hands in Uncle Sam’s pockets. We don’t live in a perfect world.”

  Hick’s response had convinced Charlie that he had to go ahead. But this wasn’t an investigation he could handle by himself. He needed somebody who had legitimate access to the camp and who could do some surreptitious on-the-scene investigating. And luckily, he knew just the person: Ophelia Snow, who worked part-time in the quartermaster’s office out there and knew her way around the camp.

  So yesterday, he had asked Ophelia if she would agree to do some “research” for him as an investigative journalist. He had told her that he didn’t have the vaguest idea who Mata Hari was, and that while her claims sounded legitimate, he couldn’t be sure. That’s what Ophelia’s investigation was designed to prove. She had been reluctant at first, but he had reminded her how important Camp Briarwood was to Darling and suggested that if there was something crooked going on out there, it could endanger the success of the camp and might even result in its closing. (He didn’t really think so, but it was a possibility, wasn’t it?) She had finally said yes. Charlie glanced up at the clock. In fact, if all was going according to plan, she might be getting started right about now.

  And here in the Dispatch office, it was time to get started on the story of Rona Jean’s murder. Charlie rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, lifted his elbows, flexed his fingers, and leaned forward. The juices were flowing now, and he was ready to write.

  He’d been working steadily for ten or fifteen minutes when the telephone on his desk jangled. Charlie raised his voice. “Hey, Baby, pick up that call. I’m busy.” He’d had a second phone installed in the composing area, to save steps.

  “Oh, yessir,” Baby said importantly. He loved answering the phone. Charlie heard him say, “Dispatch office, Purley Mann speakin’. Speak your piece.”

  Charlie made a mental note to talk to Baby about his telephone manners, then stopped listening and went back to his typing. But after a moment, he heard a scuffling sound.

  “Not now, Baby,” he said. “I’m working on a story for the special edition. Get a number and I’ll call him back this afternoon.”

  Baby ducked his head and shifted his feet. “Uh, Mr. Dickens, it’s a lady. She says it’s important. Says it cain’t wait.”

  Charlie kept his eye
s on his work and his fingers going, rat-tat-tat. “Tell her to call back in ten minutes, then. I need to finish this first.”

  Baby disappeared, but a moment later he was back again. “Says she cain’t call back, ’cause of where she’s callin’ from. Says she’s gotta talk to you this minute or not at all, and if you don’t, you’ll be plenty sorry.”

  “Damn,” Charlie growled. “Who the hell is it?”

  “Nobody I ever heard of.” Baby cleared his throat apologetically. “Says her name is Miz Mattie Harry.”

  Charlie stopped typing and reached for the phone.

  NINE

  Sheriff Norris Learns More Facts of Life

  Edna Fay’s revelation had thrown Buddy for a loop. Four months? Catching his breath, he thought for a moment, then pulled Roy’s desk calendar toward him and flipped back to April. He and Rona Jean had their last date on Saturday, April 28—the night that she had invited him over for supper. If Doc Roberts was right, at that point she would have been just about two months along. Maybe she suspected she was pregnant and already knew that she didn’t want to marry the father. She’d rather marry him. He shivered, feeling he had escaped by the skin of his teeth.

  Or maybe she didn’t just suspect. Maybe she knew for sure. He opened the top drawer, took out the brown envelope, and slid the diary onto the desk. He opened to April and thumbed through the month until he came to April 23. On that day, she had written DR and a Monroeville phone number. April 23, five days before their last date.

  With the diary open on the desk before him, he picked up the phone and gave the Monroeville number to the operator. When it began to ring, he said mildly, “Henrietta, honey, this is sheriff’s business. I’d appreciate it if you’d click off right about now.” He smiled when she did.

  “Doctor DuBois’ office,” a pleasant-voiced woman said into his ear. “This is Linda June speaking. If you’re calling about seeing the doctor, just to let you know, we’re full up today, but if it can wait till tomorrow, we can fit you in then.”

  Buddy pulled in his breath. He’d guessed right. DR wasn’t somebody’s initials, it was the abbreviation for “doctor.” “Ma’am, this is Sheriff Norris, over in Darling. We’ve had ourselves a murder here. I’d like to speak to the doctor about it.”

  “Oh dear,” Linda June said. “Oh, my goodness gracious, that is just too bad. Well, if you’ll hold on, Sheriff, I’ll see if I can get him to the phone.”

  A moment later, Buddy was talking to an elderly doctor with a deep, rumbling voice and a persistent cough. “Sheriff Norris?” Dr. DuBois boomed. “So Roy Burns finally retired, did he? Been telling him for years he oughta quit and take it easy.” He coughed. “You got a lot to live up to, son. Roy Burns was the best damn sheriff in the whole state of Alabama.”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone, sir.” Buddy cleared his throat, feeling suddenly and unaccountably guilty for having the nerve to think he could step into the shoes of the best damn sheriff in the state. “Dead, I mean. Got bit on the wrist by a rattlesnake down in Horsetail Gorge when he was fishing.”

  “Aw, hell.” There was a silence, then, “Wonder how I missed hearing ’bout that. Must’ve been out of town and nobody thought to tell me.” Another silence, another cough. “Well, that’s the way I’d like to go when my time comes. So, Sheriff, Linda June says you’ve had a murder over there in Darling. Somebody go crazy with this heat and start shooting up his favorite saloon? Seems like it happens at least once every summer now.”

  “Nothing like that, sir,” Buddy said. “The victim’s name is Rona Jean Hancock. She was strangled. With her stocking.” He didn’t mention the rope. He had asked Edna Fay to tell Doc Roberts to keep it quiet, too, so the killer would be the only other person who had that important little detail. You never knew when something like that might come in handy.

  “Strangled?” the doctor said, in a raised-eyebrow voice. “Well, that’ll sure spoil your day.”

  “Yessir. According to Doc Roberts’ autopsy report, she was four months pregnant. Her diary says she had an appointment with you on April 23. I’m wondering if she said anything at all about who the baby’s father was. Gave a name, maybe.” He could feel the apprehension lance through him. What if she had given his name? It wouldn’t have been true, but he would have no defense.

  “Ah.” A long exhale, and a cough. “Well, you just hold your horses, Sheriff, and I’ll have a look.” A moment later, Buddy heard the squeak of a chair being moved and the rustle of papers, and DuBois was back on the line. “April 23, yes. Rona Jean. Pregnant, yes, some seven weeks, maybe eight—hard to be sure at that stage, but that’s my guess. Health, good, a little anemic but nothing to worry about. First pregnancy, says here she was unmarried. I don’t remember any mention of the father, and there’s nothing in the file. Back when I was a young man, you know, the girl’s father would have her namin’ a name, and her and the boy would be up in front of the preacher faster’n green grass through a goose.” He sighed. “These days, modern girls and all that, it’s diff’rent. It’s nobody’s business but theirs. So no, she didn’t name the father and I didn’t ask.”

  Buddy let out his breath. He hadn’t known he’d been holding it. “Did she seem upset when you told her about the . . . pregnancy?” Today was a day of firsts, Buddy thought. Pregnancy. He couldn’t remember ever saying that word out loud.

  “No, the way I remember it, she seemed pretty much unconcerned. She didn’t volunteer any information about her situation, and I didn’t ask.” There was a pause. “So she’s dead. I’m sorry to hear that. Strangled, you say? A man’s crime, although I remember once—it was down in Mobile, as I recall—a woman strangled her husband’s mistress. I always wondered about that one. Must’ve been one helluva strong female. An Amazon, wouldn’t you guess?”

  “Yes, sir.” An image of Myra May flashed through Buddy’s mind. He had seen her carrying trays loaded with a tableful of crockery. She was plenty strong.

  Another cough, followed by a reflective sigh. “You said Roy was fishing? Too damn bad, but it comes to us all in the end. Remember me to his missus next time you see her. We were in school together, about a hundred years ago.”

  “I will, sir, and thanks.” They exchanged good-byes and Buddy replaced the receiver on the telephone hook. He looked down at the diary. Seven weeks, maybe eight. Flipping the pages, he counted back from April 23 to early March. The first weekend, Rona Jean noted that she had gone to the movies with Beau Pyle. According to the diary, they drove over to Monroeville to see Today We Live, starring Joan Crawford and Gary Cooper. Rona Jean had worn her purple dress with the polka dots, and Beau was a good (underlined twice) kisser. The next night, Sunday night, she had gone to the Roller Palace with Lamar Lassen, where she also skated with Jack Baker, whom she apparently met for the first time at the rink. The next Saturday night, she’d gone out with Baker, who (she noted) was from nearby Thomasville and was a swell skater, even better than Lamar, but not much of a kisser.

  So it could’ve been Pyle, Lassen, or Baker—but maybe not Baker, who wasn’t much of a kisser. And then he noticed that on the pages that mentioned Beau Pyle and Lamar Lassen, Rona Jean had drawn those little Valentine hearts. Staring at them, a realization flickered. Rona Jean had been twice as experienced as he had imagined, for both Beau Pyle and Lamar Lassen were candidates for fatherhood. Was there anybody else?

  He glanced through the previous weeks, and while both Pyle and Lassen were mentioned, he saw no other men’s names, and no hearts. Then he paged through the rest of March and April, remembering that Doc Dubois had said that it was “hard to be sure at that stage.” Baker’s name appeared again, and there was somebody named Ray. But none of those names had been awarded the Valentine heart. The symbol of Rona Jean’s sexual favors belonged exclusively to Lassen and Pyle.

  Buddy closed the diary and regarded it for a moment, imagining Mr. Moseley holding it up in court for all
to see: Your Honor, we have here People’s Exhibit One—the document that gave Sheriff Norris the facts he used to solve this horrific crime. Buddy smiled, picturing the jurors leafing through it, reading Rona Jean’s entries, and drawing the same conclusion he had drawn.

  Then he reddened, remembering that she hadn’t written very favorably about him and imagining the jurors’ reactions to her comment that he wasn’t a very good kisser. At the same time, and contradictorily, he felt grateful to whatever caution had kept him from accepting Rona Jean’s invitation to go to bed with her. There was no Valentine heart on his page.

  He put the diary back in its envelope and locked it in the drawer and sat for a moment, thinking. His job now: find out which of the two men—Lassen or Pyle—had fathered Rona Jean’s baby, since he would be the likeliest candidate for the killer.

  Buddy frowned, feeling confused. But that wouldn’t work. Unless one of them upped and confessed and the other one said that it couldn’t be him because he’d used protection, there was no way to know, let alone prove, which of the two was the actual father. What he had to find out was which of the two Rona Jean had fingered as the father, which might or might not be the same thing. And he’d better get on it right away, which meant that he’d need to assign Wayne to the job of checking the garage for rope and something that could’ve been used to hit Rona Jean on the head. And he was going to have to interview the neighbors, to see if anybody saw or heard anything around the time of death.