Of course. The baby. It explained a lot of things. Like why Violet had befriended Rona Jean and why Myra May was willing to pay the bills. And why Rona Jean had told Bettina Higgens that Myra May wouldn’t dare fire her, and why Violet had been so upset by Rona Jean’s death. Violet hadn’t just lost a friend, she had lost a baby—the baby she hoped would become her own. He felt like all kinds of a fool for not figuring this out for himself.
Violet sighed. “Rona Jean didn’t have any way to take care of a baby—she didn’t want a baby. But we do.” She looked at Myra May. “We adopted Cupcake after my sister died and Cupcake’s father couldn’t take care of her. We don’t want our little girl to grow up as an only child. We would just love to give her a little brother or sister. We thought . . . I mean, we were hoping . . .” She shrugged and sighed again.
“So in return for letting us have her baby,” Myra May said in a hard, flat voice, “we were paying Rona Jean’s bills. And she was holding our feet to the fire.”
“Myra May,” Violet said plaintively, “I really wish you wouldn’t—”
“Well, she was, Violet. That girl listened in on the switchboard and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. She knew it was against the rules, but I couldn’t stop her and I couldn’t fire her, because if I did, she’d leave town. And you wanted the baby.” Myra May raised her hand as if to ward off Violet’s protest. “I know, I know, dear—I wanted the baby, too. Both of us did. But that doesn’t change the fact that Rona Jean was blackmailing us.”
“No, no,” Violet protested. “That’s not how I saw it. Not at all.”
“That’s exactly how it was, Violet.” Myra May mimicked Rona Jean’s Southern drawl. “‘You pay my bills, you let me do what I want, and I’ll give you my baby. Maybe I’ll give you my baby, if I don’t decide to leave town first.’ It was blackmail, pure and simple.”
Buddy picked up his fork and went back to his pie. He was now convinced that the money he had found—the $140—was a blackmail payoff of some kind. But whose? And what for, exactly? Blackmail was a powerful motive for murder, he reminded himself. Answer those questions and you’d probably have the killer.
He finished his pie, picked up his notebook and pencil, and put them in his shirt pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “You’ve been a big help. If you think of anything else I should know, please get in touch.”
“We will,” Violet said. She leaned forward with a wry little smile. “To tell the honest truth, Buddy, we were kind of disappointed when Rona Jean told us that the baby wasn’t yours. Myra May and I would have been proud to raise your child.”
That was almost too much for Buddy, who for the life of him couldn’t think what to say. He was grateful for the knock on the kitchen door that prevented him from saying anything.
It was Raylene again. “Buddy, there’s a phone call for you on the switchboard. It’s your deputy.” She hesitated. “And I wonder if you’d stop in the kitchen on your way out. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Tell Henrietta to ring the phone upstairs, so Buddy can talk to his deputy up here,” Myra May said, and stood up. To Buddy, she said, “Raylene and I made up that list of people who’ve been in my car in the last few weeks. You can pick it up from her before you leave.”
“I’ll be down as soon as Cupcake wakes up,” Violet said, and disappeared into the bedroom.
Still feeling bewildered about what Violet had said, Buddy picked up the phone when it rang. “Yeah, Wayne, what’s up?”
“Somebody named Liz Lacy just called,” Wayne replied. “She said you should maybe talk to the woman who runs the laundry—Adele Hart, her name is. Seems that Miz Hart told somebody, who told Miss Lacy, that she saw one of the CCC guys hanging out behind the diner. Not clear whether it was last night or another night. But it sounds like it’s worth looking into.”
“I’ll check it out,” Buddy said. “How’d it work out over at Miz Parker’s? You’re back at the office, I reckon.”
“Yeah, I’m here. Miz Parker’s got her mare back. The neighbor—Bob Denny—claims she owes him for a fence her bull broke down and a sow and eleven piglets that got loose and haven’t been seen since. That’s why he took the mare. Denny’s going to file a complaint in magistrate’s court about the fence and the pigs. That way, the judge can settle it.”
“Yeah. Did you check out the garage? Any sign of a bottle or something like that the killer might have used to hit Rona Jean?”
“Matter of fact, I did find something,” Wayne said. “It was layin’ under the car—a Dr Pepper bottle. I took a couple of photos of it, then brought it back here. There are prints on the neck, the way you’d hold a bottle like that to use it as a weapon. Most are smudged, but I’m still working on it.”
“Keep at it,” Buddy said. “Good work, Wayne.”
“Thanks. Oh, and I found a couple of lengths of rope. Could be what we’re looking for.” He paused. “How’s the investigation going?”
“Complications,” Buddy said. He was still struggling with Violet’s remark. Did she mean . . . No, he was sure she didn’t. “I’ll go across the street to the laundry and talk to Miz Hart. You need anything?”
“That list of people who’ve been in the car when you can get it. I want to be sure I’ve got comparison prints from everybody.”
“I’m picking it up in a minute or two,” Buddy said. “You’ll have it when I get back to the office.”
In the kitchen, he scanned the list Raylene handed him. It contained eight names, four of whom he knew hadn’t been fingerprinted. “Thanks,” he said, folding it into his notebook. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. I’ll get my deputy started on this right away.”
Myra May’s mother was a tall, competent-looking woman, with penetrating eyes under heavy brows, a firm mouth and chin, and short auburn hair streaked with gray. When Buddy looked at her, he knew he was seeing Myra May, in another twenty years. He was seeing something else, too, in her eyes.
“Excuse me, Miz Riggs,” he said hesitantly, “but I’m wondering . . .” Her “gift,” as Aunt Hetty Little called it, was known to everyone in Darling. Buddy couldn’t help thinking that she must have some knowledge about what had happened in the garage the night before.
“Yes, I do,” Raylene said, as if she had read his mind (as she probably had). “I don’t know as much as you think I do, but I have the feeling that this wasn’t about Rona Jean’s baby. It was about somebody—more than one person, I think—paying money to somebody to get more money. And about knowing too much, and trying to sell that knowledge.” Her voice seemed to take on an odd resonance, as if she were speaking in a cave. “Selling what you know can cause big problems. I’ve seen people do that, and it’s always dangerous. In this case, I’m afraid it was . . . deadly.”
That last word seemed to hang in the air between them. Buddy stared at her, wishing she wouldn’t talk in riddles. If she’d just come straight out with it— He sighed. “Thanks,” he said, even though he wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking her for.
“Oh, and Buddy,” she said, frowning a little. “You be sure and keep your eye on the weather, will you?”
* * *
Hart’s Peerless Laundry was on the other side of Robert E. Lee, across from Musgrove’s Hardware. Outside, it was hot as the vestibule of Hades, as Buddy’s grandfather used to say, and the dark clouds piled up to the south gave the sky an ominous tint. But inside, it was just plain hot as hell, and the air was so heavy with the steamy smell of soap and bleach that Buddy could hardly draw a full breath. Behind the counter, Adele Hart, a plump, cheerful-looking woman in her early fifties, was folding a big basket of fluffy white towels marked “Old Alabama Hotel.” She wore a brown dress covered with a big white apron, and her face was flushed beet red.
“Oh, hello, Buddy,” she said, looking up. She laughed a little. “Oopsie, guess I should be callin’ yo
u ‘Sheriff,’ huh? Seems kinda funny, since I can remember when you used to haul you and your daddy’s wash in your red wagon. You were a cute little boy—you had that funny cowlick, and your hair used to stick straight up.”
Buddy blushed, wishing that people would stop reminding him that he’d once been a kid. But she was right about the wagon, anyway. After his mother died, his father would load their dirty clothes into a big wicker basket, and Buddy would put it in his wagon and haul it up the street to the laundry, where Mrs. Hart, then a young woman, would wait on him. A day or two later, he’d pick up the clothes and towels and sheets, all clean and folded neatly into the basket, and haul them back home.
Buddy went straight to business. “Liz Lacy says she thinks maybe you saw somebody hanging around behind the diner at night. Is that right?”
Mrs. Hart wiped her sweaty forehead with her sleeve. “Word gets around, don’t it? I was sayin’ that very thing to Liz’s ma, just a couple of hours ago, when she brought in her damask tablecloth.” She tut-tutted. “Catsup and mustard both. Had to tell her I didn’t think we could get it all out, especially the mustard. If you don’t get on it right away, mustard’ll stain worse than almost anything. But at least it’s in the middle, where she can put a doily on it.” She picked up another towel, shook it out, and began to fold it. “And, yes, I reckon I did see a fella, late at night. Wouldn’t have thought much of it, but he was wearin’ one of them CCC uniforms. I heard those boys have to be in bed by ten, and I wondered if he was goin’ to get in trouble for being late.”
Buddy took out his notebook. “When did you see him?” Hopefully, he added, “Was it last night?”
“No, wasn’t last night.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “Poor little Mikey was throwing up last night, and I was sitting up with him until way past midnight, in the back bedroom. Mikey is my Bert’s youngest,” she added in a confiding tone. “We’re keeping all three of Bert’s kids just now. Junie died last year of TB—remember Junie Plunkett? She was Bert’s wife, and a real nice girl, gave her heart and soul to those kids. Bert’s gone over to Atlanta, trying to find work.” She shook her head regretfully. “Hard for fam’lies these days. Tears Bert up to be away from his babies.”
Not last night? Buddy felt disappointed. But the fact that Mrs. Hart hadn’t seen the man didn’t mean that he hadn’t been there.
“What day did you see him, then?” he asked. “What time?”
Mrs. Hart pushed her wispy brown hair off her forehead. “Let’s see—last night was Friday, right? So it would have been the night before, which would make it Thursday. And right after eleven, because my Artis had just got back from his poker game over at the Meeks’ place and gone into the house and up to bed. The kids were all asleep, and I was sittin’ on the porch, enjoying the cool, such as it was, and the whip-poor-will that sings from Mr. Vader’s big old willow across the street. We can see the back of the diner and the garden and the garage from our porch, you know. There was a right good moon that night, and I saw that girl—Rona Jean, the one that got killed—come out of the back of the diner and meet the man in the alley by the garage.”
“Had you seen this man before?” Buddy asked. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Hart pushed her lips in and out. “Far as I know, he ain’t been in the laundry, at least when I’ve been up front here. He’s kinda built big, like my Artis, with big shoulders.” She illustrated with both hands.
Built big, big shoulders. Buddy was taking notes. It wasn’t a very good description. But most of the young men he had seen out at the CCC camp were thin and underweight. Someone with a big build and wide shoulders might stand out. “Height?”
She eyed Buddy. “About as tall as you, maybe.”
Buddy wrote down 5’10”. “When you saw Miss Hancock and this man on Thursday night, did they seem . . . were they . . . well, friendly?”
Mrs. Hart frowned. “If you mean, were they huggin’ and kissin’—no, they weren’t. They were mostly talking, and neither of ’em seemed any too happy about it, either.”
Not happy. “Arguing?”
“Maybe,” she said slowly. “I couldn’t hear. They were serious, is all I can say. They weren’t funnin’ around.”
“How long did they talk?”
She considered. “Maybe four, five minutes. Then she walked off and he climbed on his motorcycle and rode away.” She frowned. “Blasted the night to smithereens, he did, revvin’ up that engine. Rode away mad was the way it looked to me.”
Motorcycle. Of course. “Can you describe the motorcycle?”
“Well, I couldn’t see it too good that night, but I’ve seen it before,” she said. “Around town, I mean. Green, with U.S. Army painted on it, and a rack on the back, and saddlebags. Leather saddlebags, with buckles.”
Instantly, Buddy knew the motorcycle she was describing. He had noticed it, too, here and there: an olive-drab 1930 Harley-Davidson, about the same size as his Indian Ace.
Mrs. Hart was going on. “Mostly when I see that motorcycle, it’s parked—like, out in front of the diner or the movie theater.” Her hand went to her mouth and she gave him a round-eyed look. “Are you thinking that maybe the one that drives it is the one that killed her?”
“Could be,” Buddy said. “If you see him or the motorcycle again, could you call the sheriff’s office right away?”
“Oh, I will, Sheriff,” she said. “I surely will.” She regarded him, shaking her head a little, marveling. “You know, I just can’t help remembering how you used to come in here, pulling that little red wagon piled up with your dirty underpants and socks. And just look at you now, all grown up and a sheriff.” She was beaming. “My, my, you have done us all proud.”
Buddy ducked his head, feeling himself coloring. He tried to think of something to say, but the best he could do was, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Her smile faded and she cocked her head, regarding him sternly. “Well, maybe I oughtta say that you’ll do us proud when you catch that killer and lock him up. We can’t have folks goin’ around stranglin’ other folks here in Darling. It ain’t right, Buddy. It just ain’t right at all. I’m sure your daddy has told you that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Buddy said contritely.
FOURTEEN
Ophelia Collects What She Came For
Breathing heavily, Ophelia leaned against her office door, taking comfort from the familiar surroundings where she spent her workdays and trying to push the thought of Rona Jean—dead, murdered—out of her mind. Rona Jean’s murder had nothing to do with Charlie’s investigative assignment. There was nothing to be afraid of. Here in her office, the door firmly locked, she was safe.
The large bush outside the window filtered a greenish light into the room, pale but bright enough so that she didn’t have to turn on the bare 60-watt electric bulb that hung from the ceiling. Her wooden desk, with its covered Remington typewriter, neat stacks of manila file folders, and a gilt-framed photograph of Jed and the kids, sat against the white-painted beadboard wall to her left, her chair pushed under it. Corporal Andrews’ desk—the top clear except for a black dial telephone and a Cypress County phone book—sat against the opposite wall, under a sign that said, NO PERSONAL CALLS. Large area maps were pinned on the walls over both desks. There was a tall, three-drawer wooden filing cabinet; a narrow worktable under the window; and a shelf of thick, paperbound CCC operations manuals. And two doors—the door Ophelia had just closed and locked behind her, and the door that opened into the office that belonged to her boss, the camp quartermaster, Sergeant Luther Webb.
Like most of the other officers at Briarwood and other camps, Sergeant Webb was regular Army. Some people were alarmed by this and declared that the presence of the Army officers (both active duty and reserve) made the camps look like a fascist militia, like what that fellow Hitler was cooking up in Germany. Most Americans
were isolationists who, after the experience of being dragged into the Great War by a president who had promised that America would not get involved, were unwilling to support a militia of any description. They liked the idea of a permanent civilian corps that would train young men for work and give them a healthy outdoor life, although they would prefer that it be managed by the Forest Service. But for now, the Army managed the camps, and it looked like it was going to be that way for a long time to come.
Ophelia didn’t much like Sergeant Webb. He was a slender, upright man with a square jaw, a hard eye, and an authoritative air, who made it a rule to follow all rules to the letter. Every document he signed (and there were plenty of them) had to be letter-perfect. If it wasn’t perfect the first time, it had to be redone until it was. He even had his own typewriter, a twin of Ophelia’s standard-issue Remington, and often typed his own reports. That way, he said (somewhat self-importantly, Ophelia thought), he would know it was done right. It wasn’t easy for Ophelia to satisfy his requirements for exactitude, and when he was in the office (thankfully, this was only a few hours a day), the air often crackled with his disapproval.
Ophelia very much liked Corporal Andrews, though, and appreciated his informality—they were on a first-name basis—and his relaxed way of working. The corporal was well built, with crisp brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a flash of ironic humor in a face that could be as hard as a nut. He was quite good-looking, Ophelia thought. No wonder Lucy was interested in him—if she was. The corporal was a Yankee from the big city of Chicago, with a Yankee’s quick, staccato speech. But while he sometimes seemed secretly amused by Darling’s small-town ways, his pleasant friendliness made him easy to like. Ophelia especially appreciated his infectious laugh, which took some of the sting out of Sergeant Webb’s by-the-book style and his daily demand that they get the job done fast and get it done right.
Which wasn’t easy. Measured by the reams of paperwork that crossed their desks and flew on to the various offices in Washington, the quartermaster’s office was the busiest in the camp. It handled the arrangements for buying or leasing all the materials and supplies and equipment necessary to build and maintain the camp and carry out its mission. The office operated under a single cardinal rule, as it was spelled out by the sign on the office wall: BUY LOCAL.
The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady Page 18