The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (21 page)

“That's what
you
say,” Violet replied. “I don't agree.”

“I found a hundred and forty dollars in her room,” Buddy said, breaking into the argument. “Do you have any idea where it came from?”

“A hundred and forty dollars!” Violet blinked, startled. “Gosh. That's a
lot
of money! Where did it come from?”

Myra May frowned at Violet. “You didn't—”

“I did
not
,” Violet replied hotly. “Where in the world would I get a hundred and forty dollars without you knowing about it? Out of the cash register downstairs?” She crossed her arms. “I don't think so.”

Myra May's frown deepened. “Well, then, where
did
she get it?”

“From another . . . boyfriend?” Buddy flipped a page in his notebook. “I copied down a couple of names from her diary. Do they mean anything to you? Jack Baker and Ray—no last name.”

“She mentioned Jack Baker,” Violet said. “She met him at the Roller Palace. She said she thought he was cute. And funny.”

“Is he from the CCC camp?” Buddy asked.

“I don't think so,” Violet said. “From somewhere close by, though. Thomasville, maybe? He might work at the sawmill.”

“What about . . .” He looked down at his notes. “What about Ray?”

“Ray
was
at the camp,” Myra May said. “I caught her talking to him one afternoon when she was on the switchboard. I had to remind her that the operators aren't supposed to be using the phone to do personal business when they're working.” She frowned. “It didn't sound like they were making a date, though. It sounded more like a . . . well, an argument. At least on her end. I couldn't hear him.”

Buddy circled
Ray
and wrote
argument.
“Any idea of his last name?”

Both women shook their heads.

He went back to his notebook. “How about B.P.?” He thought that might be Bodeen Pyle, but they were looking blank.

“I'm still trying to figure out how Rona Jean got that
much money.” Myra May pulled a saucer toward her and used it for an ashtray. “She was working for us, of course, and we pay our Exchange operators a decent wage—more than they get most places here in Darling. But there's no way she could have saved that much out of her salary. Somebody must have given it to her. But
who
? And why?”

Those were the right questions, Buddy thought, but it was clear that neither Myra May nor Violet had an answer, and he certainly didn't. He closed his notebook. “One last thing. Rona Jean says in her diary that Violet would be taking care of the bills, before and after. Before the birth, I assume, and afterward.” He looked up. Violet was nodding. “And then she wrote, ‘And I can leave it there.' Leave what?”

Myra May ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Ask us a hard one, why don't you, Buddy?” Her laugh was brittle.

Violet was smiling sadly. “Leave the baby, of course,” she said. “With us.”

“Oh,” Buddy said. “I see.”

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' you ‘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.”