The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady (29 page)

Buddy looked up. “You on duty last night, Homer?”

“Yessir.” The young man sighed and rubbed his short-clipped hair. “Just my luck. I was goin' to town to play some pool. But Jerry—he was supposed to be here last night—cut his foot on a shovel real bad and had to go to the infirmary. So I got his duty. Three to eleven.”

“No curfew?” Buddy asked. “No specific time these vehicles have to be back in?”

“You kiddin'?” Homer laughed shortly. “Not for the Army guys. They pretty much come and go as they please. Us CCC boys, we got rules. We got to take the bus.”

Buddy turned the book so Homer could see the empty space next to the Friday night entry. “Who took the Harley out last night?”

Homer scowled down at the page. “Must've forgot to sign for it when he took it out. Reckon he brought it back after I went off duty last night, 'cause it was here this morning.” He pointed toward the motorcycle shed. “That's it, the one on the left, the big one. It's what he always rides.” He opened a drawer and looked inside. “He put the ignition key back where it belongs, too. So we're square. But I'll remind him to sign before he takes it out again.”

“And who was that?” Buddy asked, although he already knew.

“Corporal Andrews,” Homer answered. “Same one who took it out on Thursday night. Like I said, he likes to ride that Harley.” He cast a judicious eye to the sky. “Reckon he won't be takin' it out today, though. Not unless he figures on gettin' wet.”

“You're a good man, Homer,” Buddy said, handing the ledger back. “I'm going to need this. Don't let anybody walk off with it.” He paused, thinking out his next steps, since this was about to become very official. “Where can I find your camp commander?”

“Captain's quarters,” Homer said promptly, stowing the ledger. “He brought one of the cars back thirty minutes ago, and I saw him hoofin' it back to his place.” He pointed. “Over that way, second building on the left.”

The rain was coming down harder now, and the wind was beginning to blow in gusts that whipped tree branches and whirled flying leaves through the air. Buddy drove to the
small cabin and ducked through the rain to the porch, where he knocked on the captain's door. The man who opened it was a slender forty-five or so with round wire-rimmed glasses, thick brown hair, and a precisely trimmed mustache. He was wearing a neatly pressed uniform.

“Captain Campbell?” Buddy asked, and pulled out his ID. “Buddy Norris, sheriff over at Darling. Need to talk to you about a problem we've got in town.”

“Sheriff,” the captain said in a clipped Yankee accent, and put out his hand. “Looks like you and I won't be having dinner together tonight, after all. I just learned that Mrs. Tidwell has postponed our little party because of the storm.”

“So I heard,” Buddy said, shaking the captain's hand. “Too bad for us. That lady makes the best chicken pot pie in town.”

“About your problem,” the captain said. “I was about to call and offer our assistance. It looks like the worst of the storm will stay south of us, but there'll be plenty of rain. If you anticipate any flooding in Darling, I can send some of our boys to help out—equipment, too, depending on what you need.”

“Thanks,” Buddy said. “I may take you up on the offer. But the storm isn't my problem, Captain. At least, it's not my only problem.” He took a deep breath, feeling rattled. “I mean, it's not what I'm here for. We had a murder in Darling last night. I have reason to suspect that one of your men may be involved.”

“A murder?” the captain asked, startled. He took his glasses off and regarded Buddy with concern. “One of my men? Who? Are you
sure
? What's your evidence?”

“No, I'm not sure. Not yet. And the evidence is mainly circumstantial—at this point, anyway. That's why I need to talk to him.” Buddy outlined the situation briefly, ending with, “I would like to take your motor pool log as evidence.
And I want to take Corporal Andrews back to the sheriff's office in Darling for questioning, and for fingerprinting.”

“Andrews?” With a troubled look, the captain put his glasses back on. “There were fingerprints at the scene of the crime?”

“Yes,” Buddy said truthfully. There were, indeed, quite a few fingerprints. It was not yet clear whether the murderer's prints were among them.

He added, “If you feel that you need to send an officer with the corporal, or accompany him yourself, I have no problem with that.” He wasn't sure about Army protocol or where federal law fit into this—he'd have to ask Mr. Moseley. But he was damn sure that a murder in Darling was
his
business, and that it was an Alabama law that had been violated.

A muscle twitched in the captain's jaw. “I'd like to take a look at that log first. Andrews is here at the camp—I saw him heading for the mess hall a little while ago. I'll go with him when you're ready to take him into town.” He took down the khaki-colored raincoat that hung on the rack beside the door. “I'm hoping it's all just a mistake, and that Corporal Andrews is innocent. But of course I want to see it straightened out, and the guilty man brought to justice.”

“I do, too, Captain,” Buddy said fervently. “And the sooner the better.”

A few moments later, the two of them were in the shack next to the motor pool parking lot, their raincoats streaming water onto the floor. They were looking at the log, with Homer standing at attention, blinking. The afternoon had darkened to the point where he had gotten out an oil lamp and lit it, since the shack had no electricity. Outside, the lightning flared and the wind was blowing the rain almost horizontal.

“Yessir, Captain,” Homer said, in answer to Captain Campbell's question. “Corporal Andrews forgot to sign for the
Harley, but I was here when he took it out last night. He brought it back after I went off duty at eleven. He had it on Thursday night, too, the way the log says.” He glanced up and through the window and his face brightened. “Say, here he comes now. You can ask him yourself. He'll tell you.”

The door opened with a gust of wet wind that nearly blew out the lamp, and a broad-shouldered, well-built man stepped inside. He had pale blue eyes and close-clipped brown hair. He was wearing civilian clothes—a plaid shirt, jeans, and rubber boots—under a half-open hooded yellow slicker, and carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and dropped the heavy bag on the floor.

“Hey, Homer,” he said, “I'm going to need a—” He broke off when he saw the captain and Buddy. “Sorry. I see you're busy.” He stooped to pick up the duffel bag. “I'll come back later.”

“Corporal Anderson,” the captain said crisply, “this is Sheriff Norris, from Darling. He's investigating an unfortunate incident that took place in town last night, and I'm placing you in his custody. You can leave that duffel bag here. I'll have somebody stow it in your quarters.”

The corporal straightened up and looked at Buddy, whose open raincoat showed the sheriff's badge pinned to his shirt pocket. His mouth dropped open, snapped shut. There was an instant's sheer panic in his pale eyes, then determination. His face hardened, and he whirled on one foot, yanked the door open, and bolted through it into the rain.

“Hey!” Homer yelled. “You forgot to sign the Harley in last night!”

“Corporal Andrews!” the captain shouted. “Stop! That's an order! The sheriff wants to talk to you about—”

But the corporal didn't obey the order and Buddy wasn't wasting his breath on talk. He sprinted through the open
door and out onto the parking lot. Andrews was hotfooting it across the open space, dodging puddles and aiming for a patch of woods on the other side of the road. But Buddy had been a champion sprinter in high school, and he had never failed to win the hundred-yard dash. He may not have run much in the past few years, but he still had the legs and the wind, and he was younger. And definitely faster.

Andrews vaulted a split-rail fence that ran along the road. He stumbled, staggered, caught himself, and half turned, shoving a hand into his raincoat pocket. He pulled out a handgun and raised it to fire, then turned, gun in hand, and kept running across the road, toward the nearby woods.

Buddy cleared the fence easily. He caught up with Andrews, threw a flying tackle at the back of his knees, and brought him facedown, hard, in a patch of gravel. The gun went flying and skidded under a flowering clump of Joe Pye weed. Swearing, Andrews struggled to push himself up, but Buddy scrambled to his feet, pushed the struggling man's shoulders down, and planted a knee squarely in the middle of his back. Breathing hard—the sprint across the parking lot was more exercise than he'd had for a while—he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt, pulled Andrews' arms together behind his back, and cuffed his wrists.

Captain Campbell ran up. He took one arm and Buddy the other, and together they pulled Andrews to his feet. His forehead, nose, and mouth were bleeding where he had slammed into the gravel. His head was hanging and he was gulping air, but he still had some fire left in him.

“What the devil—” he sputtered. He raised his head and licked the blood off his lips. “What's all this? Why did you—?”

“Because you ran,” Buddy said. “It would have been smart not to, Andrews. And smart not to draw a gun on a police
officer. It's a good way to get yourself shot.” He retrieved the gun, a Colt 1911 automatic, and handed it to Captain Campbell. In his official voice, he added, “I'm taking you in for questioning in the murder of Rona Jean Hancock.”

“Murder? The hell you say!” Face working, eyes wide and showing panic, Andrews appealed to the captain. “I'm innocent, Captain! I don't even
know
Rona Jean Hancock!”

“Then you won't object to having your fingerprints taken and answering the sheriff's questions,” the captain replied calmly.

“Fingerprints?” Andrews sounded surprised.

“Yeah.” Buddy chuckled. “Darling may be a rinky-dink town, but that doesn't mean it's got a rinky-dink police force.”

The captain pocketed the Colt. “I'm confiscating your weapon, Corporal. You may retrieve it when the sheriff clears you and returns you to the camp.”

Buddy felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. A bolt of electric-blue lightning split the air and was followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap. The storm was getting too close for comfort.

“Let's get out of here,” he said, and pushed his handcuffed prisoner toward the patrol car.

*   *   *

By the time Charlie had dragged the fallen schoolhouse roof timbers off Lucy Murphy, her eyes were open and she was able, shakily, to get to her feet. “I guess there's no need for fake names now,” she said disconsolately. “You know who I am.”

It was true. Charlie knew Lucy—and knew her husband, Ralph, who worked on the railroad and was gone during the week. “I understand why you didn't want to reveal yourself,” he said. “I've always protected my confidential sources, and I'm not changing that practice now. But you've
got
to talk to
the sheriff, Lucy. He needs to know what you know. It might mean the difference between catching Rona Jean's killer and losing him.”

“What you said about that bag over my head,” Lucy said, leaning on Charlie's arm. Her hair was wet and her blouse stuck to her revealingly. “Maybe I could do that?” She chuckled wryly, to show that she was joking.

“I hope you won't want to,” Charlie said in a neutral tone. “The sheriff will see that your part in this is kept confidential. I'm sure of it.”

“I hope you're right.” Lucy was glum. “I'd do anything to keep Ralph from finding out what a fool I've been.”

A tree had fallen across the car Lucy had parked back of the building, so they took Charlie's, leaving the ruins of the school behind. It should have been a short drive to town, but the storm was howling around them and the few miles seemed to take forever. The wind rocked the car, the lightning struck perilously close, and the rain sheeted down so heavily that the windshield wipers were powerless to clear the glass. Driving was like running an obstacle course. At several points, downed pine trees made Loblolly Road impassable, and Charlie had to get out and slog through the driving rain and the thick, gooey mud to pull the fallen limbs and small trees out of the way. Lucy took the wheel and drove cautiously behind him, struggling to keep the car from sliding sideways off the slick track.

But at last they managed to get to the highway. Soaked to the skin, with mud up to his knees, Charlie crawled behind the wheel and drove the rest of the way to town. The streets were flooding, and trees and utility wires—electric and telephone—were down everywhere. By the time Charlie pulled up in front of the sheriff's office, next to the sheriff's patrol car, he was shaking.

“You ready?” he asked Lucy, who was huddled in the front seat beside him.

“No.” She sighed. “But I don't think I have any choice. At this point, all I want to do is keep this from Ralph, if I can.”

“Hmm.” He considered this for a moment. “Look, Lucy. I think you should wait out here. I'll go in and . . . kind of lay the groundwork. That might make it easier for you. But you've got to promise not to run off,” he added.

She threw up her hands with a despairing laugh. “On a day like this? You've got to be kidding.”

Inside the sheriff's office, the electricity was out and the deputy was at his table, working by the light of a kerosene lamp. There was an empty Dr Pepper bottle in front of him, covered with dark gray fingerprint dust. He turned to look at Charlie. “Man, oh, man, you are
wet.
”

“Yeah. It's pretty bad out there,” Charlie said, shaking rain out of his hair. “Some of the roads are blocked. I was lucky to get back to town.” He paused, looking around. “Sheriff Norris here?”