The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

by Susan Wittig Albert

  As Charlie sat down across from Fannie and bowed his head while she said grace, he thought again how lucky he was to have found her, how smart he was to have married her, and how much he would like to impress her by getting at least one of his two big stories on the wire. He allowed himself one swift moment of fantasy, like a gossamer dream, with President Roosevelt introducing him to an assembled throng at the White House (with Fannie, of course, in the front row), and praising him for having broken the Pulitzer Prize–winning story of—

  “It’s just the saddest thing about Rona Jean,” Fannie said, unfolding her napkin in her lap. “Have they captured the man who killed her?”

  She seemed troubled, Charlie thought, and looked at her more closely. Her eyes were red. He could swear that she had been crying. But then, Fannie was a compassionate person. She had a soft heart. Sad things, like the death of a friend, affected her deeply—although he hadn’t been aware that she knew Rona Jean, except as a voice on the other end of the telephone line, saying, “Number, please,” and “I have your party now.”

  “If they have, I haven’t heard,” Charlie replied. “I asked the deputy to phone the newspaper when they caught him.” He picked up his sandwich. “I got some swell photos of the victim, though. Before the sheriff showed up and made me stop.”

  Fannie’s response was not what he expected. “Photos?” Her brown eyes widened. “You took photos of Rona Jean? After she was dead?”

  Charlie nodded, his mouth full of delicious sandwich. When he could, he said, “I was lucky to get them, too.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you’re not going to use them,” Fannie said in a low voice.

  “Not in the Dispatch.” Charlie licked mayonnaise off his fingers. “I’m planning to send the best of them to both the AP and the UP, though, along with my story. I’m betting both wire services will run them, which would mean—”

  Fannie dropped her spoon and it splashed into her soup bowl. “Oh, dear, oh, Charlie, please don’t!” she exclaimed.

  Charlie was nonplussed. “Don’t? But why? It’s a great story, Fannie. And the photos make it real. Without them, it’s just another murder—”

  “Because it’s . . . it’s disrespectful, that’s why. And it’s not just another murder. She was . . .” Fannie’s voice trembled. “She was going to be a mother. That’s pretty special, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, but . . .” Charlie frowned. “Wait a minute. How did you know she was pregnant? Did Edna Fay tell you? Doc told her not to talk about it with anybody but me and the sheriff.” Of course, the news could be all over Darling by now. But Fannie had spent the morning in her workroom, out of touch with the normal gossip networks.

  Fannie shook her head. “No, it wasn’t your sister. She told me herself. Rona Jean, I mean.”

  Charlie leaned forward, his eyes on her face. “She told you? When?”

  Fannie’s eyes met his with something like defiance. “She liked hats. She said they made her feel pretty and special. I knew she didn’t have much money so I always gave her a bit of a discount. She bought a new one a couple of weeks ago—a pretty little peach-colored straw with pink and white silk flowers. That’s when she told me that she was having a baby.” She looked away. “She said she didn’t like the baby’s father well enough to marry him.”

  Charlie was surprised at this, and then he wasn’t. Fannie was a good listener, and supportive. The more she listened, the more you wanted to talk, and the more things you thought of to tell her about. At least, that had been Charlie’s experience. It probably wasn’t any different for her clients.

  “Who was the father?” Charlie asked. “Did she say?” Did she know? he wondered.

  Fannie picked up her spoon again. “You’re not going to put it in your story, are you?”

  “No,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “She wasn’t sure,” Fannie said. “It was either Lamar Lassen or the youngest Pyle boy. Beau, he’s called. She didn’t want to marry either of them—and I couldn’t say I blamed her.”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Two possibilities? My goodness. She was a busy girl. Not to mention working three to eleven on the switchboard.”

  “I don’t think she was brought up right,” Fannie said with a sigh. “She didn’t seem to feel she had done anything terribly evil, although I’m sure that when people find out she was pregnant, some will say she got what she deserved. I don’t feel that way. I feel that she was just a mixed-up young woman who made a mistake. Twice.”

  At least twice, Charlie thought. Aloud, he said, “I won’t name names in the story, of course. But the sheriff ought to know who they are. He might want to question them.” Because one of them, he thought grimly, is likely the killer.

  “He’s already talked to Lamar Lassen,” Fannie said. “I ran into Mrs. Meeks at the grocery this morning. Lamar Lassen boards with her. The sheriff came by to see him this morning. If he knows about Lamar, he probably knows about Beau, too. But give him the names, if you think that’s the best thing to do.” Not looking at him, she took a spoonful of soup. “When I heard that Rona Jean was dead, I decided I didn’t have to tell you. But now that we’re talking about it, I think I’d better. Because of the money, you see.”

  “Didn’t have to tell me what?” Charlie felt he had somehow lost track of the conversation. “What money are you talking about? Fannie, you’re not making sense. You—”

  She pushed her soup bowl away and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “Rona Jean was going to give us her baby.”

  Charlie stared at her, speechless. Finally, with a croak, he managed, “Give us her baby?”

  Fannie nodded, her mouth trembling. “I knew you wouldn’t be in favor of it. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Right away, I mean. Of course I was going to tell you, before he arrived. Or she. And in plenty of time for you to get used to the idea.”

  Charlie shook his head, now feeling entirely in the dark. “I don’t understand, Fannie. Why was this girl going to give us her baby?”

  “Because.” Fannie’s eyes were bright with tears. “Because she didn’t want a baby, and I do.”

  And all of a sudden, the light dawned. Like any couple about to be married, he and Fannie had talked about having a family. But Fannie had told him, tearfully, that this was out of the question for her; if he wanted children, he would have to find another wife. Charlie hadn’t asked for the details, so he didn’t know why this was true. But to tell the honest truth, he was just as glad. He was old enough to be somebody’s grandfather. All he knew about little babies was that they cried a lot and monopolized their mother’s attention and created mountains of dirty diapers. Having been perfectly happy as a career bachelor for over two decades, he wasn’t eager to take on a young family. And anyway, he didn’t want another wife, he wanted Fannie, and there was nothing more to be said. In fact, he had thought the question was firmly settled, so this confession—she didn’t want a baby, and I do—was . . . well, it was baffling, that’s what it was.

  He frowned, not sure what to ask next. “So what kind of arrangements did you make with her?”

  She half turned away. “She had been to a doctor in Monroeville, Dr. DuBois. She needed to pay his bill. She was going to need money for the hospital, of course, and a train ticket, and money to start a new life—somewhere else, which I thought was a good idea. I didn’t want to risk her seeing the baby, our baby, and deciding that she wanted to take him back. Or her.” She pressed her lips together, and Charlie saw how close she was to tears. “So I . . . I gave . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “So you gave her money,” Charlie said gently. “How much?” After a moment, he added, not quite so gently: “And when were you going to tell me about . . . this new addition to our family?”

  Fannie bit her lip. “I was waiting for the right moment. I thought. . . I was hoping t
hat when you saw how happy it made me, you would . . . well, soften toward the idea.” She paused. Not looking at him, she added, in a low voice, “I gave her a hundred and twenty-five dollars. She said she would probably need another hundred and fifty or two hundred.” She swallowed. “I know it’s a lot of money, but I’d just gotten a check from Lilly Daché, and I . . . well, I cashed it and gave her what she needed.”

  Charlie was stunned. A hundred and twenty-five was more than he made in two months, and Fannie had just handed it over, with no assurance that Rona Jean would keep her end of the bargain. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to tell him. It wasn’t just the baby. It was the money she had paid for it.

  “Did you mention anything about this to anybody else?” he asked.

  Fannie shook her head. “Why?”

  Charlie could think of all kinds of reasons, but he settled for one. “Because I’m not sure that it’s legal to buy a baby in the state of Alabama.”

  “I didn’t buy a baby.” Fannie swallowed hard. “Rona Jean didn’t want to be a mother. She wouldn’t have been a good mother, Charlie, and the baby would have no father. I knew we could give it a home—a good home.”

  “You paid for the child, Fannie. How could you be sure that she wouldn’t just take the money and—”

  “Please stop,” Fannie said despairingly. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Rona Jean is dead, and the baby’s dead, too. And I wanted the baby!” She dropped her face into her hands and began to cry. Charlie got up from his chair, went around the table, and leaned against her back, wrapping his arms around her and resting his cheek on her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and knew he was telling the truth. He was sorry that Fannie was unhappy. He was sorry that Rona Jean was dead, and the baby was dead, and they weren’t going to have the baby for their own. “I wish . . . I’m just sorry, Fannie.”

  “Thank you,” Fannie said, her voice muffled. She turned on her chair, sheltering herself in his arms. “Do you think maybe you should tell Sheriff Norris? About the money, I mean. He may be looking through her things. If he finds it, he’ll wonder who gave it to her. It might help if he knew.”

  “Do you want the money back?” Charlie asked. Assuming that Rona Jean hadn’t already spent it.

  “I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “Whatever . . . whatever seems right to you and the sheriff.” She wiped her eyes on his sleeve. “I’m sorry about doing this behind your back, Charlie. When you and I discussed not having children, I got the idea that you really didn’t want a family, which at the time, I appreciated. But then this came up, and I suddenly realized that I wanted a child. It seemed like the right thing to do—a good solution for her and for us, too. I know I should have talked to you before I made any arrangements, but I was afraid if I waited, she would change her mind. I thought I had to act fast.”

  “I understand,” Charlie said gruffly. He put his fingers under her chin, lifted her face, and kissed her mouth. “It’s okay, really it is, Fannie. Let’s talk about this again, later. Now that I know how you really feel, maybe we can consider some other options. I mean—”

  He stopped, not sure of what he meant, just sure that he wanted her to be happy. And if a baby was what it took, they could surely find a baby. The right baby.

  “Oh, Charlie,” she sighed. “Oh, Charlie, I do love you.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining, and he knew that she understood what he wasn’t yet able to say.

  * * *

  When Charlie left their apartment, the flags that hung from the courthouse windows were limp and listless, and the afternoon heat felt solid, like a damp sponge pressing down. Charlie had missed the noon weather forecast, but he wondered if the storm that had been brewing for several days had finally come alive and was gathering the strength to blow onshore. Looking to the southwest, he saw thunderheads building up, dark against the pale afternoon sky. The farmers’ fields and gardens could certainly use some rain, so a storm wouldn’t be a bad thing, as long as there wasn’t any wind.

  He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t one thirty yet, and the sheriff’s office was less than a block away from the apartment, so he thought he’d walk over there first, before he drove out to the old Loblolly School to meet Mata Hari. He was troubled about Rona Jean’s willingness to trade her baby for Fannie’s money, and the sooner he told Buddy Norris about it, the better he would feel. But there was more to it than that, of course. He hadn’t seen the sheriff since early that morning, and there might be new developments that would affect the story he was already writing in his head.

  And something else, too. Fannie’s compassion for Rona Jean and her difficult situation had turned his attention away from the mechanics of the murder and the murder investigation, and he found himself wanting to know more about Rona Jean herself. Beyond being “Hello, Central” and an unwed expectant mother, who was she? The first sentence of a story began to take shape in his mind. The victim—a dedicated telephone operator—was killed not long after she left the Telephone Exchange at the end of her eleven o’clock shift at the switchboard. Which gave him the idea for a title, “The Eleven O’clock Lady.”

  And with the title came a spurt of energy, the kind of energy Charlie had always felt when he began to get his teeth into a story, a really good story. This wouldn’t just be a story about a murder. It would be a personality story, a story about the victim, about Rona Jean: where she grew up, where she went to school, who her people were, how she’d gotten her job at the Exchange—maybe even the motive for her killing, if Buddy managed to find it out before the paper went to press. He could interview the other “Hello, Central” girls at the Exchange and write an appealing description of how they all worked closely together, night and day, every day of the week, to keep the Darling telephones plugged in. And, of course, he could include a couple of paragraphs about Violet Sims, that hardworking young mother and co-owner of the Exchange, who had discovered the body when she was picking beans in the garden early in the morning. (That would be a nice, earthy touch.) And Myra May Mosswell, who not only owned the Exchange with her friend Violet, but owned the car where Violet found the body and where the murder had likely taken place.

  In fact, that old green Chevrolet touring car (Myra May called her “Big Bertha” and treated her like one of the family) was already famous locally. Big Bertha had been bought new back in 1920 by Myra May’s daddy, a much-loved Darling doctor who had driven it to deliver babies and visit deathbeds all over Cypress County. Lots of Darlingians no doubt cherished fond memories of Bertha and would be saddened to know that one of their “Hello, Central” girls had died on her front seat. He could also mention the fact that Myra May took loving care of Bertha and did all the repair work on the car herself, including changing her oil and spark plugs. Yes, Charlie thought, the car, as the scene of the murder, would make a fascinating story all on her own.

  He was still thinking of the stories he would write for the Dispatch—and sell to the Atlanta Constitution as a bylined special—when he reached the sheriff’s office, opened the door, and walked in. Buddy and his new deputy, Wayne Springer, were looking at a Dr Pepper bottle and talking about getting fingerprints of the people who had recently been in Myra May’s car. They broke off when Charlie came in.

  “Well, hey, if it isn’t the press.” Buddy stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked his head to one side. “I hear you’re putting out a special edition on the murder.”

  “Word gets around, doesn’t it?” Charlie said, noticing that Buddy wore a holster on his hip and that the deputy was armed, too. Roy Burns had rarely worn a weapon—Darling didn’t seem the place for it. But maybe the new sheriff and his deputy were a different breed of lawmen. Or maybe Darling was becoming a different place, now that the CCC camp had moved in. Did Rona Jean’s murder mark a turning point in the town’s history? Maybe that was yet another story.

  “And when will that be coming out?” Buddy asked curiously. �
�The special edition, I mean.”

  “I’m figuring on Tuesday, so there’ll be copies on the Fourth, when everybody comes to town for the big parade. There’ll be plenty of room for late-breaking news, so keep me posted on developments.” Charlie paused, raising an expectant eyebrow. “Got any?”

  “If you’re asking has anybody been arrested,” Buddy said, “the answer is no.” His grin was crooked. “As Sheriff Burns used to say, ‘We ain’t caught up with that damn son of a gun yet, but we’re a-fixin’ to just as quick as he slows down.’”

  Charlie remembered Roy Burns saying that, and had even quoted him once in print, which had made the sheriff laugh out loud—a memorable occasion, since Burns was notoriously surly. “I guess I won’t hold my breath, then,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ve got something I think you might want to know. About Rona Jean Hancock and that baby.”

  “You mean, you’re not here to pump me for information for your story?” Buddy’s eyebrows went up. “Well, now, that’s a switch. Come on in here and let’s talk.”

  He led the way into his office and pointed Charlie to a chair. Charlie hung his straw boater on the wall hook and took the chair, looking around at the bare office, thinking how many times he’d sat across this very desk from Roy Burns. He would be trying to pry story details out of the sheriff and Roy would keep saying, “No comment.” Roy was like that. He never wanted anybody looking over his shoulder, trying to see his hand. He had a poker face, too. You never knew what he was thinking—and you usually didn’t want to.

  Now, Charlie wondered whether Buddy Norris would hold his cards close the way Roy had. He was young for a sheriff, and he was a Darling boy, which was both an advantage and a disadvantage. On the one hand, he’d grown up with the town’s secrets and knew where all the skeletons were hidden, so to speak. It’d be a lot harder to pull the wool over his eyes. But people—especially the older folks—might not be inclined to take a hometown boy seriously, especially one who hadn’t seen his thirtieth birthday yet. This might just be Buddy Norris’ make-or-break case, the most important case of his career.