The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Charlie nodded. “There’s evidence. And yes, I’m sure. And it’s worse than bribery,” he added quietly. “He’s also a killer.”

  “No!” Staring at him, Ophelia set her teacup down with a rattle. “You mean . . . Ray killed Rona Jean Hancock? But why? Were they having an affair? How—”

  Charlie raised his hand. “Just be quiet for a moment and I’ll tell you.” He went through the whole thing, except for Lucy’s romantic escapade, which he kept mostly to himself. He ended with, “And that’s as much as I know, now. The sheriff has agreed to give me more of the details later. Maybe I’ll be able to include them in the special edition.”

  “I . . . I just can’t believe it,” Ophelia said, biting her lip. “He seemed like such a nice guy. I was completely taken in.”

  “You and a lot of other people, apparently,” Charlie said. He looked down at Ophelia’s lists. “And now there’s this. Which seems at the moment to be a separate thing entirely.”

  Ophelia just sat there, shaking her head. “But what do we do now, Charlie? This fraud—or whatever you call it—it’s a government matter, isn’t it? But I’m not sure who at the camp we can trust.”

  Charlie thought back to Deputy Springer’s comment that Captain Campbell, the commandant at Camp Briarwood, had his head screwed on straight. “I think we should take this to Captain Campbell,” he said. “I hear he’s a pretty good guy.”

  And, he was thinking to himself, he would place a call to Lorena Hickok. Maybe, when this was all over, they would even get a visit from Eleanor Everywhere.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Dahlias Celebrate the Fourth

  The storm that brushed past Darling during the weekend took off a few roofs, knocked down several chicken coops, disrupted the electricity and telephone, and rearranged the furniture on some lawns, but it wasn’t bad enough to wreck Darling’s big midweek celebration on the Fourth of July. By that time, the flooding had subsided, the fallen branches and trees had been cleared away, the electric and phone wires were repaired, and the people who had lost this and that were very glad they hadn’t lost the whole kit and caboodle. While some had been stranded by flooding and impassable roads (Alabama mud is reputed to be the gooiest mud on earth), most had simply hunkered down with families and neighbors and waited for the wind and rain to blow past. When the sun peered over the eastern horizon on the morning of the Fourth, it smiled down on a brave, resilient little town that had weathered yet another storm and was getting ready to celebrate the founding of the nation to which it proudly belonged.

  After the War Between the States, many towns of the Confederacy debated whether to celebrate the Fourth or ignore it. To some, it felt like a Union holiday—a day that commemorated the birth of the government from which they had seceded. Others felt that the South should claim the Fourth, arguing that the Declaration of Independence was drafted by a Southerner (Thomas Jefferson) and defended by a Southerner (George Washington). Vicksburg, Mississippi, of course, had its own separate opinion, for the Fourth marked the town’s bitter surrender to Union general Ulysses S. Grant, who had besieged and bombarded Vicksburg for seven long weeks. To escape the shelling, the starving residents had lived in caves and were reduced to eating dogs and cats and even rats. Vicksburg had vowed it would never again celebrate the Fourth except as a day of mourning, and so far, the citizens had kept their vow.

  Darling had compromised. It celebrated Confederate Day on the fourth Monday of April, a day set aside to mark the last major Confederate offensive of the war and the surrender of Confederate general Joseph E. Johnston to Union general William Tecumseh Sherman, on April 26, 1865. There was always a solemn parade and speeches and a town picnic at the cemetery, where Confederate flags were placed on soldiers’ graves. Many Darlingians (although perhaps fewer every year) felt that Confederate Day was the most patriotic day of the year.

  But Darling had long ago decided that the Fourth should be celebrated as a Southern holiday, and it seemed that the event became larger and more exuberant with each passing year, with a jubilant parade through the town and around the square, speeches (and speeches and more speeches) on the courthouse steps, and a picnic, entertainment, and fireworks at the fairgrounds.

  The parade was the main event of the morning. The storm had pretty well wrecked the flags and bunting that decorated the courthouse, so they had been replaced and a new banner hung over Robert E. Lee Street declaring, DARLING: THE BEST LITTLE TOWN IN THE SOUTH. The townspeople, cheering and waving flags, lined the streets for a full half hour before the parade began, and a great menagerie of small boys, dogs, cats, and chickens were caught up and moved along by the celebratory throng.

  At ten o’clock, the parade began. Playing “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” the Academy band marched down Robert E. Lee from the staging area near the sawmill, circled twice around the square, then lined up beside the platform in front of the courthouse to provide music for the rest of the marchers.

  The grand marshal came next, riding in Andy Stanton’s blue 1928 Franklin touring car, polished and gleaming and draped with red, white, and blue streamers. This year, the town council had unanimously chosen Sheriff Buddy Norris as grand marshal, in honor of his recent achievement in solving the murder of Miss Rona Jean Hancock, memorialized as the Eleven O’clock Lady in Tuesday’s special edition of the Dispatch. When Buddy’s car stopped briefly in front of the courthouse, the band swung into a splendidly spirited “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” People shouted “Speech! Speech!”

  Buddy only grinned shyly, waved to the crowd, and told Mr. Stanton to drive on. But privately, he couldn’t help feeling that he had indeed proved himself. He had cleared his first difficult hurdle and achieved his first major success in his new job as sheriff. He had proved himself to the town and—perhaps more importantly—to himself. And he had personally captured Rona Jean’s killer, who was still locked up in the Darling jail awaiting indictment on a charge of murder.

  Following the grand marshal came the three surviving veterans of the War Between the States, dressed in their best Confederate gray uniforms, which smelled strongly of the camphor chests where they were stored all year. The veterans were riding in Roger Kilgore’s burgundy-colored 1933 Dodge convertible (which you could buy at Kilgore Motors, if you could lay your hands on $645, or $64 down and $35.50 a month for two years). Roger stopped the car in front of the courthouse, the veterans got out and stood a little shakily at attention, while Eva Pearl Hennepin, wearing a plantation ball gown and a big white straw hat with a swag of red and blue feathers (created by Fannie Champaign Dickens), sang a reverent a cappella rendition of “Dixie.”

  I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times they are not forgotten;

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  In Dixie Land where I was born in,

  Early on one frosty mornin’,

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  If it had been April and Confederate Day, Mrs. Hennepin would have gone on to sing, to the same melody, all three verses of the Confederate States of America war song, beginning with:

  Southern men the thunders mutter!

  Northern flags in South winds flutter!

  To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!

  Send them back your fierce defiance!

  Stamp upon the cursed alliance!

  To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!

  But since today was the Fourth of July, this verse wasn’t appropriate, and as the quavering notes died away, everybody cheered and waved the Stars and Stripes.

  Following the veterans in gray came two dozen khaki-clad doughboys who had served in the War to End All Wars. As the band played “Over There,” they marched in four columns behind the American flag. Several of them carried Bonus Army flags, a poignant reminder of their sad defeat two years before by General Douglas MacArthur and Major George S. Patton, acting
under President Hoover’s orders.

  After the veterans came what everybody had been waiting for: the float featuring Miss Darling (AnnaBelle Claiborne, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Junior Claiborne) and Little Miss Darling (Cupcake, the daughter of Violet Sims and Myra May Mosswell), pulled by county commissioner Amos Tombull’s oldest grandson driving a Ford tractor decorated with colorful streamers. The two Misses Darling, surrounded by pots of blooming flowers, were dressed in beautiful white ruffled dresses and twirled decorated parasols over their shoulders. They smiled and blew kisses at the crowd while the band played “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?”

  As it turned out, the Dahlias had faced a huge challenge when it came to decorating the float, since Saturday’s storm had shredded the summer flowers blooming in Darlings’ gardens. But the Dahlias, thinking ahead, had brought pots of marigolds, begonias, zinnias, petunias, and geraniums indoors, for protection from the storm, so on Wednesday, there were plenty of pretty potted plants for the float. Ophelia had contributed three large ruffled ferns, which made a nice display around Miss Darling’s throne (an ornate gold and red velvet antique chair borrowed from Mrs. Voleen Johnson), and Aunt Hetty’s parlor palm stood tall behind the throne. Everyone agreed that it was the most beautiful Miss Darling float they had ever seen.

  And if that weren’t glory enough, the delightful Misses Darling were followed by the entire company of CCC camp boys, wearing neatly pressed uniforms and polished boots, and carrying shovels over their shoulders. The thunderous roar that greeted them almost drowned out the Academy band, which was playing “Happy Days Are Here Again”—as they were, thanks in large part to the economic boost Camp Briarwood had given the town. The company was led by Captain Campbell himself, looking proud and handsome in his Army uniform, and followed by the other camp officers. A careful observer, however, might have noticed that two men were missing. Corporal Raymond Andrews was in the Darling jail, while Sergeant Luther Webb was under guard at Camp Briarwood, awaiting a military hearing and likely court-martial on multiple counts of fraud and attempted fraud. It was reported that the higher-ups in Washington already knew of the situation and were planning an inquiry.

  The parade continued with the children’s pet parade, the Darling Bicycle Club, the Ladies Guild Flag Twirling Team, the Darling Fire Brigade. Mr. Musgrove, the owner of Musgrove’s Hardware, dressed as Uncle Sam, in red-and-white-striped trousers, red waistcoat, and blue jacket, with a stovepipe hat decorated with stars and stripes. He was accompanied by Mrs. Musgrove, dressed like the Goddess of Liberty in a pale green toga and spiked crown, and carrying a flaming (well, smoking) torch in one hand and a copy of the Declaration of Independence in the other. When the Musgroves reached the courthouse steps, Eva Pearl Hennepin sang “God Bless America” and then the band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” (Eva Pearl was meant to sing the anthem with the band, but she inhaled a wasp as she was reaching for a high note in “God Bless America” and had to be helped from the podium.)

  After the parade, most of the crowd lingered to hear the speeches (of which there were many), and when the last one was finished, everyone trekked to the fairgrounds, where neighbors and families and extended families met for picnics, games, swimming, dancing, music, and the fireworks. It was going to be a long and happy day, in the very best Southern tradition.

  At the fairgrounds, the Dahlias pulled together several picnic tables under a couple of large live oaks and assembled their families there, loading the tables with the food they had brought. Platters were heaped high with Myra May’s fried catfish and Raylene’s barbecued spareribs and Alice Ann Walker’s home-cured ham. Big earthenware crocks were filled with Earlynne Biddle’s corn pudding; Aunt Hetty Little’s stewed okra with bacon, tomatoes, and corn; Verna Tidwell’s green beans cooked with fatback; and Mildred Kilgore’s coleslaw with pecans. There were plates of Miss Rogers’ deviled eggs and pints of Bessie Bloodworth’s pickles and gallons of iced tea and lemonade. The meal was topped off by desserts: cobblers and cookies, a key lime pie, Beulah’s red velvet cake, two pecan pies, and Lucy Murphy’s Jefferson Davis pie, proudly baked from a recipe that had been in her Atlanta family (who claimed kin with the Confederate president) for generations.

  The Dahlias’ picnic went on for hour after lazy hour, while everyone ate a little bit of every single thing and then—in honor of their friends’ marvelous cooking—ate a little bit more. After they had finally finished and returned the very few leftovers to the picnic baskets, they were all free to enjoy themselves. The men went off to toss horseshoes or watch the Darling baseball team play the Camp Briarwood boys. The young people ran off to the swimming hole or walked to the pavilion to listen to a group of folk singers that sounded just like the Carter Family. Some of the Dahlias took glasses of iced tea and their knitting or crocheting and relaxed in the shade of the oak trees, where they could enjoy the music. Other women, feeling the need of a little after-dinner exercise, went for a stroll.

  Ophelia and Lucy walked over to the swimming hole, where Ophelia could keep an eye on Sarah, who was wearing her new red swimming suit. Ophelia herself was wearing a short-sleeved, silky red blouse and a brand-new pair of tan cotton slacks, flared at the bottoms. She had told herself that a woman who was brave enough to carry out an undercover investigative journalism assignment was surely brave enough to wear whatever she wanted. When she put them on that morning, Jed pulled his eyebrows together, shook his head, and said, “Woman, darned if you don’t beat all.” She had turned around in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric over her hips, and replied, “Yes, I do, don’t I?” It was a grand moment.

  The women found a picnic table in the shade of a large sycamore tree, brushed the leaves off the benches, and sat down. Lucy lit a cigarette. “Charlie told me what you were doing at the camp on Saturday, Ophelia.” Looking down, she turned her cigarette lighter in her fingers. “I thought I ought to explain about Corporal Andrews and me and what I—”

  “That’s really not necessary, Lucy,” Ophelia said, not wanting to embarrass her friend. She had heard only a hint of the story from Charlie, and it seemed terribly private.

  Lucy met Ophelia’s eyes. “Well, maybe I just want to get it off my chest. The truth . . . the sad truth is that Ray Andrews and I had a romantic fling. For a while, I even considered leaving Ralph and going off with him when he got reassigned to another camp. I might have, too, if Rona Jean hadn’t come along and . . . well, distracted him.” She sighed. “I was at the camp on Saturday because I had come to tell him I was through.”

  “So that’s why you were so nervous,” Ophelia said, thinking she understood.

  “Well, that, yes. But there’s more. When Ray and I were talking, he said something that made me suspect that he had killed Rona Jean, and I was just plain scared. When I saw you, I had just come from telephoning Charlie Dickens, at the Dispatch, to arrange a meeting. I’d already written to him about the bribery, but when I realized that Ray might have done something much, much worse, I wanted Charlie to go to the sheriff and tell him what I suspected. I was hoping that, if Charlie would do it, I could stay out of it, and nobody would find out that I had been involved with a . . . a killer.” Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. “I was a coward, Opie. And stupid. Falling for Ray was so terribly foolish. I’m ashamed.”

  “We’re all foolish sometimes, Lucy,” Ophelia said quietly. “And I can testify to Corporal Andrews’ personal magnetism. I felt it myself. Whatever else he is, the man is a charmer.” She paused. “But look at it this way. If you hadn’t gotten close to him, you wouldn’t have known what he was doing. That kickback racket he was running, I mean. And you wouldn’t have known that he and Rona Jean even knew each other, so you couldn’t have suspected that he killed her.” She reached across the table and took Lucy’s hand. “If it weren’t for you, he might have gotten away with it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Lucy said doubtfully. “Buddy Norris says he’s got finger
print evidence.”

  “Yes, but maybe Buddy would never have thought to fingerprint the corporal. And you were the one who supplied the motive. Mr. Moseley said that motive is the important key here—that when it comes to building the case for trial, it’s just as important as the fingerprints.” Ophelia waved away a pesky fly. “I hope you won’t have to testify at the trial.”

  “Me, too.” Lucy sighed heavily. “But of course I will if I have to. I’ve told Ralph everything, and he says he’s forgiven me. So keeping it from him isn’t an issue any longer.” She managed a small smile. “He even wanted to take some of the blame for himself. He says he’s going to try to get his railroad shift assignments changed so he can be home more often. I’ve been wanting that for a long time. So something good might come of this, after all.”

  “Charlie got what he wanted, too,” Ophelia said. “He told me this morning that the special edition of the Dispatch was a sellout. What’s more, he’s sold his story ‘The Eleven O’clock Lady’ to both wire services, and to the Atlanta Constitution, as well.” She smiled. Charlie had been more excited than she had ever seen him. She had the feeling that this story was more than just a story to him. It was some kind of personal test. “He’s also talked to an old friend of his from his days with the Associated Press,” she added. “Miss Hickok doesn’t normally investigate CCC camps, but her boss wants her to come down here and report on the situation. Charlie’s even hoping that she invites her friend, Mrs. Roosevelt. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

  Lucy nodded. “I guess the only people who didn’t get what they wanted were the ones who hoped that Rona Jean would give them her baby. Fannie Dickens, for one. Violet and Myra May, too.”

  “I know,” Ophelia said sadly. “Charlie says that Fannie is terribly disappointed, but that they’ve started to talk about adopting a child. Which I guess is another good outcome of this.” She looked up and waved at Sarah, who was poised at the end of the diving board, looking beautiful in her new red bathing suit. Daughters were wonderful creatures, she thought proudly. She was going to see that Sarah had all the opportunities that her brother did—and that included college.