The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

“Miz Raylene,” came an uncertain voice. “Miz Raylene, you busy?”


Raylene looked up. It was Lenore Looper, a slight, brown-haired young woman who worked the eleven-to-seven shift on the switchboard three times a week. The Darling Telephone Exchange was located in the back room of the diner. When the Exchange first opened, with only a couple of dozen customers, it had operated from seven in the morning until seven at night. Now, practically everybody in town had a phone and the Exchange had to be staffed around the clock. The girl who worked the night shift was allowed to nap on the narrow cot along one wall, as long as she kept an ear cocked for emergency calls. It looked to Raylene as if Lenore had been doing just that, for the bobby pins were falling out of her hair, her print dress was twisted, and she was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Raylene reached up and turned down the volume of the Philco radio that sat on a shelf behind the counter. “What is it, Lenore?”

Lenore pulled at the bodice of her dress to straighten it. “It’s Bettina Higgens, who works over at the Beauty Bower. She just called the switchboard, askin’ about Rona Jean.”

“Rona Jean?” Raylene asked, frowning. The room seemed suddenly darker, as though a couple of the light bulbs over the counter had just burned out. “She worked the three-to-eleven shift yesterday, didn’t she?”

“Yes, ma’am. But it seems she didn’t come home last night.” Lenore yawned, covering it with a dainty hand. “Bettina is Roma Jean’s roommate. She’s asking if anybody here knows where Rona Jean might’ve went. If they do, she says would they please call her.”

Feeling a flutter of apprehension, Raylene went to the pass-through and leaned across the shelf into the kitchen. “Myra May, Bettina Higgens is calling about Rona Jean, her roommate. Seems she didn’t get home last night.”

“She didn’t?” Frowning, Myra May dropped the big whisk into the crockery bowl. “Where did she go?”

“That’s what Bettina wants to know. Any ideas?”

“Afraid not.” Myra May wiped her hands on the cotton apron she wore over her slacks and plaid blouse. “I checked her out at eleven last night, when she finished her shift. I didn’t ask where she was headed—I just figured she was going home.” She quirked an eyebrow. “But you know Rona Jean.”

As a matter of fact, Raylene did know Rona Jean, who—while she was an excellent switchboard operator when she paid attention—was a little on the wild side. She’d be late to work or ask to get off early. Or she’d be talking to one of her friends when she was supposed to be on duty and let the calls get ahead of her on the switchboard. Worst yet, she had listened in at least once on a private telephone call, which was against the Exchange’s hard-and-fast rule. Myra May had cautioned her that if she was caught listening one more time, she’d be looking for another job.

By now feeling distinctly uneasy, Raylene turned back to Lenore. “Myra May says that Rona Jean finished up here at eleven last night, and that’s the last we’ve seen of her. If Bettina is worried, she should let Sheriff Norris know, so he can keep an eye out for—”

At that moment, the back door banged open and Raylene turned to see Violet, ashen faced and trembling, in the doorway. “Come quick!” she cried breathlessly, clinging to the doorjamb for support. “It’s awful! Oh, please, please, come!”

“Awful?” Myra May was peering through the pass-through. “Come where? What’s going on, Violet?”

“It’s . . . it’s Rona Jean,” Violet gasped. “In the garage. She’s . . . she’s . . .”