Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause (15 page)

“Even I would know better than to shoot somebody and not wipe my fingerprints from the weapon,” Annie said.

“Or put it in my car where anybody could find it,” Charlie added. “A little too convenient if you ask me!”

“You think somebody planted it there on purpose? Who?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know, but I think it’ll be a long time before anybody in Elderberry puts on a womanless wedding.”

“At least it brought in a lot of money for the rally. In addition to the ticket sales, Virginia told me last night they sold several thousand dollars in War Bonds.”

“I know she’s glad this is over,” Charlie said. “All the responsibility of being in charge of the rally must’ve been stressful. What happened to Jesse Dean last night had nothing to do with her, so I think we should congratulate her on a job well done.”

“I didn’t see Virginia at church this morning,” Annie said. “I hope she’s all right, but I guess she’s just exhausted after all this.”

Charlie nodded. “Probably still asleep.” She walked a little faster. “We’re having hot dogs and baked beans for lunch. Wanna join us?”

“I thought you’d never ask!”

*   *   *

“Virginia?” Dimple Kilpatrick stood at the door of the small bungalow on Myrtle Street and peered in the narrow side window. She really hadn’t expected to see her friend at church that morning after the exhausting activities of the day before, but Odessa had baked date-nut bread earlier and Virginia was fond of having it with cream cheese for supper.

“Virginia?” Again Miss Dimple called and twisted the old-fashioned bell in the center of the green-painted door. The Sunday issue of the
Atlanta Constitution
had been tossed into the boxwoods by the steps, and she retrieved it, clamping it under one arm while holding the bread wrapped in wax paper in the other. Now she was beginning to be concerned. Virginia Balliew was never too tired to read her morning paper.

The interior of the house appeared dark. On the table by the window she saw the back of a photograph she knew was of Virginia’s late husband, Albert, beside a stack of books her friend planned to read. Across the room on the mantel, yellow and orange bittersweet berries cascaded from a brown earthenware pot.

Miss Dimple pressed her face against the window glass to see if anyone moved inside. Perhaps Virginia had fallen or was too ill to get out of bed. She was startled when suddenly a light came on in the hallway and someone—could that possibly be Virginia—crept slowly into view.

Her friend never locked her door, but she fumbled so in trying to open it that Dimple wished she could do it for her. Stepping inside, she took the woman’s arm and led her to a chair. “You’re not well. Let me get you some water. Have you spoken with the doctor?” She felt her friend’s forehead and found it relatively cool. “You don’t seem to have a fever. Is it something you ate?”

Virginia moaned and shook her head. “It’s not something I ate, Dimple. It’s something I did—or didn’t do! A horrible thing has happened, and I’m absolutely sick with worry!”

Dimple quickly filled a glass of water from the sink and brought it back to her. “I hope you’re not referring to what happened to Jesse Dean last night. You are
not
responsible for what took place after the rally, and you should be proud of the fine work you did for the War Bond effort, Virginia.”

She reached out to touch Virginia’s shoulder but found herself rebuffed. “No! No!” Virginia shook her head and Dimple found herself wondering if perhaps her friend was having a nervous breakdown. She knew that sometimes happened to people but had never experienced one herself and wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation. “I’ll make tea,” she announced, and shoved the hassock under her friend’s feet. “Whatever the trouble is, it can just wait.”

But Virginia was having none of it. She pushed the hassock aside and stood. “You don’t understand, Dimple. The trouble is already here! Part of the money is missing, the money I was responsible for last night.”

“You mean
the War Bond money
?” Dimple put a steadying hand on the back of Virginia’s chair. Now
she
needed to sit down. “What on earth happened?”

“If I knew that, it wouldn’t be missing,” Virginia said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dimple! I know I’m being snippy, but I’m just beside myself. Now everyone will think I took it. I should’ve been more careful … I know I should’ve, but Emmaline insisted on having Buddy Oglesby help, and now he’s gone and so are a lot of the proceeds we took in last night. I honestly don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Dimple Kilpatrick headed wordlessly to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, and set it on the stove to boil. First of all she would make tea.

*   *   *

“Now,” she said a few minutes later as they sat at the kitchen table with a pot of ginger-mint tea and a plate of date-nut bread spread with cream cheese between them, “are you sure the money was taken? Isn’t it possible it was mislaid?”

“You don’t
mislay
over two thousand dollars, Dimple.” Virginia took a sip of her tea and sighed. “Bobby Tinsley took two canvas bags to the safe at the police station last night for safekeeping until Hubert Chadwick could put it in the vault at the bank this morning.” Her hand trembled as she replaced the cup in its saucer. “One of those bags was filled with folded programs from last night’s entertainment!”

“What about the money you took in from the bond sales during the parade yesterday afternoon?”

“That was turned in earlier, thank heavens! I gave it to Hubert personally as soon as we closed down the booth, and he immediately took it to the bank,” Virginia said. “The missing money was from last night’s sales.”

“And Buddy Oglesby hasn’t been seen since.” Miss Dimple examined the Linoleum at her feet: green squares with cream-colored flowers in the center. “I wonder why he didn’t take both bags.”

“Because the other was filled with checks.” Virginia shrugged. “Looks like he only deals in cash.”

“How large were those canvas bags?” Dimple asked.

“Oh, I don’t know … about the size of your purse, I suppose, but rectangular with a zipper.”

“Then someone could’ve hidden it inside a coat or a handbag or some other kind of container,” Dimple said. “With people going back and forth with costumes it’s possible someone might have taken it backstage until they could manage to leave. Do you remember when Buddy left?”

“According to the police it was either just before or right after the bows, but he wasn’t wearing a— Wait a minute!” Virginia interrupted herself. “He was wearing a black shirt. I remember him complaining because he said it made him hot, but Emmaline wanted him to help with props, and he was less noticeable backstage in black. He might’ve brought extra clothing to wear home.”

Miss Dimple frowned. “It seems odd that he would stay as long as he did after switching the money. He was certainly taking a chance that Bobby Tinsley wouldn’t check the contents of the bags.”

Virginia nibbled a corner of her bread and broke off another. “You know, I was becoming rather fond of Buddy. He outdid himself with the publicity, and seemed to be making a serious attempt to be responsible. Now … well, I hesitate to say this, Dimple, but I’m wondering if Buddy might have been the one who shot Jesse Dean, although I can’t imagine why he’d do such a thing.”

When Dimple didn’t answer right away, Virginia suspected her friend wasn’t telling her everything. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’d forgotten you weren’t at church this morning, so you probably haven’t heard … Last night they found the rifle that was used under a blanket in the trunk of Reynolds Murphy’s car,” Dimple said.

“They think
Reynolds
shot Jesse Dean? Why, anybody could’ve put that gun in there. Surely they haven’t arrested him on such superficial evidence.”

Dimple poured her friend another cup of tea. “Not yet, but they’re questioning him about a murder as well. It seems the remains that turned up on the Hutchinsons’ farm were those of Reynolds’s wife, Cynthia.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

All that money! Not enough yet, but it was a beginning.

Travel … adventure … exotic places … things dreams were made of. But then there was the war—the rotten war! Well, plans would have to wait. It wasn’t time yet, but how long? How long? Did anyone suspect? One couldn’t be sure. They couldn’t be allowed to get too close. That wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

*   *   *

Charlie gave her aunt’s grocery list to Harris Cooper. “What do you hear from Jesse Dean, Mr. Cooper? It sure seems strange not seeing him in here.”

“Don’t know how I ever got along without him, but he’s making good headway. Jesse Dean’s tougher than he looks. He’s home now, you know. A neighbor’s looking in on him, and he tells me the folks at Jesse’s church have brought enough food for ten people! Doc says he’ll probably be able to come back in a week or so if he doesn’t do any heavy lifting for a while.”

Charlie noticed that Harris Cooper carefully avoided the subject of Reynolds Murphy. By noon Sunday the grim news of Cynthia Murphy’s body being identified was all over town, but there seemed to be a loyalty of sorts among many of Elderberry’s men, and they were reluctant to discuss it. “As far as I’m concerned, the man’s not guilty of anything except a poor choice of a wife,” Uncle Ed had declared over supper the night before. “Anybody could tell you that woman was as fast as greased lightning and ran around with anything in pants. Why, there’s no telling who might’ve put her there.”

Now the grocer frowned as he studied Lou Willingham’s hastily scrawled list. “What’s all this? Hazelnuts, swiss cheese, maraschino cherries,
fresh crabmeat
! What does Lou think I’m running here, a gourmet shop? There
is
a war on, you know.”

Charlie nodded. “I know.” It was impossible to miss the notice on the wall behind him:

Buy wisely—Cook carefully—Store carefully—Use leftovers!

Where our men are fighting, our food is fighting!

Every time she saw it Charlie pictured a couple of loaves of bread and a bunch of carrots going at each other with bayonets. She looked away so the grocer wouldn’t see her smile. “Aunt Lou said canned crabmeat would be fine if you don’t have the fresh. She needs it for some kind of dip … you know, for that party she’s giving for the new coach and his wife.”

“Right. Nice fellow, Jordan. His wife told me about his war injury and all. Angela and I are sure looking forward to that, but I reckon Lou’s gonna have to change her menu. I can put in an order for the cherries, and that cheese is gonna cost her dearly in ration stamps, but she’ll to have to settle for canned tuna instead of crab—or even salmon if she’s lucky.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell her.” Charlie dreaded having to deliver the bad news. Once her aunt got something in her head, she was bound and determined to carry it through, but this time Uncle Sam had other ideas.

“Be sure and tell your little friend we all thought she did a great job with the womanless wedding,” he said.

Charlie frowned.
Little friend?
Then she smiled. He must mean Annie, of course, who at barely five-two made Charlie look like a giant. “I’ll tell her,” she said. “It
was
a lot of fun, wasn’t it? But I hated what happened to Jesse Dean. The next time you see him, please tell him we miss him and I’m going to make some of those spice cookies he likes as soon as I get home from school tomorrow.”

Harris Cooper took a rag from his back pocket and polished the top of the glass counter. “I’d sure like to get my hands on whoever did it! A lot of meanness going on around here lately.” He shook his head, “
A lot
of meanness!

“Your friend, now,” he added, looking up, “seems to me she’s kinda taken with that fella of hers. Hope she doesn’t do anything silly like letting him talk her into getting married,” he called after her. “There’ll be plenty of time for that once this war is over.”

Charlie found herself singing snatches of “Night and Day” as she walked home that afternoon. Annie was so excited about the prospect of spending time with Frazier she might as well have been wearing a billboard around her neck, but Charlie didn’t think there was any danger of the two getting married. Not because they wouldn’t want to, but because there wasn’t enough time to complete all the required regulations.

She did know that if Will Sinclair wanted to marry her right away, she wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. In his last letter Will had said it didn’t seem likely that he could get a pass before they finished their training at Courtland, but if he could figure out a way to see her even for an hour, he meant to put a ring on her finger—and she could bet on that! He had made it clear, however, that the wedding would have to wait.

Although it was out of her way, Charlie decided to cut through the park instead of taking her usual route home. The afternoon sun dappled the pathway with splashes of light, and the soothing trickle of the fountain where goldfish circled offered a brief respite from war and violence. Charlie strolled over the stone bridge and through the cooling shade of the magnolias. Usually she would stop at the library, chat with Virginia, and find out if she had anything new to read, but today she had to hurry home and start supper. She would wait until tonight to telephone her aunt with the bad news about her party menu. She wasn’t looking forward to the prospect.

Charlie heard her sister crying as soon as she stepped in the door and hurried inside, feeling the same horrible sensation of having a rock in her chest she’d experienced on receiving the fateful telegram about Fain. She found Delia in the rocking chair in their mother’s bedroom with her baby clutched to her chest and a letter in her hand. Wishing with all her might that her mother were home from the ordnance plant, Charlie dropped to her knees beside her.

“Delia, what happened? Honey, tell me! Is it Ned? Has something happened to Ned?”
Oh, please, God! Let him be all right!

Her sister stood, shoving little Tommy into her arms, and embraced the two of them. “Oh, Charlie! Ned’s
alive
! He’s all right! I hadn’t heard from him in so long, and I’ve been so worried. I just knew something awful had happened.” She kissed the tissue-thin letter and held it to her chest. “Ned says there’s hardly any time to write and not much time to sleep, either, so they have to do it in snatches whenever they can.”