Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause (25 page)

Virginia said she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it was true. Dimple had walked to the library that afternoon to see if
Red Is for Murder,
the new mystery by Phyllis Whitney, had come in and found her friend reshelving books in the children’s section. Dimple, who disliked being idle, pitched in and gave her a hand. It was hot, dirty work, so when Willie Elrod came in a few minutes later for another Hardy Boys adventure, they gave him a quarter and sent him over to Lewellyn’s Drug Store for lemonade for the three of them.

“Can I get an ice cream cone instead?” Willie asked.

“Yes, you
may,
William, but if I were you I’d eat it there as you might have trouble carrying all that back here,” Miss Dimple suggested.

“Aren’t you afraid it will spoil his supper?” Virginia asked after the boy left, but Miss Dimple said she’d never seen the child leave food on his plate as long as she’d known him, and she’d known him all his life.

“Mama says Buddy Oglesby hit the coach’s wife over the head and left her for dead,” Willie said when he returned a few minutes later with two paper cups of lemonade and a chocolate-covered face and shirt.

“As far as I know, the police don’t know who attacked Mrs. McGregor,” Miss Dimple said, “and I certainly can’t imagine why Mr. Oglesby would have any reason to harm her.”

Willie licked the chocolate from his hands one finger at a time. “But look what he did to Jesse Dean. Maybe he’s just bad—you know, like some of those men in the Superman comics.”

“Let’s leave all that to the police,” Virginia said, taking a handkerchief from her purse. “Now, if you want to take home that Hardy Boys book, I suggest you go in the restroom and wash your hands and face.”

After Willie sauntered out for home, the two women sipped their lemonade in the fading light by the casement windows with Cattus stretched on the rug between them. The days were getting shorter and dusk would soon settle quietly upon the town, but Virginia sometimes kept the library open past her usual five o’clock closing time to accommodate those who liked to come in after work. Today, Bessie Jenkins dropped by after her shift at the munitions plant in Milledgeville to browse through the small collection of cookbooks. She had invited Madge Malone and her two young daughters for supper tomorrow and was looking for a recipe for spaghetti.

“I’ve never made it before,” Bessie confessed, “but Madge says the girls are crazy about it, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“You might look at the recipe in the
Woman’s Club Cookbook,
” Virginia advised her. “I made it several times for the young people in the Epworth League when Albert was minister, and I never had any leftovers.”

Bessie smiled. “Good! Then I’ll try it. Thought I’d just have bread and a green salad. Madge is bringing dessert—probably apple cobbler as it’s Joyce’s favorite. Now, Jean is crazy about anything chocolate.”

She had become close friends with the little family when their father was tragically killed the year before and now spoke as fondly of the girls as if they had been her grandchildren.

“Have you heard how Millie McGregor’s doing?” she asked after copying the recipe on the back of an envelope. “Do the police know who’s responsible yet?”

“As far as I know, she hasn’t regained consciousness,” Virginia told her. “If she does, maybe she’ll be able to tell them who she was running from.”

Bessie tucked the recipe in her purse and rose to go. “Somebody told me they’d arrested Buddy Oglesby in some little town near Athens, so maybe we’ll finally get to the bottom of all this, but I don’t see how he could’ve attacked the coach’s wife if he was all the way over there.”

Miss Dimple couldn’t, either, although she supposed he could have driven there taking a chance no one would recognize him under cover of darkness. The whole town seemed to be in turmoil over the incident. She was especially concerned about her friend Phoebe and, after Bessie left, told Virginia how Phoebe had reacted at dinner that day when they discussed Millie’s tragic injury.

Virginia took Cattus on her lap and stroked him as she listened. “What if
we
had been there that night, Dimple? We might’ve been witnesses.”

“Or victims,” Dimple answered. “I must say I’m glad you chose to stay at home and relax in the tub instead.”

“Well, I suppose I’d better lock up and head for home,” Virginia said finally as the two sat in silence, and Dimple gathered her books and her purple leather handbag trimmed with yarn flowers, but still seemed reluctant to leave.

Virginia waited at the door with her hand on the light switch while her friend stood at the window. “Are you going to tell me what’s troubling you or not? And don’t tell me nothing’s wrong because I know you, Dimple Kilpatrick.”

And so Dimple took a deep breath and told her what had been on her mind for the last two days.
Was Millie McGregor the person who had been blackmailing Phoebe?

Virginia had to admit the thought had occurred to her as well. “But I thought her car had run out of gas a few blocks away.”

“How do we know she didn’t just park it there while she checked that place in the wall for money?” Miss Dimple followed her friend out the door and stepped into the cool evening air. “It was late when she was attacked, so what else could she be doing there at that hour?”

Virginia fell into step beside her as the two walked home together. “Can you think of a reason Millie would want to blackmail Phoebe? As far as I know, she hardly knew her.”

Dimple didn’t answer. Maybe she knew more about her than they thought, and tomorrow she would do her best to find out.

*   *   *

“Millie McGregor?”
Phoebe Chadwick sat abruptly on the cedar chest at the end of her bed. “Do you honestly think she might be the one? How could she possibly know?”

Dimple waited until the others had gone to their rooms that night after listening to
Fibber McGee and Molly
on the radio as she wanted to be sure they weren’t overheard. Now she sat across from Phoebe on the chintz-covered stool by the dressing table and told her what she suspected. The staccato sounds of typing came from Velma’s room upstairs, and someone was running water for a bath.

“Think about it, Phoebe,” Dimple urged her. “Is there any way you could have known her in the past?”

Phoebe shook her head and frowned. “I don’t see how. Except for that brief time in Tennessee when Millie probably wasn’t even born, I’ve never lived anywhere but here, and she’s only been in Elderberry a few months. I must admit,” she added, “I did wonder about that when I learned where she was attacked.” She had been brushing her hair and now turned the hairbrush over in her hand. “Do you think Millie might have been the one who did that to Velma’s tires the day we gathered muscadines?”

Dimple nodded solemnly. She
had
thought of that but was reluctant to believe it. She hadn’t tried to hide her doubts about Jordan McGregor’s service in New Guinea, and it had become obvious that Millie liked to be in charge. “I think it was meant as some sort of warning. She was uncomfortable with my questions.”

“Dimple, are you sure? How could she have known where we were going?”

“There’s no way I can be sure, but I believe she followed us there—probably watched us leave and saw her chance to give us a fright. I think Bobby Tinsley agrees with me, but there’s no way we can prove it, or would even want to now.”

“No, no, of course not,” Phoebe said. What a troubled person Millie was. It was frightening to think about it.

“I believe she’s about the same age as your Kathleen,” Miss Dimple said. “Do you suppose they might’ve been friends?”

“But I’m sure I must’ve mentioned her to Kathleen when I wrote her about Lou’s party. Wouldn’t she have recognized the name?”

“Not if she knew her by her maiden name,” Dimple said.

Still, Phoebe wasn’t entirely convinced. “How could she learn this from Kathleen when Kathleen doesn’t even know herself?”

Are you absolutely sure about that?
Dimple thought. But, of course she didn’t say it aloud.

*   *   *

Virginia Balliew made herself eat at least part of her bowl of oatmeal and half a grapefruit before leaving for the library that Wednesday morning. Her stomach protested the intrusion, and nothing tasted right. Her appetite, it seemed, had fled with the War Bond money, and that had been more than two weeks ago.

The investigators had been patient and kind and she didn’t think anyone would accuse her of taking the cash, but she had been responsible for that money, and the suspicion would always be there no matter how innocent she might be.

There was a hint of rain in the air, and a gust of wind sent leaves swirling as Virginia left her small cottage on Myrtle Street to walk the few blocks to her beloved log-cabin library in the park. The October morning was cool but not unpleasant, and Virginia pulled a blue beret over graying hair, still streaked with red, and started off at a brisk pace. Perhaps the walk and the air would clear her mind and help to heal her heart. Although she believed most of the people in Elderberry would never blame her for what had happened the night of the follies, she knew she would always blame herself, and every time someone came into the library or met her on the street, she couldn’t help wondering if they eyed her with suspicion.

Several books, she noticed, had been dropped through the opening for that purpose to the left of the front door of the library. It had been put there for the convenience of patrons who were unable to return them during library hours, and Virginia usually attended to that after seeing to Cattus, who now wove her silken self sleekly about her feet.

“And good morning to you, too,” Virginia said as she picked up the cat and stroked her soft gray fur. Cattus began to purr, and she felt comforted by her warmth and affection, although she knew it would last only until she reached for the can opener.

A flick of the light switch brought the book-lined room to life, and after putting away her wraps and seeing to the needs of Cattus, she decided to leave the heater on low and build a small wood fire to take off the chill. The officers of the Woman’s Club were to meet that morning at ten and would probably be grateful for the warmth as well as the cheer.

But first she would take care of the returned books. Virginia smiled to see that Ruthie Phillips had returned the library’s one frayed copy of
The Secret Garden.
It was the third time she’d read it, but probably not the last. Jesse Dean Greeson, who was currently on a Charles Dickens kick, had dropped off
A Tale of Two Cities,
and Virginia had set aside a copy of
David Copperfield
for him at his request.

And what was this? Alma Owens had
finally
brought back
Gone with the Wind
after renewing it twice, and it was still two weeks overdue. Naturally, she hadn’t included the twenty-eight cents she owed in fines. Virginia shook her head. She would make a note of that.

Aside from these, she found two other books and a thick manila envelope that had slipped to the side. Virginia was puzzled when she saw her name printed on the front as any correspondence to her at the library was always delivered there by Boyce Oliver, their regular postman.

Virginia took the envelope to her desk by the window and carefully slit it open. Was this a dream? She could hardly believe what she was seeing when what appeared to be several thousand dollars in a variety of denominations tumbled onto her desk.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

It was almost a relief to be arrested and not have to hide anymore. Buddy Oglesby sat on the bunk in his narrow cell with his head in his hands and waited for his lawyer to come.

The place smelled of sweat and urine in spite of attempts to clean it with disinfectant, and there was no telling who had been sleeping on the flimsy mattress, but where else was he to sit? Aunt Emmaline had hired some high-priced fellow from Atlanta and promised he would soon be free, but Buddy wasn’t sure he wanted to be free until they locked up the person who had tried to kill him the night of the follies. The bullet that wounded Jesse Dean had had his name on it as sure as he was born. At least he would be safe here in the Elderberry jail under the watchful eyes of the local police.

Or he could be a sitting duck.

*   *   *

Louise Willingham just had a feeling she should drop in on Jordan McGregor at the hospital that night. The very thought of the poor man restlessly pacing those sterile halls alone while his wife lay still and unresponsive like one of those beautiful dolls children weren’t supposed to play with was more than she could bear. The morning after it happened she and Ed had gone there together with roses from that late-blooming bush by the garage, and Jordan had thanked her over and over for finding his wife. She didn’t admit, of course, the real reason she and Jo had been there.

As soon as she got home from her job at the munitions plant that afternoon Lou had warmed up chicken hash and leftover green beans for supper and stepped over with some of her applesauce cake wrapped in wax paper for Jordan. He had refused her invitations for supper, and she knew he wasn’t eating properly. You could tell that by looking at him. Well, grief did that to people, but at least she could keep him company.

She found, however, that others had the same idea. When she arrived, Reynolds Murphy sat on the bench in the hallway outside Millie’s room talking with Elias Jackson, the high school principal, but both left soon afterward. When Jordan came out in the hall to join her for a while he said Sebastian had just left and several others from the school had come by earlier. “Everyone has been so kind, so thoughtful … I only wish…”

It was obvious that he was overcome with emotion, and Lou took his hand and sat quietly beside him. “How is she, Jordan?” she asked finally.

“Not good.” He shook his head and tears began a ragged pathway down his cheeks. “Doc Morrison even called in a specialist from Augusta, but her skull was crushed from the blow.” He wiped his eyes on a handkerchief. “I just hope she’s not in any pain.”