Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause (8 page)

*   *   *

But that night at rehearsal it appeared that Buddy had been persuaded to remain in the group. Probably, Charlie thought, because he was afraid of his aunt’s displeasure, but it was obvious that he was uneasy.

“I can’t imagine what came over you to say what you did last night,” Emmaline told him. “How could you possibly know who was buried out there on that farm? Talk like that gives people the wrong idea.”

“I didn’t—don’t … of course I don’t, but we don’t know it was a tramp, either. I guess—well … I just took offense to the supposition, that’s all.” Buddy flushed and took a seat next to Charlie, who patted his hand in commiseration.

Delia, she noticed, seemed glad to let Millie take over the voting for the winning poster and was relieved that the newcomer was tactful enough not to recommend one entry over another. “We’ve decided on two posters that, in addition to being creative, we believe show the great need for supporting this rally.” She held them up for everyone to see and propped them on a couple of chairs. “I’m going to leave these here for a while so you can all have an opportunity to look at them, and later we’d like you to choose between them. The winner will receive a five-dollar prize from the Woman’s Club during intermission the night of the rally.”

“I don’t need time to look at them,” Charlie’s uncle Ed muttered. “That one with the plane on it is the best by far.”

Emmaline, much to Charlie’s surprise, managed to keep her mouth shut, but if looks could kill, Uncle Ed would have been up there in the family plot on Cemetery Hill.

The rest of the evening seemed to go smoothly except for Emmaline’s long-winded direction and H. G. Dobbins’s obvious attraction to Annie. Charlie was glad to see Harris Cooper’s young grocery clerk, Jesse Dean Greeson, there to help Buddy with the props. Jesse Dean had tried several times to enlist in the military but had been turned down each time because of poor vision. In addition to serving as an air-raid warden, he was always eager to help with the war effort.

After the younger girls and high school dancers had rehearsed to her satisfaction, Annie slipped into a seat beside Charlie while Emmaline took center stage to supervise the womanless wedding.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace…” Annie whispered under her breath as the woman barked endless instructions to the weary cast. “I wonder if the military is aware they’re missing out on a drill sergeant.”

Everyone laughed as Ed Willingham herded the diminutive groom protesting all the way down the aisle of the auditorium at the business end of a shotgun and as mother of the bride, the
Eagle
’s diligent editor, Bo Albright, wept and wailed appropriately. The bridesmaids tried to upstage one another, some racing and one even loping as if he wore combat boots, and the vocalist sang an off-key rendition of “At Last,” a song made popular by Glenn Miller. Sebastian Weaver, as accompanist, seemed to take it all in stride.

“I believe Reynolds is the clumsiest of them all,” Annie whispered as the reluctant “bridesmaid” stumbled onto the stage. “I didn’t know he was that much of a ham.”

“I doubt if he had to try,” Charlie said. “He and Uncle Ed played on the same baseball team for the Home Guard last summer. You oughta see him run.”

“I’ve heard rumors that the bride will be in the family way the night of the wedding, but don’t let on to Emmaline,” Charlie said under her breath. She wondered if her friend was aware that Deputy Dobbins had been eyeing her the entire time he was onstage, and as soon as the wedding scene ended, he headed in their direction.

Fortunately, Millie suggested they had better vote on the poster before everyone left, and it took only a minute for the cast to decide on the one she and Delia had chosen. “But we do think we should award a dollar to our wonderful second-place winner,” she added, obviously seeing Emmaline’s reaction.

Millie, Charlie thought, should one day run for office.

Almost everyone had left, including the deputy, much to Annie’s relief, and the four women, under Annie’s direction, were reading through their ridiculous fairy-tale skit when Ed Willingham interrupted them. “Has anybody seen my shotgun?” he asked. “I left it backstage on the prop table.”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it on the other side of the stage?” Emmaline asked. “Ask Jesse Dean. Maybe he moved it somewhere for safekeeping.”

But Jesse Dean denied ever touching the weapon. “The last time I saw it, it was right there on the prop table like Doctor Ed said.”

“Well, look on the floor under the table, Ed,” Emmaline insisted. “Maybe you put it down there to get it out of the way.”

“No! No, of course I didn’t. I know very well where I left it,” he said, and Charlie could tell he had just about run out of patience with Emmaline Brumlow. “That gun was given to me by my father, and one of these days I plan to pass it along to Fain. What in tarnation would anybody want with my shotgun?”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Somebody knew too much, and he thought he knew who that somebody was. If only the bitch had stayed buried! Soon now they would learn her identity, and although he thought he had covered his tracks, it wouldn’t be long before they came sniffing around, and that wouldn’t do. No, that wouldn’t do at all!

*   *   *

News of the missing shotgun was all over school the next day, and during the noon meal at Phoebe Chadwick’s, it was all anyone could talk about.

Lily Moss put down her fork in mid-bite. “It had to have been somebody in the cast,” she said, and it seemed to Charlie her look was directed at Sebastian Weaver. Thank goodness he was too engrossed in his macaroni and cheese to notice.

Annie spoke up. “Then it could’ve been any of us. I stayed behind to help Charlie and the others run through their skit, and just about everybody involved in the womanless wedding had left by then.”

“But whoever took it could have done it earlier,” Lily insisted.

Odessa Kirby paused as she served the corn muffins. “How come they needed a gun in you all’s weddin’ anyway?”

Everyone laughed as Geneva explained the humor of the situation, adding that of course the shotgun wasn’t loaded, and Odessa shook her head. “If somebody gonna go to the trouble to steal a gun, they’ll
know
where to find the ammunition.”

“But why?” Velma Anderson looked up in concern. “If somebody steals a weapon, I assume they plan to use it, and I’ll have to admit, that makes me uneasy. I hope it wasn’t one of our high school group.”

“Perhaps it was just mislaid,” Miss Dimple said. “Let’s hope it will turn up soon.” Phoebe, she noticed, had been quiet during the meal and had hardly eaten a bite.

Odessa was aware of it, too. “How come you not eatin’?” she asked her. “You know you like my macaroni and cheese, and you haven’t even touched them spiced apples. You just gonna waste away to nothin’!”

Phoebe managed a smile. “I’m sorry, Odessa. I’ll confess, I’m getting a little tired of apples, but everything’s good as usual. I guess I’m just a bit under the weather.”

Dimple thought her eyes looked a little teary, but it could have been because of an allergy. After all, this was September. “What do you hear from Harrison?” she asked in an effort to evoke a positive response.

Phoebe’s eyes brightened. “The dear boy is so exhausted, he hardly has time to write, but I did hear from his mother today, and Kathleen says he’s doing fine. I just wish they wouldn’t drive them so hard. These young people need more time to rest.”

Dimple could only imagine that the other diners were thinking the same thing she was:
Harrison and his fellow recruits were being toughened up to fight,
but of course no one wanted to point that out. And while it was obvious that Phoebe was worried about her nephew, she was certain that wasn’t the only reason for her peculiar behavior …

“Would you pass the peach preserves, Miss Dimple, please?… Miss Dimple?” Sebastian smiled patiently. He had obviously been waiting for her response for some time, but Dimple’s thoughts were occupied elsewhere. She apologized and offered him the familiar cut-glass dish. Dimple Kilpatrick had known Phoebe Chadwick since she first came to Elderberry more than forty years before and had lived in the small room on the second floor of this rambling frame house for over a quarter of a century. She felt as at home with the rose-patterned china, the brass umbrella stand shaped like a heron that stood in the front hall, and the Victorian love seat in the parlor as if they had belonged to her.

To keep her company when her husband, Monroe, went into the service during World War I, Phoebe began accepting boarders and saw no reason to stop upon his return. She had confided to Dimple once that Monroe stayed so busy with his political goings-on, she would have been at her wit’s end without her “other family” to look after. Dimple Kilpatrick had that thought in mind on her return from school later that afternoon and was pleased to find Phoebe alone making applesauce in the kitchen, Odessa having gone for the day. Of course she knew that Odessa sometimes left early to attend a prayer meeting at the Gates of Heaven Baptist Church.

Selecting a paring knife, she quietly joined her friend at the table and began peeling an apple from the gnarled tree that shaded the back steps. And then she waited.

“I know what you’re doing, Dimple Kilpatrick,” Phoebe began, “but there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine.”

Miss Dimple nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.” She cored her apple, sliced it into fourths, and tossed it into the blue-striped bowl with the others.

“It’s not that I don’t welcome your help with the apples,” Phoebe said after a few minutes of silence. “That old tree just seems to go on bearing until I’m afraid we’re all going to grow stems on our heads … but I’ve just had a little indigestion. That’s all.”

“Have you seen Dr. Morrison?”

“I still have some of those powders he gave me last time. I feel much better now,” Phoebe said.

“I know you’re concerned about Harrison,” Miss Dimple continued, but Phoebe interrupted.

“Of course I worry about Harrison, but that’s not … well, it’s
nothing,
Dimple. Really”

Miss Dimple was quiet for a minute as she selected another apple from the pail. “This all seemed to begin when that skeleton turned up the day we picked cotton.” Dimple Kilpatrick’s exacting blue-eyed gaze had been known to make the most dedicated liar confess, and she fastened it now on her friend. “Is that what’s been responsible for making you feel this way?” She hoped her voice didn’t reveal her emotions because Dimple Kilpatrick was truly alarmed. “I don’t like seeing you like this,” she said, “and if there’s anything—”

Phoebe held up a hand. “It’s not that … it’s not anything. I expect I just need a tonic.”

“You might consider easing up some on all you do in this town, Phoebe dear. Elderberry will get along just fine if you let someone else fill in once in a while. I’m afraid you’re wearing yourself out.”

Phoebe laughed. “You’re a fine one to talk!”

“Ah, yes, but I limit my obligations. You know very well what I mean—all these committee meetings, doing this and doing that, and going here and there all the time—and
that’s
in addition to taking care of all of us. Monroe’s been gone for a good while now. Don’t you think it’s time to slacken the pace?”

Phoebe began on another apple. “I never thought of that, but I suppose you’re right. I just got in the habit when Monroe was alive … he liked me to stay in touch, you know.”

“And I’m sure he would like you to stay healthy as well.” Miss Dimple pared an apple in a series of continuous curlicues and, with a sigh of satisfaction, tossed the unbroken peeling over her left shoulder, where it landed with a plop on the green Linoleum floor.

Phoebe looked on in amazement. “Now, why in the world did you do that?”

Dimple Kilpatrick smiled. “Why, didn’t you know? If you don’t break the peeling, and toss it over your left shoulder, it’s supposed to tell you the initial of your sweetheart.”

“You surprise me, Dimple. I didn’t know you were interested in anyone.” Laughing, Phoebe tried to get a look at the coiled peeling on the floor behind them. “Mind telling me who’s the lucky fellow?”

But Dimple hastily scooped up the peeling and threw it into the trash can. “You’ll be the first to know,” she said, “but for now, I have papers to grade.”

She smiled to herself upon leaving. Not only had Phoebe laughed for the first time in ages, she could have sworn she was actually trying to pare an apple without breaking the peeling.

*   *   *

To keep her students on their toes that warm September afternoon, Charlie Carr devised a game of multiplication “baseball.” She had found that third graders would work harder to memorize their tables if a competition was involved, so improvised bases were determined on each of the four walls of the classroom and the children divided into two teams: red for the army and blue for the navy. After about fifteen minutes of play, the red team was ahead by two runs when Freddie Myers came up to bat for the blue team and soon had two “strikes” against him. Arithmetic was not one of the child’s better subjects, so to boost his confidence Charlie asked him what she considered an easier question, the product of five times five.

Five, the magic number.
Charlie smiled to herself. Will had written earlier that he would attempt to telephone her at
five
that afternoon. He had something to tell her, he said, something he didn’t want to put into a letter …

“Miss Charlie, make Freddie sit down!” Harold Shugart complained. “He said five times five was twenty and he’s done struck out. It’s our time now.”

“But I
meant
twenty-five!” Freddie wailed. “Please give me another chance, Miss Charlie.”

“I’m sure your intentions were good, Freddie. However, your answer was wrong,” Charlie began, startled into the present. How could she allow her mind to wander in the middle of an exercise?

“My daddy says the road to you-know-where is paved with good intentions,” Linda Ann Orr said primly.