Miss Dimple Suspects (23 page)

“Give me something to pry off this board! Hurry!” A woman’s voice screamed at them from outside while at the same time they were soaked with a deluge of icy water. “Pass it through the opening and stand back.”

No one hesitated to comply. If this woman meant to kill them, why would she dash them with water? Quickly Annie thrust the pickax through the opening and they all held their breath as with a wonderful splitting noise, enough of the wall came away to permit them to crawl out into the cold, clear air, coughing and sputtering and thankful to be alive.

Miss Dimple, who was last to emerge, gratefully grasped the hand offered and was pulled to her feet. Scrambling to move away from the smoke and breathe, she opened her eyes to see the woman who had helped them. Rebecca Wyatt wore a man’s gray tweed overcoat over a baggy pair of overalls. A blue knitted shawl covered her head and part of her face. Annie and Charlie sat on the cold ground nearby, coughing and gasping until color finally returned to their faces. “Thank you,” Charlie said weakly, looking up. Behind them, one side of the garden shed, which had apparently been doused from a barrel of rainwater, still smoked and steamed but the flames had been extinguished.

“Who did this?” Dimple demanded when she could speak. “Why would somebody want to kill us?” She shivered, realizing her skirt was drenching wet. The others, too, were showing signs of being chilled. “We have to get dry,” she said, looking about, but Rebecca seemed to be alone.
Dear, God, please don’t let this be the person who set that shed on fire!

“Yes. Yes, of course. Come to the house. I’ll get blankets,” Rebecca said.

The strange woman hurried inside ahead of them, leaving them to follow. The front of the shed, Dimple noticed, had been almost completely charred by the fire, which was probably why Rebecca chose to guide them out through the back. She looked around for a gun but all she saw were a hammer and some other tools lying on the grass. Of course she might’ve hidden it somewhere, but at this point, Dimple was willing to take that chance.

“What should we do?” Charlie whispered, taking Miss Dimple’s arm.

Dimple Kilpatrick sneezed. “I suggest we dry off, get warm, and go home,” she told her, “
after
we call the sheriff, of course.”

In the snug kitchen Rebecca built up a fire in the woodstove and doled out rough blankets smelling of mothballs. “This is terrible! I can’t imagine how it happened,” she said, putting a pot of coffee on the stove. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you think you might need a doctor?”

“No, we’re
not
all right, and the person we
need
right now is the sheriff,” Dimple told her, moving closer to the stove with the others. Most of her skirt was wet, and Annie’s dungarees were steaming, but the water had hit Charlie full force. Although she had removed her jacket, her dress clung to her body, and sooty water dripped on the floor. “Surely you must have some idea who’s responsible for this,” Dimple continued, looking carefully about in case the person who wanted to kill them returned.

“Where were you?” Charlie’s voice trembled. “You must’ve noticed what was going on—not that we aren’t grateful for what you did—but somebody just tried to burn us alive!”

Rebecca busied herself taking mugs from her cupboard before answering. She kept one side of her face averted, Charlie noticed, probably because of the ugly red scar that marred the lower part of her face. “I was down at the pasture mending the fence. One of my cows got out awhile ago and had almost reached the road before I found her. Can’t have that happening again.” She poured cream into a brown pitcher and set it on the table with a small bowl of sugar. “I didn’t see the smoke until I got back to the barn lot.”

Annie sighed. “Thank heavens for that! Did you see anyone? The person who set the fire—was he still there?”

Rebecca shook her head and turned back to the stove. “No. No, I told you, whoever did it was gone. Maybe somebody followed you here.” She poured steaming coffee into four mugs and carried them to the table. “Do you know anybody who might want to hurt you?”

Charlie sneezed. “Of course not!” she said. But obviously someone did.

“You should get out of that wet dress,” Rebecca told her. “I’m not as tall as you are, but I think I have something that will do, at least until you get home.”

“No thanks. I’ll be okay.” Charlie sneezed again. That coffee looked like heaven but she was afraid to drink any until she saw Rebecca stir sugar into hers and take a couple of swallows.

“For goodness sake, Charlie, do change into something dry,” Miss Dimple said, sipping from her steaming mug. “You don’t want to be sick here at Christmas. Meanwhile,” she added, addressing Rebecca, “we need to call Sheriff Holland. Whoever locked us in that shed is probably gone by now, but he might be able to trace his footprints in this wet ground.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a telephone, but you should be able to call from Esau and Coralee’s place down the road.”

*   *   *

While Rebecca went to look for dry clothing, Charlie stepped out of her dress and wrapped the blanket around her. “We’ll leave as soon as I’m dressed,” she told them. “I’m not staying in this place one minute longer than I have to!”

“We can’t get out of here soon enough for me, but what if he’s still out there?” Annie reminded her. “The man with the gun? He could shoot us before we get to the car.”

Rebecca stood in the doorway with a dress over her arm. “I’ll walk there with you if you think it’ll help, but whoever did that is probably long gone by now.”

“Perhaps it might be a good idea if you accompanied us to the road,” Dimple told her. If Rebecca Wyatt had been the one who tried to kill them, at least they would be able to keep an eye on her until they reached the car.

*   *   *

“I think Rebecca was just as eager for us to leave as we were,” Charlie said as they at last drove back down the narrow country road. She tugged at the sleeves of the blue plaid dress that was tight under her arms. “That story about the cows and the fence … how do we know that’s true?”

“I’m sure Sheriff Holland will look into that,” Dimple said. “I don’t believe the woman tried to kill us, but something is definitely not right, and I think it’s best that we not stop to telephone from the Ingrams’. For all we know, it might have been one of them who set fire to that shed.”

“You’re right,” Charlie said. “They were the only ones who knew we were going there. We can stop by the sheriff’s office when we get to town.”

“We seem to be getting too close to something,” Annie said. “And you must be psychic, Miss Dimple—you tried to rush us away from there even before we heard the gunfire.”

Dimple’s laugh was fragile. “Hocus-pocus had nothing to do with it, dear. I became suspicious because of something I saw in that storage room in the barn. There was a whole shelf stacked with canvases.”

Charlie frowned. “Canvases?”

“Blank canvases. The kind an artist uses for oil paintings,” Miss Dimple explained.

Annie leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. “Well, I’m sure of one thing. I’m never going to go looking to buy eggs from anybody again!”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

“Charlie,” Delia said, “Sheriff Holland’s here to talk to you.” She frowned. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a long story! Tell you later—I promise.” Charlie paused to listen. “Do I hear Pooh waking up from his nap?”

After her sister hurried upstairs to check on her baby, Charlie dressed hastily in warm corduroy slacks and a sweater and towel-dried her hair. No matter how many times she’d shampooed, it still seemed to smell of smoke. They had gone directly to the sheriff’s office on the way home to explain what had happened at Rebecca Wyatt’s, and after only a brief period of questioning, Sheriff Holland and two of his deputies had left to investigate.

She hadn’t told her sister about the experience as she didn’t want to frighten her, and their mother hadn’t returned from the ordnance plant in nearby Milledgeville. All Charlie wanted to do was lie in a tub of warm water and wash the dirt, smoke, and fear away. One out of three was the best she could do.

With grim face the sheriff stood waiting in the living room. “This isn’t good,” he told her, shaking his head. “I don’t mind telling you, Charlie. It doesn’t look good at all.”

I could’ve told you that!
Charlie thought.
It wasn’t looking all that grand when we were almost barbecued in that garden shed, either.

He refused to sit down and had twisted and mangled his hat until it had no shape at all. “You saw the shed?” she said.

He nodded, his face taut. “I’ve investigated a lot of crime scenes over the years, but never—
never
have I heard of anybody with such evil intent.
Miss Dimple!
My God,
Miss Dimple!
All three of you would’ve died in that shed.”

Charlie felt a tremor that left her weak. She didn’t need to be reminded. “Did you speak to Rebecca Wyatt?”

“That’s another thing. Couldn’t find her.” Sighing, he paced to the window as if the elusive woman might be standing outside on the front porch.

“But she was there when we left. Where else could she be? She has no car and no phone, and her cows have to be milked. She can’t be gone long. Did you check with the neighbors?”

He nodded, and finally but reluctantly took a seat in the gold brocaded Victorian chair that had belonged to Charlie’s grandmother. “Isaac Ingram wasn’t there, and his brother—what’s his name…?”

“Esau,” Charlie told him.

“Right. Well, Esau had gone into town, his wife said, but according to her, neither of them had seen Rebecca Wyatt.” He shifted in an attempt to get comfortable in a chair intended, no doubt, for brief visits, and finally perched on the edge of the seat. “And Stanley Curtis and his wife, I understand, have gone to their daughter’s for Christmas.”

“I suppose you asked Coralee Ingram if they told anybody we planned to stop by Rebecca Wyatt’s. Her husband was the one who suggested we might buy eggs there.” Not that they cared a whit about eggs, Charlie thought, but she wasn’t ready to share that with the sheriff.

“Of course I did,” he said, giving up on the chair to stand. “And she vowed they hadn’t mentioned it to a soul. The woman was all broken up when I told her what had happened … or at least she appeared to be. Said she couldn’t imagine anybody doing a thing like that.

“I left Peewee and another deputy out at Rebecca Wyatt’s. They’ll be waiting when she finally does show up, and I’ll talk to Esau and his brother soon as I can track ’em down.”

“Speaking of tracks,” Charlie began. “Were you able to tell anything from the footprints out there?”

Sheriff Holland almost smiled. “
Whose
prints? It’s almost impossible to get a cast in all that stirred-up mud. We’ve got footprints on top of footprints out there, but I do want to take a look at each of your shoes—Rebecca’s, too. At least we might find out if there were others involved.”

The sheriff was a large man, and when he stepped in front of someone, as he was doing now, it was hard to look anywhere else. “Now, listen here, I don’t know what you three were doing out there, but if you have reason to suspect what’s going on, you need to tell me
now
. I don’t think I have to remind you that you’re dealing with an extremely dangerous person, and one who would just as soon kill you as step on a cockroach.”

Sighing, he leaned on the mantel where Jo Carr had arranged a bowl of holly and pyracantha berries and where baby Tommy’s stocking would soon hang. “Is there anything you want to talk about, Charlie?”

Charlie wandered over to the Christmas tree in the window and touched the celluloid angel ornament her Sunday school teacher had given her when she was six. The smell of cedar permeated the room; brightly wrapped presents were piled beneath. It was almost Christmas. Wasn’t it enough that they were mired in this horrible war? And now they were being forced to deal with a lunatic!

“I suppose you’ve spoken with Miss Dimple and Annie,” she said.

He nodded. “And now I’m speaking with you.”

What had the others told him? She would have to be careful what she said.

“We didn’t intend to get mixed up in all this, Sheriff. I can’t explain why we always seem to be the ones who stumble onto murder scenes, but, believe me, we didn’t plan it that way! Obviously they’re connected: Mae Martha Hawthorne’s murder; that awful thing that happened to Bill Pitts; and the fire today in Rebecca Wyatt’s toolshed. I can’t imagine why somebody tried to kill us unless whoever did it thinks we know something.”

“And do you?”

“If I did, I’d tell you,” Charlie said, and meant it. At least she was sure Suzy had nothing to do with it, and there was nothing to gain by exposing her to danger.

“I wonder…” Sheriff Holland turned to go.

“Wonder what?”

“If Rebecca Wyatt started that fire and then had second thoughts and put it out,” he said.

“Huh! If she did, she sure took her sweet time doing it!” Charlie told him.

*   *   *

Emmaline Brumlow tucked three hefty books under her arm and planted her feet in front of Virginia’s desk. “Well, Virginia,” she said. “I hope
now
you’ll believe that Japanese woman is dangerous! I doubt if you and Dimple will make light of my little warnings anymore. Why, none of us is safe with that sneaky little Jap on the loose!”

Virginia drew in her breath to answer, but Dimple, who had stopped in earlier, thought it best to ignore the comment. “I see you’re reading Mark Twain,” she said, peering at the titles. “I do so enjoy him. His stories never get old, do they?”

“Oh, these are for Hugh.” Emmaline stroked the cover of
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
as one might caress a loved one. “I never have time to read, but Hugh asked for these especially.”

It amazed Dimple how quickly the woman’s expression changed from downright hateful to Christmas-morning happy. “You know he’s coming home tomorrow,” Emmaline said, “and Arden and I are trying to cook everything he likes—or at least as much as rationing will allow. I’m going home now to bake that jam cake he loves so. Marjorie Mote, bless her heart, insisted I take her last jar of blackberry jam.”