Miss Dimple Suspects: A Mystery

by Mignon F. Ballard

“Something like that,” Dimple replied. “Or worse. Oh, I’m confident the sheriff and his staff will do their best to protect you, but unfortunately reasoning doesn’t always prevail when emotions run amok—especially now.” Pausing, she dug into the handbag she’d hung on the back of her chair and brought out a small notebook and pen. “You’ll need a few personal items if you plan to stay here,” she announced, tearing out a page of lined paper. “If you’ll make a list of the things you’d like, one of us can pick them up in town this afternoon.”

  “We’re probably close to the same size,” Annie offered. “I’ll bring you a pair of pajamas and a few sweaters.” She laughed. “And I’m sure you could wear a couple of skirts I haven’t been able to zip since I started eating Odessa’s good cooking.”

  Miss Dimple rose to let the dog outside. “Well, my friend, Max, I’ll get in touch with the Ashcrofts later today, but I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t want to add a fine animal like you to their family.”

  Charlie laughed. “I can think of one: Peggy’s cat Peaches!”

  It was obvious that Suzy was trying to put on a brave face as the three of them prepared to leave a few minutes later. Sensing this, Miss Dimple gave her a reassuring smile. “If I were you I’d take advantage of a warm, comfortable bed, as I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep last night. Virginia should be home around five, and I’ll drop by soon after.

  “Now,” Miss Dimple said on parting, “this is what I’d like you to do in our absence: Write down the name of anyone you can think of who might have wanted to kill Mae Martha Hawthorne—anyone … and even some who might not. It’s not much to go on, but right now it’s all we have, and we’ll just have to work from there.”

  * * *

  Later that day while shopping for Suzy at Murphy’s Five and Ten, Charlie was browsing at the ladies’ underwear counter when she heard a voice that sent a chill dousing her heart like well water.

  “Charlie Carr! I’m so glad I ran into you!” Emmaline Brumlow’s voice boomed across the store, almost drowning out Bing Crosby’s crooning of “White Christmas.”

  I’ll bet it’s the first time she’s been glad to see me, Charlie thought.

  “And Annie, too! Good, you can help me spread the word!” Emmaline, who rivaled Charlie in height, crossed the distance between them in a few purposeful strides, and Charlie quickly tossed the lace-trimmed panties she was examining back onto the pile. Murphy’s selection of lingerie wasn’t her style at all and she suspected it wasn’t Suzy’s, either, but it would have to do in a pinch as Brumlow’s was much too expensive, and such a purchase there might cause suspicion.

  Annie, who had attempted to escape, darted a look of pure, unadulterated misery at Charlie and dropped the tube of Pepsodent toothpaste and small jar of Mum deodorant onto the cluttered countertop. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Brumlow! I seem to have run out of everything at once,” she said lamely.

  But Emmaline took no notice of that. “I thought I saw you two come in here from across the street, and you’re just the ones I had in mind to pitch in with our search!”

  Charlie frowned. “What search?”

  “Why, the search for the Japanese spy who killed that poor, unsuspecting Hawthorne woman! Haven’t you heard? Peewee Cochran said they found all sorts of incriminating evidence!

  “Very incriminating evidence!” Emmaline repeated the words and rolled them around on her tongue as if the taste of them delighted her. “Right here in our midst, she was, pretending to be a friend and passing herself off as some kind of nurse or something, and the longer it takes to find her, the more damage she can do.” Emmaline shuddered. “God only knows what else she’s been up to!”

  “But how do they know she had anything to do with what happened to Mrs. Hawthorne?” Charlie asked, not daring to glance in Annie’s direction.

  “Then where is she now, I’d like to know?” Narrowing her eyes, Emmaline folded her arms. “Guilty people don’t run away.”

  Charlie was tempted to ask her if she would’ve thought her less guilty if she hadn’t run away, but she didn’t want to arouse suspicion.

  “We could use your organizational skills,” Emmaline continued. “We must all do what we can when the security of our country is at stake, and if we coordinate our efforts, it might help the police flush her out before more harm is done.…” Looking about, she waved at Angie Webber, who was gazing longingly at the candy counter on the other side of the store. “Angela Webber! You’re just the person I wanted to see.…”

  * * *

  By the time Charlie reached home that day, her mother had received a phone call from Emmaline, as had her aunt Lou. Virginia, she learned later, had been paid a similar visit at the library.

  “Did she mention anything about reshelving the mysteries?” Miss Dimple asked.

  Virginia frowned. “Why no, I don’t believe she did.”

  “You see. I told you she’d be distracted when something else came along,” Dimple reminded her.

  “I think I’d rather reshelve the books,” her friend replied.

  Again they had gathered at Virginia’s to lend support, as well as other necessities, to Virginia’s secret houseguest.

  Suzy seemed pleased with the clothing Annie had brought, as well as the purchases from the five and ten, but the prospect of Emmaline’s alarming quest disturbed her. “This is going to make it even more difficult for anyone to believe my innocence,” she said, turning to Virginia. “And the last thing I want is to get you in trouble.”

  But Virginia only smiled. “I’ll swear if Emmaline Brumlow doesn’t sound just like Smiley Burnette trying to round up a posse,” she said, referring to a popular character actor in western films. “Anything I can do to thwart Emmaline’s outlandish plans will make me a happier person!”

  “Still, we must be very careful to keep our friend here under wraps until the proper time,” Dimple reminded them.

  “And when do you think that might be?” Virginia asked what Charlie was sure the others were probably thinking.

  “When we have reliable evidence pointing to the one who’s most likely to be guilty, starting with a list of people who were closely associated with Mrs. Hawthorne,” Miss Dimple replied with an expectant nod to Suzy.

  Suzy left the room and soon returned with a small slip of paper. “I wrote down a few names, but I honestly couldn’t think of many,” she said, giving the list to Dimple.

  “The two nephews, Isaac and Esau; Esau’s wife, Coralee, and Bill Pitts … That’s all?” Miss Dimple returned the paper in much the same manner as she would an unsatisfactory assignment to one of her students. “Surely you’ve met more people than this. What about her art supplies? Food? Someone had to furnish them. And isn’t there a little church not too far down the road? Did no one ever pay her a visit?”

  Suzy folded the paper and folded it again, as if that would make it go away. “Esau and his wife took care of most of the grocery shopping, but now and then she would send Bill on an errand for something.” She frowned. “Her other nephew, Isaac, was the one who delivered her art supplies, but she rarely saw him.…”

  “Anyone else?” Dimple asked, noticing her pause.

  “Wait … the milk and egg lady—I almost forgot!” Suzy smiled, remembering. “Miss Mae Martha didn’t care for pasteurized milk, so now and then she’d buy milk and eggs from a neighbor who had a few cows and some chickens.”

  “What neighbor?” Charlie asked, not having noticed any.

  “She lived over a mile away, but I guess that’s close as neighbors go out there,” Suzy told them. “If the weather was nice, sometimes I’d walk to get them, or once in awhile Bill would buy them for her.”

  “Do you remember her name?” Virginia asked, and Suzy shook her head. “I think Mrs. Hawthorne called her Becky, but I don’t remember for sure. Mostly she just referred to her as the milk and egg lady.”

  “But you know where she lives, so that’s not a problem,” Annie said. “How old a person is she? What doe
s she look like?”

  “I have no idea,” Suzy said, looking from one to the other. “She left the milk and eggs in her springhouse and I was told to leave the money there in a jar. I never saw the woman’s face.”

  They could be meeting to plan a Christmas party, Miss Dimple thought, or to discuss a neighborhood project. To anyone who asked, they were gathering at Virginia’s that evening to contribute items to “Bundles for Britain” and suggest ways to decorate the library for the holidays. Now the five of them sat around the gas fire in Virginia’s small living room with the shades drawn while Max dozed contentedly by the hearth. Earlier, Dimple had spoken with Kate Ashcroft, who readily agreed to give the dog a home. “After all Mrs. Hawthorne and her companion did for you and Peggy, it’s the very least we can do,” Kate said, “and from what you’ve told me about Max, I love him already!

  “And, Miss Dimple, is there any truth to that terrible story Emmaline Brumlow is circulating about that young woman who took such good care of Peggy?” she added, lowering her voice in case Florence McCrary was listening in. “I don’t understand why she disappeared like this, but whatever the reason, she must be in some kind of trouble.”

  If only you knew! Miss Dimple thought, and agreed to bring the dog over the next afternoon after church.

  “Were you able to think of anyone else?” Miss Dimple asked Suzy as they prepared to leave. “Anyone at all?”

  “Someone did come a few times to see Miss Mae Martha about her paintings,” Suzy told her, “but we felt it best if I didn’t meet them, so I stayed in my room. I believe she gave them one of her paintings to hang in their church.” Her voice broke with emotion. “She was generous that way.”

  * * *

  “Why do you suppose people of Japanese heritage were sent to relocation camps, but not those whose ancestors are from Italy or Germany?” Annie asked as the three walked home together.

  A cold wind hit them with full force as they rounded the corner, and they walked faster, hurrying across the street. Charlie thought of the flimsy tarpaper barracks Suzy’s family and others were forced to live in and hoped they were keeping warm.

  “I suppose they feel the country might be more vulnerable to an attack on the West Coast where many Japanese have settled,” Miss Dimple said at last. “And because they look different.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Charlie thought about what Miss Dimple had said as she walked home alone after leaving the others at Phoebe’s. She was aware, as were most Americans, of the brutality and atrocities committed by the Japanese soldiers. They read about them in the news and saw films of their heartless cruelty in newsreels at the picture show. Charlie knew she could come face-to-face with a German or an Italian, and unless they spoke in that language, she wouldn’t be aware of their heritage. But the Japanese were different. They looked different, acted differently, thought differently. And they had started this war, hadn’t they, with the cowardly bombing of Pearl Harbor? Charlie felt hot fury rising within her at the memory of it.

  And then there was Suzy, who had been born in this country, had received her medical degree from a prestigious university right here in the state of Georgia, and had undoubtedly helped to save Peggy Ashcroft’s young life. If pressed, Charlie would have had to admit she’d thought differently of Suzy when she believed she was Chinese. Now, although she knew Suzy’s people were being treated unfairly, a germ of distrust still lingered, and she wasn’t proud of it.

  The house was quiet when she reached home and Charlie took advantage of the opportunity to write to Will and Fain. But what could she tell them? For the past few days her life had revolved around the murder of Mae Martha Hawthorne and the frenzied involvement that followed. Charlie took out her notepad and filled her fountain pen in preparation. But how to begin? Remember the artist I wrote you about? The lady who took in Miss Dimple and Peggy when they couldn’t make it home in the dark? Well, guess what happened?

  For heaven’s sake, that wouldn’t do! Charlie stared at the blank sheet of paper. That kind lady deserved better than this! Maybe a cup of tea would help.

  Later, sipping the brew, Charlie wrote to Will and Fain about Suzy’s mysterious phone call that led them to discovering the body, and how she had later disappeared. She didn’t tell them they were keeping her under cover at Virginia Balliew’s. And she also didn’t tell them Suzy’s ancestors came from Japan.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, true to her word, Miss Dimple borrowed a leash from her young neighbor Willie Elrod, whose dog Rags seemed to have an aversion to it, and dutifully walked Max to his new home with the Ashcrofts. There they were greeted with unbounded excitement and hugs too many to count. Peaches, as expected, took refuge under the living room sofa. Peggy was scheduled to have her tonsils removed in a few days and the prospect of Max’s faithful company on her return from the hospital would make the ordeal easier to face, her mother confided.

  Dimple wasn’t surprised on her arrival to find Lottie Nivens there, as she would be filling in for Kate during her absence at school and the two were discussing the upcoming Christmas production.

  “I hope you’ve had a chance to settle in at Bessie’s,” Dimple said. “My friend Charlie tells me how excited her neighbor is to have such good company over the holidays.”

  “And I’m happy to be there,” the young woman said. “It would be a lonely Christmas with my husband so far away with the navy. My aunt, who raised me, died a few years ago and Miss Bessie has gone out of her way to make me feel welcome.”

  Peggy insisted on taking Max to the kitchen to give him the bone her mother had begged from Shorty Skinner the day before and Dimple spent the next few minutes attempting to answer Lottie’s questions about the routine at school. When she rose to go, Kate, leaving Lottie to leaf through suggested plans for the program, walked with her to the door.

  “I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear of that terrible thing that happened to Mrs. Hawthorne,” she began. “And now her companion seems to have disappeared. She took such good care of our Peggy I find it hard to believe she had anything to do with that awful murder. I know you had a chance to get to know her some, Miss Dimple. Do you have any idea why she’s run away? And is it true she’s Japanese?”

  “Suzy is of Japanese heritage,” Dimple said, “but she’s an American citizen. She was born in the United States.”

  “I see,” Kate said, although it was obvious that she didn’t. Most people who lived in their part of the United States had never seen a person of Japanese descent except in the movies. “Emmaline said she was only pretending to have a medical background, but Doc Morrison seemed to think she knew very well what she was doing.”

  “I can attest to that,” Miss Dimple said. “She has a medical degree from Emory, and if you think about it, you might realize why the young woman has dropped out of sight.

  “I can only imagine, of course,” she continued, “but she told me earlier that her parents, as well as many others of that heritage who lived on the West Coast, have been moved inland to some kind of relocation camps, and they warned her not to return to California. Suzy might’ve thought she’d be blamed for Mrs. Hawthorne’s death, regardless of guilt, when people learned of her background.”

  “But you knew…?” Kate Ashcroft let the question hang in the air.

  Miss Dimple nodded. “I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure until she explained about her background. Naturally, Mrs. Hawthorne knew as well.”

  Kate stood on her porch and watched Dimple make her way briskly down the walk. “Miss Dimple!” she called after her. “It doesn’t look good, does it? For Suzy, I mean. I’m afraid for what might happen.”

  You have no idea! Dimple thought. Aloud she said, “I’ll agree it wasn’t a wise decision, but who knows what we might do under the same circumstances. Let’s just hope the police will find the person who did this soon.”

  They wouldn’t, of course, because as far as the sheriff was concerned, they already knew who had
killed Mae Martha Hawthorne. Tucking her purse under her arm, Dimple Kilpatrick hurried home to Phoebe’s, where a warm fire waited in the parlor, perhaps, she hoped, with a small cup of hot spiced apple cider. It seemed they were going to have their work cut out for them.

  * * *

  Does she suspect? Am I giving anything away? Virginia asked herself that question every time someone came into the library. She was sure she had GUILT plastered all over her face in capital letters. Suzy was the perfect guest—or she would’ve been if she weren’t wanted by the police. The kitchen floor had never been as spotless, and the old range gleamed like new.

  “Please don’t feel you have to clean,” Virginia had told her. “You’re my guest, and I don’t expect you to do anything at all … well, except to stay out of sight.” However, Suzy had told her she felt she had to do something to occupy her time and she really didn’t mind cleaning. For lunch that day Suzy had treated her to tempura, a Japanese dish of vegetables dipped in egg batter and fried, which Virginia found delicious.

  But what if someone saw her? They kept the shades drawn in the front of the house—to keep the sun from fading the sofa, Virginia explained to her neighbor Mavis Kilgore, although the sofa was at least thirty years old and about as faded as it was going to be. Virginia worried about Mavis, who always seemed to know what was going on in the neighborhood. She wondered if the woman sat up all night keeping watch over the street, and her husband, Jerome, who even worse, could nose out information like a ferret. If only they would find Mae Martha’s killer soon!

  Suzy had dutifully written the names of all the people she could think of who had even the slightest contact with Mae Martha but couldn’t imagine a reason why any of them would benefit from the woman’s death.

  Mrs. Hawthorne’s nephew Isaac, Suzy told them, was responsible for marketing her paintings and saw that the money was regularly deposited to her bank account. She had seen him only on a few occasions and described him as being as robust as his brother was frail. Naturally, as a blacksmith he would have to be muscular, Virginia thought. And certainly strong enough to kill someone with one blow of an iron poker.