Dimple took one look at her friend when she dropped by the library later that afternoon, and, glancing about, pulled a chair up close to her desk. Thank goodness there was no one around except Bessie Jenkins, who was searching for a copy of the history of the county in the tiny back room.
“I’m sorry to have put this burden on you.” Miss Dimple spoke softly with an eye on the door. “And I promise if things aren’t resolved soon, we’ll try to find another solution.
“I’ve done a bit of research,” she added, “and Mrs. Hawthorne’s paintings are worth a good bit of money. It doesn’t seem rational that either of the nephews, who might inherit, would want to do away with the goose that laid the golden eggs.”
“She must’ve had a will.” Virginia frowned. “I wonder if Sheriff Holland knows … and I haven’t heard anything about a funeral service, either.”
“You all must be talking about that lady who was killed.…”
Neither had heard Bessie enter from the back room. “Bless her heart,” Bessie said, “she trusted that Japanese woman and look what happened! Well, I’m locking my doors, I can tell you that, and I warned Lottie to be sure and do the same. You just can’t be too careful! Emmaline’s having some warning posters printed up and I told her I’d put some up at the picture show.”
“That’s a bit premature, don’t you think? We don’t know if this woman had anything to do with what happened to Mrs. Hawthorne.” Miss Dimple sighed. She was beginning to sound like a broken record.
“Huh! She’s Japanese, isn’t she?” Bessie said, offering the history book for Virginia to stamp.
“Reading up on the county, I see.” Virginia forced a smile.
“Yes, well, actually it’s for Lottie—you know, the young lady staying with me. She said she wanted to learn a little about the area since it looks like she might be here awhile.”
“I understand Peggy’s having her tonsils out tomorrow,” Dimple said. “I must remember to stop by Murphy’s and get her a paper-doll book. I hear they have one now about Princesses Elizabeth and little Margaret Rose.”
“Aren’t they the bravest people?” Bessie tucked the book under her arm. “I heard that even with all the bombing the king and queen mother refused to move to a safer area away from London.”
Dimple readily agreed, grateful for the change of subject. It was getting more and more difficult to steer people away from talking about Suzy Amos—or Suzu Amaya.
* * *
“I wish Suzy could come with us,” Annie said when they stopped by the library after school the next day to find Virginia momentarily alone. “We thought we might as well start with Mae Martha’s closest relatives and see if we can learn anything there.”
“Yes, it would seem natural to pay a condolence call on the two nephews,” Miss Dimple added, “especially since they would be the ones to benefit the most financially.
“I seem to remember Mrs. Hawthorne mentioning something about spraining her ankle in a fall,” she said. “I believe it was because of some hickory nuts. Suzy said they were all over the porch and steps.”
“They’re good if you have the patience to shell them and pick out those little nut meats, but they can be treacherous underfoot,” Virginia agreed.
Miss Dimple didn’t say anything but Charlie could tell by the look on her face she wasn’t ready to let go of that subject anytime soon.
“We’d better hurry if we want to get back before too late,” Charlie reminded them. “Mama and Aunt Lou are working an extra day at the munitions plant in Milledgeville and I want to get home before they do. You know how nosy those two are! Mama’s already quizzed me about our meeting at Virginia’s so much, and I’m pretty sure she suspects something.”
“Oh, dear! That will never do.” Miss Dimple started for the door. She knew the two sisters had good intentions, but she also knew the road to a place she didn’t care to go was rumored to be paved in that manner.
* * *
“I see Esau’s truck is here so it looks like we’re in luck,” Charlie said a short while later as they pulled up beside the small farmhouse. Esau himself, looking subdued and clean-shaven, met them at the door.
“I thought highly of your aunt and I know this must be a difficult time for you and your family,” Miss Dimple said in a voice that had consoled many a weeping first grader. “We wanted to let you know how very sorry we are for your loss. Mrs. Hawthorne was a lovely person—inside and out.”
The other two stood beside her and nodded solemnly until Coralee bustled from the kitchen and led them into the small sitting room where she offered them a seat on a Victorian sofa, covered in burgundy velvet, shiny with use. Charlie thought she smelled coffee brewing and wondered if Coralee had been baking one of her unappetizing cakes to serve with it. The thought provoked a sweet-sad memory of the down-to-earth artist she had known only a short time.
“It just don’t seem right without her,” their hostess informed them in funereal tones. “Why, I look up on that hill, and for the life of me, I can’t believe she’s not there! Isn’t that right, Esau?”
Her husband nodded silently, his head bowed. He sat on a straight chair across from them, his hands clasped between his knees, and made no move to wipe away the tear that inched slowly down his rugged face.
“The service…” Miss Dimple began, but the words caught in her throat. “Have they … you … decided when that will be?”
Esau Ingram sighed. “I reckon when the sheriff tells us. Right now plans are kinda up in the air. Folks are saying that woman—that Suzy—killed her and went off with the money, but there couldn’t have been a whole lot in there … not enough to kill for!” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “The folks over at Zion Chapel say they’ll take care of the funeral when the time comes.”
Coralee reached out and patted her husband’s shoulder. “We don’t know what makes people do the things they do, but she’s with Madison now. Don’t guess a few more days are going to matter.”
Their leave-taking was interrupted by the arrival of an older couple Esau introduced as Harriet and Stanley Curtis, who came bearing cloth-covered trays of food that smelled delightfully of fried chicken and gingerbread.
Harriet explained they were from the small chapel down the road where Mae Martha had attended when she was able. “We never could talk her into joining,” she added with a smile, “but she was a good friend to us just the same.”
* * *
“If we hurry, we might have just enough time to pay our respects to Isaac,” Miss Dimple suggested as Charlie endeavored to back into the road without getting stuck in the mud.
“Esau is either a very good actor or he’s genuinely sad,” Charlie observed. “Poor thing! I wanted to hug him.”
“I’m glad we had a chance to meet the Curtises,” Annie said with a backward glance at the house. “I wonder if they were the people Suzy was talking about when she mentioned visitors from the church. Anyway, now that we’ve met them, it should make it easier to drop in for a visit. They might be able to tell us more about Mae Martha than her relatives would want us to know.”
“Maybe they’ll have some of that good-smelling chicken,” Charlie said, her stomach rumbling. “If they’d offered some, I wouldn’t have said no.”
Miss Dimple was silent as they drove the few miles to Isaac Ingram’s blacksmith shop. “I suppose Mrs. Hawthorne is happy to be with her grandson again as Coralee pointed out, but between you, me, and the gatepost, I’ll be willing to bet she would just as soon have put that off awhile longer.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The year was wearing down to the shortest day and the sun would soon be gone from the sky when they wound their way through a grove of pecan trees to the weathered gray building where Isaac Ingram had his blacksmith shop. As they drew nearer they could see the yellow-orange glow of the coal fire in the forge and the dark silhouette of the smithy as he hammered at the anvil. Although the temperature had dipped into the thirties and a chill
wind sent brown leaves tumbling, Isaac Ingram worked with his sleeves rolled up in a shop with double doors entirely open on one side. Showers of red sparks rained against the dark grime of the interior.
The blacksmith barely acknowledged the group with a nod as he proceeded to forge what appeared to be a plowshare, and Miss Dimple was reminded of the adage “strike while the iron is hot.” Naturally a blacksmith couldn’t stop in the middle of this important step. The pounding of the hammer made a musical rhythm when Isaac struck the anvil between beats on the iron being hammered. Dimple smiled, remembering her papa who had referred to that as “tickling the anvil.”
They stepped back as the iron sizzled, and steam rose when it was dropped into a tub of water to temper it. The heavy smoke from the coal used in the forge filled the building with an awful smell that made her want to hold her nose and Miss Dimple noticed the two younger women were obviously attempting to ignore it.
Flames flickered low in the forge, leaving the coals to burn away but the blacksmith didn’t reach for the bellows that hung nearby. Instead, setting the finished plowshare aside, he wiped his hands and face on a rag as black with soot as he was and finally greeted his visitors. As Suzy had described, Isaac, unlike his slight, fairer-skinned brother, was dark and broad shouldered, and at least four or five inches taller than Esau. Underneath the grime and the beginnings of a beard, he was probably a handsome man, Miss Dimple thought—although a grim one, and one who came right to the point.
“You’re here about my aunt,” he said, shoving the soiled rag into his back pocket. He didn’t smile as he addressed Miss Dimple. “She told me about you and that little girl. She doing all right?”
“As far as I know,” Dimple replied. “She was to have had her tonsils out today. If it hadn’t been for your aunt and her companion, I doubt if Peggy would be alive.” And I’m not so sure about myself, she thought. Miss Dimple pulled the muffler from around her neck and unbuttoned her coat as the stifling heat closed around them. “We came to tell you how very sorry we are,” she said, introducing the others.
This was met with a stoic silence that seemed to go on forever. “Well, she’s gone,” he told them, shaking his head. “Shouldn’t have happened, but it did.” Isaac motioned for them to follow him into an adjoining room. “Not so hot in here,” he said as they stepped into an enclosed space lined with shelves filled with the results of his craft. Larger pieces like harrows, cooking vessels, even intricate wrought-iron gates, hung on the walls above them. Dimple saw a beautiful pair of andirons on a table to one side, and Isaac, seeing her notice it, reached out and touched it briefly. “Was going to give it to her for Christmas … the ones she had had just about melted through.”
Dimple felt a catch in her throat as she searched for words. A kind and talented woman was gone and the grim awareness of it enveloped them as had the dark, suffocating smoke from the forge. She glanced at Charlie, whose eyes filled with tears. Annie’s, too. “Oh,” Charlie said. Just oh. Annie and Dimple said nothing.
“That woman—the nurse who looked after her … she turned up yet?” Isaac asked, facing them.
Miss Dimple drew in her breath. Oh, dear! “I don’t believe so,” she told him.
“They say her prints were on the poker,” he said.
“What?” Wide-eyed, Annie reached out and grabbed the nearest arm. It was Charlie’s.
“The sheriff, he said they found that woman’s prints on the poker,” Isaac repeated. “The poker that was used to kill her.” Slowly he turned away. “I made that poker.”
“B-but surely you couldn’t have … how could you have known somebody would…?” Charlie began.
Miss Dimple spoke softly. “Mr. Ingram, I don’t know why anyone would want to harm your aunt, but I do know her companion was the one who regularly tended the fire. It would be natural for her prints to be on that poker.”
“Then where is she?” he asked. “And where is the money that was taken? The box she usually kept it in was found in her room.” Something close to a smile crossed his face. “Of course there couldn’t have been much in it. She only kept enough for groceries and other mostly minor expenses. The rest she had me put in the bank.”
“I understand you took care of marketing her paintings,” Dimple said, and he nodded, pulling at the whiskers on his chin.
“Most of them. Some of them she practically gave away. Nothing I could do about that. Aunt Mae Martha had a heart as big as that old hill she lived on up there, but she didn’t have a lot of practical sense. Why, I don’t even know where some of her paintings have gotten to. She couldn’t have given them all away!”
“You mean they’re missing?” Annie asked.
“A good many, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Didn’t you keep some kind of record?” Charlie asked.
“Well, for the most part … at least I tried to.” Isaac sighed. “My aunt was a puzzlin’ woman. She loved people, liked being in their company, but she truly relished being alone.”
A little twinge of guilt nudged Miss Dimple’s noble conscience. “Perhaps I should admit I myself purchased one of Mrs. Hawthorne’s paintings. I’m sure she didn’t charge me nearly what it was worth.”
Charlie and Annie reluctantly confessed they had also bought some of her artwork for a meager fee.
For the first time Isaac Ingram allowed himself to smile and it changed his entire face. “That’s good. You enjoy them then—she preferred they go to people she liked, you know.”
“Where were most of her paintings sold?” Annie asked.
“Most anywhere—some in galleries and exhibits—but they were displayed in bazaars as well, and a few are even in museums. As soon as the sheriff would let me, I took the ones she had in her studio to a dealer in Atlanta, but they won’t go on the market anytime soon.” Isaac picked up a hand-forged fire shovel, fingered the edge. “They don’t stay for sale long.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill your aunt?” Miss Dimple asked, and Isaac took the rag from his pocket, squeezed it with two large hands. “I honestly don’t,” he told her. “But you don’t want to be around when I find out.”
* * *
Bony limbs of the overhanging pecan trees made a tunnel in the darkness for the yellow-washed headlights as they made their way back to the road and Charlie drove carefully to avoid any obstructions. Synthetic rubber tires were a minor sacrifice to the war effort, but she didn’t relish having a puncture so far out in the country. “I guess Mama and Aunt Lou have been home awhile by now,” she said. “Both trying to figure out what we’re up to!”
“Just tell them the truth,” Miss Dimple advised, “that we paid a condolence call on—”
“Look out!” Annie yelled from the backseat as a figure stepped from the darkness in front of them right into the path of the car.
Charlie veered to the right to avoid him and threw on the brakes. The person didn’t move.
“Be careful! Go around him,” Annie said. “Let’s get out of here!”
But before Charlie could put the car in gear, the man stepped up and leaned on the driver’s window. It was Mae Martha’s handyman, Bill Pitts.
“What do you want?” Charlie asked, rolling down her window partway. “Do you realize I almost hit you?”
Miss Dimple leaned toward him. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to stand in the middle of the road?” she said in her most authoritative voice. “Is something wrong? Do you need help?”
Bill looked them over silently. “I reckon not,” he mumbled.
“Then step back, please, and we’ll be on our way,” Miss Dimple told him. “I suggest you do the same.” She nudged Charlie to remind her to roll up her window and he obediently moved aside. Annie watched him standing there as they drove away. “Well, that was exciting! Did he have too much to drink or is he just crazy?”
“I think he was checking up on us,” Dimple said.
“Why? What do you mean?” Charlie asked.
“
I believe he was looking for Suzy,” Miss Dimple said. “She disappeared the day Mrs. Hawthorne was killed, and we were the ones who discovered her body that same day.” She pulled her warm hat snugly about her ears. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to be much more careful from now on.”
“I hope he doesn’t suspect we know anything about her,” Annie said. “I don’t know what he might do, and Suzy’s alone most of the day while Virginia’s at the library.”
“I can’t imagine why he’d think to look there, or to bother with us,” Charlie assured her. “It’s perfectly natural for us to call on Mae Martha’s nephews. I wonder, though, if he followed us from Esau’s. For a minute there, I thought he wanted to tell us something. Guess he changed his mind.”
“Isaac seems to have genuinely cared for his aunt,” Miss Dimple observed. “And Esau as well, although I suppose even the hardest criminal can squeeze out a few tears when necessary. I’d like to know who benefits from Mrs. Hawthorne’s will.”
“If what I’ve heard is right, her paintings could be worth a small fortune,” Charlie said. “I wonder what happened to the ones that are missing.”
“I’ll tell you where they weren’t,” Dimple said as they drove into a dark and silent town. “None of them was on Esau Ingram’s walls—or at least that I could see.”
Annie spoke up from the backseat. “That does seem peculiar, doesn’t it? Maybe they weren’t to Coralee’s taste.”
Dimple, having noticed in the Ingrams’ hallway a framed picture of a waterfall that looked as if it had been torn from a calendar, thought perhaps the woman’s taste in art might be on the same level as her baking skills. But, of course, she didn’t say so.
* * *
The next afternoon Dimple found little Peggy Ashcroft propped in her hospital bed with her favorite doll in one arm and a brand-new stuffed teddy bear in the other. One of those embroidery kits sold especially for children, although few ever used them, waited on the table beside her, along with a storybook, a coloring book, and a new box of crayons.
Miss Dimple Suspects: A Mystery Page 10