Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause

by Mignon F. Ballard

  Whoever it was certainly wasn’t very tall. Maybe it was an animal. Willie Elrod’s dog, Rags, was forever getting loose and running about the neighborhood, and she always coaxed him home when she found him. Dimple Kilpatrick frowned as she peered through the glass. But this wasn’t Willie’s dog crouching on the porch tonight. It was Willie himself!

  Miss Dimple quietly opened the door before speaking. “William Elrod, just what in the world are you doing out here in the dead of the night? Do you realize what time it is? I’m sure your mother has no idea where you are.”

  “Oh, lordy, Miss Dimple! You ought not sneak up on a person like that. You just about scared me half to death!” The child jumped to his feet and began to back away.

  “You haven’t answered my question, William.” Miss Dimple spoke in her no-nonsense classroom voice. “What were you doing out here? It appears that you’ve been looking in Mr. Weaver’s window. Just what did you expect to see?”

  Willie shrugged. “I was just looking for Rags. He got away from me when I went to put him out on the screen porch.”

  Miss Dimple knew that Willie, who lived next door, smuggled his dog into his bed at night and moved him to his box on the porch before his parents woke in the morning. She also suspected that Willie’s mother was aware of his nocturnal activities. She looked at the boy without speaking until he began to stare at the floor and shift from one foot to the other. “And what makes you think Mr. Weaver has Rags inside with him?”

  “I was just lookin’ after things,” the child mumbled. “Somebody has to, you know.” He looked up at her and his face seemed almost angelic in the pale glow of the streetlight, but of course she knew better. “You said yourself you don’t know what you would’ve done without me when those bad things happened last year,” he told her.

  There was nothing Dimple Kilpatrick wanted more than to gather this little boy into her arms and kiss his freckled cheek, but she knew such an act would probably embarrass him for the rest of his natural life and cause awkwardness on both sides in the pleasant relationship they shared.

  “And I meant every word of it,” she said, “but that doesn’t explain why you were looking in the window.”

  “Because…”

  “Because why?” she insisted.

  “Well, because he talks funny—scary, like those Nazis in the movies. And he used to live there, you know. Germany, I mean.”

  “Mr. Weaver came here from Austria,” Miss Dimple explained.

  “Same thing, ain’t it? Aren’t we fighting them, too?”

  “Isn’t it! And indeed we are, but I doubt if some of them had a choice.” Miss Dimple sat in a rocking chair in order to face him on his level. “William, Mr. Weaver came to the States before our country was even involved in the war with Germany. He had nothing to do with any of that.”

  The child’s expression was doubtful. “But how can you be sure? They might’ve sent him here to spy on us, you know.”

  Although not infallible, Dimple Kilpatrick considered herself an astute judge of character, and the gentle nature of the shy musician was discernible even through his often sad countenance. It was possible that someone in this house had slipped a message for Phoebe into the mailbox, and it might have been Sebastian Weaver—or it could’ve been anyone. It was most distressing to contemplate. “I understand your concern, William, but I don’t believe you have to worry about Mr. Weaver,” she said, “and it would do him a great disservice to spread hurtful rumors when we have no reason to believe they’re true. How would you feel if someone did that to you?”

  “But I’m not German,” Willie said.

  “The man can’t help where he was born, William, but he’s here now and contributes to the community and to the war effort in a meaningful way. Why, Miss Annie tells me he’s being a great help with the entertainment for the rally.”

  Willie sighed. He would rather eat cold oatmeal with turnips in it than give up seeking out spies. After all, wasn’t it up to him to help defend his town and his country? And he had done a fine job of it, too! But Miss Dimple … well … she understood things better than most grown-ups, and he knew he could trust her.

  “I’m right here in the same house with Mr. Weaver, and if anything suspicious takes place, I’m sure I would notice it,” Miss Dimple persisted as she looked into his brown eyes with her keen blue ones. “I want you to go home now and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a school day, you know, and let’s keep this little adventure our secret.”

  “But you will let me know if he starts doing anything weird—like talking in code and stuff like that?”

  She nodded. “That I will, now off with you, and remember, this is just between the two of us.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I promise.” Willie yawned. He would just have to spy on somebody else.

  * * *

  “I don’t know when chicken has tasted so good to me,” Bessie said as she cuddled Delia’s little Tommy on her lap. “And that sweet-potato cake just hit the spot, but you shouldn’t be using your precious sugar rations on me. I insist on paying you back.” She paused to kiss the back of the baby’s plump neck.

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Jo told her. “As many times as we’ve borrowed from you! And Jesse Dean at Mr. Cooper’s saved us that small plump hen especially for you.”

  “Well, bless his heart! That’s just like him, and it’s a treat to have something besides that everlasting Spam!” Bessie rescued her glasses from Tommy. “I think I’ve had it fried, baked, battered, and just about any way I can think of except in ice cream. And I can’t thank you enough for my cologne. How did you know it was my favorite?”

  Charlie avoided her sister’s eyes. They had been supplying their neighbor with English Lavender for as long as she could remember. “I hate to run,” she said, “but Delia and I better be off to rehearsals if we don’t want to suffer the wrath of Emmaline Brumlow.”

  Bessie reluctantly surrendered the baby to Delia, who took him upstairs to bed. “I don’t see the need for me to go tonight, but I’ll check back later this week to take care of alterations and to see if they have anyone new who needs to be fitted.” She paused. “You know, I was in Peabodys’ Cleaners this morning and Hiram Peabody told me he was supposed to be one of the bridesmaids but that Dobbins fellow talked him into letting him take his place.”

  Jo Carr pulled her chair a little closer. “That’s strange! Why would he want to do that? Most of these men had to be dragged into it kicking and screaming.”

  Charlie thought she knew why but decided it was best to keep it to herself. “Reynolds Murphy told me he had to practically beat the bushes to line up the cast. And now Buddy Oglesby’s trying to back out of helping with the rally. Said he didn’t mind being in charge of publicity but he’d rather we’d find someone else to take his place.”

  Bessie lowered her voice. “I suppose the girls told you what he did last night—got all upset over that poor skeleton they found,” she said to Jo. “I don’t know what’s going on with Buddy, but as the old man said, it’s gettin’ curiouser and curiouser!”

  * * *

  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?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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.”