Earlier, Lou had made a point of introducing Jordan and his wife, Millie, to all the guests, and after politely weaving her way through the gathering, Millie had now established herself in the adjoining sitting room, where some of the younger people congregated. Hearing their laughter, Lou saw her niece, Delia, among them and was glad she seemed to have found a friend in the coach’s wife. Delia had been kind of like a lost lamb when she and her baby came home to Elderberry after her young husband was shipped out, and although Millie was a good bit older, she seemed to enjoy Delia’s company.
In the dining room, Jo was relating an apparently funny tale to Virginia Balliew and Velma Anderson, and Lou was glad to see Virginia smile as she knew she’d almost made herself sick worrying about that missing bond money. And didn’t she look pretty in those aquamarine earrings?
As she watched, her sister moved to the table and helped herself to a couple of tarts and some cheese straws, and Lou Willingham shook her head in envy. Jo could eat her weight in sweets and starches and never gain an ounce, while Lou seemed to put on pounds just from the smell of chocolate. But then Jo never did like to cook, while Lou enjoyed even the challenge of coming up with appetizing menus in spite of wartime shortages. And wasn’t Ed—bless his heart—always bragging about what a good cook she was?
Lou started back to the kitchen to replenish the miniature tea muffins when she heard voices in the hallway, where she found Dimple Kilpatrick in earnest conversation with Jordan McGregor.
“The heat and humidity must be unbearable in a tropical climate like that, but I understand it’s much cooler in the mountainous areas. And what is the name of that river that flows through the western part of New Guinea? I remember learning about that country in geography, but unfortunately my memory’s not as good as it once was.”
“I can’t imagine your memory being less than perfect,” the coach said, smiling. “Why, just about everybody I’ve met here sings your praises.”
Miss Dimple frowned. “It’s not the Sepik, that’s on the eastern side … no, it begins with a C … Car … something. Oh, well, I suppose it will come to me later.” Miss Dimple paused for a sip of punch. “Tell me, do the natives really build their homes on platforms? I read once they do that for protection.”
Coach McGregor nodded. “Well, I really—”
“And I imagine malaria must be prevalent there. A great uncle on my father’s side suffered so from that. Lived in coastal Mississippi, you know, with all those pesky mosquitoes. The fever would come back on him now and again for the rest of his life. I hope you won’t have that problem, Mr. McGregor.”
Lou hesitated, tray in hand. Neither of them seemed to have noticed her approach—and what was all this chatter about New Guinea and malaria? She had never heard Dimple Kilpatrick speak in such a rude manner without giving the poor man an opportunity to reply. And why was she pretending ignorance when everyone knew her mind was as sharp as a bayonet? “Memory’s not as good as it once was”—humbug!
“Is that a new dress, Miss Dimple?” she asked. “That color is perfect with your complexion.” It was purple, of course, as was most of her attire.
“Why, thank you, Lou, but no. Bessie made this for me several years ago. I’m sure you must’ve seen it. I wore it to church just last Sunday.” Miss Dimple made no attempt to hide her annoyance at the interruption.
“Well, you should wear it more often,” Lou said, taking her tenant by the arm. “Jordan,” she began “it’s really a shame we never get a chance to visit, even with the two of you living right here behind us. Why don’t you come to the kitchen and talk with me while I get a fresh supply of muffins?”
“Only if you’ll let me help,” Jordan answered, taking the tray from his hostess. Of course this left Dimple with no choice but to return to the rest of the guests in the other part of the house. Sometimes Louise Willingham could be too bossy for her own good, but at least she’d learned one thing from her one-sided conversation with the new coach. Jordan McGregor had never been in New Guinea.
* * *
Ed Willingham found Reynolds Murphy stretched out in a rocking chair in his tiny cell in the Elderberry City Jail with a pillow at his back and a plate of apple pie in his lap.
“Well,” Ed said as the jailer let him inside, “I brought you some of the refreshments from yesterday’s shindig, but I see you’re doing all right for yourself. They taking good care of you here?”
Reynolds jumped to his feet and shook Ed’s hand. “Oh, God, Ed, how’d this happen to me? Folks have been mighty good bringing me cakes and pies and all to make me comfortable, but I’m about to go crazy in here!”
Ed looked around for somewhere to sit and settled on a shelflike bunk. “I hear you’ve got some fancy lawyer from Atlanta representing you. I expect he’ll have you out of here before too long.”
“Can’t be soon enough for me. I thought I’d hear from him today, or tomorrow at the latest. You know my prints weren’t even on that rifle they found in my car. I know good and well somebody planted it there. Now, I ask you, why would I want to shoot Jesse Dean Greeson?”
Ed shrugged. “Why would anybody? I reckon they think Buddy was supposed to have been the target.”
“And now they’re saying I killed my own wife—my Cynthia…” Reynolds buried his face in his hands. “… and that I buried her in that godforsaken place! How could anybody even think such a thing?”
“They won’t be able to hold you for long,” Ed said. “After all, what evidence do they have?”
Reynolds shook his head. “None, Ed. They don’t have a damn thing—because I didn’t do it!
“Sounds to me like Buddy Oglesby’s run off with that bond money. How do they know he didn’t fire that gun? I’d sure as hell like to know where he is!”
“So would Chief Tinsley,” Ed said. “Turned out to be some night, didn’t it? With Cowboy Dobbins in the cast, you’d think anybody’d be afraid to do something like that.”
Reynolds frowned. “Cowboy?”
“You know, H.G., the deputy who played a bridesmaid. Always wears those cowboy boots. I’ll swear, Reynolds, I thought he was going to wear them down the aisle.”
Reynolds didn’t answer. He had noticed the boots, but he really hadn’t thought much about it. Until now.
* * *
“What are we going to do about Phoebe?” Velma Anderson greeted Dimple Kilpatrick in the hallway as soon as she stepped in the front door the following Monday after school, and Miss Dimple was so surprised by the question it took her a minute to think of a reply.
“I wish I knew,” she said finally, leading the way into the empty parlor so no one would overhear. “Right now, I believe the best thing we can do is to let her know we care.”
Velma nodded. “I don’t know what’s worrying her so, but it might help if we could just get her mind on something else … I’ve heard the vines are loaded with muscadines over there beyond Peach Orchard Hill, and you know how fond she is of muscadine preserves. Do you think she might let us talk her into going to gather some? I didn’t use nearly all my sugar rations, and I’ll be glad to let her have what’s left.”
Miss Dimple said she would willingly contribute hers as well and agreed that the outing was a good idea as long as they weren’t in danger of being arrested for trespassing. “I’d prefer it if we had permission, but I have no idea who owns that land.”
“Well, I do.” Velma hurried to the phone. “It’s been in the Kimbrough family for as long as I can remember, and their granddaughter just happens to be in my typing class this year.”
Minutes later she returned, smiling. “Mamie Kimbrough said we’re welcome to all we can collect, but she wouldn’t say no to a jar of those preserves.”
It didn’t take long after a whispered conference in the kitchen to enlist Odessa’s help, and the three of them finally convinced Phoebe she would be letting everyone down if she didn’t lend a hand with the grape harvest.
“Just think how good them prese
rves gonna taste on a hot biscuit,” Odessa wheedled. “Mmm! I can just smell ’em now.”
Velma agreed that nothing would appeal to her more, and although Miss Dimple rarely indulged in sweets, she had to admit a weakness for the heady flavor of the fruit.
Miss Dimple felt perfectly capable of walking the three or more miles to the woodsy area where the muscadines grew, but the other two women were unaccustomed to covering long distances on foot, and it would be close to four by the time they arrived. They would have to work fast to fill their pails before dark.
The afternoon was pleasantly warm, and the three only took time to slip into sweaters, collect a couple of buckets, and climb into Velma’s cherished 1932 Ford V-8 before winding their way around Cemetery Hill and along the serpentine road through the orchards where sweet Elberta and Georgia Belle peaches grew in the summertime.
The oaks were tinged with scarlet, and sumac along the sides of the road had turned a vivid red. Now and then hickories flaunted their finery of burnished gold, and from her seat behind the driver, Miss Dimple longed to take pleasure in the palate of her favorite season, but the feeling wouldn’t leave her that something wasn’t quite right. However, the road behind them seemed clear, and she didn’t see anything threatening ahead. Her brother, Henry, had accused her of worrying unnecessarily, but begrudgingly agreed it was usually for a reason. Perhaps this time, she thought, Henry would be right, and hoped it was so.
“It should be just around this next curve,” Velma said, beginning to slow. “Mamie told me we’d see an abandoned barn on the left and should be able to park there … and here it is.” She pulled off into a grassy area that had once been a road, and Dimple and Phoebe hurried to take buckets from the trunk. With Velma, they waded through knee-high grass to the wooded area beyond.
Phoebe paused at the edge of the woods. “Where now?”
“Just look up, I suppose,” Velma said. “The vines grow in trees, and I was told this place is thick with them.”
Dimple Kilpatrick threw back her head and took a deep breath. “I can smell them already,” she said, inhaling the pungent aroma. “And, look, there’re vines just ahead—why, the ground’s just covered in muscadines!”
For the next half hour she put her apprehension behind her and concentrated on the task at hand. No one spoke, except to say “Pass the bucket” or “Oh, look here—there’s more than we’ll ever need,” and Dimple noticed that Phoebe seemed more like her old self again—for a time at least.
“Do watch out for yellow jackets,” Miss Dimple advised them as the small bees swarmed around the fallen muscadines on the ground, but the women concentrated on the dark, thick-skinned grapes that hung in clusters from vines overhead. The musky scent of the fruit was almost intoxicating in the dense enclosure of the surrounding trees, and when her pail was full, Dimple stretched, picked up the brimming bucket, and began to make her way back to where they had parked the car. “It’s getting late,” she told the others, glancing at the sky, and again the foreboding feeling pushed its way forward, prompting her to hurry. “We’d better start back before dark.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Velma called. “This bucket’s almost full … uh-oh!” She held out a hand. “Is that a raindrop?”
It was, and as the others hurried after her, it began pelting them in earnest. “Your umbrella would’ve come in handy about now, Dimple,” Velma called out as they made their way back to the road. “Let’s hurry before we get stuck in the mud.”
The others had the same concern, and Phoebe and Dimple hoisted the heavy buckets into the trunk while Velma jumped in to start the car. It wasn’t until she started to open the rear door that Dimple noticed the left front tire was flatter than a paper doll.
“I’m afraid we have a problem,” she said, explaining what had happened.
“Ye gods and little fishes!” Velma muttered under her breath. “Those synthetic rubber tires aren’t worth a plugged nickel. And it’s already been patched so much it looks like a quilt. Well, at least I have a spare, but I’m afraid we’re going to get wet.”
“I’ll get the jack,” Miss Dimple offered, wishing more than ever that she’d brought along her umbrella.
“I noticed some newspapers in the trunk,” Phoebe said, stepping out into the rain. “Maybe they’ll keep off the worst of it. At least they’ll be better than nothing.” Frowning, she stooped to examine the right front tire. “I don’t suppose you have two spares, do you?”
“What? How in the world did this happen?” Velma, wrapped in a soaking-wet sweater, huddled in the rain to inspect first one flat tire, and then the other. “You know how careful I am to avoid sharp stones or anything that might cause a puncture. It’s most unusual for this to happen to both front tires at the same time.”
Miss Dimple, having found a flashlight in the trunk, knelt to get a closer look. The alarming feeling that something was wrong now screamed like a siren.
“What is it?” Phoebe asked, shivering, as Dimple held the light on one particular area and ran her fingers along the tire.
“I’m not sure,” Dimple said, and she didn’t speak again until she had examined the other tire in the same manner. It wouldn’t do to frighten her friends, but she didn’t believe they would be safe to remain with the car. It looked as if both tires had been deliberately slashed.
“Do the Kimbroughs live very far from here?” she asked Velma, trying to maintain an unruffled demeanor.
Velma frowned as she looked about. I’ve only been there once, back when old Mr. Kimbrough died, but if I remember right, it’s just over this next hill.”
Phoebe had already slid back into the passenger seat. “How far over the hill?” she asked from the open window.
“Oh, I don’t know. Less than a mile, I guess, but surely someone will drive by and see us here before too long.” With an exasperated sigh, Velma climbed into the driver’s seat beside her. “At least we can keep dry here … Dimple, aren’t you coming? Hurry or you’ll catch your death!”
Dimple hesitated. She was already wet, what difference would a little more rain make? Would they be safer walking the distance to Mamie Kimbrough’s or waiting like sitting ducks in the car? Darkness was already settling about them, and chances are passersby wouldn’t notice them from the road—except the person who already knew they were there.
“If we leave now, we could get to the Kimbroughs’ place before it gets too dark to see, and the flashlight will help,” Dimple said, waving the light about. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here.”
“I don’t see why not. I’d rather wait here than risk being run over. Besides, I’ve been on my feet all day, and these bunions are killing me!” Velma crossed her arms, and Dimple could see she wasn’t going to budge.
“Very well. I’ll walk on over to Mamie Kimbrough’s and use her telephone to call for help, but I do wish you’d come with me.” If she warned them, it would only frighten them, and Dimple wasn’t sure Phoebe would be able to walk the distance in her weakened state. She took time to take some of the folded newspapers from the trunk as protection from the rain and, telling the other two she would be back as soon as possible, set out for Mamie Kimbrough’s.
“For goodness sake, Dimple, I do wish you’d stay here with us!” Phoebe called after her. “You’re going to be soaking wet, and you don’t know who might be out on the road this time of…”
Dimple gave her friends a farewell wave and let Phoebe’s mournful warning dissipate on the wind. Using the flashlight, she kept as much as possible to the areas beyond the shoulder of the road. Walking was difficult because ankle-high weeds and brambles slowed her, but Dimple Kilpatrick wasn’t taking any chances on being struck down by a car, and whenever she saw headlights approaching, quickly switched off the flashlight.
Rounding the curve at the top of the hill, she was grateful to see the lights of a farmhouse in the distance and hurried toward the welcome warmth. She was getting ready to cross the road and make her w
ay to what she hoped was the Kimbrough home when pale yellow beams cut through the rain-washed night from the opposite direction, and the driver was moving slowly, as if he might be looking for someone on the road. Dimple Kilpatrick darted behind the bushy security of a dripping cedar and waited until the car had passed. Maybe, she hoped, whoever was driving wouldn’t notice anyone waiting in Velma’s disabled vehicle, or would choose not to inflict any more damage.
She was fortunate that Mamie Kimbrough’s son, who had stopped by to drop off his mother’s prescription from Lewellyn’s, was gracious enough to collect the other two and drive them all back to Phoebe’s. Of course, Velma protested about having to leave her car behind, but Asa Weatherby at the Gulf Station promised he’d take care of the cherished Ford and have it ready in two shakes of a cat’s tail.
And for now, the fact that someone had deliberately slashed the tires would be a secret between Chief Bobby Tinsley and Dimple Kilpatrick.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jesse Dean Greeson finished the last of the chicken and dumplings Angela Cooper had brought him, rinsed the bowl, and put it in the sink. It bothered him to leave unwashed dishes there, but he had promised Madge Malone, who lived next door, he wouldn’t lift a finger doing anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. “The girls and I will take care of those dishes in no time,” Madge had promised. “Now, you just look after yourself and get some rest!”
Jesse Dean yawned. He was tired of resting, although he had to admit he enjoyed all the attention as well as the good food his friends had heaped upon him. He couldn’t make up his mind which was better, Odessa Kirby’s bread-crumb pudding or Louise Willingham’s applesauce cake, and if he didn’t watch out, he just might get fat. Jesse Dean smiled at the thought. He had been tall and lean since he’d reached his full height, and hadn’t slumped once since he’d taken that job of air-raid warden, but proudly drew himself up to the measurement by his kitchen door, which was six feet, one and three-quarter inches.
Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause Page 14