Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause

by Mignon F. Ballard

  (Charlie felt a little sorry for the wolf in spite of herself.)

  “These are wonderful,” Annie said, putting several stories aside. “I think they’ll be even funnier if we let some of the children read them.”

  Charlie agreed and suggested a likely candidate. Willie Elrod would be perfect to take part if they could trust him not to embellish too much.

  Miss Dimple nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with our William.”

  Charlie sniffed as an appetizing aroma came from the kitchen. “Something sure smells good. What’s for supper?”

  “I think Odessa’s warming up the leftover stew we had earlier,” Annie said. “I’m sure there’s plenty. Why don’t you stay?”

  “Can’t.” Charlie made a face. “Have to go home and think of something for supper. Delia’s down in the dumps because of Millie’s death, and Mama’s supposed to be writing her obituary for the Eagle, so it’s up to me. Guess it’s going to be leftover meatloaf again.” Everyone knew her mother didn’t cook unless it was absolutely necessary, and Charlie really didn’t mind. Her mother worked hard at the ordnance plant and in her job writing the society news for the local paper. Besides, Jo Carr’s cooking left a lot to be desired.

  “I really didn’t know Millie well,” Annie said, gathering up her papers, “and I’m sorry I didn’t make more of an effort. I suppose Jordan gave your mother the information she needed.”

  Charlie nodded. “Not a lot. Just a little background information—where she was born, went to school, etcetera. Neither of her parents is alive, and I don’t think she had any siblings. I was kind of surprised to see she majored in math. She always seemed like more of the artsy type.”

  Annie grinned. “Like me?”

  “Not at all like you,” Charlie told her. There was no comparison between the two women.

  “And where did she go to school?” Miss Dimple wanted to know.

  “Right over in Milledgeville at G.S.C.W.,” Charlie said. Her own mother was a student at Georgia State College for Women in the day when women had to wear uniforms and were told to turn away when a young man passed by the window. Of course she doubted if it was that strict when Millie went there.

  “Do you remember her maiden name?” Miss Dimple asked.

  “Yes, it was Knight.” Charlie had no trouble remembering because while she and Annie were at Brenau College they had lived down the hall from two roommates whose last names were Knight and Day.

  “Millie Knight … or perhaps Mildred Knight,” Miss Dimple murmured as she left the room. Phoebe’s daughter Kathleen had attended G.S.C.W. at about the same time.

  But Phoebe Chadwick shook her head. “Millie Knight. No, it doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll ask Kathleen if she remembers her.”

  Dimple Kilpatrick stood in her friend’s doorway with her hands clasped in front of her. “And are you planning to explain to her just why you want to know?”

  Phoebe sat at her dressing table and tucked a stray strand of hair into place. She took her time in answering.

  “I don’t know, Dimple. I really don’t know. If, as you and Virginia believe, Millie McGregor was responsible for blackmail—and perhaps other things as well—she’s gone now. What good will it do Kathleen?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Kathleen,” Dimple said softly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  So the coach’s wife was dead. Head hit a rock, they said. Well, that was a coincidence! And now rumor was the coroner believed it was likely Cynthia Murphy had died in the same way, probably from a blow to the head.

  He knew from personal experience the woman could drive a man to violence; why, any of them might’ve done it. It would just be a matter of time now before somebody learned his secret and began to point fingers at him. Maybe he should leave town … but it was too late to run.

  * * *

  It had to be her! Strange that she should end up in Elderberry when she’d made light of the little town back in college. Kathleen knew right away who her aunt Phoebe was talking about when she told her about Millie’s death. Millicent Knight had lived in her dormitory during their first two years of college, but she didn’t remain Millicent long. Petite and vivacious with long blond hair that had a tendency to curl, she earned the nickname Goldilocks, and eventually, Goldie, when she ate the cookies her roommate’s mother had sent from home—the entire box. “I really didn’t mean to,” she’d explained, wide-eyed, “but before I knew it, I had eaten them all up!”

  A keen math student, Goldie was in school on a scholarship, and for a while tutored Kathleen in the subject when she was having a difficult time in that class. Millie had seemed grateful for the small fee she collected from working with Kathleen and a few other students and often used it to supplement her meager wardrobe.

  At the end of one of their sessions she had told Kathleen how she had been adopted after her parents died of scarlet fever when she was about seven.

  “Sometimes I’ve felt like I might have been adopted,” Kathleen told her, more to make her feel better about her situation than anything else. “I don’t look or act like either one of my parents, but then I guess most everybody feels that way at one time or another.”

  Goldie only shrugged. “Maybe you were,” she said. “I wish somebody with lots of money had adopted me.” A year or so later Kathleen learned that although Millie’s parents were older and lived frugally on the salary her father brought in as a telegraph operator, she was not adopted. It was one of the many lies she told to promote sympathy, or maybe she thought it would help her get some of the things she wanted. Millie didn’t have money for frills, and she did love frills. There had even been a couple of instances of missing jewelry in the dorm, but nothing could be proved, and no one wanted to point a finger.

  Kathleen remembered losing a ring her parents had given her for Christmas. It wasn’t an expensive ring, a small sapphire set in gold, but she had loved it because they had given it to her and because it was her birthstone. Goldie had been in her room the night before it disappeared, but then so had several others, so she didn’t pursue the matter.

  Goldie had attached herself to Kathleen for a while, and then she moved on to someone else. She wasn’t capable, it seemed, of maintaining a lasting friendship, but frankly, Kathleen was relieved when the girl tired of her. Earlier in their second year the school choral group had made a brief concert tour of several towns in the area. When they performed at the Methodist church in Elderberry, Kathleen’s aunt Phoebe had invited the group over afterward for dinner. Of course she had gone to a lot of trouble to make everyone welcome, and Goldie was awed by the huge dining room table with its crystal chandelier, the lovely fragile china, and gleaming silverware.

  “Your aunt Phoebe must be rich!” she’d whispered over dessert, and Kathleen explained that her aunt earned her money the hard way by taking in boarders and that several other people lived and ate there as well.

  “Huh! If I were her, I’d sure get out of this one-horse town,” Millie said. She had poked fun as well at the small business district and the modest church where they sang.

  “I doubt if she would want to leave. This is her home—hers and Uncle Monroe’s. They’re comfortable here, Goldie, but they’re certainly not rich.”

  “But she’s always sending you money,” Goldie pointed out. “Didn’t she pay for your tutoring? And what about that expensive evening gown you wanted? She bought it for you—just like that!”

  Kathleen laughed. “She spoils me, I know, but Aunt Phoebe wasn’t able to have children and she’s always been like a second mother to me.”

  Goldie narrowed her eyes and looked at her. “Maybe she’s more than that,” she suggested. “You look just like her.”

  * * *

  Kathleen had always wondered, but didn’t dare ask, especially while her parents were alive. She loved both of them, loved them dearly, but there was a bond, a closeness, between her and Phoebe Chadwick that she couldn’t explain. While going through old letter
s after her parents died, she had discovered correspondence from Phoebe dating from the time she was born, letters inquiring about her: Was she healthy? Did the formula agree with her? Has she smiled yet? That kind of thing. And then later, when she began school, her aunt wanted to know if she was happy there. Was she reading yet? What was her favorite book? Song? She also learned from the letters that her aunt had helped pay for her college education.

  Kathleen had been born three years before her aunt married Monroe, and she had felt no kinship with Monroe Chadwick, although he had never been unkind to her. If she had been Monroe’s child, surely the couple would have married earlier and she would have been brought up in their household.

  But if Monroe was not her father, then who was? Kathleen decided it was way past time to find out.

  * * *

  “Kathleen! Honey, is something wrong? Is it Harrison?” Phoebe held out her arms to the woman who stood in her doorway. “Did you drive all the way here from Macon?”

  Kathleen smiled and embraced the woman who called herself her aunt. “No, no, I’m fine. Harrison’s all right. I rode all the way on the bus between two good-looking soldiers, but I would like to sit down. What about the kitchen? Or is Odessa still here?”

  “Just left, and I believe there’s a little taste of that cottage pudding left from dinner, but wouldn’t you rather sit in here?” She motioned to the parlor. “Kathleen, is everyone all right? What’s going on?”

  “That’s exactly what I came to ask you.” Kathleen walked beside her into the kitchen that always enveloped her in its warmth and comfort, smelled of good things to eat and welcomed her home.

  “You wrote me about what happened to Millie McGregor,” she said when the two were seated at the table. “I did know her in college—but you probably heard me speak of her as Goldie. She even came here once when you entertained the chorus.”

  Phoebe nodded. “I remember, but there were so many, and I was busy seeing to the table…”

  “What did she do, Aunt Phoebe? I imagine she was up to no good. And why was she killed?”

  “It seems she was running and struck a tree limb in the dark. They say she hit her head on a stone when she fell, but it’s all over now. I hope the poor woman is at rest, so let’s don’t worry anymore about it.” Phoebe patted her hand. “More tea?”

  “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Kathleen persisted. “You haven’t been yourself since … well … It had something to do with you, didn’t it, Aunt Phoebe?”

  Phoebe Chadwick looked at her daughter’s face, heart-shaped like her own. Her dark hair, beginning to gray a little now, was the rich chestnut brown hers had been when she was young; but her mouth, so ready to break into a smile, the dimple at the corner of her lips, was so much like her father’s it took her breath away.

  “Yes,” she said finally. “It did.” Phoebe told Kathleen about the blackmail and she told her why. “But I don’t understand how she knew you were mine,” she added. “Especially after all this time.”

  “There’s no way she could know for sure,” Kathleen said, “but I suppose she must have thought it was worth a try to get some easy money.

  “And now,” she added. “Tell me about my father.”

  And, taking her daughter’s hands in both of hers, Phoebe Chadwick did just that.

  * * *

  The funeral service for Millie McGregor was brief and simple. The church, of course, was filled, and afterward those closest to Jordan McGregor gathered at Lou and Ed Willingham’s for a quiet lunch, after which people whispered among themselves, offered handshakes and condolences to Jordan, complimented Lou on her Boston brown bread and dried apple pie, and went home looking as if they’d won a reprieve. Jordan, his eyes red and shoulders slumped, walked back to the empty garage apartment alone.

  Lou watched him from her kitchen window. She wished she could tuck him in bed with ginger tea and hot chicken soup and make everything all right. But she couldn’t. No one could.

  “I’ve never felt such tension at my table before,” she confessed to Ed. “Usually, someone will relate an anecdote or some warm, amusing story about the person who died to help us remember them in a positive way, but today everything seemed gray and cold. There was no hope, no light.”

  Ed put an arm around her and snatched up a dish towel to help out. “For Jordan right now, I don’t believe there is.”

  * * *

  Charlie stepped out of Lewellyn’s Drug Store with face cream for her mother and a box of scented soap for Odessa’s upcoming birthday. Lemon verbena was her favorite, Phoebe said. She had attended Millie’s funeral that morning with her sister, leaving their mother to stay at home with Tommy, but neither had gone to the luncheon at her aunt’s. Charlie had tried to get Delia to walk into town with her to pick up a few items she needed and perhaps stop at Lewellyn’s for a limeade, her sister’s favorite drink, but Delia would have none of it. A movie was out of the question as the only thing playing at the Jewel on Saturday was a western, King of the Cowboys, with Roy Rogers and Smiley Burnette. The theater would be filled with children, and the floor, sticky with chewing gum and who knows what else. A lot of the people from the country were in town as was their custom on Saturdays, and the streets were crowded with farmers in overalls, children with nickels burning holes in their pockets, and a few servicemen visiting with friends while home on leave. Most drove trucks or cars they had bought long before the war, but a few came to town in horse-drawn wagons, and these were hitched under a shade tree in front of the courthouse.

  Packages in hand, Charlie turned toward Murphy’s Five and Ten. Delia had always loved the coconut bonbons there, and maybe a treat would cheer her up a little. She had reached the corner when she saw Miss Dimple standing across the street in front of Brumlow’s Dry Goods. She stood for a few minutes facing the door but didn’t attempt to go inside, and as Charlie watched she felt a momentary chill, a premonition that something wasn’t right.

  “Miss Dimple!” Charlie called to her as she hurried across the busy street, and the older woman turned at the sound of her voice and started walking to meet her at her usual no-nonsense pace.

  “I saw you in front of Brumlow’s,” Charlie began, “and thought—” She broke off at the look on Miss Dimple’s face. What else could possibly go wrong?

  “It’s closed,” Miss Dimple said, and her expression was closed as well. Charlie couldn’t read it.

  “Closed?” Charlie repeated numbly. Brumlow’s never closed on Saturdays! “Do you suppose somebody’s sick? Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing Emmaline or Arden at the funeral service this morning. Maybe I should call.”

  “No, wait.” Miss Dimple touched her arm with a gloved hand. “Perhaps Bennie knows what’s going on.”

  But Bennie Alexander, who owned the small jewelry store next door to Brumlow’s, had seen neither Arden nor her mother since Thursday, he told them. Bernice Fox, who filled in for the Brumlows once in a while when one of the women was sick, had come in for a short time Friday morning, he said, but had closed the store and left around noon.

  “Did she mention if anything was wrong or say when they would be back?” Miss Dimple asked.

  “Only that there was some kind of family emergency,” Bennie said. “Bernice didn’t say what, and probably didn’t even know.” He paused to point out a display of birthstone rings for Ida Ellerby, who was shopping for her granddaughter’s birthday gift. “I’m sure you’re aware of how reserved Emmaline can be.”

  “Stuck-up, you mean,” Ida muttered under her breath.

  Charlie didn’t reply, and Miss Dimple acted as though she hadn’t heard her. Emmaline Brumlow’s lack of social skills weren’t their concern at the moment.

  “What should we do? Should we call?” Charlie asked as they stepped outside together.

  “I believe in this case we might sidestep that courtesy and go straight to the house,” Miss Dimple advised. Both women knew that Emmaline Brumlow would probably
discourage them from coming, and they didn’t mean to allow her that choice.

  The Brumlows lived in a comfortable redbrick Georgian-style home a few blocks from town. Dimple Kilpatrick had often walked past the ivy-covered house that was surrounded by a wrought iron fence and almost hidden from the street by a grove of oak trees, now glorious in foliage of red and gold. Today she didn’t pass by the house as usual but pushed open the front gate and walked boldly up the brick path. Charlie accompanied her, grateful for the older teacher’s serene company, as she dreaded what they might find there. And as soon as she saw Arden’s tear-stained face she knew something had happened to Hugh.

  Charlie had gone through all eleven years of school with Arden Brumlow, and although they had never been close friends, she’d always liked Hugh’s sister and even felt sorry for her for having to put up with her dictatorial mother. Today she didn’t wait to be asked in, but instead pushed open the door and took Arden in her arms while Miss Dimple stepped inside behind her. “Is it Hugh?” Charlie asked, and Arden nodded. “Wounded—somewhere in the Solomons. We don’t know how he is, or even where he is.” She led them into a large parlor filled with stiff-looking Victorian furniture covered in a gray-blue velvet; heavy draperies in a gold brocade covered the windows. Although she had dated Hugh for several years and known him all her life, Charlie had never been inside the Brumlow home and found the room suitably depressing.

  Arden sat between them on a most uncomfortable loveseat. “Oh, Charlie, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to us! How did you ever bear it when you went through this with Fain?”

  “The same way you will, and you will get through it,” Charlie assured her, thinking the news could have been worse. Hugh could have been killed. “How is your mother taking this, Arden?”

  “Awful! I’m worried sick about her. She won’t even come out of her room. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I see.” Miss Dimple stood and looked about. “Why don’t you begin by telling her that we’re here?”