Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause

by Mignon F. Ballard

  She remembered the sympathetic looks, the clumsy words of comfort, the hugs and the tears she had received from well-meaning friends when they learned Fain was missing, and she remembered how she’d wanted to run away; hide in some dark, quiet place and shut out the world. Above all she remembered the agonizing hurt and the near-impossible challenge of going on with her life.

  Emmaline was a royal pain in the rear, but she was a mother and she was suffering. Bread in hand, Jo knocked at the door.

  Arden, looking flushed and prettier than Jo had ever seen her, answered the door. “Mrs. Carr, please come in. I think there’s still some coffee left from breakfast. Why don’t I pour us a cup?”

  Jo followed her into the kitchen, looking around for Emmaline. “Your mother? How is she, Arden?”

  “Oh, she’s at the store.” Arden indicated a chair and turned a flame under the coffeepot. “I don’t guess you’ve heard, but we got some wonderful news late yesterday—well, maybe not the best news, but Hugh’s going to be all right, and he’s on a hospital ship on his way back to the States! They’re sending him to the army hospital at Camp Shelby in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and if we’re lucky he might even be home for Christmas!” Arden sat across from Jo at the kitchen table, her expression now serious. “Hugh lost a leg, Mrs. Carr, but he could’ve lost his life. They say they can fit him with an artificial limb and he’ll be able to walk again … he wants to study medicine, you know.”

  Josephine Carr did know, because for a time she thought perhaps Hugh might become her son-in-law and Charlie had continued to correspond with him. She opened her mouth to tell Arden how glad she was to hear the news, but instead began to cry.

  “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what made me do that,” she said after wiping her eyes. “I guess those were tears of relief.”

  Arden stood and put her arms around her, and Jo saw that she had been crying, too. “I’m used to it,” she told her, laughing. “I never know when it’s going to happen.

  “I have some other good news as well,” Arden added as she filled their cups. “I can finally plan my wedding. I wrote to Barrett last night and told him that as soon as he comes home after this war, we’re going to walk down that aisle.” She paused. “Or, at least I’m going to walk down it. I guess the groom just waits at the altar, doesn’t he? And Hugh can give me away. I don’t care if he has to escort me on crutches as long as he’s here for our wedding.”

  Jo thought of Barrett Gordon, who was on a ship somewhere in the Pacific, and prayed that Arden’s wishes would be fulfilled. “Oh, Arden, how exciting for you! It’s never too soon to plan a wedding,” she said, not wanting to dampen the young woman’s enthusiasm. “And just think—since you’re in the retail business, I imagine you’ll be able to have your choice of wedding gowns.”

  Arden nodded. “Maybe after the war. There’s not much to choose from now. I thought I’d have my bridesmaids wear yellow. It’s such a cheerful color, and my college roommate promised she’d be my matron of honor. She’s expecting her first child around Christmastime, and if the baby’s a girl, maybe she’ll be old enough to be my flower girl—but heavens, I hope we don’t have to wait that long!”

  “You might want to change your mind about having a flower girl,” Jo said, and told her about a wedding she’d attended where that young member of the wedding party wet her pants on the way down the aisle and left a puddle at the altar.

  “Oh, dear!” Arden said, laughing. “That sounds almost as outlandish as those nutty men in the womanless wedding.”

  Coffee sloshed into the saucer as Jo abruptly set down her cup. The womanless wedding … of course! Now she remembered where she had seen the man with the peculiar loping gait.

  * * *

  So Millie was dead. And they said she was the one who had taken the War Bond money, and she’d probably done other terrible things, too. Delia had a hard time believing it, but she knew it was true and it left her with upside-down emotions. She had liked Millie McGregor, really liked her, or she had liked being with her because she was fun and Delia was lonely and bored, but when it came right down to it, she had never felt she’d known the person who was Millie. She was sorry Millie had died the way she did and hoped she hadn’t suffered. Her mother had tried to assure her that she hadn’t, at least not for long; and she sympathized with the husband she’d left behind, but Delia Varnadore felt used, cheated. The woman she’d thought was a friend was not only a liar, but also a thief who had schemed the whole time to cheat the people who had been kind to her, and then she would move on. Charlie and her mother—and Aunt Lou, as well—seemed to think Millie McGregor was saving up to leave them all behind—husband included. Of course they would never know for sure.

  As she walked to town pushing little Tommy in his carriage, it occurred to Delia that she had used Millie as well. Would the older woman still have seemed fun and appealing when her old friends came home from college? Delia drew in her breath. I don’t want to ever be like that! Steering the carriage around a rough spot in the sidewalk, she began to walk faster.

  “Hey there! What’s the rush?” Leaning on his rake, John Mote waved to her from his front yard. “Isn’t that boy walking yet?” he joked.

  Delia liked both the Motes, and it made her sad to see the gold star along with the blue one in their window. Their son Chester had been killed earlier in the war, and their other one, Jack, was somewhere in Italy. She smiled and wheeled the baby closer. “I see she has you working today, and I must say, it’s about time.” Mrs. Mote was usually the one outside working in the yard. She said it soothed her mind.

  “No rest for the weary,” he said, mopping his face. “Marjorie fell and broke her wrist the other day, and she’s had me hopping ever since.”

  Delia was sorry to hear that as she was especially fond of Marjorie Mote. “What can we do to help? What about supper? Don’t tell me she has you cooking?”

  He laughed. “The church circle’s taking good care of us in that category, but if you’re going near the library, you might pick her up a couple of books. Virginia knows what she likes.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Delia promised, and decided to go there first. The night before she had heard Charlie and her mother laughing in the kitchen as they made cheese bread for the Brumlows. They seemed to be having fun, and Delia had mentioned that maybe it was time she helped out more with meals. During the first few months she and Ned had been married she’d learned to prepare the basic foods, but was afraid to try anything too difficult or fancy. At the time, Ned was too in love to care, but you couldn’t live off hamburgers and canned peaches forever, and this morning after Charlie left for school, Delia had found the cookbook open to a recipe for gingerbread at her place at the table. Well, how hard could that be? And if it turned out good, she’d take some to the Motes.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what to do. What if I’m wrong?” Jo had stopped by her sister’s on her way back from visiting with Arden and, although she had thought twice before telling Lou what had been worrying her, the burden of it was more than she could bear alone.

  “Maybe we should go to the police,” Lou suggested, tossing her apron aside.

  “And what would we tell them, that we suspect Reynolds Murphy of lying about buying ice cream and that the person I saw running away ran like one of the bridesmaids in the womanless wedding? They’ll laugh me out of the building.”

  “Then we’ll confront him together. I’ll go with you. What can he do in broad, open daylight right there in the middle of town?”

  “No, wait. Let’s think.” Jo was beginning to regret sharing this with her impetuous sister. “This will keep a few hours longer. Jordan McGregor told Dimple Kilpatrick that Millie said she’d seen the person who put the rifle in Reynolds’s car the night of the follies but he didn’t say who it was. She might have been trying to blackmail that person, too.”

  “Why didn’t he tell Miss Dimple who it was?” Lou wanted to know. “And have you thought it mig
ht have been Jordan himself? He has a limp due to an injury—and he was one of the bridesmaids, too.”

  “From what I understand, Miss Dimple tried her best to pry that out of him, but he said he wanted to be sure before he made an accusation. Jordan knows very well Millie’s tales weren’t always true. Besides, he was at a meeting of the school board that night, wasn’t he?”

  “Well, at least for part of the time.” Lou’s eyes gleamed. “Just think, Jo, if we can find out who that was, we’ll know who Millie was running from when she fell—and maybe even who killed Cynthia Murphy!”

  “Jordan should be home from school in a few hours. Let’s see what he has to say.” Jo loved her sister—if only there were some way to dampen her reckless enthusiasm.

  Twisting her dish towel, Lou walked from one end of her kitchen to the other. “I don’t know. That’s a long time to wait, Jo. I think we need to set up a trap.”

  Jo sighed. “What kind of trap?”

  Lou thought about that for a minute. “Well, one of us could call Reynolds on the phone—tell him we know what he did—that we have proof…”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of proof, Josephine. He won’t know we don’t have any. Anyway, you’ll arrange a place to meet him—someplace private…”

  “I’ll meet him? What about you?” Jo demanded.

  “Silly, we’ll all be there—the police, too,” her sister explained, “but he wouldn’t be aware of that yet. Then when he makes a move toward you, that’s when we step in.”

  They heard the front door close just then and Ed Willingham hollered, “Dinner ready? I’m home!”

  “Oh, lordy! Don’t let on to Ed,” Lou said. “He’ll never understand.

  “Back here, Ed!” she yelled.

  “I have to get home. Talk to you later,” Jo told her. On the way out she gave her brother-in-law a resounding kiss on the cheek. She had never been as glad to see him.

  The spicy aroma of gingerbread greeted her when she got home, and Jo was delighted to find her younger daughter peeling potatoes for supper.

  “I told Mrs. Mote I’d come back and read to her this afternoon,” Delia said. “She’s broken her wrist, and it’s hard for her to hold the book. Besides,” she added, “I think she likes being around my little Pooh Bear.”

  Jo smiled. “And who wouldn’t?” she asked, giving the baby a kiss. “Smells like gingerbread. Is that for Marjorie?”

  “And for us, too, if it turns out all right.” Delia frowned. “What’s wrong, Mama? You look worried. I’m not going to burn down the house—I promise.”

  Jo laughed. “It’s just something I have to think about, but it will keep, and if your aunt Lou calls, tell her I’m not here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Miss Dimple stood on the corner watching the convoy of trucks passing by, each khaki-colored vehicle filled with soldiers wearing the same drab color. Most smiled and waved back at the people who had gathered to wish them well. Across the street Marjorie and John Mote stood together on the curb with hope on their faces and the worst kind of hurt in their hearts. Some of the soldiers laughed and called out, and a few threw chewing gum and hard candy for the delighted children, who hustled to collect it. Most of the men looked young; they had probably finished their basic training, she thought, but had not yet seen war. How many would come back?

  Beside her Willie Elrod stuffed a stick of gum into his mouth and waved a small American flag as high as his slender arm could reach. “One of these days,” he said proudly, “I’ll be on one of those trucks. I’m going to be a soldier, too!”

  Dimple Kilpatrick drew in her breath, closed her eyes, and said a silent prayer.

  * * *

  What to do? If she brought her concerns to the police and they turned out to be wrong, not only would she be a laughingstock, but she would also hurt an innocent person. But, Jo wondered, what if she was right? Cynthia Murphy had been killed, her body buried in a shallow grave; someone had to have pulled the trigger that injured Jesse Dean and then tried to burn down his house; and now Millie McGregor was dead, and she suspected it was all by the same hand. Who would be next?

  Jo didn’t mention her concerns to Charlie when her daughter came home from school that afternoon. It had been several days since Charlie had heard from Will, and she was in a foul mood. Two of the boys in her class had gotten in a fight at recess, and she had been compelled to send them to the principal; a window shade in her classroom had fallen on a goldfish bowl in the windowsill, and not only did she cut her finger cleaning up the broken glass, but the surviving fish was now swimming around in an old metal candy box they’d used for crayons until they could replace the bowl. Charlie didn’t have much hope for its chances.

  “And I know I shouldn’t be resentful, Mama,” she added, “but Annie got three letters from Frazier all at the same time yesterday and she’s been reading me parts of them all day. Doesn’t she know I haven’t had a word from Will all week? What’s the matter with him? You’d think he would at least call!”

  Maybe the convoy passing their house that afternoon had increased her worries over Will as it had reminded all of them of the casualties of war. Jo tried to soothe her ruffled offspring as best she could. “Charlie, you know very well how it is with the mail. I’m sure you’ll hear something soon. Why don’t you see what’s on at the picture show this afternoon? Get your mind on something else.”

  “Huh!” Charlie said, and disappeared into her room.

  With one daughter out and the other in her room sulking, Jo took advantage of the opportunity to telephone Dimple Kilpatrick and was relieved to find her in. She needed someone with a level head.

  “Coach McGregor should be at home by now,” Miss Dimple said when Jo explained the situation. “I’ll try again to convince him to tell me who Millie claimed she saw. He told me he wanted to be absolutely sure before he said anything as he plans to do some investigating on his own. I don’t think it would be a good idea, however, to tell him who you suspect. We don’t want to upset the apple cart.”

  Jo Carr agreed and waited by the telephone for Miss Dimple to call her back. It didn’t take long.

  “Your suspicions are correct,” Miss Dimple told her. “Could we meet somewhere and talk about this? There’s no privacy here or I’d invite you over.”

  “Then I’ll come by for you,” Jo said. They seldom used the car in their garage, and as far as she knew it still had gas in the tank.

  She found Miss Dimple waiting by the curb, her purple coat buttoned to the chin as the afternoon had turned much colder. “I do believe we might be going to have our first frost,” Miss Dimple said.

  Jo didn’t answer. The weather wasn’t her main concern just then, but she knew Miss Dimple was mulling the problem in her mind and would eventually come up with a practical solution. At the older woman’s suggestion, she drove into town and parked on one of the less crowded streets.

  “I don’t believe your sister’s idea of a trap is the best way to handle the situation,” Dimple said after a time.

  “Then how?” Jo shivered. She wished she’d parked in the sun.

  “First, I believe we should speak with Cyrus Stone at the Super Service. If it’s true that Reynolds did, indeed, indulge in a longing for ice cream, it would prove most embarrassing for all of us.”

  Jo agreed. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  They found Cyrus behind the candy counter, treating himself to a bag of peanuts and a NuGrape soda. Why, of course he remembered the night of that fire at Jesse Dean’s, he told them. He’d had a heck of a time getting past the fire truck and all that commotion on his way home that night. Cyrus frowned. Good gracious! The last time Reynolds Murphy had been there was sometime back in the summer when he came in to get a tire patched.

  “Now what?” Jo asked as they drove back to town.

  “I think we should confront him all together.” Dimple looked at her watch. “Most of the stores close at
six, and he always stays after to take care of the accounts and to lock up.”

  Noticing Jo’s doubt, Miss Dimple continued. “I know this man. I’ve known him for a long time, as have you. I don’t know how this all started, what made him do the things it looks like he’s done, but I can assure you that he’s suffering. That’s a lot of guilt to carry around. It must be a terrible burden. I think it would be a relief for him to finally face the truth.”

  “But he shot Jesse Dean! And look what happened to Millie McGregor.”

  “Reynolds Murphy is a crack shot, Jo. Why, he instructs the Home Guard in riflery. I don’t think Jesse Dean was his intended target, but I do think he wouldn’t be alive today if Reynolds had wanted to kill him.

  “As for what happened to the coach’s wife,” she continued, “that might have been an accident, although I don’t think there’s any doubt he was responsible for it.”

  Jo drew in her breath. She wanted to put an end to all the questions, the fears, the doubts they had lived with for the past several weeks, but she also wanted to live to welcome their sons home from the war, to see Charlie happily married, and to watch her grandchildren grow up. “And what if he isn’t all that eager to confess?” she asked.

  “Then that would be Bobby Tinsley’s problem, and Sheriff Holland’s, too, of course, as Cynthia Murphy was probably killed out in the county. Naturally, I intend to ask Bobby to come with us.”

  Jo frowned. “Do you believe Bobby will go along with it? What makes you think he’ll take our word?”

  Miss Dimple smiled. “Let’s just wait and see.”

  * * *

  Jo insisted that Lou be included in the plan as she wanted to be able to exist peacefully with her sister for the duration of their lives, and they agreed that the two of them would wait in the car while Dimple went in to talk with the police chief. When she came out she wasn’t exactly smiling, but she did look a bit pleased with herself.