Miss Dimple and the Slightly Bewildered Angel (9 page)

“If I remember correctly, a few short years ago, you would've been in an unfortunate situation indeed, Dimple Kilpatrick, if it hadn't been for Willie Elrod's wild tales!”

And Dimple had to agree she was right. She and young Willie shared a bond of friendship she would treasure the rest of her life; still, she sometimes found it necessary to make allowances for his overly active imagination.

A log fell apart in the fireplace, causing the cat to dash under Dimple's chair in alarm, and she reached down to calm it, but Cattus slipped past her and jumped onto the windowsill. “I'm afraid we have to be practical, Virginia,” she began. “Neither of us can take off several days right now to travel to south Georgia, and although I'm sure Bobby Tinsley's doing all he can, he's handicapped by the distance, as well. Fieldcroft, it seems, is smaller than Elderberry, and I was told its police department is even smaller.”

Virginia added another log to the fire and stood to watch it take hold. “So…” she said finally, “we're sending Jo and Lou into battle without armor. Do they have any idea what they're getting into?”

“My goodness, Virginia, I don't believe I'd put it
that
way!” Dimple smiled. “Besides, Celeste will be there. Remember?”

“And just who is this Celeste when she's at home?” Virginia grumbled.

Miss Dimple spoke calmly. “Augusta's acquaintance in Fieldcroft … I believe she said her name was Celeste.”

“And do the sisters know to look her up when they get there? How are they supposed to find her?” Virginia gave the fire a poke, although it didn't need it.

“From what Augusta said, I expect she'll find
them.
”

“Dimple Kilpatrick! Are you deliberately trying to be exasperating?” Virginia let the poker fall to the hearth. “What have you done with my friend—the one who sets out her clothes before she goes to bed each night and plans her days accordingly? The one who gets as jumpy as a beady-eyed grasshopper when things don't work out the way they should? I want her back.”

“I'll have you know that never in my life have I been as jumpy as a … what was it you said? ‘Beady-eyed grasshopper.'” Dimple Kilpatrick struggled to keep from laughing. “Is that a new expression, Virginia? I don't believe I've ever heard it before.”

Virginia shrugged. “That's because I made it up—and it's true, I've never seen you jumpy, but you do get all quiet and kind of beady-eyed when something's on your mind.” Folding her arms, she looked at her old friend. “And, well, I hate to say it, but you're acting like your mind's somewhere else, like you don't even
care
what's going on.”

Dimple was about to tell her friend that she did indeed care and had made a detailed list of questions for Jo and her sister to ask, as well as those they should avoid. She was about to assure Virginia she intended to do her best to find out why Dora Westbrook died the way she did, but the two were interrupted by someone who wanted to return books.

“Wonderful! You've built a fire.” Rose McGinnis, her arm in a sling, slid a couple of books onto Virginia's desk and hurried across the room to warm herself by the blaze. “Good reading weather, don't you think?”

Both women agreed that it was. “How's your shoulder, Rose?” Virginia asked, rising. “You were lucky to have escaped from that accident as well as you did, but I guess you know that already.”

“You're so right! The doctor put my shoulder back in place, but I still ache from all the bruises. Thank goodness I'll be okay. Some of the others on that bus weren't—”

Rose shook her head and went to the piano, where she raised the lid over the keyboard and began to pick out “Wait 'Till the Sun Shines, Nellie” with one finger. It was the only song she ever played, and it seemed she felt obligated to play it.

Virginia wanted to go to her, but she knew it would only make the young woman cry. Rose had been returning from a visit with her young soldier sweetheart at Camp Gordon, in Augusta, when the bus met with a terrible accident. Someone driving in the wrong lane forced the bus off the road, where it overturned in a deep ditch. At least one person was killed and many were injured.

Finishing her solo, Rose browsed about the room, finally selecting a couple of Patricia Wentworth's Miss Silver mysteries.

“Oh, I just finished one of her latest,
Miss Silver Deals with Death,
” Miss Dimple said, observing the titles. “Have you read any of her others?”

Rose frowned. “I don't believe I have. Before all this happened,” she said, calling attention to her arm, “Aunt Trudy and I had been terribly busy, and she hasn't been feeling well lately.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Dimple said. “Her arthritis again?”

Rose nodded. “Makes it difficult to sew. I'll just be glad when I'm able to help.”

Virginia stamped the date on the books. “I'll be glad, too, and I'm sure your aunt would agree. Did Trudy enjoy the book you checked out for her the other day? Such a good story!
Mama's Bank Account,”
she said, turning to Dimple. “Published last year.”

“Yes, I believe she liked it a lot,” Rose said, and, thanking her, gathered her new selections to her chest.

“And what do you hear from that soldier of yours?” Miss Dimple asked, smiling. “I believe he's with the Twenty-sixth Infantry, isn't he? I suppose you watch and wait for the mailman as most of us do, it seems.”

Rose frowned as she hugged the books closer. “You never know when it might be the last time—”

“Let's pray this war will soon be over,” Miss Dimple said gently. “This time next year, perhaps they'll all be home again.”

*   *   *

“Gertrude Hutchinson must be relieved to have her niece come here to live with her,” Dimple said after the young woman left. A talented seamstress, Gertrude took in sewing and alterations in the old family home a few blocks from town. Apparently, Rose had lost her job in a defense plant near Atlanta and moved to Elderberry to live with her aunt soon after her fiancé enlisted the year before. In addition to helping with sewing orders, she had also opened a secondhand shop in a spare room off the back porch.

“I'm sure she's happy to have her,” Virginia said, returning the books to their proper places. “Rose is her great-niece, I believe, a granddaughter of her late husband's brother, Tate. Since Gertrude's almost crippled with arthritis, I honestly don't know what she would do without her. Gertrude says Rose can do more with one arm than most people do with two, and she seems to enjoy keeping her aunt well supplied with books.”

Dimple had barely known Tate Hutchinson. He'd owned a cotton gin outside of town until it burned several years before, and he'd died of a heart attack not long afterward.

“Makes you feel good, doesn't it?” Dimple asked, turning to Virginia. “In spite of war and death and all the worry that goes with it, you can still offer this magical escape through reading?”

*   *   *

Later, it occurred to Dimple she hadn't reassured Virginia that she
did
care about what was going on and wanted as much as anyone to learn who was responsible for Dora Westbrook's death and why. The fact that her friend was in doubt nagged at her conscience like a persistent reprimand. Already halfway home, she paused, intending to go back to the library, but instead decided to drop by the police department and speak with Bobby Tinsley. Clutching her large purple handbag with the library book inside, Dimple Kilpatrick turned back toward town, hoping the chief would be available.

She was in luck.

“Why, Miss Dimple, what can I do for you?” Bobby jumped to his feet and immediately offered a chair.

She thanked him and told him of her concerns about her friends' making the trip to Fieldcroft.

“Oh dear!” the chief said, or at least that's what Dimple thought he said. “Do you know when they plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow, if they hear from Mrs. Carr's cousin down there. I believe they plan to stay with her.” Miss Dimple had never been one to fidget, but she contemplated fidgeting now.
What on earth made her think the two would be safe on their own? What if she'd made a mistake?

Bobby Tinsley ruffled papers on his desk, then leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Then I'd better give them a call. If they're determined to do this, I want them to get in touch with a fellow at the police station there—name of Reece Cagle. I don't think the town has more than two policemen, and he's the one I've spoken with. At any rate, I think they should be prepared.”

“I've given them a list of questions they might ask, and they have the Westbrooks' address, so they can speak with some of the neighbors,” Dimple told him. “They shouldn't be totally unprepared.”

The chief surprised her by laughing. “I wasn't talking about our two ladies, Miss Dimple. I was referring to the Fieldcroft police.

“But if they
do
end up going,” he added, leaning forward, “I'll try to give them a few guidelines. None of us here can get away to go all the way down there, so we might as well make the best of it.”

Dimple Kilpatrick walked the few blocks home, feeling as if she were carrying a basket of rocks on her head. She was responsible for possibly putting those two women in danger, and she didn't know what to do about it.

But maybe this Cousin Claudia hasn't received the telegram, she thought. Maybe she has moved away—someplace far away, like California or North Dakota. Or perhaps she's come down with an illness and won't be up for company. Nothing too serious, Dimple thought with a smattering of guilt. A terrible cold would do.

Of course it didn't take long for her friend Phoebe to notice her troubled demeanor. “What on earth's the matter, Dimple?” she asked over supper that night. “You look like you've lost your last friend.”

And Dimple reluctantly confessed what was on her mind, thinking it would make her feel better. It didn't.

*   *   *

After supper, Dimple sat in the parlor with her library book, hoping it would bring relief, however brief, from her concerns. She had read only a few pages when Augusta quietly joined her with a book of her own.

Augusta waited a few minutes to speak. “I don't think you should be so hard on yourself,” she said, marking her place with a finger. “From what I heard during the conversation at supper, these two sisters seem to be loving, intelligent women who care very much about their families, their community, and their country. Jo raised a son, who's currently serving overseas, and it sounds as if her daughter is a devoted teacher. Lou is a wonderful wife, a loyal friend to many, and takes an active role in her church. From what I've heard, she's also one of the best cooks in town.”

“I know that, Augusta,” Dimple began.

“And that's not all,” Augusta continued. “They both give their time three days a week in an effort to help win this war. Just because they enjoy a bit of adventure now and then and try to find happiness where they can doesn't mean they aren't capable. Don't you think you should give them more credit than that?”

Dimple nodded and sighed. She could feel the rocks lifting one by one. “So … you believe I'm doing them an injustice?”

“And yourself, as well,” Augusta said, and she opened her book once more.

Curious, Dimple glanced at the title. “
Where Angels Fear to Tread.
Sounds interesting. That's one I've never read. Are you enjoying it?”

“It's just something I found in the bookcase,” Augusta said with a smile. “Not exactly what I expected, but I find it amusing.”

 

C
HAPTER
T
EN

“Charlie tells me her mother and her aunt Lou are on their way to that little town in south Georgia—the one where Dora lived,” Annie told the others after church the next day. “They're staying with a cousin, and Chief Tinsley's already spoken with the police there to let them know to expect them.”

Remembering what Bobby Tinsley had said, Miss Dimple hid a smile. She felt strangely lighthearted, but a little resentful, too, wishing she might have gone along as well.

“Has he mentioned anything about talking with Dora's sister?” Velma asked, removing her small black felt hat with the blue feathered flower. “It seems that should be the next step.”

Lily agreed. “Lives somewhere in Tennessee, doesn't she? Lewisburg, I believe.”

Phoebe shed her newly mended jacket. “That's what the letter said.” She turned to Dimple. “Now, there's one for you and your young detective friends,” she said, meaning Annie and Charlie.

“Oh, but it's much too far. We couldn't possibly get away,” Dimple protested. “Besides, I'm sure Chief Tinsley and his staff are perfectly capable of taking care of that.”

“But, Miss Dimple, have you forgotten? We have two whole days at the end of the week, not including the weekend.” Annie's eyes sparkled and she clasped her hands and looked so hopeful, Dimple hated to discourage her.

But she did.
She couldn't. Not after all this time. Over the years, the wound had healed. Still, she knew the pain slept deep inside. It waited for her there.

“Annie's right,” Velma reminded her. “Remember? The school scheduled two extra days for the children to help pick cotton to make up for all that rain we had earlier in the month.” With most of the men away in the service, it had fallen upon those at home to harvest the crop so essential to the manufacture of uniforms and other necessary items, and although the younger children thought of it as a picnic, those in the upper grades considered it a competition to see who could pick the most pounds, and farmers paid them accordingly.