Miss Dimple Suspects: A Mystery

by Mignon F. Ballard

  The sheriff frowned. “Bill? Bill who?”

  Charlie didn’t know but said that Esau or his brother probably would. Miss Dimple showed the two policemen Suzy’s room and they took their time going through her belongings. Later, the sheriff said, they would lift her prints from things she would normally use.

  The upper half of Peewee’s large bulk had disappeared inside an oak wardrobe that stood in the corner as he shoved clothing about and explored the shelves

  “Nothing seems to be missing here. She must not have taken anything with her,” Sheriff Holland said, sifting through dresser drawers. He frowned. “What’s that on top of the wardrobe?”

  Peewee stood on tiptoe and fumbled for what looked to be a folded coverlet. “It’s just a quilt.… No, wait … there’s something under it, some kind of box.” After straining to reach the object, he handed the sheriff a metal candy box.

  “Empty,” the sheriff muttered, prying off the lid. “Wonder why she kept that up there.”

  “My wife uses those for extra buttons, things like that,” Peewee offered.

  However, Dimple Kilpatrick knew Mae Martha Hawthorne had another purpose for this particular box. It was where she kept the money from her paintings. This was not looking good for Suzy. From the expression on Charlie’s face, she knew Charlie recognized it, too.

  Obviously, this didn’t get past Sheriff Holland. “Have either of you ever seen that box before? Do you know what it was used for?” He looked from one to the other. “I’m sure you realize the importance of any information you can give us,” he said, using a tone Charlie herself sometimes used to reason with her students. “It’s urgent and we need it now. If this young woman is guilty, it’s imperative that we find her as soon as possible. If she isn’t, then she should turn herself in and explain her actions.”

  Miss Dimple thought that in Suzy’s case, that might be easier said than done, but she told him Mae Martha Hawthorne had kept the earnings from the sale of her paintings in a box much like the one he had found.

  “Do you know where she kept it?” he asked.

  Charlie shook her head. She remembered the artist putting the money they had paid her in such a box but had no idea where it was stored. “Why don’t you look in her bedroom?” she suggested. “Isn’t it possible there’s another like this? After all, they’re fairly common—or were before the war.”

  But no metal box turned up in Mrs. Hawthorne’s bedroom or anywhere else in the house, although the two men made a thorough search.

  The crunching of gravel outside, followed by the slamming of a car door, signaled Doc Morrison’s arrival, and he was soon followed by two men who turned out to be the deputies Clyde had apparently summoned. The sheriff sent two of the new arrivals to talk to Esau and his wife. “Now, go easy, you hear? They probably don’t even know what’s happened to their aunt up here. And find out if they have any idea where that companion might’ve gotten to.”

  Doc disappeared into the studio to examine the victim, who until recently had been a warm, kind, flesh and blood person, and Charlie joined Miss Dimple in the main room of the house, where the formerly cheerful fireplace looked cold and unwelcoming.

  “I reckon you ladies are ’bout ready for some supper, aren’t you?” Peewee leaned on the mantel to examine a painting hanging there. “Don’t see why one of us can’t run you home if the sheriff says it’s okay.”

  Charlie was more than ready to leave for home, but the thought of supper made her stomach queasy and she didn’t think she would be able to eat one bite.

  “Did you say this woman painted all these pictures?” Peewee asked, looking about. “I’ll bet my wife would like one of these to go over the sofa in our living room.”

  Charlie was just about ready to ask him if she might step outside for a breath of cold air when the man dropped his gaze to the implements on the hearth. “Will you look at those andirons? They look handmade—and the shovel and poker, too.”

  “They were probably forged by Mrs. Hawthorne’s nephew Isaac Ingram,” Miss Dimple explained. “I was told he’s a blacksmith.”

  “Mmm … nice work.” Peewee stooped to examine them closer when a look of alarm crossed his face. “Sheriff!” he called. “Sheriff Holland! Better come here. I think I’ve just found what might be the murder weapon.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Using his handkerchief, the sheriff slowly removed the poker from its stand and examined it in the light. “You’re right—sure looks like blood on here, and we oughta be able to get some good prints from that brass handle.”

  Charlie and Miss Dimple watched as he laid it carefully aside to be dusted. Both had seen the wound on the back of the dead woman’s head, her hair matted with dried blood. Whoever killed her had planned it in advance, had carried the poker into the studio where she was working and struck her from behind.

  Mae Martha Hawthorne had been murdered by a cold-blooded killer.

  Miss Dimple shook her head. “I don’t believe Mrs. Hawthorne’s companion is capable of this,” she said aside to Charlie. “I saw how tenderly she cared for her, almost like a daughter. There was genuine affection between those two.”

  “Maybe that’s why she had so much trouble dealing with it,” Charlie answered. “But where is she, Miss Dimple? The longer she stays away, the worse it looks.”

  Suddenly the kitchen door banged open, slamming against the wall, and a man’s voice bellowed, “What’s going on here?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Sheriff Holland answered. “Who are you?”

  “Bill … Bill Pitts,” the man answered, looking about. “Has something happened to Mrs. Hawthorne? Is anybody going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Charlie recognized him as the man they had seen with a rifle over his shoulder on their earlier visit, and in spite of his rough appearance, he looked positively stricken.

  The sheriff’s voice softened. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Hawthorne, Bill?”

  “Last night about dusk dark, I reckon, when I brought in her firewood. I live just on the other side of the hill.” Disregarding the sheriff, who stood in his path, the man pushed his way into the kitchen. “Where is she?” He paused at the table, where a plate of food, probably from breakfast, sat covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth. “Mrs. Hawthorne! You here?”

  Following him, Sheriff Holland put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pulled out a chair. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Here, let’s sit down a minute and we’ll talk about it. Maybe you can help us out.”

  Charlie felt the gentle pressure of a hand on her arm, and taking the older teacher’s lead, followed Miss Dimple through the living room and out onto the wide front porch. “I don’t know about you, but I can use some air,” Miss Dimple said, taking a deep breath.

  Charlie leaned against the railing. Pale squares of light from the living room checkered the dark porch floor and a rocking chair moved eerily in the wind. She hugged herself and shivered. “That man, that Bill—he kind of scares me, but I felt sorry for him in there. He seems really to care about Mae Martha.”

  Before Dimple could reply, the door opened behind them and Doc Morrison stepped out to join them. “What are you two doing out here in this freezing cold? Don’t I have enough on my hands without you coming down with the galloping gallumption?”

  Receiving no answer, he hesitated. “Well, never mind. I don’t blame you for wanting to get away from all that in there. I’m through here for now. Can’t do anything more until Harvey comes to pick her up, so … barring any objections, how about let’s take off for home? You must be about worn out by now.”

  Charlie had to admit he was right. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep, and she was sure Miss Dimple was as tired as she was, but if so, she hadn’t mentioned it.

  Miss Dimple sat up front with the doctor as they drove away, leaving Charlie the backseat all to herself. She watched through the rear window until the light from Mrs. Hawthorne’s kitchen window di
sappeared in the night, and hoped they wouldn’t meet Harvey Thompson in his hearse along the way.

  “This companion—this Suzy,” Doc began after they had driven awhile in silence, “did she come across as somebody who would do this kind of thing? You both met her … you must’ve have gotten some kind of impression. I’d like to know what it is.”

  Dimple spoke softly. “No, she didn’t. She seemed capable and caring, and I’m not sure about this, but there’s a possibility she might be in some kind of danger herself. I can tell you this: She sounded very much afraid.”

  “She seemed shy—didn’t say much,” Charlie said. “And she’s small-framed, too.… I can’t picture her hitting anyone over the head with a poker—especially not Mrs. Hawthorne.”

  Doc Morrison mulled that over. “Well, the human heart is a curious thing, but I’ll say one thing—she made a darn good nurse. If it hadn’t been for her, and for you, too, Dimple Kilpatrick, little Peggy Ashcroft probably wouldn’t be around to hang her stocking on Christmas Eve.”

  * * *

  The news of Mae Martha’s murder and the disappearance of her companion was all over town the next day even before Miss Bessie Jenkins opened the ticket booth at the Jewel Theater, where Tarzan’s Desert Mystery was playing for the regular Saturday crowd.

  “My mama says we’re gonna keep our doors locked because there’s no telling who might be next!” Bobbie Ann Tinsley, whose mother was married to Chief of Police Bobby Tinsley and who should have known better, had staked her place at the head of the line. “That awful woman could be anywhere, you know,” she added to anyone who would listen.

  “Yeah! I’ll bet she’s in your basement, Bobbie Ann, just waitin’ for you to open the door,” Willie Elrod taunted.

  “Oh, hush up, Willie! You don’t scare me. I don’t ever go down there anyway.” Bobbie Ann turned her back on him to whisper with Ruthie Phillips in line behind her.

  “I heard her head was all bashed in and there was blood everywhere!” Marshall Dodd announced. This was greeted by ughs, yucks, and other descriptive commentary.

  And that was when Bessie Jenkins opened the ticket window in her little glass booth—but not before she had taken in every word.

  Arden Brumlow heard it from Velma Anderson, who had dropped in the store that morning to see if that shipment of rayon stockings had arrived, and Velma had gotten it straight from Annie Gardner over a breakfast of cornflakes at Phoebe Chadwick’s.

  As for Dimple Kilpatrick, her walk that morning was shorter than usual due to a later start after the demands of a long day before, and the dining room was almost deserted when she sat down for a belated breakfast.

  “I’ve saved you the last of the coffee.” Phoebe pulled up a chair beside her and tried not to make a face at her friend’s unappetizing Victory Muffin. “Wouldn’t you like something to spread on that? There are still some of Odessa’s peach preserves on the sideboard.

  “This poor woman who was killed,” she continued as Dimple helped herself to preserves, “doesn’t she have any relatives—other than the nephews, I mean?”

  “Other than her grandson, Madison, who was killed in the war, I don’t know of any. His grandmother raised him after both of his parents died of typhoid fever.” Miss Dimple shook her head. “It’s always sad to lose someone we love, but to have her die in such a dreadful manner … I feel sorry for her nephews.”

  Phoebe thought of her own grandson, Harrison, currently undergoing basic training, and was grateful he hadn’t yet been shipped off to some foreign land. But she didn’t want to think about that. “I wonder if her companion has turned up,” she said, offering the margarine. “She had to spend the night somewhere.”

  Dimple graciously declined the spread. It now came in a disgusting white lump with a blob of red food coloring in the middle that had to be kneaded in in order to make it yellow. Having been raised with the words ‘‘Waste not, want not!’’ framed in needlework in her mother’s kitchen, she dutifully finished her muffin, but her appetite had vanished the day before at the sight of that helpless woman’s body. And there had still been no word of Suzy. According to the radio, the temperature had dropped during the night to just above freezing. Had Suzy spent the night outside?

  * * *

  Charlie hadn’t slept well for thinking of it. She had stayed up well past her usual bedtime writing to her fiancé, Will, who had recently moved on to advanced flight training at Craig Field, and Annie had phoned earlier that morning, waking her with questions she’d neglected to ask Miss Dimple the night before.

  Now she found it bracing to be outside in the chill of a December morning, to sweep the wide front porch, which seemed to collect every leaf and twig in the area, and Charlie wielded the broom with gusto, working her way down the walk in front of the house. Where could Suzy have gone after she telephoned Miss Dimple? Charlie tried to picture the likeable young woman coming up behind the unsuspecting victim and hitting her with an iron poker—hitting her with enough force to bash in her skull. She shivered. It wasn’t from the cold.

  “Charlie!” Her sister Delia called to her from the doorway. “Somebody wants you on the phone.”

  Not Annie, Charlie thought as she hurried inside, or Delia would have named her. Maybe it was their neighbor Bessie’s new boarder, Lottie, with a question about school or the upcoming Christmas entertainment. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t she call Kate Ashcroft?

  The caller spoke so softly at first Charlie thought it was one of her third graders playing a prank. It wouldn’t be the first time a small voice had asked if she did washing. Well, you must be awful dirty! Or if she was on Katherine Street. You’d better get off—a car might run over you!

  “Who is this?” Charlie demanded. “Speak up, I can’t hear you!”

  “Please, I need your help. I know they won’t believe me, but I had nothing to do with what happened to Miss Mae Martha! I don’t know where to go, who to ask…”

  “Suzy?” Charlie found herself whispering as well. “Where are you? Everybody’s looking for you. Why did you leave like that?”

  “I was calling from Esau’s. No one was there and I was going to wait … but then I heard him drive into the yard, and I didn’t know what he might do.” Her voice stronger now, Suzy hesitated. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s wickedness behind it, and I’m frightened.”

  “Heard who drive up? Esau?”

  “The man who helps out around there—Bill. I’ve a feeling he resents me, and I think I know why, but he’s wrong. There are things you should know, but I’ll have to tell you later.” Her words were hurried, breathless. “Your friend, Miss Dimple, I believe she’ll understand. Would you contact her for me, please? I tried to reach her earlier but was told she was out walking. Is there any way—”

  Charlie found herself choking the receiver as her words tumbled out. “Look, Suzy, you really need to turn yourself in. If you didn’t do anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about. Now, tell me where you are.”

  “I-I can’t do that. Please, just trust me. I promise to explain.” Now Suzy spoke so softly Charlie had to strain to hear her. “Look, I have to go now—can’t stay here.”

  “Where? Can’t stay where?” Charlie shouted.

  “You won’t bring the police? Come. Just you and Miss Dimple. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I give you my word, but promise you’ll give me that chance. That’s all I ask—a chance to explain.”

  This small woman barely came to her shoulder. What could she possibly do to harm them? Well, her mother always said there was safety in numbers. “I’ll see what Miss Dimple advises,” Charlie told her, “and Annie will probably be with us, too.” If Suzy was wise enough to rely on Dimple Kilpatrick’s judgment, it was at least a step in the right direction.

  * * *

  “Good! I found the two of you together!” Charlie usually didn’t drive the short distance to Phoebe Chadwick’s, but today she didn’t have time to waste. Mumbling
something to her mother about errands to run, she was out the door and in Phoebe’s kitchen in minutes.

  There she found her friend Annie and Dimple Kilpatrick seated at the table with a huge bowl of popcorn between them, making fluffy white garlands for the school Christmas tree. Miss Dimple’s strand, she noticed, was considerably longer than Annie’s.

  “It’s for the assembly program next week,” Annie explained. “Kate Ashcroft usually has her music classes help with it, but with such a late start this year, we decided to step in and give them a hand.”

  Charlie looked in the hallway to see if anyone else was about before telling them about her phone call from Suzy.

  Miss Dimple tidied her place as she spoke, sweeping stray popcorn into the bowl with her hand. “Where is she? Did she say where she spent the night?”

  “She called from a little store a couple of miles beyond Fox Grape Hill. Dooley’s, I think it’s called.”

  Rising, Miss Dimple nodded. “Of course. I know that place. It’s just on the other side of the bridge over Crabapple Creek.”

  “That’s where she wants us to meet her—by the bridge,” Charlie told them. “There’s a wooded area back there where she said she would wait for us, but I had to promise not to tell the police. She asked for a chance to explain.”

  “I don’t understand.” Annie tied off the end of her garland and laid it aside. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  This statement was obviously directed to Miss Dimple, who looked gravely from one to the other. “I believe we should give her that chance,” she said, heading into the hallway for her coat.

  Annie shook her head but followed, and Charlie hurried out in the cold to start the car. It was obvious to both of them that Miss Dimple Kilpatrick wasn’t sharing what was on her mind.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Charlie clutched the cold steering wheel with numb fingers. It was freezing inside the car and she wished she had thought to wear gloves, but she had left the house in such a hurry, she’d only taken time to snatch a jacket. Beside her, Miss Dimple adjusted her purple wool hat, tugging it over her ears, and leaned forward as if she could will the car to go faster.