Today, both of them managed to maintain composure under circumstances that wrung out their emotions and hung them up to dry.
Declining Jesse Dean’s offer to carry her one small purchase to the car, Elberta tossed her carton of bagged groceries on the seat beside her and backed into the street. She was almost at the end of the block when she saw Hattie McGee, still wearing her black veil of mourning, pushing her wheelbarrow at a plodding pace on the other side of the street.
The voluminous skirts must weigh a ton, and Hattie was still blocks from home. If she had to, Bertie supposed, she could wedge the wheelbarrow in her trunk. Slowing, she waved and blew her horn, but Hattie didn’t respond.
Must not be in a sociable mood. Well, that made two of them. Bertie turned toward home for a cold glass of tea and a long soak in the tub. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t relieved.
* * *
The Elderberry Woman’s Club, minus Geneva Odom, who was shopping in Atlanta with her college-bound daughter, and Mabel Rankin, who wasn’t speaking to the hostess, met that week on Tuesday afternoon at the home of their president, Emmaline Brumlow. It wasn’t their usual meeting day, but Emmaline had wanted to host the meeting, and this was the only day she could do it. “It’s only a few days’ difference,” Emmaline said. “I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t suit.”
It didn’t suit Hardin Kirkland, but she was too meek to speak out, as were most of the members. The Elderberry Woman’s Club was not a democracy, and Emmaline, as president, was supreme dictator. Her mother had been a Hughes, and her grandmother, Winifred Hughes, had been one of the original members of the club. Hardin knew this because she had been told, first by her mother and then by her husband, and she was also aware that the marker on the courthouse lawn in honor of the Confederate dead had been donated by one of Emmaline’s illustrious Hughes ancestors.
Now Hardin sat in the Windsor chair by the mahogany drop-leaf table that had belonged to Emmaline’s grandmother and balanced a Limoges plate on her lap. She knew they were all dying to question her about the day Prentice Blair disappeared, but it wouldn’t be proper to ask outright. They would have to find a way to lead up to it.
And they did. “I know you must be glad to have your Chenault closer to home,” Lou Willingham said as she passed the napkins. “It’s refreshing to see young faces about.”
“I wish my two lived closer,” Ida Ellerby said. “With gasoline being rationed, we rarely get to see our grandchildren.”
Back from her recent visit to Atlanta, Lily Moss reminded her, “But you are able to see them. Just think of poor Elberta Stackhouse.” She lowered her voice, “I hear Doc Morrison had to keep her under sedation.”
“She wasn’t sedated when I saw her going into Cooper’s grocery yesterday,” Lou spoke out. “I think she’s holding up very well under the circumstances.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they arrested that Jarrett boy,” Bessie Jenkins said with a sidelong glance at Hardin. “Maybe you’ve heard something, Hardin. After all, weren’t you there when they found that poor girl missing?”
Miss Dimple set down her cup with a rattle. She detested going to meetings—especially this one—and was in attendance only at the insistence of her friend Virginia, whose small librarian’s salary was paid by the club. “Naturally, they questioned him, Bessie, but it doesn’t mean they’ll arrest him. I taught Clay Jarrett, and I think I know him as well as anyone. He’s simply not capable of doing a thing like that.”
“That’s what they always say, though, isn’t it?” Bessie leaned forward in her chair. “Those people they interview in the newspapers, the ones who live next door to murderers. Why, I’ve known little Johnny since he was in diapers and he’d never hurt a soul … and all the while there are six bodies buried in the basement and a bloody hatchet in the attic.”
“For heaven’s sake, Bessie, we’re trying to eat!” Lou said.
Hardin wished they would get on with the meeting so she could leave. She had better things to do than sit here and pretend to enjoy this so-so Scotch shortbread, which wasn’t nearly as good as her mama used to make. And her mother would never have served frozen fruit salad without her creamy lemon dressing. It just wasn’t the same, but try as she would, Emmaline had never learned to make it. Hardin smoothed the worn linen napkin, which, no doubt, had also belonged to Emmaline’s grandmother and probably hadn’t been bleached in as many years, and ventured another nibble.
Ida drank the last of her mint punch. “The police aren’t saying a word about how Prentice was killed.”
“Maybe they don’t know,” Hardin said.
“Of course they know, but they’re not telling. It’s none of our business anyway, if you ask me,” Lou’s sister Jo announced.
Hardin thought Jo was certainly one to talk, since she and Lou were forever making like detectives. She wouldn’t be surprised if the two weren’t already cooking up some half-baked plan to find out who had killed Prentice Blair.
“Do you suppose it could be the Rose Petal Killer?” Emma Elrod asked. “I heard they were scattered all over her body.”
“They aren’t saying much about that, are they? I hope it’s not anybody from around here.” Lily Moss shivered and looked about, as if the murderer might be lurking behind Emmaline’s Victorian sofa.
“Atlanta’s over an hour away. Why would he come all the way over here?” Emmaline informed her. “Would anyone like more punch?”
Hardin dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and even from where she sat, Miss Dimple could see that she’d gotten lipstick on it. “Maybe he ran out of victims,” Hardin said.
Naturally, nobody laughed but Hardin, who covered her blunder with a thin, nervous giggle. Dimple had always suspected the woman had a coarse streak, but surely she wasn’t thinking clearly to have uttered such a callous statement even in jest.
Lily passed pastel mints in a silver dish. “I just hope the poor girl wasn’t … well … defiled.” She whispered the last word, and her hand trembled, so Jo Carr took the candy dish from her.
“Now, Emmaline, you just sit right there and have another cup of punch,” Virginia said finally, noticing the time. “We’ll take our own plates to the kitchen, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Miss Dimple smiled to herself, knowing it was probably the only chance her friend would have to boss around Emmaline Brumlow.
* * *
Hardin looked at her watch as she left the others standing on the steps, chatting. Maybe they didn’t have demands on their time, but she did. The big Labor Day picnic Griffin insisted on having every year loomed alarmingly close, and guess who was in charge of the planning? Of course, hosting the annual barbecue was so familiar to her now, Hardin thought she could probably do it without thinking. But what if something went wrong? What if she forgot something important?
Tonight was their cook’s day off and Griffin would expect his supper on time, as usual. She had enough ration coupons for a couple of pork chops if Harris Cooper had any. She would serve them with those tiny parsley potatoes he liked and maybe lemon-glazed carrots.
Hardin glanced over her shoulder. Virginia Balliew lingered on the walkway, smiling at something Lou Willingham was saying. Jo’s arm encircled Miss Dimple’s shoulders. Bessie Jenkins called out as she made her way down the steps, and everybody laughed. What did they all have to talk about?
Hardin would have given up her membership years ago if Griffin hadn’t protested. “You can’t buy roots,” he’d said. Well, maybe not, but you could damn well buy everything else. And Griffin Kirkland knew it.
Cooper’s Store was crowded, but not enough for Hardin to avoid Alma Owens, who cornered her in the produce section, her broken arm still in a sling.
“You bad thing! You promised you’d give me Griffin’s recipe for chicken bog. I want to try my hand at it when my niece comes for a visit this summer, if Doc Morrison will ever let me out of this clumsy cast.”
The closest Griffin Kirkland came to m
aking chicken bog was to tell somebody else to do it, and Alma, having known him all his life, probably knew that. “It’s in the church cookbook, Alma, but I’ll make a copy if you like.”
Hardin watched as Jesse Dean weighed a pound and a half of the small new potatoes and put them in a bag. She knew what was coming next.
“Oh, that would be grand. Don’t know whatever happened to the copy I had. I’d spare you the trouble if it weren’t for this silly old arm, and my knee’s been acting up, too. Can’t get around like I used to.” Alma bent to rub the offending joint. “Just got out of the hospital last week and I’ve been to three different doctors this summer, and would you believe not a one of them has done me a bit of good?”
Hardin had seen the expression on the woman’s face in paintings of the Inquisition. She looked about desperately, but the other shoppers, while nodding politely, ignored them. She was forced to hear about two major surgeries and a bladder infection before she finally wormed her way past the butcher shop in the rear, around a display of canned Spam, and achieved sweet freedom.
It was not until she reached the front of the store to pay for her purchases that Hardin discovered her money was missing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Prentice had so many friends, Miss Dimple, I couldn’t keep up with them all.” Bertie Stackhouse sat at her kitchen table, wearing, under a light seersucker robe, the pajamas she had worn all day. At ten in the morning, this might not be all that unusual for some, but Dimple knew Bertie was not one of those people.
She and Charlie had taken advantage of a gift of bread and butter pickles from Charlie’s mother as an excuse to visit, and although they had phoned ahead, Bertie hadn’t taken the time to change. The pickles had turned out surprisingly well, Charlie thought, as Jo Carr wasn’t known for her culinary efforts. This year, however, their victory garden had yielded an excess of cucumbers and the government continually urged everyone to “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”
Prentice’s aunt had made some attempt to comb her hair, Dimple noticed, but she wore no makeup, and her usually pleasant round face might have been sculpted in sand. At any moment, she felt, it might begin to crumble.
Charlie looked at Miss Dimple and Miss Dimple looked at Charlie. One of them had to broach the subject.
Charlie took a deep breath. “There might have been someone a little closer than merely a friend.”
Bertie shoved aside what was left of her coffee. “So Delia tells me, but the only one Prentice ever cared about was Clay Jarrett. There wasn’t anyone else.”
Charlie shook her head. “I think Prentice might have broken up with Clay because she was interested in someone else. Do you remember her saying anything about it?”
“We were hoping you might have an idea who it might be,” Miss Dimple said.
“I don’t remember anybody in particular. It’s always been Clay.” Bertie lowered her voice. “Dimple, can you believe that boy would do such a thing? Why, many’s the time he sat right here at this very table, and now they think maybe he … Oh, dear God, I hope it’s not true!”
Looking up, she squeezed Charlie’s hand and slid a platter of muffins in front of her. “Please eat some of these. Marjorie Mote brought them over last night—apple spice, she said—and I’m sure they’re very good, but I just don’t have any appetite.”
Charlie obediently accepted a muffin, although she wasn’t hungry, either, and passed the plate to Miss Dimple, who politely declined.
“Now, Prentice always had a sweet tooth,” Bertie went on. She searched for a handkerchief in the pocket of her robe and held it to her eyes like a compress. “I believe that child could have eaten ice cream every day of the week if she could have gotten it.”
Miss Dimple hesitated before asking. It had to be done. “Do you think Prentice would’ve told you if she was seeing someone other than Clay?”
Bertie examined her fingers as if to make sure she had the correct number. “I wish I could tell you she would, but I really don’t know,” she said finally. “Have you spoken with any of her friends?”
Charlie told her the names of the people she and Delia had contacted. “We still haven’t heard from Iris, though. I understand she’s working at a camp in North Carolina this summer.”
Bertie shook her head. “I would think one of them might know if anybody would, but I can’t imagine who it could be.” Her expression froze as she realized why they were asking, and Bertie slammed both hands on the table, rattling the dishes scattered about. “Is that why … Do you think this person had something to do with what happened to Prentice?”
Dimple reached across the table and placed a hand on Bertie’s arm. “We’re trying to cover all the bases, Elberta. If it wasn’t Clay—and I don’t believe it was—then who was it? Clay said Prentice had told him she was seeing someone else. Right now, that’s all we have to go on.”
“But it would make sense for him to say that, wouldn’t it? I’ll admit that up until now I’ve been fond of Clay Jarrett, but a person suspected of murder will say just about anything to throw investigators off track.”
Dimple sighed. She had to agree that was true.
Velma Anderson, when questioned, had named the teachers who would have had Prentice in their classes. The faculty was small, as was the student body, so with a few exceptions, most of them taught everyone at one time or another. She did say that Prentice seemed to enjoy chorus and drama. Estelle Carnes, who had directed the high school chorus during Prentice’s senior year, had since moved with her family to somewhere in Tennessee. A plump jolly woman, she seemed to have a talent for making singing fun without being able to carry a tune herself, and Dimple doubted if she was even aware of the tragedy that had occurred.
“I know Prentice loved being onstage and especially enjoyed being a part of the senior class production,” Dimple continued. “Do you know if she was close to anyone in the cast? Perhaps she confided in one of them.”
“I suppose she was closest to Iris. She had a leading role as well and the two often went to rehearsals together.” Bertie clasped her hands together. “Oh, Dimple! Do you suppose Iris hasn’t heard? She’s been away at camp for most of the summer and might not even know what happened to Prentice.”
“I think her parents want to wait and tell her when she gets home,” Dimple said.
“I’m thankful Leola isn’t here to know,” Bertie said later as she accompanied them to the door. “I suppose it’s a good thing she went first, but Prentice wasn’t the same after that, you know. It hurt her so, seeing Leola like that.… She simply couldn’t get past it.”
* * *
Jasper Totherow counted the money again. Fifty-seven dollars, plus another three dollars and thirty-five cents in change. Why would anybody need all that just to go to the grocery store? Why, he could live off that for months! Still, it wasn’t as much as he’d hoped for, but it would have to do. Elderberry, he felt, was not a healthy place for him right now and he knew better than to hang around.
The mosquitoes weren’t so bad at the top of the hill, away from the creek, and Jasper rested there under a big blackjack oak and listened to the far-off rumble of thunder. At least he thought it was thunder; couldn’t be sure, with his hearing as bad as it was, but the skies were boiling gray, like dirty dishwater. Storm couldn’t be far away, and what if he got caught in it? That policeman had locked up Leola’s place tighter than a banker’s fist, and he didn’t know who might be waiting for him back at his shed.
He knew he shouldn’t have said what he did to those women—the ones who came poking about Leola’s—about seeing somebody there the day Leola died. He knew better than to tell what it was he saw, and if that Miss Pimple … Temple … whatever her name was, were to blab that to the wrong person, he might as well say his prayers. Now where was he to go?
In most of the movies he’d seen, the one who was in danger waited until dark to leave town, but Jasper didn’t want to wait. Some innate sense of survival wa
rned him to get out now and he wasn’t going to argue, but his granddaddy’s watch was back at that old shed, along with a photograph of his mama, an extra pair of shoes, and every stitch of clothing he owned. He had rolled them up in his jacket and hidden the bundle in the rafters of the shed when they’d thrown him out of that shack he’d rented back in the spring. He’d have to watch the place for a while to be sure nobody was around. With a storm coming on, they wouldn’t hang around long.
Getting to his feet, Jasper took the money from the purse and jammed it deep into his pants pocket. Funny she should be the one he’d stolen it from. Made it easy, really, standing there talking to that mouthy woman, pocketbook gaping open like that. Well, there was more where that came from. Jasper remembered when her mama had taken in sewing, baked cakes to make ends meet. He tossed the change purse aside as he made his way to the other side of the hill.
Damned if every step he took didn’t sound like a stampede in all this dry grass. Even he could hear it, and him half-deaf. Jasper squatted behind a sumac and watched the shed. Nothing moved, only the clouds rolling in dirt up there, getting blacker, meaner. He stuck a twig in his mouth and settled down to wait. There were worse things than getting wet.
Jasper didn’t know who owned the shed. Empty now, it had once been used for storing fodder. About halfway between Leola’s property and an old tumbledown church, it had come in handy when he needed a place to sleep. He’d hoped for better before winter came, but had a plaguing deep-down feeling the person he saw at Leola’s that day had seen him, so he reckoned it would have to be somewhere as far from Elderberry, Georgia, as he could get.
Miss Dimple Picks a Peck of Trouble: A Mystery (Miss Dimple Mysteries) Page 10
