Miss Dimple Picks a Peck of Trouble: A Mystery (Miss Dimple Mysteries)

by Ballard, Mignon F.

  Atlanta came to mind. Jasper had never seen Atlanta; heard about it, though. A person could get lost there. If he was lucky, he might be able to catch a ride, be in Atlanta before dark.

  Now pine trees bowed in the wind in the open field before him. The old gray shed crouched under a sweet-gum tree, its sagging door banging against the wall. Jasper strained to listen, but all he could hear was the slapping of limbs above his head, the measured whack of the shed door.

  He cringed as lightning cracked across the sky, then stood slowly, eyes on the shed. If he got his belongings out now, he could get a head start. Spend the night on the road if he had to, but Lord, he hoped he wouldn’t have to. Jasper paused to listen at the door of the shed, then braced himself before stepping inside. He wondered how long his money would last in Atlanta.

  And that was the last thing he wondered.

  * * *

  “Help me, Miss Dimple! Save me!”

  Miss Dimple clutched to her chest a small package containing a pad of notepaper and a bottle of Scripto ink she had purchased in town and held out an arm to ward off the oncoming collision with Willie Elrod, racing toward her at full speed. At eleven, Willie had grown almost as tall as she, and Dimple didn’t care to end up sprawling on the sidewalk in front of God and everybody.

  The boy took one look at her face and stopped short, barely in time. With breathless gasps, he darted behind her.

  “For heaven’s sake, William Elrod, what on earth has gotten into you? You almost made me fall, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather remain vertical.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Dimple, but you’ve got to protect me, please! She’s after me, and I’m much too young to die.”

  “Who’s after you? Now, stop that this minute.” Miss Dimple grabbed a skinny shoulder and held him at arm’s length.

  “It’s Marguerite! Mama makes me take her everywhere, and she’s ruining what’s left of my summer. I wish she’d hurry and go home.”

  Dimple knew Willie’s cousin Marguerite was visiting next door for a few weeks with her mother, and since the two were close in age, Willie was expected to entertain her. “Why don’t you take her to the picture show?” she asked. “Abbott and Costello are playing at the Jewel.”

  “We saw that yesterday.” Willie made a face. “And I had to sit with her, too.”

  Dimple was about to tell him that most girls liked to play Tarzan and roller-skate and build forts in the woods just as boys did, but she was interrupted by a bloodcurdling screech as the dreaded Marguerite raced up with danger in her eyes and murder in her heart. “Prepare to die!” she announced, reaching for Willie.

  “Just a minute!” Miss Dimple eyed them both with her most severe “I mean business” expression. “Now, young lady, what’s this all about?” Of course she knew before the girl even answered that whatever it was must be Willie’s fault, but one had to try to be fair.

  Marguerite recognized a voice of authority and stepped back an inch or two. “He keeps singing that awful song,” she said. “He sings it all the time—especially when we’re around any of his friends.” She stuck out her tongue at Willie. “If he has any friends!”

  “And what song is that?” Miss Dimple asked, but Willie found something of keen interest to look at in the window of Total Perfection and didn’t answer.

  Marguerite gave him a quick jab with her sandaled foot, as if to say, Tell her, Willie!

  The boy sighed. “Oh, Marguerite, go wash your feet! I smell them clean across the street!” he chanted, and then had the nerve to burst into giggles.

  “When you get home, William, I think it would be a good idea to ask your mother to please invite some of the girls in your class over to visit with Marguerite. But right now, I believe I’ll treat myself to an ice-cream cone at the drugstore. Would the two of you like to join me?”

  They would, of course, and that was when she heard about Jasper Totherow.

  * * *

  “I imagine Ruthie Phillips or Lee Anne Stephens would be happy to have someone new to play with,” Miss Dimple suggested as the three sat with chocolate cones at a small table in Lewellyn’s. She was certain the beleaguered Marguerite would welcome female company after her cousin’s constant badgering.

  “Aw, you can’t believe a thing neither one of those girls says,” Willie said, licking a chocolate trail from his wrist. “That crazy Ruthie told me she and Lee Anne found a dead man in this old shed the other day, and Lee Anne—she was so scared, she almost wet her pa—”

  Miss Dimple cleared her throat. “And where was this shed?”

  He shrugged. “Out in the country somewhere. She said they were riding their bikes when it started to storm and they ran in this shed to get out of the rain. Lee Anne—she swears she almost stepped on him.”

  “Stepped on who, Willie? Did the girls know who it was?”

  “Ruthie thinks it was that old man who looks like a scarecrow and never takes a bath—Jasper somebody—but you know what, Miss Dimple? I think they made it all up, ’cause when the policeman came, there wasn’t nobody there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “How do they know it was Jasper?” Virginia asked.

  “I spoke with Ruthie’s mother soon after I got home,” Miss Dimple said, “and it seems the police found some of his clothing in the rafters. It looks as if he’d been sleeping there.”

  Virginia was taking advantage of an afternoon lull at the library to visit with her friend, and the two sat in rocking chairs on the rustic porch, shaded by wisteria vines and screened from passing traffic.

  “This isn’t the first time Jasper’s passed out somewhere,” Virginia said. “He gets ahold of some liquor and doesn’t know when to stop. It’s a wonder it hasn’t killed him.”

  “Maybe it has,” Dimple said. “Seems something did. Or somebody.”

  “Then where’s the body? Dead people don’t just get up and wander away. Maybe he stumbled and hit his head. He might’ve been unconscious when those girls found him.”

  Miss Dimple rocked faster, her feet tapping with the rhythm of the chair. “Or … whoever killed him was interrupted before he could get rid of the body. He might have been hiding somewhere close by when Ruthie and Lee Anne came along.”

  “Why, Dimple Kilpatrick, that’s a comforting thought! I do believe you’re getting to be downright gruesome!” Virginia gasped in mock horror. “I’ll admit I’m not fond of Jasper, having run him off from sleeping on this very porch whenever he gets a chance, but what makes you think somebody would want to kill him?”

  Dimple stopped rocking abruptly. “I can’t be sure, but I think it has something to do with what happened the day Leola died. Remember, Virginia, what Jasper said the other day when we found him at Leola’s?”

  “And what was that? My goodness, he carries on so, I didn’t pay much attention to him.”

  “He said he knows who killed Leola! He as good as admitted he saw what happened out there that day,” Dimple reminded her.

  “And you believe he was telling the truth?” Virginia shooed away a fly with a cardboard fan with The Last Supper on the front and an advertisement for Riley’s Funeral Home on the back.

  “I can’t be sure, of course, but there was something going on, and I think Prentice might’ve seen it, too.”

  “Good heavens, Dimple! What makes you think that?”

  Dimple reminded her about the fire. “Delia had a feeling Prentice was holding something back, that she was afraid of something, and Clay told me the same thing. He said at first he thought it was because Leola died—the way she died. Prentice seemed to get upset when anyone mentioned it. She didn’t want to talk about it.”

  Virginia rose to help little Peggy Ashcroft, who had arrived for a new supply of Bobbsey Twins books. “Have you spoken to Bertie about this?” she whispered.

  Dimple shook her head. “Not in so many words, but Elberta told me Prentice just couldn’t come to terms with Leola’s death. I think there might be more to it than that.
”

  “Then I think you should go to the police,” Virginia said. “When she was here earlier, Emmaline Brumlow told me she’d heard they’d arrested somebody for those murders in Atlanta—the Rose Petal Killer, they call him. He might’ve had something to do with what happened to Jasper, and possibly Prentice, as well.”

  * * *

  The courthouse clock whirred as it always did before striking the hour, but at five o’clock sidewalks still sizzled on the sunny side of the street, and the faded purple umbrella Miss Dimple carried to ward off the sun was of little help in the heat. Even the soldier on the recruiting poster in front of the post office looked miserable in his heavy uniform as she passed by on her way to the police station.

  Bobby Tinsley had stepped out, she was told, but Officer Warren Nelson welcomed her into a small cubicle of an office where an electric fan stirred hot air, ruffling papers on his desk.

  Miss Dimple had not taught Warren, as his family hadn’t moved to Elderberry until he was in the third grade, but his younger sister Eugenia had been in her class, so she spent the first few minutes of her visit catching up on Eugenia’s experiences as an army nurse in Liverpool, England, where they struggled with blackouts, air raids, and the constantly cold, rainy weather. Miss Dimple thought fondly of the shy little girl who tucked a tongue in her cheek as she labored over her letters and wished she could send a hug along with a warm blanket.

  “I wondered if you’d had any word on what happened to Jasper Totherow?” she asked finally.

  Because that area came under county jurisdiction, Sheriff Holland’s department had been called to the scene of the shed where the two frightened girls had stumbled upon Jasper, Warren told her, but he understood they undertook a thorough search of the area.

  “No telling where that fellow’s gotten to,” he added, shaking his head. “Probably sleeping it off somewhere. I reckon he’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  Miss Dimple pulled her chair closer and leaned forward. “I believe there might be more to it than that,” she said, and told him what Jasper had claimed to see.

  Officer Nelson listened intently, nodding his head from time to time. He knew from experience that it was not customary for Miss Dimple Kilpatrick to jump to conclusions.

  “If he saw whoever set that fire, he should’ve reported it then and there,” he told her. “Do you know if anyone else was aware of this?”

  “It seems Prentice Blair might have noticed it, as well. Several people have commented that she seemed to be worried about something—something she was reluctant to talk about.”

  “And you think this might have had something to do with her death?” Warren Nelson gripped the sides of his desk until his knuckles were white and his face crimson.

  Miss Dimple gathered her purse and umbrella and prepared to leave. “I think it’s something you certainly need to investigate … and I hope you won’t waste any time.”

  She hesitated at the door. “I heard they arrested someone for the rose petal murders. Could there be a connection there?” Her question sounded like an afterthought, although, of course, it wasn’t.

  The officer stood politely. “They got a confession from him this morning. Wish we could tie this thing up, but this man had nothing to do with killing Prentice Blair.”

  “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  Warren Nelson glanced at the closed door behind her and lowered his voice. “This guy was in jail over in Gainesville at the time that young woman was killed. Police caught him trying to break into somebody’s house. Actually, that’s how they finally got him. Man has a record for assaults against women. Been in trouble before.”

  “But the rose petals…” Miss Dimple began.

  Warren sat on the desk and crossed his arms. “I’m going to let you in on something before the newspapers get ahold of it, so please keep this confidential. We’ve known it all along, but now that this guy’s confessed, it will all come out in the open.…” Officer Nelson paused, his expression grave. “The Atlanta Rose Petal Killer used only white petals. Whoever killed Prentice Blair covered her in petals of every color.”

  * * *

  When she reached home, Dimple found Annie in the kitchen, helping Phoebe put together a fruit salad for supper, Odessa having gone home for the day.

  “We’re having cold fried chicken and potato salad left over from dinner, and I thought some fruit would go well with that,” Phoebe said, mixing a marinade of lime juice, mint, and honey. “It’s just too hot to cook.” She paused, acknowledging Dimple. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard any more about what happened to that Jasper fellow. Doesn’t make sense, him disappearing like that.”

  “Well, they’re going to take a closer look around that old shed where the little girls found him,” Dimple told them, “but we might never know what happened to that poor soul.”

  Miss Dimple told them about her visit with Warren Nelson, except for the information about the rose petals. She wanted to ask Annie if she had heard from Frazier, but from the young woman’s downcast expression, she already knew the answer.

  Phoebe added strawberries to her bowl, along with the contents of a small can of diced pineapple and a pinch of powdered ginger. “There’s no way around it,” she said, frowning. “It’s not the same without peaches.”

  Suddenly, Annie found the two of them looking at her. “Well, I guess I’ll have to go back there sometime,” she said with a shrug. “Might as well get it over with.”

  Miss Dimple wasn’t looking forward to a trip to the Peach Shed again, either, but she volunteered to go along. After all, she thought, Annie needed a bit of distraction, and how long did it take to buy a basket of peaches?

  Phoebe looked up with worried eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Dimple had learned that as a rule it was best to face unpleasant memories and do her best to deal with them. “Perhaps it will give me a chance to speak with Clay,” she said. It had been a while since she’d seen him and she wanted to discuss with him what Jasper had said.

  But Clay wasn’t minding the Shed.

  Asa Weatherby, who was helping out that day, told them Clay had gone across the road to Grady’s for a cold drink. “Be right back if you want to wait,” he said, filling a bag with the heady-smelling fruit, but Miss Dimple knew Phoebe was waiting for the peaches, so they hurried over to Grady’s on the chance they might have a quick word with Clay.

  They found him in conversation with Grady Clinkscales at the cash register, but neither noticed them enter. “Don’t reckon you’ve seen Hattie lately?” Grady asked as he scooped up the dime for Clay’s RC Cola and ice-cream cup and tossed it into the cash drawer.

  “Yeah, she was picking up bottles over near the high school. Had that old wheelbarrow,” Clay said.

  “Well, she didn’t turn ’em in to me. When was this?” Grady slammed the drawer shut with a beefy hand and leaned on the counter.

  “Hasn’t been too long—a few days maybe. Why?” Clay dipped up a bite of ice cream with a tiny wooden spoon, savoring the sweet vanilla rush.

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling something ain’t right.”

  “What do you mean?” Clay wondered when anything had been right lately.

  “Hell, Clay, you know how Hattie comes in here every so often—couple of times a week at least.… Oh, sorry, Miss Dimple. Didn’t see you ladies come in.”

  “I heard you speaking of Hattie,” Miss Dimple said. “I hope she’s not sick.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised, hot as it’s been,” Grady said. “She never asks for anything, you know, just wants to cool off some, she says, but I usually treat her to a cold drink or some of them cookies she likes.” He ran a hand over thinning red hair. “Hasn’t been in here in about a week now.”

  Clay frowned. “You think something’s happened to her?”

  “Maybe. That old woman is scared, and who can blame her?” Grady nodded toward the Peach Shed through fly-specked windows, where a display of canned tomatoes gathered dust
.

  Across the road, car doors slammed as two women got out of a gray Plymouth red with dust. Probably from the next county, Clay thought; he didn’t know them. He tossed his empty ice-cream cup into a trash can as he watched them buy peaches from Asa. They ought to put up a marker, he thought: Something Terrible Happened Here! Those women probably had no idea that almost three weeks before someone had snatched up Prentice, his Prentice, from this very place.

  And then they had killed her. Clay still thought of her as his, even though she’d given him back his ring, told him she didn’t want to see him again. But he didn’t want to remember that. He would think of her as she was before, as they were before.

  “I think Hattie’s afraid of the police,” Grady was saying. “They questioned her, you know.”

  Annie frowned. “Why would she be afraid?”

  “It’s the blue uniforms,” Clay explained. “She thinks they’re Yankees.” He took a box of cheese crackers from a display on the counter and dug in his pocket for money. “Told me they were after her. She was hiding something, she said. Some kind of gold thing.” He shook his head. “We’ve all heard that tale before.”

  Grady gave him back his change. “When was this?”

  Clay could never forget. It was the morning of Prentice’s funeral, he told them. He’d worked all day, until it was time to get cleaned up and go. Climbing, picking, itching, sweating. Not thinking. The Shed had been closed for the day, but it would be open first thing in the morning. Peaches didn’t wait for death; didn’t wait for anything. Hattie was there when he went to unload the baskets. Must’ve been waiting behind the Shed. Like to have scared him to death, he said, coming out at him like that, all dressed in black and yelling like a banshee about Nazis and Yankees and no telling who else. Said she saw what they did.

  “Saw what who did?” Annie asked.

  Clay shrugged. “Who knows? But you’re right,” he told Grady. “She was afraid. Seemed even crazier than usual, but I was going through hell myself. Didn’t pay much attention to her.”