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

by Ballard, Mignon F.

  Frowning, Lou climbed down to join her. “I think you’re right, Jo. I wonder if Leola surprised someone setting the fire and the person dropped the match or whatever he was using and ran.”

  “Or it might’ve been started with kerosene,” Jo said. “I guess the smell would’ve washed away by now, wouldn’t it? Remember, we had a heavy rain not too long after that happened, so a lot of it probably would’ve run off into the creek.”

  Her sister didn’t answer, but stood studying the narrow brown stream that moved sluggishly over rocks and between eroded banks before twisting out of sight under the main bridge at the road.

  “What is it?” Jo demanded. Lou was seldom this still and quiet.

  “I don’t know, but I think I see something. It’s caught on a tree root downstream.”

  Jo looked where her sister was pointing. “Just looks like a stick to me.…” But Lou had already plunged ahead, and, breaking off a fragrant limb of sassafras that hung over the bank, she fished the blackened object in question from its muddy enclosure. The top part of the vertical stick had been burned to within an inch or so of where it was lashed to a crosspiece and the part that remained was wrapped in strips of cloth, now soggy and stained with ashes and mud.

  Lou held it up for her sister to see, wishing for all the world that she could scrub away the awful significance of what she had found. “It’s a cross, Jo. That’s what it was meant to be before part of it burned away. Somebody tried to burn a cross on Leola’s property. Why would anybody have done that to her?”

  Jo Carr didn’t know. She only knew she wanted to cry, and to get as far away from this hateful place as she could. Leola had owned the land she lived on for as long as she could remember. Why had somebody objected to that all this time later and attempted to frighten her away?

  Lou shivered and tossed the hateful thing aside. “We’ve got to tell the sheriff about this, Jo. This should prove that fire was no accident.”

  Jo agreed, and reluctantly picked up the remains of the charred cross. “I don’t want to take a chance on leaving this here. You can show him later where you found it.”

  Neither spoke until they were on their way back to town, when Jo turned to her sister and smiled.

  Lou frowned. “What do you find so amusing?”

  “I was just thinking how surprised Miss Dimple and the others will be when they learn what we found out.”

  * * *

  But Dimple was busy for most of the day, heading up a scrap-metal drive, and didn’t learn of the sisters’ discovery until she returned for supper at Phoebe’s, where Annie told them of the news.

  This was met with stunned silence all around until the horror of the discovery struck home. “I find this hard to believe,” Phoebe uttered under her breath in case Odessa might overhear from the kitchen. “I don’t know of anyone who didn’t think the world of Leola Parker. Whoever’s responsible must be mean to the core!”

  “Add stupid and ignorant to that,” Velma Anderson sputtered. “It takes a special kind of idiot to do a thing like that.”

  “Oh dear!” Lily Moss clutched a napkin to her lips and looked about, as if she expected someone to tell her it wasn’t so.

  “Does this kind of thing happen very much around here?” Annie asked. “I thought all that Klan business was a thing of the past.”

  Miss Dimple spoke at last. “Unfortunately not. But I haven’t heard of any recent activity, and frankly, I wonder if someone else might be behind this.”

  “But who?” Phoebe asked. “And for heaven’s sake, why?”

  Dimple helped herself to the pineapple-carrot gelatin salad and passed the mold along to Velma. “That’s what we have to find out,” she said, “and the sooner, the better.”

  “I wonder why Sheriff Holland and his bunch didn’t notice that before?” Velma asked. “They’ve been out there several times now, haven’t they?” She shook her head. “It must’ve been embarrassing to have two women show them up like that.”

  “Charlie said her mother told her he got kind of flustered and turned as red as a strawberry,” Annie said. “He told her it was probably lodged under the bridge or something until a heavy rain washed it downstream, but Charlie’s mother believes it was tossed onto the grass on the other side of the bridge from the house. She said it looks like that’s where the fire began to spread.”

  “So what do they plan to do now?” Phoebe asked. “I hope it’s not too late to find out who’s responsible.”

  “I imagine Sheriff Holland’s familiar with the hoodlums associated with the Klan,” Miss Dimple said. “I would think he’d begin there.”

  But she doubted if it would do any good.

  After supper, everyone gathered around the radio in Phoebe Chadwick’s parlor to listen to the war news on the radio. Sometimes the commentator would be H. V. Kaltenborn or gentle-voiced Gabriel Heatter, who often began his broadcasts with “Ah, there’s good [or bad] news tonight.” Tonight’s announcer was Edward R. Murrow.

  Phoebe’s young grandson, Harrison, had been part of the taking of Kwajalein Atoll in the South Pacific with the Seventh Division of the 111th Infantry Regiment the winter before and was still somewhere in the Marshall Islands. Annie’s fiancé, Frazier, had been among those landing on Normandy beach on D-day in June and was now with the troops attempting to break out of the beachhead and push on to Paris. Her brother, Joel, was a bomber pilot somewhere in Europe, and for Annie, the most difficult part of her day was listening to the news. Sometimes she wanted to cover her ears and hide, but for days on end it was the only link she had to two of the most important men in her life.

  Others felt much the same. Phoebe usually found something to do with her hands, such as mending or crocheting, but even so, she listened with a statuelike countenance until the broadcast ended. And Annie knew that everything came to a standstill in the Carr household as Jo Carr and her daughters paid strict attention for any mention of the areas where Fain, Ned, or Will might be fighting.

  Dimple sat silently, so as not to miss a word, and prayed that the children she had watched become men would make it safely home. The names of those who hadn’t were already written on her heart.

  The dreadful violence and the resulting grief that came with this war could not be avoided, but the needless death of a young woman and the hurtful incident directed at Leola Parker stirred an innate longing deep inside her that yearned to put things right.

  Phoebe tucked her mending away in her basket when the broadcast came to an end, and Lily and Velma went outside to sit on the porch after Edward R. Murrow signed off in his customary manner, wishing everyone “Good night and good luck.” Dimple had little doubt they were going to need it. Annie, she noticed, seemed so restless, it was almost painful to watch her.

  Dimple approached her as she stood by the window. Outside, a lawn sprinkler swish-swished in the grass, showering the pink impatiens in the side yard with glistening drops. “Why don’t you try to speak with your young man’s parents again,” she suggested. “They’re sure to be at home by now, don’t you think?”

  Annie turned with a startled look, and Miss Dimple could see she was trying to hold back the tears. “I’m afraid of what they might tell me,” she admitted in a voice so low, Dimple could hardly hear her.

  Sooner or later, you’ll have to know the truth, Dimple thought, but it would have been cruel to speak it aloud, so she said nothing and remained where she was.

  “Will you go with me? I mean, stand there with me while I make the call?” Annie said at last.

  Dimple slipped her arm through Annie’s. “Of course I will,” she said.

  * * *

  It seemed to take forever for Florence McCrary to connect them with Frazier’s parents in the little town of Ringgold, Georgia, and Annie felt herself stiffen as the telephone rang two … three … four times before someone picked up the receiver. Watching her, Miss Dimple started to move away, but Annie motioned for her to stay.

  “Oh, Annie dear, it�
�s so good to hear from you,” Frazier’s mother said after Annie told her who was calling. “We all can’t wait to meet you! Why, from all Frazier has told us, we feel like we know you already.”

  Annie smiled, relaxing a little. If the Duncans had received bad news, they would be having a different conversation.

  “No, we haven’t heard in several weeks,” his mother said, answering Annie’s question, “but we have to keep in mind he probably hasn’t had an opportunity to write with all that’s going on. I expect we’ll hear something before too long. Sometimes we even receive several letters at once.” Her words were warm and comforting, and they embraced Annie like an enveloping hug. “I’ll telephone when we hear,” Mrs. Duncan assured her, “and, Annie, I hope you’ll do the same.”

  Annie turned to Miss Dimple, smiling. “She sounds so nice, Miss Dimple. I think I’m going to love Frazier’s mother.”

  “Now, aren’t you glad you called?” Dimple said. “I hope you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep.”

  Annie agreed, and went upstairs to bed with a lighter heart, but in spite of her assurances, something Frazier’s mother had said haunted her still: “… he probably hasn’t had an opportunity to write with all that’s been going on.”

  She knew what was going on over there and it wasn’t encouraging.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Let’s play war,” Willie Elrod suggested to his friend Junior Henderson. “We can pretend to be soldiers and Ruthie and Lee Anne will be the enemy. We’ll take ’em prisoner and lock ’em in your garage.”

  “Oh no we won’t! The last time we did that, Lee Anne broke all the fruit jars in there that my mama was saving to put up all that stuff out of the garden.”

  “Okay, then, let’s pretend like it’s D-day and I’ll be one of our soldiers landing on the beach. You can be the Japanese—you can even be Tojo if you want to,” Willie promised.

  Junior groaned. “Don’t you know anything? Old Tojo resigned the other day. He’s not chief minister anymore. He might not even be a general.”

  Willie frowned. He knew he should keep up with the war better than he did. He always paid attention when they showed The March of Time at the picture show, but when the rest of his family gathered around the radio for news broadcasts, he was always outside somewhere, it seemed.

  That morning, however, Willie had overheard his mama and Mrs. Sullivan from across the street talking about something that had happened a few days before in Prussia.

  “Well, I’ll bet I know something you don’t, Mr. Smarty!” Willie looked around and dropped his voice. “Couple of days ago, some of Hitler’s own men tried to do the old devil in. They were gonna get rid of him for once and all, but I guess he got wise to them, and—” Willie made a schlepping noise and drew his finger across his throat. “I reckon that’s the end of them.”

  “That’s too bad,” Junior said. “They would’ve done us all a favor.”

  Willie grinned. “Hey, I know! You can be Hitler and I’ll be one of the—”

  But Junior was having none of it. “How come you always get to be the good guy and I’m the enemy? Besides, I’m tired of playing war all the time. Let’s play something else.”

  The day before, the two had been to see the film Tarzan Triumphs, in which Tarzan fights the Nazis, and Willie agreed that would be the next best thing to playing war. They found the two girls dressing paper dolls on Ruthie’s front porch, and armed with stout sticks to make their way through the jungle, the four started out for their favorite Tarzan setting, since their school principal, “Froggy” Faulkenberry, forbade them to climb in the big oak tree on the playground.

  “I wish we had some alligators,” Willie said as they neared the bridge over the Oconee River. “Seems like Tarzan’s always fighting alligators.”

  Lee Anne shivered. “Well, I’m glad we don’t. You’ll just have to fight pretend alligators.”

  Turning off the road, they picked their way single file along the path beside the river. “My mama told me I wasn’t to go close to the water,” Ruthie announced. “Even if you’re a good swimmer, that current can catch you before you know what’s happening and sweep you away.”

  “Aw, I’m not afraid of any river!” Willie’s mother had told him the same thing, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

  “Then let’s see you go down there and stick your foot in the water,” Junior dared.

  “You’d better not, Willie.” Lee Anne clutched at his sleeve. “Really. You might fall in and drown.”

  Of course that was all Willie needed—that and the fact that Lee Anne actually cared if he drowned or not. Lee Anne Stephens was pretty, with light brown hair that curled around her face, and her pink cotton halter top concealed small buds that would soon become breasts. Although Willie had learned to swim at Boy Scout camp, he had a deep respect for the river. It was swift and dark and deep, and far too wide for him to swim across it.

  “Well … what are you waiting for?” Junior urged. “I double-dog dare you!”

  There was no way he was going to back down from a double-dog dare. Gingerly, Willie plunged down the steep bank, stopping short at the water’s edge. What was that awful smell?

  He grabbed a slender sapling to keep from sliding farther. Something that looked like a sack of old clothes was bundled at the foot of a sycamore tree whose branches hung over the rushing water. The odor of rotting flesh was almost suffocating in its intensity.

  Willie stumbled backward. “Gah!” he shouted, turning away in an effort not to throw up.

  “What’s the matter, chicken?” Junior taunted. “I thought you weren’t afraid!”

  “There’s something down here—somebody. I think they’re dead.” Willie scrambled up the bank to join the others. He had come across decaying animals before and knew the smell of death, but never anything like this, never a person. “We’ve got to go find somebody.… We’ve gotta get help.” Willie clamped his hand over his nose and mouth to shut out the smell. He wanted to go home and scrub with Octagon soap from his head to his feet, and then do it all over again.

  “How do you know they’re dead?” Ruthie asked. “I think you’re just making that up.”

  “Aw, that’s only a bunch of old clothes,” Junior persisted. “You’re just scared to get near the water.”

  “Okay, go see for yourself if you’re so brave,” Willie challenged. “I’m going to call Chief Tinsley.”

  “Huh! Just wait and I’ll prove it,” Junior said, and not to be outdone, he made his way down to where the pathetic bundle lay. The smell was worse than his grandpa’s outhouse, but he held his breath and gave the pile a hasty poke with his foot.

  The mound of garments shifted, exposing a grinning skull. Spiders scurried from the empty eye sockets and the claw of a skeletal hand slid from a shredded sleeve.

  Junior’s scream echoed in his head and continued until his throat hurt so much, he couldn’t scream anymore. The others had been hollering, too, but now the only sound he heard was his own sobbing breath, and Junior realized he was still standing barely two feet away from a horror he had never imagined even in his worst nightmares. And his friends had left him there.

  Somebody tugged at his shirt and he turned and struck at the air. “Leave me alone! Stop it! Leave me alone!”

  “It’s just me, dummy! Come on, let’s get outta here!” Grabbing Junior’s hand, Willie half-pulled, half-shoved him the rest of the way up the steep hill and back along the path to where the two girls waited, trembling by the bridge.

  “What was that?” Ruthie gulped between sobs. “I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

  “A dead body,” Lee Anne said, and she suddenly felt cold in the heat of a Georgia summer. “I wonder how long it’s been there.” She had seen a dead person before—but not one like that. Her great-grandma had been laid out properly on a lace pillow, with her hands all folded in front of her like she was done with all her work on earth and ready to rest.

  “How you reck
on it got there?” Junior asked, now that he could get his breath. “Oh gosh! What if it was a murder?”

  “Oh, hush, Junior,” Lee Anne said, racing on ahead. “You always make things sound worse than they are. It’s probably just a tramp who was passing through and got sick and died there.”

  Willie thought he knew who the dead person was, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Chief Tinsley would know what to do, and since they were the ones who’d found the corpse—or what was left of it—maybe the chief would let them in on the investigation.

  “It might’ve been a murder,” Junior persisted as they hurried back to town. “And whoever did it might even have come back to see if the body has been discovered. They could’ve been watching us the whole time! Did you ever think of that?”

  Nobody had, and nobody answered, but everyone ran just a little faster.

  * * *

  Willie Elrod didn’t even think of crying until he spied Miss Dimple Kilpatrick crossing the street on her way back from town and he ran right up to her and buried his head in her middle. She was his bastion, his refuge, and the two of them had been through trying times together.

  “Why, Willie, what in the world is wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” With a calming hand, she brushed his strawlike hair from his brow and held him at arm’s length, although she would have liked nothing better than to hold him close. It wouldn’t do to show favoritism to one child above another, although he would always have a special place in her heart. It made her smile to remember six-year-old Willie’s gift to her of a small box of Valentine candy when he was in her first-grade classroom. “Now, if you don’t like candy, Miss Dimple,” he’d said, “you can give it back to me—but you can keep the box!” Of course she had shared the chocolates with him.

  “It’s worse than a ghost, Miss Dimple. We just saw a dead person—nothing left but a bunch of bones!” Junior told her. “No tellin’ how long it’s been there.”