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

by Ballard, Mignon F.

  “But you can’t argue with the fact that someone—or some corporation—is extremely interested in buying the land Leola’s daughter now owns,” Knox said. “All we know is that it’s located in Jacksonville and that Chenault Kirkland may or may not have something to do with it.”

  “And that’s what I’m trying to find out,” Curtis assured him. “I’ve already made some inquiries and hope to learn more soon.”

  It had been late afternoon when he arrived and the Jarretts and Miss Dimple gathered on the porch of the farmhouse, where Loretta and her mother served fruit punch and gingersnaps for the ladies, while Knox invited Curtis Tisdale back to the kitchen for something a little stronger.

  Miss Dimple sipped her punch while watching shadows lengthen across the lawn. In a short time, September would be upon them, and most of the summer, it seemed, had been overcast by heartbreak and murder. Curtis Tisdale, she thought, appeared competent as well as confident, and for the first time since that awful day she and her friends were summoned from the orchard, she felt they might begin to see the light.

  Being of clear conscience, Dimple usually fell asleep soon after her head hit the pillow, but that night sleep wouldn’t come no matter how many verses of Scripture she remembered or fruits and vegetables she named in alphabetical order. Finally, in exasperation, she went downstairs to brew a cup of ginger mint tea, and discovered Annie in the kitchen before her.

  “You, too?” Annie sat at the table, sipping a cup of steaming milk, and Miss Dimple told her of the meeting with Clay’s attorney while waiting for her water to come to a boil.

  “I certainly hope we’ll hear something soon,” she said, “and that it will make a major difference in Clay’s defense.”

  Annie agreed. She hoped, too, that she would finally receive that long-awaited letter from Frazier.

  But the next day passed uneventfully. It wasn’t until the day after that Chloe Jarrett telephoned Dimple to tell her Clay’s attorney had found a definite connection between Chenault Kirkland and and the mysterious undertaking called Bold Victory. Chenault, Curtis had discovered, owned stock in an obscure offshoot of a huge chemical plant with ambitions to branch out in Georgia.

  “That seems all on the up-and-up,” Chloe explained further, “although Griffin Kirkland denies any knowledge of the company. Leola’s land backs up to the river, you know, and I understand that’s important in the production process and would be a valuable asset to this particular industry.”

  From what Chloe had learned from Curtis Tisdale, they planned to manufacture synthetic fabrics such as nylon and viscose rayon, and that some of these materials would be used in the making of parachutes and coverings for lightweight planes, in addition to affordable clothing.

  “Surely they could find other places with access to a river,” Miss Dimple said. “It seems both Leola and her daughter made it clear they weren’t interested in selling their land.”

  “It looks like there’s more to it than that,” Chloe told her. “It seems that particular piece of land would be perfectly suited for what they need. Mr. Tisdale explained that access to raw materials, energy, and transportation would be determining factors in selecting a site, as well as the water supply and the mild climate here.” She hesitated. “What’s of interest to the police is how they apparently chose to go about getting their hands on the property.”

  Miss Dimple had to admit to herself that she had never cared for Griffin Kirkland; nevertheless, she couldn’t see him dressing in Klan attire to frighten Leola Parker. For one thing, it would ruin his reputation if anyone found out.

  “Griffin claims to be in the dark,” Chloe continued, “but they do have that testimony from Jasper—for whatever it’s worth. However, there’s no way to prove who was behind that hood.”

  “What about Chenault?” Dimple asked. “I would assume he’d deny it, as well.”

  Chloe Jarrett paused. “They haven’t been able to question Chenault yet.”

  “He’s stationed over at Fort McPherson, isn’t he? Shouldn’t be too hard to find him.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Chloe said. “Frankly, I don’t understand it, but maybe we’ll hear something soon.”

  Dimple certainly hoped so. She was usually a patient person, but her patience, it seemed, had been tried to the limits lately.

  When they still had no word from Chenault Kirkland the next day, things took a different turn. His father said he had no idea where he was, and, naturally, his mother claimed she didn’t, either. When his commanding officer verified he had no knowledge of his whereabouts, Chenault Kirkland was officially declared absent without leave, and in less than twenty-four hours, he was arrested at his girlfriend’s house in Savannah.

  * * *

  “What I don’t understand,” Charlie said, “is why Chenault would run away like that when there’s a good chance he might never be connected to what happened at Leola’s.” She had stopped by Phoebe’s after giving her small nephew a ride in his stroller, and now she sat on the back steps while Tommy attempted to throw fallen apples into a bucket in the backyard.

  Miss Dimple sat beside her as Annie raked up apples from underneath the tree nearby. “I believe there may be more to it than that,” she said, clapping as one of Tommy’s apples went into the bucket with a bang. “It must have something to do with what Hattie said. Remember, Hattie claimed she knew something—even led people to think she might have found something important?”

  Annie paused in her work. “Do you think that’s why she was killed?”

  “I think she bragged to the wrong person, someone who wanted to silence her before she was taken seriously,” Dimple said.

  Charlie shook her head. “I don’t know. If she really found anything incriminating, then where is it?”

  “And what is it?” Annie asked. “If Chenault ran away because he was afraid something Hattie found would connect him to a murder, it must’ve been important. It doesn’t seem likely, though, that they can prove he was the one who set that fire.”

  * * *

  She wasn’t counting, however, on Mimosa Armstrong. Mimosa did the weekly washing for the Kirklands, picking it up on Monday and delivering it in a large wicker basket early Friday morning. Mimosa didn’t own a washing machine and had never heard of a dryer. She boiled the clothing in a big black wash pot in her yard, stirring it with a long wooden paddle, and, once it was rinsed in several waters, hung it on the line to dry. The articles, including sheets, were then ironed with a flatiron heated on the stove in Mimosa’s kitchen before being returned, usually on foot, to her customers. Only once in a while, if the weather was bad, would Hardin Haynesworth Kirkland drive over in her car to collect the clean laundry.

  Earlier in the summer—and Mimosa remembered exactly which day it was because it was the same day her papa scared them so with those bad chest pains and Dr. Morrison had to take him to the hospital over in Milledgeville—she had taken the Kirklands their clean laundry. Mrs. Kirkland always made her wait while she counted everything, and this time she was short one sheet and a pillowcase. Mimosa knew exactly where they’d been because she’d seen Chenault take them out of the dirty clothes pile when she went to pick up the laundry, and naturally, she’d asked him if he didn’t want her to wash those, too. He’d told her not to worry about it because he was planning to use them in some kind of entertainment at the fort.

  In spite of Mimosa’s claims, she was blamed for stealing the bed linen and was paid less than half of what she was owed. Later, when she heard rumors about somebody in a sheet setting that fire at Leola Parker’s, it was only a matter of checking her calendar to set the wheels of justice in motion. But first, she needed a little help from Doc Morrison.

  Still simmering from hurt and anger over being treated unjustly, Mimosa went to the doctor in tears. Who would believe a colored woman over people as rich and powerful as the Kirklands?

  Ben Morrison understood her problem, but he also understood human nature, and he had tr
eated most of his patients in Elderberry long enough to be a pretty good judge of character. And that was when he got in touch with his friend Dimple Kilpatrick.

  With Mimosa and the good doctor to back her up, it took only a short time for Miss Dimple to convince Sheriff Holland something was rotten with Chenault Kirkland in addition to his being AWOL. She had shared her suspicions earlier with him that someone had deliberately started the fire in order to frighten Leola from her property.

  “Still, I’m afraid it’s going to be difficult to prove the sheet Chenault took was the one used to frighten Leola,” the sheriff told her.

  “He probably used some of that sheet to wind around the cross he made,” Doc Morrison said. “And I suppose he must’ve soaked it in kerosene or something to make it burn.”

  Dimple turned to Mimosa. “I’m sure you do laundry for people other than the Kirklands, don’t you?”

  Mimosa nodded. “Why, yes, ma’am. I wash for lots of folks.”

  “And how do you keep the clothes separate? Most sheets look pretty much the same, don’t they? How do you know which sheets belong to whom?”

  “Oh, they’s marks on them, Miss Dimple,” she explained. “Some folks sew on some kind of tape, but most just put initials or a name on theirs with a marker that don’t wash off.”

  “Do you remember how the Kirklands marked theirs?”

  Mimosa thought for a minute. “It was just the last name, Kirkland, on the hem at the bottom, always in the same place. Miss Hardin, she’s real particular about that.”

  Miss Dimple turned to Zeb Holland. “Sheriff, do you still have what’s left of that burned cross?”

  “Of course.” Sheriff Holland smiled. “Well, it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a look-see.” He paused, thinking. “And he had to put that thing together somewhere. Where you reckon he’d go to do that?”

  “The garage, I suppose,” Miss Dimple replied.

  Zeb Holland nodded. “But you know we’re talking about something that happened a couple of months ago. I’d think he would’ve cleared away any evidence by now.”

  “I believe most people would,” Miss Dimple began, “but probably not Chenault Kirkland. I’m afraid that young man believed he was above suspicion, and I doubt if it would even have occurred to him at the time that his actions would be in question.”

  “Part of that cross was burned and what’s left of it was exposed to mud and water, so I’m afraid the odds are against finding a name on there, but I’ll sure see what turns up. As for the other, it could take me a little while to get a search warrant, but I’ll see if I can get ahold of the judge,” the sheriff told them. “If we’re lucky, I might be able to send somebody over there this afternoon. Meanwhile, keep this to yourself. We don’t want any word of this getting out.”

  “You will let us know what you find, won’t you, Sheriff?” Miss Dimple asked. “This has been going on much too long, and I’m … well, I’m sure we’re all grateful for your help.”

  But the sheriff held up a hand. “Don’t be too quick to thank me, Miss Dimple. Even if we find something, it’s probably just going to be circumstantial evidence.”

  Dimple Kilpatrick only nodded. At this point, circumstantial evidence was better than no evidence at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Well, I suppose you’ve heard,” Lou Willingham said to her sister Jo. “The sheriff found the Kirklands’ name on a piece of sheet wrapped around what was left of that burned cross. It was faded and dirty, but he said you could make it out plain as day. And more torn strips turned up out in the Kirklands’ garage. Sure looks like somebody’s been up to something dastardly.”

  Dastardly? Jo laughed. “Sounds to me like you’ve been watching too many of those old melodramas at the picture show.”

  If they weren’t speaking over the telephone, Lou would have been tempted to shake her sister. “You know good and well what I mean, Josephine Carr! Seems to me it’s obvious Chenault Kirkland had a hand in what happened at Leola’s, and he must’ve had a good reason for running, or he wouldn’t have gone AWOL. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have something to do with killing poor old Hattie McGee, as well.”

  “I heard Charlie say Hattie found something that might incriminate somebody,” Jo said. “I’ll bet that somebody was Chenault. Charlie was talking over the phone and didn’t know I was listening. Have you noticed how she’s gotten downright tight-lipped about telling me a blessed thing? And frankly, I’ve had about enough of it. I don’t understand why she’s become so secretive—and Annie and Dimple Kilpatrick are the same way.”

  Lou pulled out the chair by the telephone in her hallway and made herself comfortable. This looked to be an interesting conversation. “I wonder what she found,” she said. “I’ll bet she’s hidden it somewhere.”

  “Well, whatever it was must not have turned up, or I think we would’ve heard about it,” Jo said. “Chloe Jarrett told Bessie Jenkins at church last Sunday that the old trailer Hattie lived in had been turned inside out, things just thrown everywhere. If somebody was searching for something, they must not have found it.”

  “I imagine that place was a mess to begin with,” Lou said. “Poor Hattie! I doubt if she was much of a housekeeper.” Lou picked up a pencil and made meaningless doodles on the pad by the telephone. “But if it’s not in the trailer, then where is it?” Her doodles tuned into circles, and the circles turned into curlicues, and then the curlicues began to look like primitive flowers. Roses. “Jo, think of all those roses she planted! Maybe she buried whatever she found in there.”

  “If you want to go and dig around in all those bushes in ninety-degree temperatures, go right ahead,” her sister told her. “Besides, whoever’s been looking for something out there might come back and find us.”

  “Oh, good heavens, Josephine! Chenault Kirkland is locked away, and bound to stay that way for a good long time. And think, if she did bury something there, the soil would be disturbed, wouldn’t it? At least it’s worth our time to look. Think of Clay Jarrett wasting away in that awful jail! Why, I took him some of my apple cobbler the other day and the poor thing just set it aside. Seems to have lost his appetite.”

  “That’s because everybody in town has been feeding him,” Jo said. “I’m sure he managed to choke it down later.” Her sister was a fabulous cook, and Jo couldn’t imagine a young man Clay’s age turning down anything she had to offer.

  “And I doubt if the Jarretts would think kindly about our poking around on their property,” Jo added.

  “Naturally, I was planning to ask their permission,” Lou explained. Of course she hadn’t thought of doing that, but it was a good idea. “I would think they’d welcome anyone who wants to try to clear their son’s name.”

  * * *

  “By all means, but I doubt if you’ll find anything. You know how Hattie carried on,” Chloe told Lou when she telephoned a few minutes later. “When would you like to come?”

  “The sooner, the better,” Lou said. “It should be cooler in the early morning.”

  “Knox and I will be at a funeral in Social Circle tomorrow. Knox’s aunt Rose Ellen—would’ve been eighty-nine her next birthday—and of course there’ll be a big dinner to follow, but we should be back by three.

  “We’re closing the Shed for the day, but if you need anything to dig with, Hattie kept a couple of tools underneath the trailer,” she added. “I sure hope something turns up!”

  Louise Willingham did, too. Her sister was not happy being roused from bed at such an early hour and expected to dig into dry red earth as hard as marble.

  “I thought you said the soil would look different if it had been disturbed, Lou. It all looks the same to me. I worked all day yesterday at the ordnance plant and I didn’t plan to spend my entire morning digging in the hot sun!” Jo leaned on her hoe and blotted perspiration from her brow with a red bandanna.

  “I worked yesterday, too, Jo, and we’ve been here less than an hour,” Lou reminded
her. “I brought a Thermos of ice water if you want some. It’s over there under that oak tree. Why don’t you take a break and get something to drink?”

  Jo willingly laid aside her hoe and did as she was advised. Refreshed by the water, she found a mossy spot and sat down under the tree to take note of her surroundings. It was at least ten degrees cooler here and she was in no rush to start digging again. Two robins played tag in the old oak’s branches and a soft breeze rustled leaves in the sassafras tree beside her. Their mother had been a firm believer in the pinkish tea made by brewing the roots of that plant, as it was supposed to purge you of all kinds of impurities and tasted a little like root beer. It had been a long time since she had chewed a twig of sassafras, and Jo reached over to break off a piece. That was when she saw the trail.

  At first, she wasn’t sure it was a trail because it was so overgrown with weeds it was difficult to make out the pathway. It was probably made by some kind of animal, she thought; there were plenty of them around: rabbits, raccoons, possums. Still, it would be interesting to see where it went. Jo stood and wandered closer.

  Briars clutched at her skirt as she waded through yellowing grass that brushed her ankles as she passed. Trees grew closer together here and dry twigs snapped under her feet as she stepped cautiously, her eyes on the trail.

  She almost didn’t see it because the trail—or what there was of a trail—ended in a small woodland clearing carpeted with leaves so deep, her shoes sank into them with each step. Looking closer, she noticed a mound of vines heavy with muscadines climbing high into a black gum tree in the swell of the hill. In another few weeks, the plump green grapes would ripen into a dark, pungent purple.

  For a few seconds, she had that peculiar feeling, like somebody had walked over her grave. Ignoring it, Jo crept nearer. It looked like some kind of cave. Did an animal burrow here? But what kind of animal would lean branches over a low overhanging limb to make a crude framework for the thick thatch of grass and underbrush? Jo leaned closer. It appeared to be a tent of sorts—a tent just large enough for one person.