Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “Wanted me to let them use my wedding dress for that womanless wedding they’re planning!” Lou Willingham’s hefty bosom heaved in indignation.

  “Why not?” Jo asked. “You aren’t planning to wear it again, are you?”

  “And do you know who’s going to be the bride?” her sister demanded. “That fool Delby O’Donnell, that’s who! Big as the broadside of a barn! My Lord, the man’s got a behind like a Tennessee walker! I just told Miss High and Mighty to use her own damn dress!”

  Jo Carr paused with her pencil in midair. “You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t, Louise.” She hoped Delby, who was known to frequently overindulge in the “demon rum,” could stay sober long enough to make it down the aisle.

  “I’m telling you I did—and about time, too! The nerve of that woman! Emmaline Brumlow has gotten entirely too big for her britches.”

  Charlie thought it might be a good thing she and Emmaline’s son, Hugh, had decided to remain just good friends. “We’re meeting at the high school next week. Maybe somebody on the committee will know of one they can use.”

  “If Delby O’Donnell’s wearing it, you’ll be better off just to stitch together some bedsheets,” her aunt announced.

  “Tell me,” she added, her expression serious, “have they learned any more about those remains you all found? It must be terrible for the Hutchinsons, having something like that turn up on their own farm! I wonder who it might be.”

  “If the police have learned anything, they’re not sharing it with us,” Charlie told her. “Annie’s having a hard time dealing with it, and so am I. It’s like a bad dream. I wish it were.”

  “It’s been on my mind all day,” Jo said. “I hope they’ll get to the bottom of this soon.”

  “A gruesome thing for the children to see,” Lou added. “I wouldn’t be surprised if all of you don’t have nightmares, and I’ll have to admit, it makes me want to look over my shoulder.”

  Most of the children didn’t see the remains, Charlie assured them, but that didn’t stop them from talking about it.

  “I hear Buddy Oglesby’s in charge of publicity for the rally,” her mother said, obviously eager to change the subject.

  “Yes, and he’s doing a great job of it,” Charlie said. “He came up with an idea for a poster contest for the children and they’re all excited about it. The whole town will probably be covered in them by Monday.”

  “Maybe this will be a good thing for Buddy,” her mother said. “I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He always seemed to kind of wander through life.”

  He seemed to be wandering as well through the school that day, Charlie thought. She had met him in the hallway as he was leaving the principal’s office after presenting his suggestion about the poster contest, and he walked as if he were in a daze.

  “Buddy, are you feeling better?” Charlie had asked. “I was afraid you might be coming down with something yesterday.”

  “Yes, yes, much better, thank you,” he mumbled, and practically knocked her down in his rush to the door. The poor man looked as if he was going to be sick. Charlie knew how he felt.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It had to be her! And he was almost certain he knew who had put her there. How long had it been? A lifetime, it seemed, but the pain was as fresh as if it were yesterday. What if they found out? Or maybe they already knew!

  * * *

  The Elderberry High School Auditorium felt cool after the heat of the day, and Charlie, sitting in the second row in front of the stage, felt right at home with the scuffed floors and hard wooden seats that sounded like gunfire when students slammed them up or down. It had been only a little more than five years when she herself had been here as a student, and by the look of things it hadn’t changed a lot. After what her aunt Lou had said about the wedding dress, she had dreaded coming face-to-face with Emmaline Brumlow, but the woman had either decided to forget the comment, ignore it, or was letting it simmer until it came to a boil. Probably the latter.

  Murmurs rose and fell in waves as the group tossed about theories and speculations on the recently exposed skeleton in the Hutchinsons’ cotton field as they waited for the meeting to begin.

  “… could’ve been a Union soldier—you know, like the one Melanie shot in Gone with the Wind,” Delia offered. She had read the novel five times.

  “Maybe it was an old graveyard,” someone else suggested. Another thought it was probably a long-ago tenant whose family couldn’t afford a cemetery plot.

  They were interrupted by Emmaline, who had given in to the heat by shedding her suit jacket. Clearing her throat for all to hear, she rose and stood in front of the stage to get the meeting under way and to introduce Sebastian Weaver, who would be in charge of music for the production. Thin and lanky with a neat salt-and-pepper beard, Phoebe Chadwick’s new roomer, with his sad face and quiet demeanor, reminded Charlie of Abraham Lincoln. He sat alone at the end of the first row of seats and rose briefly when acknowledged.

  Delia had brought along Millie McGregor, the new coach’s wife, whom she said had once been an extra in a movie with Judy Garland, and the two of them took time about telling the group about a couple of skits they’d chosen from the book Emmaline had passed along earlier. Millie was one of those people, Charlie thought, who could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. She wore her curly blond hair swept up in a pompadour and tied back with a bright green ribbon, and her dark red lipstick was almost the same color as her dress and matching wedge-heel shoes. Delia and little Tommy had been spending a lot of time with Millie since the couple moved into their aunt’s garage apartment, and Charlie was glad her sister had a new friend to keep her company, but it seemed she was always there when she needed help in the kitchen.

  Charlie had noticed that the new coach walked with a pronounced limp, and Delia said that Millie told her Jordan had been wounded in the war when he lost part of his foot serving with MacArthur’s Forty-first Infantry Division. “And he came down with malaria, too, during the fighting at Buna in New Guinea,” Delia added, “but Millie said not to talk about it.”

  Reynolds Murphy, with Annie’s help, had begged, coerced, and threatened enough of the remaining men in town to make up a thoroughly disreputable wedding party, and Louise Willingham’s husband, Ed, one of the town’s two dentists, would be playing the father of the bride—complete with shotgun.

  A group of fifth- and sixth-grade girls, calling themselves Victory’s Voice, with help from Annie and Sebastian Weaver, were rehearsing a song-and-dance number as part of the entertainment, and several students from the high school had agreed to a couple of dance numbers as well, Annie told them.

  Virginia Balliew spoke up from her seat a few rows back, where she sat with Bessie Jenkins, Charlie’s next-door neighbor, who had volunteered to help with costumes. “Are you telling me the boys are dancing as well?” she asked Annie.

  “That’s right.” Annie grinned. “We have six couples—maybe seven if Susie Hamilton gets over her ear infection by next week.”

  Virginia shook her head. “How on earth did you manage that? You must’ve had to threaten them.”

  Millie McGregor raised her hand and smiled. “No, but my husband did—made it a requirement for the football team—at least for those who don’t have two left feet.”

  Virginia laughed. “In that case, we’re lucky to have seven.”

  Now Emmaline drew herself up to her full five feet nine and a half inches and laid aside her notes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed all the wonderful publicity about the rally that has been circulated around town, and you’ll soon be seeing more. We have Buddy Oglesby to thank for that. Buddy, would you like to let us in on some of your other inspiring plans to spread the word?”

  Poor Buddy! Tall and gangling with graying blond hair, he seemed ill at ease in front of the group, and his face turned watermelon red. Charlie could see he wanted to crawl under his seat and disappear, but at least he had more color in his face than he had when she saw him last.


  Buddy shared some of the posters he’d received from the government that would be displayed in public places around town. One showed three small children standing in the shadow of a large swastika. The caption at the bottom warned: Don’t Let That Shadow Touch Them. BUY WAR BONDS. Another, picturing a wounded soldier, read: Doing all you can, brother? A third featured a look-alike mother and her young daughter pasting defense stamps in a booklet and advised: Even a little can help a lot—NOW.

  After giving out the posters to those who volunteered to help distribute them, Buddy told them about the contest he’d suggested for the children, depositing a large stack of them on the stage. “We’ve had a huge response, as you can see,” he added, “and a prize will be awarded on rally night. It would be nice, I think, if some of the members of the rally committee would help select a winner.”

  “I don’t think it would be fair for me to be a part of that since I teach some of these children,” Charlie said, and Annie agreed on the same grounds, but Millie McGregor volunteered to help, as did Emmaline and Delia.

  “Charlie, I’d like you to write an article for the Eagle about the womanless wedding and the other entertainment we’re planning,” Emmaline directed. “Since your mother is society editor, she should be able to finagle a featured spot.

  “Rehearsals begin at seven thirty Wednesday,” she reminded them, “and I’ll expect all of you to be here, especially you, Bessie, as you’ll need to get measurements for those who’ll need costumes.”

  Charlie, who said she’d be glad to write the article, wondered if Emmaline had found a wedding dress for the bride. Annie must’ve been thinking the same thing because she looked for all the world like she was trying not to laugh.

  “I heard you were there, Charlie, when they found that poor soul buried out in the country,” Millie said as they walked outside together. “It must’ve been awful!”

  Charlie admitted it was something she’d just as soon forget.

  “And you were, too, weren’t you, Buddy?” the woman persisted. “Somebody said the thing had hair, and it still had scraps of cloth sticking to it. Could they tell if it was a woman or a man?”

  “I really don’t know.” Buddy walked a little faster.

  “Well, it sure didn’t get in that grave by itself,” she continued. “Do you think they’ll ever find out who did it?”

  But Buddy Oglesby had hurried away into the night.

  * * *

  “I’ve brought you some of my Victory Muffins,” Miss Dimple said to her friend Virginia during an afternoon lull at the library. “I know you don’t take time to eat the way you should, and”—she lowered her voice—“they provide a lot of the necessary fiber we all need at our age to aid in digestion.”

  Virginia fluffed a feather duster over the piano. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly regular, thank you.”

  Dimple smiled. “Because you eat my muffins. Now, promise you’ll have one at least every other morning.”

  Virginia crossed her fingers and promised. She loved her friend, but was of the opinion that if you built a wall with Dimple’s Victory Muffins, which were intended to make one regular and healthy, as well as patriotic, you could hold off the enemy indefinitely.

  “Emmaline held her first rally meeting at the high school last night,” she said, “and I declare, Dimple, that woman could give Mussolini himself a run for his money. She has all the makings of a dictator.”

  “It doesn’t look as though we’ll have to worry about him anymore,” Dimple said. The Fascist Grand Council had turned against their defeated leader only the summer before and imprisoned him on the island of Ponza.

  “Well, we still have to worry about Emmaline. I just hope I can get through this rally without committing murder or mayhem.” Virginia shoved a stray book into place and stooped to stroke Cattus, who ignored her.

  “Since you’re speaking of that subject, I see Bo Albright has a front-page story about the remains of the woman uncovered on the Hutchinsons’ farm,” Dimple said.

  Virginia frowned. “How do they know it was a woman?”

  A copy of the Eagle lay on the massive oak table by the windows where students sometimes did homework, and Miss Dimple folded it neatly into fourths to read. “Bo quotes the coroner as saying the skeleton belonged to a woman who had been dead for approximately two years.” She sighed in disapproval. “This is most unnecessary, and on the front page, too. Did you see this, Virginia? It sounds like a circus barker: Floodwaters uncover shallow grave! Who was the mystery woman buried there? What secrets did she hold?

  “Secrets indeed! It’s not only sensational, but disrespectful as well. There’s just no excuse for it.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.” Virginia reached for the paper. “It should be easy enough to find out,” she said after studying the article. “Who went missing about two years ago? Of course it could’ve been someone who wasn’t from this area.”

  “I can’t think of anyone right offhand, but I do hope they’ll find out soon so the unfortunate person can be properly laid to rest,” Dimple said.

  “But whoever put her there could still be close by.” Virginia tossed the newspaper aside. “The Hutchinsons’ son would’ve been here two years ago—about high school age, I imagine … and the war would have given him a perfect excuse to leave.”

  Miss Dimple nodded. She hoped it wasn’t true.

  * * *

  “You all better eat your fill of this here fried okra. Ain’t gonna be no more till next summer.” Odessa Kirby, Phoebe Chadwick’s longtime cook, set down a bowl filled with the crisp vegetable, dipped in buttermilk, seasoned cornmeal, and fried in bacon drippings, and watched it disappear. Today was vegetable day at the rooming house, and no one seemed to mind. In fact, they happily devoured the green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, and field peas that had come from the Chadwicks’ victory garden.

  Dimple Kilpatrick helped herself to Odessa’s delectable corn pones, golden brown and crusty on the outside and moist and flavorful on the inside, restricting herself to one. Miss Dimple’s brother, Henry, kept Odessa supplied with the water-ground cornmeal he ordered from a mill near his vacation home in the North Georgia mountains, and everyone agreed the texture couldn’t be equaled. Miss Dimple didn’t deny it.

  “I hear Harris Cooper’s going to be the groom for the womanless wedding,” Geneva Odom said, spooning field peas onto her plate. Although Geneva didn’t room at Miss Phoebe’s, she took her noon meal there during the week, as did Charlie. The school had no cafeteria, and the students who didn’t bring a bagged lunch went home for dinner in the middle of the day.

  Harris Cooper, a local grocer, was so short he had to stand on a box to see over the counter. He wore his thinning hair slicked down with Wildroot Cream Oil, and a gold pocket watch usually peeked from his vest pocket.

  Charlie laughed. “Why, Delby O’Donnell could pick up Harris Cooper and toss him over his shoulder!”

  “I suppose that’s the point,” Geneva said, “but how are they going to find a dress large enough for Delby?”

  “Bessie’s making one from some of her old dotted Swiss curtains,” Charlie said. “I believe the wedding party is complete—or I hope it is. The first rehearsal’s tonight.”

  Ignoring Phoebe’s frown, Lily Moss blotted her mouth with her white linen napkin, leaving orange smears of Tangee lipstick. “Well, I think the whole thing’s silly! Grown men dressing up in women’s clothing. You’d think they could find better ways to spend their time.”

  The room came to attention as Miss Dimple rested her fork on her plate. “I don’t believe any effort to support our country could be considered a waste of time.”

  Silence like a blanket of snow descended on the diners as Lily flushed and reached for her water glass with a trembling hand. Charlie wanted to stand and cheer for Miss Dimple’s stand, but she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Lily, who never seemed to think before she spoke.

  To her relief, Velm
a Anderson spoke up. “Well, I can hardly wait to see it. That new coach, Jordan McGregor, has talked our own Froggie Faulkenberry into being the maid of honor.”

  “That I have to see!” Geneva said, thinking of their stuffy school principal parading down the aisle in lace. She turned to Annie. “What do the younger girls plan to sing?”

  “We’re working on a little dance routine to ‘Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.’ I think it should be fun—if Sebastian has the patience to put up with us,” Annie said.

  Sebastian Weaver, who was the lone man at the table, folded his napkin and stood. “If I can tolerate seven high school couples … how do you say it … jitterbugging … to ‘The Two O’Clock Jump,’ I don’t think I’ll have a problem with that little group.”

  Odessa thumped a tray down on the sideboard. “You not leaving now, are you? You gonna miss dessert.”

  Even with sugar being rationed, along with just about everything else, Odessa continued to work miracles in the kitchen and usually managed to provide a sweet of some kind.

  “I hate to miss that, but I have a class in half an hour and will have to hurry to make it.” The high school was almost a mile away, and almost everyone walked to save on gas. Eyeing the dessert, Sebastian hesitated on his way out. “Looks good. What is it, Odessa?”

  “I found this here recipe for War Cake in one of them ladies’ magazines. Here, you can take a piece with you.”

  “Why do they call it War Cake?” Velma asked as Sebastian left, happily munching.

  “’Cause it ain’t got no sugar in it,” Odessa explained. “Just honey. Be a lot better with a good lemon sauce, but we don’t have enough sugar for that, either.”

  Charlie found the dessert delicious even without the sauce. The new choral director had seemed to enjoy it, too. She wondered how he got along with the rowdy teenaged boys under his supervision as he was basically shy and had been raised in Austria, so his accent was sometimes a handicap because of the war with Germany.