Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause

by Mignon F. Ballard

  Doc Morrison seemed to think he would be able to get back to his old routine in a few more weeks, and although his shoulder still hurt some, he felt a lot stronger than he had when he first got home a few days ago.

  Jesse Dean wrapped himself in his old flannel robe to check the locks on the doors. Before this he had never even thought to lock his doors at night, and even though everybody seemed to think he’d been shot by mistake, the bullet had been real, and he wasn’t taking any chances. When he first came home he’d been as jittery as a sinner at the Pearly Gates every time he heard footsteps on the porch or somebody passing by his window, but now he’d almost convinced himself he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Polishing his glasses on the sleeve of his robe, Jesse Dean turned on the lamp beside his chair and picked up the copy of A Tale of Two Cities Miss Virginia had brought him from the library. He was well into the second chapter when he thought he heard someone in the shrubbery outside his bedroom window.

  * * *

  Maybe he should telephone Chief Tinsley, but he had called him once before when he’d thought someone was trying to break in, and it had turned out to be a raccoon feasting on the contents of his trash can. Jesse Dean turned on the front porch light in time to see a neighbor’s gray-striped cat jump from the railing and dart into the shadows by the walk. Shaking his head in relief, he turned off the porch light, laid his book aside, and climbed into bed. He must’ve been more tired than he thought as he could hardly keep his eyes open, and soon fell asleep.

  Was it the smell of smoke or the pounding that woke him? Jesse Dean bolted upright in bed and reached for his glasses. Something was burning. Had he left a pan on the stove? And then he remembered that Mrs. Cooper had brought his dinner hot from her own oven, and he hadn’t even had to heat up a thing.

  Not bothering to find his slippers, Jesse Dean threw aside the covers and made his way to the window, where he could see a glimmer of brilliant orange from beneath the window shade. At the same time someone began shouting near his window, while voices and urgent pounding came from the front of the house. Jesse Dean recognized one of the voices as belonging to Reynolds Murphy.

  Jesse Dean! For God’s sake, wake up, man! You have to get out of there now! Now someone was beating on his window, and Jesse Dean threw open the shade to see a flame of fire shoot up from the corner of his house to the roof above. Two figures were silhouetted against the blaze as they struggled to wrestle the burning barrel away from the house. Jesse Dean recognized one of his neighbors standing below his window urging him to go to the front door.

  “Thank God!” Reynolds shouted as he opened the door and yanked him unceremoniously into the frosty night air.

  “Ouch!” Jesse Dean grabbed his sore shoulder as Reynolds threw a heavy coat about him.

  “Sorry!” Reynolds patted his other shoulder. “I was just in a hurry to get you out of there. Are you all right?”

  Jesse Dean coughed and nodded numbly. “I think so. What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that it looks like somebody tried to burn down your house,” Chief Tinsley said. “If Reynolds here hadn’t been passing by and alerted your neighbor, it might be a lot worse than it is.”

  “And how bad is it?” Jesse Dean found that he had trouble standing and sank into the familiar old porch rocker where his granny used to sit to shell peas.

  “Looks like the side of the house is scorched and a few shingles on the roof are charred, but nothing serious,” his neighbor said. “Somebody shoved a barrel of trash up close to your house and set fire to it.”

  Jesse Dean shook his head and waited for that to sink in while the fire truck arrived, siren sounding, and woke the rest of the neighborhood. It took less than five minutes to extinguish the fire.

  “I don’t know what brought you over into our neck of the woods,” Jesse Dean said to Reynolds after the commotion had died down, “but I sure am glad you were here!” He had learned earlier that Reynolds Murphy had been released on bail, and if what he heard was true, bail was set for more money than he could ever imagine.

  “I reckon you can thank my sweet tooth for that,” Reynolds told him. “I was working late at the store trying to catch up on my books after being a guest of the city,” he said, with a nod to Bobby Tinsley. “Now, I don’t mean to complain about the food or anything like that, but ice cream just wasn’t on their menu, and along about nine o’clock or so I decided I had to have some. The Super Service over there is the only place around here that stays open that late.”

  The house was free of what little smoke had drifted inside by then and the group had moved into the living room. Jesse Dean was familiar with the Super Service a few blocks on the other side of the hill from where he lived and knew it was a favorite with children, who for a nickel could buy ice cream in small cardboard containers with the picture of a movie star on the lid, as well as candy and soft drinks.

  “Well, Mr. Murphy,” Jesse Dean said, “when I get back to work, I sure hope you’ll drop by the store because I’d like to treat you to all the ice cream you can eat!”

  Everyone laughed at that, and one by one the neighbors began to drift away, leaving only Reynolds, Bobby Tinsley, and Madge Malone, who had dashed out with her late husband’s old overcoat over her flannel nightgown. Jesse Dean flushed as he noticed a flutter of pink eyelet ruffle when she walked.

  “I don’t like to think of you staying here alone after what happened tonight,” Madge said, taking a determined stance. “You just come on home with me, Jesse Dean, and we’ll set up a cot in the dining room. It’s not safe for you to stay on here.”

  Oh, my! Jesse Dean felt his face getting as hot as a kettle. Madge Malone was old enough to be his mother, and in fact her two daughters were not much younger than he was, but he just wouldn’t feel right spending the night in a houseful of women.

  Madge noticed his hesitancy. “At least for tonight,” she insisted. “What if whoever started that fire comes back?”

  “In that case, they won’t find you at home. Get your belongings together, Jesse Dean. You’re coming home with me.” Harris Cooper stood in the doorway, unnoticed until now. Jesse Dean wasn’t aware when he arrived, but he sure was glad to see him. One of the neighbors had called him, Harris said, acknowledging that this was a hell of a thing to have happened and that Jesse Dean was welcome to their spare room for as long as he wanted.

  “Should’ve thought of this in the first place!” Harris muttered later as he carried Jesse’s bag to the car. Jesse Dean leaned back against the fuzzy upholstery and closed his eyes, feeling his energy drain from him, along with the newly found hope that his injury had been an accident. He was thankful for the safe retreat with the Coopers, but resented the fact that he couldn’t recuperate in his own home. What had he ever done to provoke someone to want to kill him?

  * * *

  The conversation at Phoebe Chadwick’s dinner table the next day centered on Jesse Dean’s close encounter with possible death.

  “I still don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt Jesse Dean,” Velma said. “And to try to set fire to his home—why, it’s just unbelievable!”

  “Thank goodness the fire was discovered in time,” Geneva said. “I understand he’s now staying with the Coopers.”

  Lily Moss set down her cup with a clatter. “There are some dreadful things going on in this town. Dreadful! And now they’ve let Reynolds Murphy out on bail. Do you suppose he really had something to do with his wife’s death?”

  “It does seem the spouse is usually the most logical person to suspect,” Geneva said. “He must’ve known she was running around on him; still, it’s hard to believe he would go to that extreme.”

  “Who knows what someone would do in the heat of the moment,” Velma added. “And Reynolds does have a temper. Remember when the Starnes boy threw a rock and shattered that big plateglass window in the front of the store? Did it on purpose, too, because Reynolds lectured him for st
ealing candy. He not only made the boy clean up the mess, but he had to sweep out the store every Saturday for a month. Of course the boy had it coming, but I was there shopping when it happened, and I’ve never seen Reynolds so upset.”

  Lily sighed. “Well, I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

  Dimple was inclined to agree with her as she watched Phoebe quietly excuse herself from the table. At her suggestion, Bobby Tinsley had inspected Velma’s tires at Asa Weatherby’s Gulf Station and admitted that the tire slashes seemed deliberate. As for Reynolds Murphy’s guilt, well, she wasn’t so sure about that. Yet.

  “Do you have any idea who might have a reason to do such a thing?” he’d asked, and she hadn’t been able to give him an answer.

  “What about your friend—Miss Anderson? Could it have been one of her students? It seems a vindictive act—maybe by someone who received a failing grade?”

  But when Dimple finally confided in Velma, her friend couldn’t think of anyone in her class who would do such a thing and didn’t remember the last time she had given a failing grade to a student in her secretarial science classes. “I suppose it was just some sorry somebody who had nothing better to do,” Velma decided, “and it won’t do us any good to worry about it now.”

  Now Miss Dimple listened to the conversation around her without commenting. The fire at Jesse Dean Greeson’s house made no sense to her at all, but she was beginning to believe the slashed tires on Velma’s car might have been meant as a warning.

  * * *

  “Have you noticed anything unusual in the way Phoebe’s been acting lately?” Charlie asked Annie as they crossed over into the school grounds that afternoon.

  “You mean because she stirred milk into her iced tea today at dinner? And she always looks like she’s been crying? I think Miss Dimple’s been trying to help her, but I doubt if she’s had any luck, and Odessa’s worried, too. She asked me this morning if I thought Phoebe had some kind of terrible illness.”

  “Do you think she has?” Charlie walked faster as the first bell rang. “She looks terribly thin and hardly eats a thing.”

  Annie shrugged. “If Miss Dimple can’t get to the bottom of it, I don’t know who can.”

  * * *

  It had to be someone in Elderberry, possibly even someone they knew. Miss Dimple had seen Phoebe’s name printed in block letters on one of Phoebe’s earlier messages, and from the way her friend was acting, she suspected she had recently received another.

  Dimple Kilpatrick was in a dilemma, and the next morning, as she set out on her customary walk before breakfast, she battled with a decision. Phoebe Chadwick not only had opened her home to her years before but also had become a trusted friend. When Dimple thought of home, she thought of the rambling frame house on Ivy Street only a block from the school with its familiar overstuffed furniture, worn over the years into comfortable lumps and mounds to fit the various forms of those who shaped it. Dimple’s favorite was a faded chintz-covered armchair by the window where one could catch the last of the afternoon light before evening shadows claimed the room. In winter she often watched the reflection of the fire on the dented brass fender and found comfort in the patterns on the rug that had once been a rich burgundy and gold but had worn into soft shades of rose and a delicate blending of yellow, reminding her of the primroses she’d once seen on a visit to New England.

  Dimple adored her brother, Henry, and looked forward to their time spent together during holidays at his rustic mountain home, but she was less fond of Henry’s wife, Hazel, and her ditto of a sister, who seemed forever about. It was always pleasant to look forward to returning to the place she called home. But most of all, she cared about the people there: Odessa Kirby, surely one of God’s finest creations; her fellow teachers, who, although different in many ways, were dedicated one and all to their profession and to the students in their care; and especially Phoebe herself.

  Miss Dimple crossed Katherine Street, sidestepping a puddle from last night’s rain. The sun had begun to paint the dusky streets in a soft gray light, and the air smelled as new as dawn. Oak trees that had been planted when the town was young made a canopy of mottled colors of gold and red against a lingering green. Dimple took a deep breath and turned toward town, walking briskly past the sleeping storefronts. What a shame about all the troublesome business with Reynolds Murphy, she thought as she passed the five-and-ten, and now kindly Jesse Dean, but her concern today was for Phoebe.

  Dimple remembered Phoebe’s husband, Monroe. It had been difficult to like Monroe Chadwick. Unfortunately, she had never managed to do so, however hard she tried, and she had never understood just why someone as warm and caring as her friend could cast her lot with his. However, as her grandmother used to say, there was no accounting for tastes.

  Pausing to spear a piece of litter with the point of her umbrella, Dimple dropped it into a bag she carried for that purpose and moved on. Past Lewellyn’s Drug Store she walked, past Brumlow’s Dry Goods and Cooper’s Store, and with each step she became more determined. She had tried every way she could to be helpful in a tactful manner, but her friend was on the verge of a breakdown—or worse, and someone had to step in.

  Dimple Kilpatrick walked faster. She knew what she had to do.

  * * *

  “Have any of you seen the picture showing at the Jewel?” Dimple asked innocently during their noon meal the next day. “A comedy, I believe. I’m thinking of seeing it with Virginia tomorrow if I can convince her to go. We can all use a little laughter in our lives, don’t you think?”

  “That’s the one with Don Ameche, isn’t it?” Annie asked. “He’s always good, and I heard it was funny.”

  “I thought about going this afternoon,” Miss Dimple said, “but Virginia just got in a shipment of new books, so I guess we’ll wait until tomorrow. It should be a nice day to see a picture with the weather turning so chilly and damp.”

  Phoebe, she noticed, took that opportunity to take the empty tea pitcher into the kitchen.

  Charlie helped herself to just one more green-tomato pickle. Nobody made them like Odessa, crunchy and tart with just enough spice. She had never heard Miss Dimple object to being out in harsh weather before. In fact, she usually seemed to favor the cold.

  Now Odessa, putting away freshly ironed table napkins, shut the buffet drawer with her ample hip. “You all talking ’bout that picture show ’bout heaven what’s on downtown? Bob Robert and I went to see that last night, and I don’t know when I’ve laughed so hard.”

  Miss Dimple smiled. She had bought tickets for the couple the day before, and Odessa had promised not to mention where she got them. “Right. Heaven Can Wait. I believe it’s only going to be here for another day or so,” she added.

  Charlie turned to Annie. “Why don’t we go after school today? Anybody want to join us?”

  Lily Moss pursued the last bite of baked apple on her plate. “Well … I shouldn’t with all those papers to grade, but I don’t want to miss it.”

  “My afternoon should be fairly free,” Miss Dimple said. “I can give you a hand if you like, Lily.”

  “Good! Then that’s settled.” Velma laid down her fork. “I’ll go along, too. We can stop at the drugstore and have a Co-Cola—make it a real party.”

  Geneva said she’d love to join them but knew her husband wanted to see it, and Sebastian had to rehearse the high school chorus after school.

  Dimple smiled her thanks at Odessa, who pretended not to notice. Geneva lived at home and took only her noon meals with Phoebe, and the rest of the boarders would be away that afternoon for two hours or more. That should give her a clear field.

  * * *

  Phoebe sat at the kitchen table polishing silver and hardly looked up when Dimple came in and sat beside her. The house was quiet and empty as the others had left for the picture show, and earlier Odessa had made a stew of today’s leftovers and put it in the refrigerator for supper before leaving for home.

  Dimple picked up a
sterling fork in the familiar Forget-Me-Not pattern, dipped a rag into the polish, and began to work in earnest. She didn’t speak.

  After a few minutes of silence, Phoebe Chadwick sighed and tossed a polished spoon into the center pile with a clatter. “Well, you might as well tell me what it is,” she said.

  Miss Dimple eyed her fork and started on another. “What what is?”

  “Oh, Dimple, you know very well what. I know you’re up to something. Just tell me what you want.”

  “Very well, I’ll tell you.” Dimple pushed back her chair in order to look more closely into Phoebe’s pale face. “I want to know what is the matter with you, Phoebe, and don’t even think of saying it’s nothing because I know better. For over a month now we’ve watched you become almost a shadow of yourself. You don’t eat, and I doubt if you sleep because I’ve heard you down here walking around in the middle of the night. You jump at the slightest noise, and your eyes are constantly red from crying. You are my dear friend, and I’m worried about you. We all are.”

  “So that’s why everyone conveniently decided to go to the picture show,” Phoebe mumbled; her head sank onto her chest.

  Miss Dimple spoke up brightly. “Virginia and I plan to see it tomorrow. You should come, too.”

  “I have circle meeting tomorrow,” Phoebe said dully.

  “Oh, blast circle meeting!” Dimple Kilpatrick surprised herself. Why, she sounded just like her brother!

  “Why, Dimple! I’ve never heard you talk like that.”

  “And I’ve never seen you act like this. What’s going on with you, Phoebe? Are you ill? Is something wrong with your niece, with Harrison? We all care about you, you know, and Odessa’s just about beside herself with worry. What can we do to help?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do.” And Phoebe laid her head in her arms and cried.