Miss Dimple Suspects (13 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

The year was wearing down to the shortest day and the sun would soon be gone from the sky when they wound their way through a grove of pecan trees to the weathered gray building where Isaac Ingram had his blacksmith shop. As they drew nearer they could see the yellow-orange glow of the coal fire in the forge and the dark silhouette of the smithy as he hammered at the anvil. Although the temperature had dipped into the thirties and a chill wind sent brown leaves tumbling, Isaac Ingram worked with his sleeves rolled up in a shop with double doors entirely open on one side. Showers of red sparks rained against the dark grime of the interior.

The blacksmith barely acknowledged the group with a nod as he proceeded to forge what appeared to be a plowshare, and Miss Dimple was reminded of the adage “strike while the iron is hot.” Naturally a blacksmith couldn’t stop in the middle of this important step. The pounding of the hammer made a musical rhythm when Isaac struck the anvil between beats on the iron being hammered. Dimple smiled, remembering her papa who had referred to that as “tickling the anvil.”

They stepped back as the iron sizzled, and steam rose when it was dropped into a tub of water to temper it. The heavy smoke from the coal used in the forge filled the building with an awful smell that made her want to hold her nose and Miss Dimple noticed the two younger women were obviously attempting to ignore it.

Flames flickered low in the forge, leaving the coals to burn away but the blacksmith didn’t reach for the bellows that hung nearby. Instead, setting the finished plowshare aside, he wiped his hands and face on a rag as black with soot as he was and finally greeted his visitors. As Suzy had described, Isaac, unlike his slight, fairer-skinned brother, was dark and broad shouldered, and at least four or five inches taller than Esau. Underneath the grime and the beginnings of a beard, he was probably a handsome man, Miss Dimple thought—although a grim one, and one who came right to the point.

“You’re here about my aunt,” he said, shoving the soiled rag into his back pocket. He didn’t smile as he addressed Miss Dimple. “She told me about you and that little girl. She doing all right?”

“As far as I know,” Dimple replied. “She was to have had her tonsils out today. If it hadn’t been for your aunt and her companion, I doubt if Peggy would be alive.”
And I’m not so sure about myself,
she thought. Miss Dimple pulled the muffler from around her neck and unbuttoned her coat as the stifling heat closed around them. “We came to tell you how very sorry we are,” she said, introducing the others.

This was met with a stoic silence that seemed to go on forever. “Well, she’s gone,” he told them, shaking his head. “Shouldn’t have happened, but it did.” Isaac motioned for them to follow him into an adjoining room. “Not so hot in here,” he said as they stepped into an enclosed space lined with shelves filled with the results of his craft. Larger pieces like harrows, cooking vessels, even intricate wrought-iron gates, hung on the walls above them. Dimple saw a beautiful pair of andirons on a table to one side, and Isaac, seeing her notice it, reached out and touched it briefly. “Was going to give it to her for Christmas … the ones she had had just about melted through.”

Dimple felt a catch in her throat as she searched for words. A kind and talented woman was gone and the grim awareness of it enveloped them as had the dark, suffocating smoke from the forge. She glanced at Charlie, whose eyes filled with tears. Annie’s, too. “Oh,” Charlie said. Just
oh
. Annie and Dimple said nothing.

“That woman—the nurse who looked after her … she turned up yet?” Isaac asked, facing them.

Miss Dimple drew in her breath.
Oh, dear!
“I don’t believe so,” she told him.

“They say her prints were on the poker,” he said.

“What?”
Wide-eyed, Annie reached out and grabbed the nearest arm. It was Charlie’s.

“The sheriff, he said they found that woman’s prints on the poker,” Isaac repeated. “The poker that was used to kill her.” Slowly he turned away. “I made that poker.”

“B-but surely you couldn’t have … how could you have known somebody would…?” Charlie began.

Miss Dimple spoke softly. “Mr. Ingram, I don’t know why anyone would want to harm your aunt, but I do know her companion was the one who regularly tended the fire. It would be natural for her prints to be on that poker.”

“Then where is she?” he asked. “And where is the money that was taken? The box she usually kept it in was found in
her
room.” Something close to a smile crossed his face. “Of course there couldn’t have been much in it. She only kept enough for groceries and other mostly minor expenses. The rest she had me put in the bank.”

“I understand you took care of marketing her paintings,” Dimple said, and he nodded, pulling at the whiskers on his chin.

“Most of them. Some of them she practically gave away. Nothing I could do about that. Aunt Mae Martha had a heart as big as that old hill she lived on up there, but she didn’t have a lot of practical sense. Why, I don’t even know where some of her paintings have gotten to. She couldn’t have given them
all
away!”

“You mean they’re
missing
?” Annie asked.

“A good many, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Didn’t you keep some kind of record?” Charlie asked.

“Well, for the most part … at least I tried to.” Isaac sighed. “My aunt was a puzzlin’ woman. She loved people, liked being in their company, but she truly relished being alone.”

A little twinge of guilt nudged Miss Dimple’s noble conscience. “Perhaps I should admit I myself purchased one of Mrs. Hawthorne’s paintings. I’m sure she didn’t charge me nearly what it was worth.”

Charlie and Annie reluctantly confessed they had also bought some of her artwork for a meager fee.

For the first time Isaac Ingram allowed himself to smile and it changed his entire face. “That’s good. You enjoy them then—she preferred they go to people she liked, you know.”

“Where were most of her paintings sold?” Annie asked.

“Most anywhere—some in galleries and exhibits—but they were displayed in bazaars as well, and a few are even in museums. As soon as the sheriff would let me, I took the ones she had in her studio to a dealer in Atlanta, but they won’t go on the market anytime soon.” Isaac picked up a hand-forged fire shovel, fingered the edge. “They don’t stay for sale long.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill your aunt?” Miss Dimple asked, and Isaac took the rag from his pocket, squeezed it with two large hands. “I honestly don’t,” he told her. “But you don’t want to be around when I find out.”

*   *   *

Bony limbs of the overhanging pecan trees made a tunnel in the darkness for the yellow-washed headlights as they made their way back to the road and Charlie drove carefully to avoid any obstructions. Synthetic rubber tires were a minor sacrifice to the war effort, but she didn’t relish having a puncture so far out in the country. “I guess Mama and Aunt Lou have been home awhile by now,” she said. “Both trying to figure out what we’re up to!”

“Just tell them the truth,” Miss Dimple advised, “that we paid a condolence call on—”

“Look out!” Annie yelled from the backseat as a figure stepped from the darkness in front of them right into the path of the car.

Charlie veered to the right to avoid him and threw on the brakes. The person didn’t move.

“Be careful! Go around him,” Annie said. “Let’s get out of here!”

But before Charlie could put the car in gear, the man stepped up and leaned on the driver’s window. It was Mae Martha’s handyman, Bill Pitts.

“What do you want?” Charlie asked, rolling down her window partway. “Do you realize I almost hit you?”

Miss Dimple leaned toward him. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to stand in the middle of the road?” she said in her most authoritative voice. “Is something wrong? Do you need help?”

Bill looked them over silently. “I reckon not,” he mumbled.

“Then step back, please, and we’ll be on our way,” Miss Dimple told him. “I suggest you do the same.” She nudged Charlie to remind her to roll up her window and he obediently moved aside. Annie watched him standing there as they drove away. “Well, that was exciting! Did he have too much to drink or is he just crazy?”

“I think he was checking up on us,” Dimple said.

“Why? What do you mean?” Charlie asked.

“I believe he was looking for Suzy,” Miss Dimple said. “She disappeared the day Mrs. Hawthorne was killed, and we were the ones who discovered her body that same day.” She pulled her warm hat snugly about her ears. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to be much more careful from now on.”

“I hope he doesn’t suspect we know anything about her,” Annie said. “I don’t know what he might do, and Suzy’s alone most of the day while Virginia’s at the library.”

“I can’t imagine why he’d think to look there, or to bother with us,” Charlie assured her. “It’s perfectly natural for us to call on Mae Martha’s nephews. I wonder, though, if he followed us from Esau’s. For a minute there, I thought he wanted to tell us something. Guess he changed his mind.”

“Isaac seems to have genuinely cared for his aunt,” Miss Dimple observed. “And Esau as well, although I suppose even the hardest criminal can squeeze out a few tears when necessary. I’d like to know who benefits from Mrs. Hawthorne’s will.”

“If what I’ve heard is right, her paintings could be worth a small fortune,” Charlie said. “I wonder what happened to the ones that are missing.”

“I’ll tell you where they
weren’t,
” Dimple said as they drove into a dark and silent town. “None of them was on Esau Ingram’s walls—or at least that I could see.”

Annie spoke up from the backseat. “That does seem peculiar, doesn’t it? Maybe they weren’t to Coralee’s taste.”

Dimple, having noticed in the Ingrams’ hallway a framed picture of a waterfall that looked as if it had been torn from a calendar, thought perhaps the woman’s taste in art might be on the same level as her baking skills. But, of course, she didn’t say so.

*   *   *

The next afternoon Dimple found little Peggy Ashcroft propped in her hospital bed with her favorite doll in one arm and a brand-new stuffed teddy bear in the other. One of those embroidery kits sold especially for children, although few ever used them, waited on the table beside her, along with a storybook, a coloring book, and a new box of crayons.

“Hurts,” Peggy croaked in response to her teacher’s greeting, but she managed a weak smile and held up the doll for Dimple to see.

It was obvious the rag doll wasn’t new and Dimple cast a puzzled look at Peggy’s mother.

“She wants you to notice Lucy’s new dress,” Kate explained. “Lottie Nivens made it out of scraps from Miss Bessie’s ragbag. She said she had a rag doll named Lucy, too.”

Dimple praised Lucy’s new pink-flowered frock and matching sunbonnet with enthusiasm and gave the little girl the paper-doll book she had bought for her.

“And how are rehearsals coming for the Christmas program tomorrow?” she asked Kate after Peggy turned her face away from a dish of melting ice cream. Dimple remembered how her own throat had hurt after that same surgery.

“Very well, I think,” Kate told her. “Lottie … Mrs. Nivens has worked hard in the short time she’s had to prepare for it. I think she’s enjoying her stay here in Elderberry and she seems to adore Bessie.”

“We’ve missed her at Phoebe’s noontime dinner for the last few days,” Dimple said. “She and Charlie walk to school together most mornings and Charlie tells me Lottie’s been having a sandwich at school to have more time to work on the music.”

Kate smiled. “It’s wonderful not to have to worry about hurrying back full-time until Peggy’s stronger. We’re lucky to have her step in and help.”

“I think that goes both ways,” Miss Dimple said.

“I hope you’ll feel better soon,” she said to Peggy. “And I’ll bet Max will be so glad to see you tomorrow, he’ll just about wag his tail clean off!” She was rewarded with a smile.

Leaving the hospital, she walked the few blocks to stop by Harris Cooper’s grocery for hoop cheese and a small bag of oranges. Virginia had expressed a desire for rarebit and Dimple knew how fond she was of oranges. She had told Phoebe she was having supper at Virginia’s that evening, and in addition to helping with the meal, Dimple was eager to talk with Suzy, as she hadn’t had an opportunity to see her since their visit to the Ingrams’ the day before.

It was almost dark by the time she walked from town to Virginia’s cottage on Myrtle Street—but not dark enough.

“Why, Dimple, is that you? It’s so dark out here I can hardly see. Seems we’ve hardly any daylight left!” Mavis Kilgore called to her from across the street as she stooped to pick up what looked like a small piece of litter from the sidewalk.

“Oh, hello, Mavis,” Dimple quickened her steps and turned in at Virginia’s walkway. She had no intention of prolonging the conversation.

“Virginia’s not sick, is she? Seems to be a lot of coming and going lately.”

Which is no business of yours!
“She’s kind enough to help with some research we’re doing at school, but I’ll tell her you asked,” Dimple called over her shoulder.

*   *   *

“What do you bet she was waiting at that window for you or somebody—anybody—to come along?” Virginia said, overhearing the exchange.

“I expect she’s just about worn a trail in the carpet from sentry duty,” Dimple said with a worried smile. “Do you think she might suspect?”

Virginia shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure she
suspects
! She probably suspects I’m getting soused every night on bootleg liquor; having an illicit affair with the Baptist preacher; or even worse, dealing in the black market in my basement—if I had a basement—but I doubt if even Mavis could guess what’s really going on here!”

Suzy seemed to enjoy the rarebit, although she admitted she had been expecting to be served a supper of the kind Bill Pitts brought home in a burlap sack.