Miss Dimple Suspects (4 page)

Mae Martha frowned. “It fretted my grandson—God bless him—that I don’t have a telephone, but I told him I’ve done all right without one so far. My nephews live a couple of miles away and Bill’s around more often than not—he does errands and odd jobs for me.”

Dimple noticed Mae Martha didn’t mention the reason for Suzy’s presence. Perhaps, she thought, she was there as a companion or nurse to the older woman, as it was plain to see that she had some kind of medical training. She watched as Suzy lowered Peggy into the warm water. They had placed the tub by the fire, and Miss Dimple spoke softly to the little girl as Suzy gradually added cold water. When Peggy cried and begged to get out, Dimple told her stories about Brer Rabbit, Brer Bear, and Brer Fox that had always been favorites of hers as well as of the children she taught. Later, with Peggy wearing one of Suzy’s pajama tops that came to just below the child’s knees, they made a bed for her on the settee and Suzy fed her half an aspirin dissolved in honey and water a spoonful at a time.

“That should help to bring the fever down,” she told them, “and as soon as it’s light, I’ll go down to Esau’s and use his phone.”

Suzy’s voice was calm, but Miss Dimple could see the distress in her eyes. What if Peggy became worse? Outside the wind wailed in a pitch-black night and Max, who slept on a rug by the door, would now and then pick up his ears and pace to the window. Dimple wanted more than anything to grab her flashlight and try to make her way back down. She was warm now and her coat, gloves, and shoes had been toasting by the fireside, but she knew it would be a reckless and foolhardy errand. What good would it do Peggy if she sprained an ankle or, worse, broke a leg?

“You must be about ready for something to eat,” Mae Martha said, and served them generous bowls of chicken stew with hot biscuits and spicy apple butter. Miss Dimple cleaned her bowl and tucked away two of the biscuits, washing it down with strong steaming tea. Dimple noticed Mae Martha walked with a slight limp and sometimes used a cane, and Suzy insisted that both of them rest while she took care of the supper dishes.

“Miss Mae Martha took a tumble awhile back and got a pretty bad sprain,” Suzy explained. “Her ankle’s much better now, but I try to get her to stay off it as much as possible.” She smiled at the older woman. “Of course, she doesn’t pay a bit of attention to me!”

“Blasted hickernuts!” Mae Martha sputtered. “Went outside to get me some sage from that bed by the front steps and my feet went right out from under me!”

“Now I check to make sure those steps are clear of hickory nuts,” Suzy added. “They’re as hard as marbles and can trip you in a minute but I haven’t seen any since—thank goodness! It’s a wonder you weren’t hurt worse than you were.”

Suzy’s speech was clear and her English, perfect, Dimple noticed. She didn’t speak with the soft Southern accent like most of the people she knew. “It looks as if you did a good job nursing her back to health,” she told her.

“Oh, my Suzy’s been here with me since I came down so poorly with pneumonia last spring,” Mae Martha said, smiling. “Reckon I’d be lying out there in Damascus Church Graveyard if Madison—that’s my grandson—hadn’t talked her into coming here to look after me.

“My Madison … he…” Her voice broke and she turned away. Miss Dimple noticed that Suzy quickly reached out to the older woman and gently touched her shoulder. “He was with the Seventh Infantry Division,” Mae Martha continued, “but I lost him back in May—killed in the Aleutians. Madison was gonna be a doctor when he came home,” she said proudly. “He was already learning how when this war started. That’s how come he got to know Suzy. She’s come all the way from China, you know.”

“Emory.” Suzy spoke softly, referring to the large university in Atlanta.

Miss Dimple nodded. She was familiar, of course, with the medical facility that turned out many excellent physicians and nurses.

Mae Martha dozed by the fire while Suzy washed the dishes in an enamel pan and Dimple pulled up a rocking chair beside Peggy’s makeshift bed and was relieved to find she didn’t feel as feverish as before. Later, Suzy checked her temperature by putting a thermometer under the little girl’s arm. “A hundred and one and a half,” she reported, shaking the mercury down. “Of course it would probably read a bit higher if we took it by mouth, but she’s definitely cooler than before.”

Dimple refused Suzy’s offer of a bed in order to stay close to Peggy, and she was glad she did because the child woke during the night crying for Kate. Her teacher calmed her by assuring her she would be going home to her parents in the morning and even managed to persuade the little girl to take a few sips of water.

Mae Martha had turned in soon after supper and Suzy made herself comfortable with a pallet on the rug. Growing weary of sitting, Dimple walked about the room, noticing for the first time the colorful paintings that hung on the walls. Most were landscapes painted in oils as well as scenes of everyday life on a farm, and the longer she looked, the more she began to feel she had seen this style of painting before. Although the room was darkened now, there was enough light from the fire for her to see the initials M.M.H. in the corner of a painting of an apple orchard that hung over the mantel. Where had she seen a similar picture before? And often … why was it so familiar? Why, the library, of course! It was a painting of two children feeding a calf that Virginia had bought to hang in the tiny room where she shelved the books for small children. And Mae Martha must be the artist who painted it!

The clock on the mantel struck two before Dimple sat again in the cane-bottom rocking chair next to Peggy’s bed. Had Virginia tried to call her earlier? If so, her friends at Phoebe Chadwick’s boardinghouse must be wondering what had happened to her. Would searchers be combing the hills for her as well as for Peggy? Maybe she should have gone for help as soon as she found the ribbon, but she would have had to take a chance on finding her way back down in the dark. Miss Dimple pulled one of Mae Martha’s soft knitted coverlets all the way to her chin. She knew she needed to sleep, but she didn’t think she would be able to catch a wink before morning.

Dimple woke to the sound of whimpering and the gray light of dawn outside the windows. Peggy was fretful and feverish and refused to drink when Suzy held a cup to her lips.

“Her temperature’s over a hundred and three,” Suzy told her, frowning. “Do you think you might be able to get her to take that other half of an aspirin? She seems to do better for you.”

Dimple kissed the child on her forehead, and her lips were sensitive to the heat of her skin. Tears came to her eyes in spite of her resolve not to show how worried she was, but her heart ached for this little girl and she would give anything to make things right for her.

After several attempts, the two of them managed to get down not only most of the dissolved aspirin, but a little water as well, and Suzy made a compress from a piece of torn flannel dipped in cold water, which she applied to Peggy’s forehead. “Keep changing this every few minutes,” she instructed Miss Dimple. “I’m going on down to Esau’s to use the telephone.”

“Better take a flashlight,” Dimple suggested. “It’s not much help, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Thank you, but I believe I might be better off with the lantern,” Suzy said. “I’ll take Max along for company.”

But the dog had to be persuaded to leave Peggy. He had made a point, Dimple noticed, to check on her during the night, padding back and forth from his rug to keep watch over the sleeping child.

“It’s all right, Max. Your little friend will be just fine, and you can come back and tell her good-bye,” Miss Dimple assured him.

Bundled in coat and scarf, Suzy turned at the door. “What number should I call?” she asked.

Miss Dimple shook her head and smiled. “All you have to do is call the operator. Florence McCrary will notify the Ashcrofts and everybody else in town before you can hang up the receiver.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Young Willie Elrod slapped globs of peanut butter on his pinecone, pausing to lick his fingers one at a time. “Peggy’s gonna be all right now, isn’t she, Miss Charlie? I tried to tell old Froggie she might’ve gone to that special place she talks about, but nobody would listen.”

“Well, she’s at home now, and Doc Morrison’s taking good care of her—thanks to Miss Dimple. And it’s disrespectful to call our principal Froggie. He’s
Mr. Faulkenberry
to you.” Charlie made a point not to look at her friend Annie because, due to the poor man’s resemblance, the two often referred to him in the same way.

“Go easy on that peanut butter, Willie,” she added. “You have enough on there for two.… Now, spread it around good and you can roll it in the birdseed.”

Charlie Carr and her fellow teacher, Annie Gardner, had been coerced into helping Alma Owens’s fourth-grade Sunday school class with their “Christmas presents for the birds” when they arrived at the church earlier to assist in the search for Peggy Ashcroft.

Although coffee was no longer rationed, it was not always available, and Charlie’s mother, Jo, her aunt Lou, and several others had pooled their supply to make enough for the volunteers braving the cold. Instead, they were greeted by their minister with the joyful news that the little girl was safe. Of course the coffee was put to good use, as were the doughnuts and cookies that seemed to appear miraculously, for the impromptu prayer service that followed.

“Didn’t
anybody
worry when Miss Dimple didn’t come home yesterday?” Annie asked, tying a red ribbon around a pinecone for Junior Henderson. Later the children would hang their sticky offerings on the large cedar in front of the Methodist church.

“I guess everybody thought she’d gone to bed early,” Charlie explained. “The last time I saw her, she was with Virginia Balliew.”

Alma sighed. “Poor Virginia! She must feel terrible! I understand she went to bed with a fever last night and was practically beside herself with worry this morning when she realized Dimple hadn’t called.”

“My mama said the woman who lives out there on that hill—you know, where Miss Dimple and Peggy spent the night—well, she didn’t have a telephone.” Willie held up his finished pinecone for approval, scattering birdseed all over the floor. “Somebody had to walk all the way to a neighbor’s house this morning to call.”

“A bit of a recluse, I believe,” Alma said, shrugging. “I’m not familiar with the people at all, but I’m grateful they were there to help. Why, I shudder to think what might have happened if Miss Dimple and Peggy hadn’t found shelter when they did.”

Junior giggled and said he reckoned Miss Dimple would’ve turned into a grape Popsicle, referring to her custom of favoring purple.

“That’s not funny! You take that back!” Willie, who had shared a frightening experience with Dimple Kilpatrick the year before, smacked his friend in the shoulder with a grubby fist.

Separating the two, Charlie gave one child a broom and the other a dustpan. “That was a callous thing to say, Junior, but I’m sure you didn’t mean it. Now, let’s get this mess cleaned up and I imagine Miss Alma will let you all go outside and hang your pinecones on the tree.”

*   *   *

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it!”
Annie said, mocking Charlie as the two walked to Charlie’s aunt Lou’s for dinner after church. “You can bet your boots Junior Henderson meant every word.” As fourth-grade teacher at Elderberry, Georgia, Grammar School, she had no illusions.

“Oh, you mean that comment about Miss Dimple being a purple Popsicle? Of course he did!” Charlie, who had taught the class as third graders the year before, had no doubts about the child’s intentions. “I said that more for Willie’s benefit to avoid bloodshed on church property.”

“Miss Dimple wasn’t at church today,” Annie said, buttoning her coat against the cold. “Of course, I didn’t expect her after yesterday’s excitement. I don’t imagine she got a wink of sleep.”

“We’ll probably get all the details from Aunt Lou,” Charlie told her. “I don’t know how she does it, but she’s just like that motto for the
Atlanta Journal
. She ‘covers Dixie like the dew!’”

*   *   *

“That woman’s name sounds familiar,” Jo Carr said later as she helped herself to
just a tiny bit more
of her sister’s chicken pie. Charlie’s mother was rail thin and, much to Lou’s disgust, could eat all she wanted without gaining a pound. “Mae Martha Hawthorne … now, where have I heard that before?”

Charlie’s younger sister, Delia, frowned. “I’ve heard it somewhere, too. She must not have lived here long, though. I don’t remember ever meeting her.” She spooned applesauce into Tommy, her eight-month-old son she called “Pooh Bear,” as he struggled to get down from his chair.

Charlie’s uncle Ed looked at his empty plate and flapped his arms. “Am I clucking yet? We’ve eaten so much chicken I swear I expect to grow feathers. Fried chicken, stewed chicken, chicken salad, baked chicken … What else can you do with that bird?”

“Oh, hush, and count your blessings! We’re lucky to have it,” his wife told him. “Keep on clucking and you might just lay an egg!”

Charlie laughed. “You know just about everybody around here, Uncle Ed,” she said, passing her mother the rice. “Willie Elrod said somebody telephoned the Ashcrofts from a neighbor’s house.”

“That would probably be the Ingrams—or one of them,” her uncle said. “They’re brothers, Esau and Isaac. One’s married, but I can’t remember which, and the other lives close by.”

“That would be Esau,” his wife announced. “Ida Ellerby—she’s in the choir with me, you know—well, she has a cousin who lives out that way, and Ida said there’s some kind of nurse—Chinese, I think—who lives with the Hawthorne woman, and she was the one who made the call this morning. From what Ida said, this Mae Martha has only lived there since sometime last winter. Seems her grandson wanted her to be close to kin when he enlisted in the service.”

“
Mae Martha Hawthorne
 … now I know where I saw that name,” Jo said. “There was an article about her in the
Atlanta Constitution
not too long ago. She’s an artist, paints a lot of rural scenes in what I guess you’d call a primitive style. I think there’s one in the library.”