Miss Dimple Disappears (8 page)

*   *   *

Ninety-eight … ninety-nine … one hundred. Dimple Kilpatrick fanned herself with a page from a 1938 calendar that had hung on the wall and sank gratefully into a chair. At least twice a day she walked the confines of her basement room a hundred times. It wouldn’t do to let herself get out of shape. Her prison was long and rectangular, with brick walls that had at one time been painted yellow. Two small windows higher than her head were covered with grillwork that appeared to be sturdy, but she meant to look into that later. Partially screened on the outside by scraggly evergreens—cedars, she thought—they allowed in little light, and it was difficult to regulate the gas heater at the end of the room to keep the temperature in a comfortable range. She was either too hot or too cold. Most of the time she opted for cold and wore one of the sweaters her captor had brought her. This one was a man’s gray cardigan missing most of its buttons. In addition to the clothing she wore when she was taken, Miss Dimple had been supplied with seven pairs of women’s underpants made of some cheap fabric. Each was a different color that had been embroidered with the name of a day of the week. She found Thursday’s white ones less offensive than the others but rinsed out her own modest teddies in the bathroom sink as often as possible. The rest of her wardrobe consisted of three cotton housedresses that were too large and smelled of mothballs but at least seemed clean, a couple of pairs of inexpensive stockings, and a long flannel gown with robe to match. Except for the undergarments, most of the clothing, she assumed, had at one time belonged to a former tenant of the room—possibly a grandmother or maiden aunt, or perhaps even a maid—and she was grateful for the privacy of the small bathroom at one end with its toilet, lavatory, and an ancient tub that sat on legs.

The calendar page was for a long-ago month of September and featured an illustration of a little boy in overalls giving an apple to his teacher. How appropriate, she thought wryly. But the picture made her smile and think of her classroom at school, and the boy reminded her of that rascal William Elrod. She knew he kept his puppy in his room most nights before returning it to its box on the porch and it evoked happy memories of her own dog, Bear, who had been her childhood companion. Had William been on the porch on the morning she was taken? And if so, had it been light enough for him to see? She could only hope.

Miss Dimple stiffened as she heard someone unlock the door at the top of the stairs and the slow heavy tread of footsteps descending. The man always wore a long raincoat that had seen better days along with that crazy Halloween mask, and left her tray of food on a table at the other end of the room. He never came close enough for her to get a better look. Today he wore a clown mask that made him appear even more ridiculous.

“You’ve hardly eaten,” he said, examining the breakfast he’d left earlier and which she had barely touched. “What’s the matter? My cooking not good enough for you?”

It most certainly is not!
Miss Dimple’s stomach turned just thinking of the huge glutinous biscuits soaked in greasy gravy, but she dared not express her feelings aloud. Who knew what this person was capable of doing? And she wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with Wilson Malone’s death. She’d eaten a little of the scrambled egg, however, and drunk all of her coffee, which was surprisingly good, but oh, she did long for a cup of hot tea!

“If you’ll bring me the ingredients, I’ll make some of my muffins. I believe you’ll find them both nourishing and satisfying,” she said. “I can make a list of what you’ll need.”

“Oh, I know what you’re up to. Do you really think I’d let you near a stove?”

“There’s no reason you couldn’t make them yourself if you follow my recipe. It’s quite simple, really, and extremely beneficial to the digestive system.” Miss Dimple managed a faint but audible sigh. “My physician strongly recommends them for someone in my, ah, delicate state of health.” She coughed daintily into her handkerchief. Ben Morrison, who was her doctor as well as just about everybody else’s, had probably never seen the muffin recipe she’d discovered years ago in a copy of
The Farmer’s Almanac,
and at her last checkup, he’d told her she’d probably outlive him.

“What’s wrong with your health? You’re not sick or anything, are you?” There was alarm in his voice and he moved a few steps closer to see, she supposed, if she was showing any outward signs of illness.

“I’m afraid I’ve always been rather delicate, and I haven’t felt myself for the last several days.”
At least that was the truth!
“It would ease my mind if you could bring me those pills from my desk drawer … for my heart, you know.” It was true the pills were filled from a prescription, but they were intended for a slight touch of rheumatism she’d suffered earlier in the year.

“And just how am I supposed to do that?” he wanted to know.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way. I’m afraid you’ll have to jimmy open the desk drawer, though, as I seem to have misplaced the key.”

She knew the man’s concern was not that he cared about her well-being but it was obvious he needed her to remain in good health. Dimple Kilpatrick was certain now that she was being held for ransom.

“And if it’s at all possible,” she added, “a cup of strong hot tea would boost my immune system. Ginger mint usually works for me.”

Miss Dimple reminded herself to rise slowly and walk with tottering steps to sit on the side of the bed. “It’s sometimes a bit difficult to find now with the war on, but Mr. Cooper manages to get some in now and then.” And Harris Cooper knew she was one of a few people in town who favored that kind of tea.

Arms folded, he stood in the center of the room until his silence became threatening. “I’ll see about getting the pills after you’ve done a little favor for me,” he said finally. The tone of his voice made her go rigid.

“And just what kind of favor might that be?” Miss Dimple took deep, measured breaths and folded her hands demurely. It wouldn’t do to let him know she was afraid.

“Nothing to be concerned about. It will only involve your writing a brief note.”

“A note to whom? What kind of note?” She didn’t bother to keep her intense dislike of this person from her reply.

“You’ll know that when the time comes, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as you’re asked!” He really seemed most annoyed, and his voice had a peculiar squeak, as if it needed lubricating.

Miss Dimple frowned. “I believe you might be coming down with a cold, Mister …”

“Smith. Just call me Smith. And I’m
not
coming down with a cold!”

“Well, if you are, you might want to rub your chest with warm camphorated oil, then cover it well with a flannel cloth. And a cup of hot ginger mint tea would do wonders for your throat. I can tell by your voice you’re not in the best of health.”

Miss Dimple shivered and drew the quilt about her. She was going to ask Mr. Smith if he would kindly provide her with some mysteries from the library but he had already stormed back upstairs.

*   *   *

Well, here we are,
Charlie thought, but for the life of her, she could think of absolutely nothing to say. The restaurant was appropriately lighted for a romantic dinner. Starched white tablecloths made ghostly circles in the candlelit room, and on a phonograph somewhere in the background Frank Sinatra crooned, “Night and Day.” The only thing missing was the wine, but because they lived in a dry county, there was no chance of that. It would’ve been comforting, she thought, to have something to sip, or just to hold as they waited for the waitress to take their order. And wouldn’t the good people of Elderberry be shocked? Wine with dinner was fine for people in the movies, but it wasn’t an accepted practice in their little town—especially if you were employed by the Board of Education.

Suddenly, she didn’t know what to do with her hands. What was wrong with her? She had been going out with Hugh for over a year now, even before she finished college and came home to teach, and usually felt comfortable in his presence. Tonight, however, she searched for something to say.

In order to read the menu, Charlie held it to the light of the candle until she noticed the flame had begun to singe the edge of the paper, and in snatching it away, she almost tipped over the vase of yellow chrysanthemums in the center of the table. Good heavens, she almost set the restaurant on fire! Maybe she should’ve just stayed at home. Hugh, too, was unusually restless. He unfolded his napkin and folded it again until she was tempted to lean over the table and snatch it from him. Charlie wished the waitress would hurry and fill their water glasses. She was beginning to get a headache. Should she mention that she saw his mother in the drugstore that afternoon? Possibly not the best subject to discuss over dinner.

Charlie cleared her throat. “What does Arden hear from Barrett?” she asked. Hugh’s sister’s fiancé was in San Diego with the navy and she wrote to him almost every day.

Hugh, who had apparently been experiencing a similar dilemma, spoke at the same time. “So, any news from the elusive Miss Dimple?”

Charlie laughed and so did he. “You first,” she said, relieved that they could make light of the situation.

“I think Barrett expects to be shipped out soon. He just doesn’t know when.” Hugh frowned. “It’s hard for Arden … being here, you know.”

Charlie told him they were still trying to speak with Miss Dimple’s brother in Kennesaw. “We’re hoping he might know where she is. Phoebe says the two of them have always been close.

“Aunt Lou says she heard Miss Dimple ran to Ida Ellerby’s for help early one morning not long before she disappeared,” she added. “Said she was being chased by a dog.”

Hugh smiled and shook his head. “I’m crazy about your aunt Lou, Charlie. Nobody makes a better sweet potato pie, but you’ll have to admit she does exaggerate just the tiniest bit.” He shifted in his seat and suddenly reached across the table for Charlie’s hand. And that was when the waitress chose to come and take their order.

They ordered steak, which cost valuable ration stamps, and now she had lost her appetite. Charlie wished Hugh would just go on and tell her whatever it was he planned to say—good or bad. She was about to tell him that when again he took her hand, and gently stroked her fingers. The warmth of his touch steadied her and Charlie found herself immersed in his blue-eyed gaze.

Hugh’s voice was calm. “Charlie, I signed up last week.”

“What?” Had she heard him right? From the tone of his voice, he might have said, “I think it might rain tomorrow.”

“I’ve been accepted … as a navy corpsman.” He smiled and gave her fingers a squeeze.

“What?”
Why did she keep saying that? She sounded like a honking goose!

“This way I’m able to choose. If I waited for the draft, I’d have to go where the Selective Service sends me.”

“But why that? I thought you had to have some kind of medical background.”

“That’s what I’ll get in Virginia. I’ll go on from there to get further instructions as a corpsman.” Hugh smiled. “It’s what I want to do, Charlie.”

“Are you sure about this?”
Now, that’s a brilliant question, Charlie! A little late to back out now.

“As sure as I’ll ever be.” He released her hand as the waitress brought their salad course. “You will write to me, won’t you?”

“You know I will.” Suddenly she wanted to cry. “When…?”

“I leave next week for Portsmouth, Virginia. That’s where I’ll begin my medical training.” Hugh concentrated on buttering his bread.

Now, of all times, Harry James, in the mellow tones of his trumpet, began to serenade them with “I Don’t Want to Walk Without You,” and it was all she could do to hold back the tears.

“I’ll miss you, you know I will. I don’t even like to think about your leaving, but I
am
proud.” Charlie hoped he wouldn’t notice the break in her voice. And she
was
proud. Of course she wanted him to serve. Already she had heard whispered gossip about draft dodgers, able-bodied men who managed to evade the draft. And like so many others, Hugh would probably be in danger. Eddie Thornton, who had been in the class behind hers, was taken prisoner by the Japanese in the Philippines and his parents didn’t even know if he was dead or alive, and one of Delia’s friends had been wounded in the Battle of Midway back in June. And medical corpsmen—why, they had to dodge fire during battle just like everyone else, yet with very little chance to defend themselves. But she wouldn’t think of that right now.

When their steaks came, Charlie could hardly choke hers down and felt guilty for leaving half of it on her plate. She asked the waitress to wrap it in brown paper so she could take it home. “Don’t you dare laugh!” she said to Hugh, who laughed anyway. “I’ll make tomorrow’s hash from this.

“Have you told your mother yet?” she asked over coffee—or what passed for coffee. Charlie wondered how many times the cook had used the same grounds.

“Not yet.” Hugh made a face and shook his head. “I think I’d rather face the enemy.”

Charlie laughed. Wouldn’t bossy old Emmaline have a fit? She’d met her match with Uncle Sam. Still, she couldn’t blame a woman for not wanting to send her son to war. What kind of mother raised her sons to be killed? But would she really want him to remain at home and become a subject of derision like poor Jesse Dean?

“I wanted to tell you earlier,” Hugh said on the drive home. With one arm, he drew her closer. “But I thought the news deserved a more intimate setting.”

Charlie nestled against his shoulder, inhaling the spicy scent of his aftershave. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “I suspected it was coming after what you said on the phone last night.”

Hugh was silent as he turned into her driveway and shut off the motor. “That wasn’t exactly all I had in mind,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

Whoa, Nellie! Here it comes,
Charlie thought. Was this a preamble to a proposal? Was she absolutely sure she was ready for this? No matter. Charlie Carr closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the moment.