Miss Dimple Suspects (8 page)

“So,
why
, Miss Dimple? Why should Suzy be afraid?” Annie asked, cuddling closer to Max for warmth.

The older woman hesitated. After all, she couldn’t be absolutely sure. “I don’t think Suzy’s from China,” she said at last. “I believe Mrs. Hawthorne’s young companion is of Japanese heritage.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. Charlie spoke first. “Oh,” she said finally. “You mean you think she’s … but she speaks perfectly good English. And didn’t she meet Mrs. Hawthorne’s grandson at Emory?”

“I only meant she might be of Japanese
heritage,
” Miss Dimple explained. “I believe she told me she was born in California.”

“But to some people—most, I’m afraid—that doesn’t matter,” Virginia said. “Japanese is Japanese.”

“One of my students told me the other day that when the war first started she threw away a whole set of those little china dolls—the kind that came about ten in a box—just because they said
Made in Japan
on the back,” Annie said.

Charlie groaned. “Well, that’s silly! The dolls couldn’t help where they were made.”

Miss Dimple smiled. “Just as Suzy had no choice in her family’s origin.”

“I’m certainly no friend of the Japanese, or the Germans, either,” Virginia said. “And with good reason, but I’m afraid most people would be hostile toward anyone they thought might be affiliated with the enemy. If you believe this young woman really is of that heritage I can understand why this would be a problem for her.”

“It doesn’t help that she seems to have run away,” Charlie said. “I honestly don’t know what we can do.”

“Wait, I suppose,” Miss Dimple said. “She phoned once. Maybe she will again, but right now we need to report this to Sheriff Holland, and the sooner, the better.”

A light burned in a back window of the house where Esau Ingram and his wife, Coralee, lived at the foot of the meandering road, but Virginia drove past without slowing and everyone seemed relieved when they turned onto the main road to town.

The streets of Elderberry looked deserted, illuminated only by dim lights in some of the stores. “I miss the lighted Christmas tree we used to have on the courthouse lawn,” Charlie said sadly.

“And the big blue star over City Hall,” Virginia added, “but we wouldn’t want to attract attention in case there’s an air raid.”

They were all familiar with air-raid drills during which everyone turned off their lights and draped their windows with black, but the town was so far inland, Dimple didn’t expect enemy planes to be able to reach them. She had read about the dreadful bombings in England and watched accounts of them in the newsreels, and her heart ached for the people there whose homes were being destroyed and their loved ones killed. Some of the children in the larger cities over there were being separated from their families and sent to safer homes in the countryside. How disheartening it would be if the small ones in her care were forced to do the same!

Annie remained in the car with the dog while the other three went in to see the sheriff. They found Sheriff Holland at his desk, finishing a big bowl of ham and bean soup and corn bread his wife had sent over for his supper, and the tantalizing smell of it made Charlie’s stomach rumble.

The sheriff washed down his last spoonful with black coffee after offering the women a seat and listened intently as Miss Dimple explained the reason for their visit.

“And you say this woman—this companion—phoned
you
?” he asked after she had related the details of their experience.

“That is correct,” Dimple responded, “but she wasn’t there when we arrived. She would’ve had to go somewhere to use the telephone, possibly the Ingrams since they were the closest neighbors, but no one answered the door there.”

“There’s no telling where she might be by now.” Sheriff Holland reached for the phone. “Can you give me a description?”

Miss Dimple fingered the pin at her throat. “Small, attractive … probably in her mid or late twenties with dark hair.” She paused. “And Asian. Suzy’s Asian.”

He relayed that information to someone on the other end of the line. “Suzy?” the sheriff repeated. “What’s her last name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Miss Dimple said. “She never told me, but I really don’t think she had anything to do with what happened to Mrs. Hawthorne, Sheriff. She was confused and terrified at finding her the way she did. Suzy had no reason to kill her.”

Excusing himself, the sheriff stood and stuck his head in the door of the room behind him. “Clyde, looks like we’ve got a homicide over there near Fox Grape Hill. Woman’s companion reported it and then took off. I’ve called in a description but you need to get Mabry in here—Dennis, too, and anybody else you can round up. Chances are pretty slim of finding this woman, dark as it is, but we gotta try.

“I’m heading on out there now, so see if you can get ahold of Doc Morrison and ask him to meet me there. Peewee will come with me.

“Peewee!” he bellowed, and the man who had been sitting with his feet on the desk eating peanuts in the small reception area lumbered in. “Yessir?” he answered, attempting to tuck in his shirt, although it would be impossible, Dimple thought, for Peewee to see around his huge stomach in order to know what he was doing. The man appeared perfectly capable, she imagined, of balancing a bale of cotton on each shoulder without shedding the first drop of perspiration.

“Grab your jacket. A woman’s been killed … and for God’s sake—er, excuse me, ladies—leave those blasted peanuts behind! Looks like a circus in here.”

The sheriff turned to the three women. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but one of you will need to come with us so you can let me know if anything’s been moved. And who knows? Maybe you’ll think of something else that might help.”

Miss Dimple agreed to go, as did Charlie, but Virginia said she needed to get home in order to take care of her overnight guest. “I don’t have any dog food,” she admitted, “but I reckon he won’t turn up his nose at some leftover stew.”

“I’m surprised my mother and Miss Phoebe haven’t called the police to report our disappearance,” Charlie said, and Annie promised to stay behind and explain the situation to both. “But I’ll be staying up until you get back,” she told Miss Dimple. “Please don’t make me wait until tomorrow to hear all the details!”

The Ingrams’ house was dark when they drove past and Charlie was glad they had thought to leave a light burning in Mrs. Hawthorne’s kitchen. She remembered how kind and welcoming the artist had been when they visited there and took a deep breath to ease the anger rising inside her. Why would anyone do this to her? And what if they had returned?

She was glad they were accompanied by the two policemen as they drew up behind the house. Charlie glanced at Miss Dimple, who sat quietly beside her looking as calm as if she were going to a meeting of the church circle.

She watched Sheriff Holland cautiously draw his gun from his holster as he got out of the car. “The three of you stay here while I check things out,” he told them. “And Peewee, you keep an eye out, you hear? Blow the horn if you see anything suspicious.”

Charlie felt a little shiver of excitement. Wait until Annie heard what she had missed!
Shame on you, Charlie Carr! A woman lies dead in there—a talented artist who would never be able to share her beautiful work again, and whoever did it is running around free.
She sat up straighter, her hand on the door handle. If she could help find who was responsible for this, she was willing and ready! Beside her, Miss Dimple’s stomach rumbled and she coughed to cover the noise. Charlie wanted to giggle.
What was wrong with her?
After all these years she still had trouble accepting the fact that the older teacher had human needs just like everybody else … well, maybe not quite like everybody else.

Thank goodness the sheriff stepped outside at that moment to beckon them inside. “I reckon you all left fingerprints all over the place,” he grumbled.

Miss Dimple reminded him that when they arrived earlier, they had not been aware they would find a murder victim there.

Mae Martha Hawthorne lay on the floor in her studio just as they had left her and as far as she could tell, Miss Dimple told them, nothing had been moved.

The sheriff knelt by the dead woman and carefully examined her hands. “Doesn’t look like she put up a fight. Must’ve known whoever it was that did this. Doc should be able to tell us more.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to get prints from all you ladies who were here before, and her nephew and his wife as well. If you can think of anyone else who might have access to the house, we’ll need to get theirs, too.”

“I understand there’s another nephew, Isaac, who lives around here somewhere,” Charlie told him, “and then there’s Bill.” She explained about the man who worked as a handyman and tried to keep an impartial expression as she described him.

The sheriff frowned. “Bill? Bill who?”

Charlie didn’t know but said that Esau or his brother probably would. Miss Dimple showed the two policemen Suzy’s room and they took their time going through her belongings. Later, the sheriff said, they would lift her prints from things she would normally use.

The upper half of Peewee’s large bulk had disappeared inside an oak wardrobe that stood in the corner as he shoved clothing about and explored the shelves

“Nothing seems to be missing here. She must not have taken anything with her,” Sheriff Holland said, sifting through dresser drawers. He frowned. “What’s that on top of the wardrobe?”

Peewee stood on tiptoe and fumbled for what looked to be a folded coverlet. “It’s just a quilt.… No, wait … there’s something under it, some kind of box.” After straining to reach the object, he handed the sheriff a metal candy box.

“Empty,” the sheriff muttered, prying off the lid. “Wonder why she kept that up there.”

“My wife uses those for extra buttons, things like that,” Peewee offered.

However, Dimple Kilpatrick knew Mae Martha Hawthorne had another purpose for this particular box. It was where she kept the money from her paintings.
This was not looking good for Suzy.
From the expression on Charlie’s face, she knew Charlie recognized it, too.

Obviously, this didn’t get past Sheriff Holland. “Have either of you ever seen that box before? Do you know what it was used for?” He looked from one to the other. “I’m sure you realize the importance of any information you can give us,” he said, using a tone Charlie herself sometimes used to reason with her students. “It’s urgent and we need it
now.
If this young woman is guilty, it’s imperative that we find her as soon as possible. If she isn’t, then she should turn herself in and explain her actions.”

Miss Dimple thought that in Suzy’s case, that might be easier said than done, but she told him Mae Martha Hawthorne had kept the earnings from the sale of her paintings in a box much like the one he had found.

“Do you know where she kept it?” he asked.

Charlie shook her head. She remembered the artist putting the money they had paid her in such a box but had no idea where it was stored. “Why don’t you look in her bedroom?” she suggested. “Isn’t it possible there’s another like this? After all, they’re fairly common—or were before the war.”

But no metal box turned up in Mrs. Hawthorne’s bedroom or anywhere else in the house, although the two men made a thorough search.

The crunching of gravel outside, followed by the slamming of a car door, signaled Doc Morrison’s arrival, and he was soon followed by two men who turned out to be the deputies Clyde had apparently summoned. The sheriff sent two of the new arrivals to talk to Esau and his wife. “Now, go easy, you hear? They probably don’t even know what’s happened to their aunt up here. And find out if they have any idea where that companion might’ve gotten to.”

Doc disappeared into the studio to examine the victim, who until recently had been a warm, kind, flesh and blood person, and Charlie joined Miss Dimple in the main room of the house, where the formerly cheerful fireplace looked cold and unwelcoming.

“I reckon you ladies are ’bout ready for some supper, aren’t you?” Peewee leaned on the mantel to examine a painting hanging there. “Don’t see why one of us can’t run you home if the sheriff says it’s okay.”

Charlie was more than ready to leave for home, but the thought of supper made her stomach queasy and she didn’t think she would be able to eat one bite.

“Did you say this woman painted all these pictures?” Peewee asked, looking about. “I’ll bet my wife would like one of these to go over the sofa in our living room.”

Charlie was just about ready to ask him if she might step outside for a breath of cold air when the man dropped his gaze to the implements on the hearth. “Will you look at those andirons? They look handmade—and the shovel and poker, too.”

“They were probably forged by Mrs. Hawthorne’s nephew Isaac Ingram,” Miss Dimple explained. “I was told he’s a blacksmith.”

“Mmm … nice work.” Peewee stooped to examine them closer when a look of alarm crossed his face. “Sheriff!” he called. “Sheriff Holland! Better come here. I think I’ve just found what might be the murder weapon.”

C
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E
IGHT

Using his handkerchief, the sheriff slowly removed the poker from its stand and examined it in the light. “You’re right—sure looks like blood on here, and we oughta be able to get some good prints from that brass handle.”

Charlie and Miss Dimple watched as he laid it carefully aside to be dusted. Both had seen the wound on the back of the dead woman’s head, her hair matted with dried blood. Whoever killed her had planned it in advance, had carried the poker into the studio where she was working and struck her from behind.

Mae Martha Hawthorne had been murdered by a cold-blooded killer.

Miss Dimple shook her head. “I don’t believe Mrs. Hawthorne’s companion is capable of this,” she said aside to Charlie. “I saw how tenderly she cared for her, almost like a daughter. There was genuine affection between those two.”