Miss Dimple and the Slightly Bewildered Angel (15 page)

“There is one person I neglected to mention,” Esther added as they cleared away the dishes. “Dora was a big reader. I know that because I used to see her at the library—if you can call it that. There's a little place behind the fix-it shop where you can borrow a book. Woodrow Malone runs it but he's hardly ever there. You just write down your name and what you've borrowed. For the most part, the books are donated—kind of a swap, I guess, but it serves a purpose. There's not much else to do around here, and Dora spent a good bit of time there.

“Anyway, you might ask Woodrow if she said anything to him—if you can find him, that is.”

“What do you mean?” Jo asked.

“Woodrow owns the little fix-it shop next door and I guess you could say he keeps his own hours,” Esther explained. “He's there if he's working on something, but if he's not, he usually doesn't bother to go in.”

Lou frowned. “So, what if somebody has an iron or a toaster or something that needs fixing? How would they get in touch?”

“Oh, they would just call him and he'd meet them there.” Esther smiled. “And sometimes he hangs out at Lulu's, usually in that booth by the window.”

“Then I guess we'll make a side trip before we leave in the morning,” Jo said, and her sister nodded in agreement.

And so the next morning with a basket of Winesaps, three jars of applesauce and two of apple butter, they left the two women behind and turned back toward town.

“Hurry, Jo,” Lou urged, looking over her shoulder, “before Claudia comes out with another basket.”

*   *   *

“Looks like we're in luck,” Jo said a few minutes later as they parked in front of the We Dare to Repair shop, whose motto, printed in smaller letters, was
Not Like New, But It'll Do!

Lou laughed. “Well, I have to meet this man. Even if he can't help us, he must have a great sense of humor.”

But the gnomelike man bent over a radio behind the back counter didn't glance up when they came in, and when he did, he greeted them only with a dour look and a raspy grunt. He had heavy-lidded, lizardlike eyes and chewed on a stub of a cigar.

“We understand you have a library here,” Jo began, “and we thought you might—”

“Next door,” the man muttered, nodding in the direction of an adjoining door, then returned his attention to the inside of the small radio. “Just write your name and whatever you want to read in the logbook.”

“Oh, we didn't come for that—although I'm sure you have some interesting books in there,” Lou told him. “We understand Dora Westbrook was in there a lot and wondered if you ever had a chance to talk with her.” That is, if you ever talk with anybody, she thought.

He glared at her over the counter. “Now, what would I talk with her about?”

“Oh, I don't know. The price of eggs in China?” Lou had had enough of the man's rudeness. “The woman was killed, you know. Murdered, and maybe you don't care, but we do, and we're trying to learn what we can about the weeks leading up to her death.”

Woodrow Malone put down the radio and took the cigar from his mouth, then leaned on the counter and smiled. At least they thought he smiled. “Dora was a friend, and I don't have so many friends I can afford to lose one. I sure as hell didn't want to lose her.

“People come in here and talk about Dora, and if they don't know the truth, they just make something up—mostly malicious lies, and Dora's not here to defend herself.”

Lou smiled. “But you are.”

He sighed. “Darn tootin'!”

Jo explained who they were and why they were there. “Did Dora happen to mention why she planned to go to Elderberry?” she asked. But Woodrow shook his head. “I know she wanted to go back to Tennessee to be near her sister. She was born there, you know, and Dora was ready to get away. It was easy enough to figure out why.”

The sisters waited for an explanation, but none seemed to be forthcoming. “I suppose it could be difficult having to live with your mother-in-law,” Lou suggested, and that, of course, instigated the answer she expected.

Woodrow Malone drew himself up to his full height of close to five feet, give or take an inch or two. “With that one it would be,” he declared. “A lot of families have had to make do under one roof with the war and all, and most get along just fine. They know they have to and make the best of it, but … well … if the devil had a sister, she'd be the spittin' image of Lucille Westbrook. She'd make a preacher lose his religion!”

“We thought she might've been headed to her sister's in Tennessee, but why would she stop in Elderberry?” Lou asked.

Woodrow's answer seemed long in coming. “Look, I believe she meant to meet somebody there. I assume she did.”

“Who?” Jo demanded. “Who did she meet?”

“If I knew that, don't you think I'd tell you?”

“We were told she spent a good bit of time here in the library next door and were hoping she might've confided in you,” Jo added.

“Dora wasn't one to talk about her problems, but most of us knew what she had to put up with at home. Leonard stayed out at the farm most of the time—probably to avoid his mother—so she couldn't count on him.” Woodrow stuck the unlit stub of cigar back into his mouth and picked up the radio again. “I did what I could to help. It wasn't enough, and I reckon I'll have to live with that. One of these days, I hope to find out who did this to her, but right now I don't know any more than you do.”

Jo wrote down her phone number and Lou's and passed it over the counter. “If you do hear anything—anything at all—please give us a call, won't you?”

And Woodrow, fiddling with the radio's insides, mumbled that he would.

“Well, that's that,” Lou said as she returned to the car. “I don't know about you, but I think Woodrow knows more than he's telling.” But her sister, she saw, was still standing on the sidewalk, peering in the library window behind her.

“Come on, Jo. Let's go! There's nothing in there to see.”

Reluctantly, Jo turned away. “Well, somebody was there. I'm sure I saw our friend in the flowered hat leaving just as we arrived, and—”

“Well, why shouldn't she? It
is
a library, isn't it?”

Jo followed her to the car, but she didn't look happy. “But after she left, there was somebody in there watching us while we were talking to Woodrow. They were hidden behind the door, but it was open just enough for me to see somebody standing there.”

Lou slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, first glancing into the empty seat behind her. “Were you able to tell anything? Was it a man or a woman?”

“Couldn't see. It was just the barest motion, and the door moved about a fraction of an inch. I wanted to go over there and give it a big jerk, but it might've just been some little old lady curious about what we were doing in there. Didn't want to give her a heart attack or something.” Jo shrugged. “Well, whoever it was is gone now, so I don't guess it matters.”

“If it was a little old lady, she sure did get out fast.” Jo backed out of their parking place and turned toward the small police station. “Let's go pay a visit to our friend Reece before we start for home.”

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

She
must
talk with Harris Cooper. But when? It had to be when Jesse Dean wasn't around, and Dimple knew he usually made deliveries for the grocer during the morning hours, while she was teaching. Well, that wouldn't do, yet if anyone could give her the information she needed, it would be Harris.

The porcelain clock on the mantel said quarter to eight and Dimple knew the Coopers were early risers, which meant they would probably soon be turning in. Marking her place in the mystery she was reading, she hurried to the telephone and in a hushed voice asked Florence, the operator, to please ring the Coopers' number.

“Phoebe's asked me to see if we can put in an order for some of that good sausage he gets in, so she can pick it up in the morning.… No, I don't know who makes it—comes from somewhere in Alabama, I think—and,
hot
? Oh, my goodness, it'll burn the roof off your mouth, but we like it that way,” Dimple lied. She was not aware of any special order for sausage, but everyone knew Florence McCrary listened in on private conversations, and she definitely did
not
want her to be privy to this one.

“Angela,” she began when the grocer's wife answered the phone, “I'm sorry to be calling so late, but could I please speak with Harris a minute?… No, no, we're all right, thank you. I just need to run something by him. Shouldn't take long.” Dimple waited for the dead silence that meant Florence had put down the phone, and was relieved that the operator wasn't interested in obtaining the fictitious sausage from Alabama.

When Harris got on the line, she got right to the point. “Harris, I remember that you lived down the street from Jesse Dean's grandmother when his father disappeared sometime back in the late twenties. Seems like it was not long after his mother died.” She paused. “Tell me, did you know the family well?”

If Harris Cooper thought that a strange question, he didn't mention it. “Well,” he began, “Eugenia, Jesse Dean's mother, and I went to school together. She was a couple of years older than me but we were friends. She got dealt a rotten hand, Eugenia did. Sanford never was right after the war, and then she died soon after Jesse Dean was born. If she'd have lived, he wouldn't have had to live with his grandmother, crazy old Addie Montgomery. She just about ruined him for life.”

“What about Sanford, Jesse Dean's father?” Dimple asked. “Do you know where he lived before he came here?”

For a minute, she thought he wasn't going to answer. “I think it was somewhere way down in south Georgia. Can't think of the name of the place right off hand.”

Dimple hesitated. She didn't want to put words in his mouth. Instead, she suggested a few.

“It wasn't Moutrie, was it?”

“No. That doesn't sound right.”

“What about Quitman?”

“Nope. That wasn't it.”

“Brunswick, then?”

“I'm sure it wasn't Brunswick,” Harris said.

“Could it have been Fieldcroft?”

“Fieldcroft … Fieldcroft…” Harris muttered. “I believe that sounds about right. I think Eugenia met him at a church camp meeting or something. Course that was before he went to war. Got a dose of that mustard gas over there, they say. Never was quite right after that.”

“Harris, do you know if Sanford had any close friends, someone who might still remember him?”

“That'd be hard to say. I know he worked for Amos McIntyre at the old Hutchinson cotton gin—the one that burned out on Riverbend Road. Old man Tate Hutchinson owned it, but Amos ran it for him. Gosh, old Amos must be in his eighties now. I see him now and then at that Super Service Station his grandson runs at the north end of town. Guess it gives him something to do.”

And now she had something to do, Dimple thought as she thanked Harris for his help. She would follow up with Amos tomorrow.

*   *   *

Just as Harris had suggested, she found Amos McIntyre drinking Coca-Cola and eating boiled peanuts in the back of his grandson's service station. Miss Dimple treated herself to a Hershey bar, a favorite of hers, not always available since the war, and introduced herself to the older man.

“Of course I know who you are,” he said, starting to rise from his chair. “I reckon you've taught every one of our grandchildren.”

“Oh, please keep your seat,” Dimple told him, and was relieved when he did. “I've come to pick your brain a little, if you'll let me.”

He chuckled. “You're welcome to it if you can find it.”

“Sanford Greeson worked for you at the gin a while, didn't he?”

“Sanford Greeson!” Amos grabbed another handful of peanuts and leaned forward in his chair. “You are going back a ways. Yeah, worked for us for several years, until he took a notion to light out. Never did know what happened to him, did they?”

Miss Dimple shook her head. “Not that I know of. I'm trying to find out about his background. I understand he came from a little town in south Georgia. Do you remember if he ever mentioned having family there?”

Amos tossed soggy peanut shells on the floor. “Oh lordy! I have trouble keepin' up with my own folks, much less somebody else's.”

Miss Dimple smiled. “I know, but this is important, so I hope you'll try to help me out. Did he have a brother back there, or maybe a sister?”

Amos McIntyre hitched up one overall strap and frowned. “You do realize that was an awful long time ago?”

“But I'll bet you remember who sat next to you in the first grade.”

He laughed. “Fuller Hicks! Stayed in trouble as much as I did.”

“And what was the best Christmas present you ever received?” she continued.

Amos didn't hesitate. “Why, my calf! Named her Tillie. You'll never find better milk than that cow gave, and gentle! Followed me everywhere.”

Miss Dimple's voice was low. “Maybe Sanford had a calf, too. A best friend back home. A brother he cared about. Just think.
Please
think.”

And Amos did. He even stood and walked to the front of the store and back again. “I'm sorry, Miss Dimple,” he said at last, “but nothing comes to mind.”

“Well then, sleep on it,” she advised him, “and if you think of anything—and I mean
anything
—please give me a call. I'm at Phoebe Chadwick's—number's in the phone book.”

Walking home, Miss Dimple noticed a figure standing on the corner at the end of the block, and on drawing nearer, saw that it was Augusta. “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked as she approached, and Augusta laughed and joined her.