Miss Dimple Picks a Peck of Trouble (16 page)

She didn’t want to be here, especially alone, but there had been no word from Hattie for the last few days. After Prentice was killed, Delia’s work at the Peach Shed came to an end; Miss Dimple was volunteering at the Red Cross blood drive that day, and Annie had gone along to donate, claiming she’d rather they’d take every drop than have to go near that trailer again. “You don’t have to go in,” Annie’d promised. “Just drop by the Shed and see if Clay’s around. Maybe he’s heard something.”

Charlie had been tempted to invite her mother and her aunt Lou to come along today, but if those two became involved, they would probably stir up more trouble than she could deal with right now. They meant well, bless their hearts, but Charlie cringed to think of some of the frightening close calls the women had experienced.

Asa Weatherby, who was minding the Shed, had said he thought Clay was somewhere out back, but Charlie hadn’t seen him anywhere. Calling to him, she’d walked hesitantly down the stone-bordered path, half-expecting to meet the Tin Man or the Wicked Witch.

“Whaddaya want?” Clay called out to her now as he moved from a yellow hybrid to a pink climbing rose near the trailer door. She couldn’t see his face.

“To tell you you’ve won a million dollars! What do you think I want? What are you doing?” she asked, noticing the gallon milk jug in his hand.

He shrugged. “Watering Hattie’s roses. Seems like somebody ought to. Shame to let ’em die.”

Charlie sniffed a crimson blossom. If she picked it, would a horrible beast appear and order her to leave? “Need any help?” she asked.

“Thanks, but I’m about through.” Clay paused to mop his face and set the empty jug on Hattie’s single step. “The note’s still inside, where we left it the other day. Doesn’t look like she’s been back here.”

“What note?”

“The one Miss Dimple wrote to let her know we were worried about her. Doesn’t look like she’s coming back.”

“Miss Dimple thinks something’s happened to her,” Charlie said. “Do you?”

“Looks that way. Grady has the police looking for her. They were here earlier, poking around.”

“Did they find anything?”

“The police don’t let me in on their little secrets,” Clay told her. “Since that nut in Atlanta confessed, they’re more convinced than ever that I killed Prentice. That guy was
in jail
when Prentice was killed.”

Clay went inside to fill the jug and emptied most of the contents on the bush with velvety red blossoms. “What about Miss Bertie?” he asked. “Do you think she might know who Prentice was seeing?”

Charlie shook her head. “Not according to Miss Dimple. Her friends didn’t know, either. Delia and I have spoken to all of them except Iris.”

“She’s working at some camp.” Clay poured what was left in the water jug over his sand-colored hair.

“I know. We’ll just have to wait till she gets home.

“Guess you heard about Jasper Totherow.”

“A little. Fill me in.”

Charlie did. “Maybe he and Hattie eloped,” she said in an attempt to make him smile.

It didn’t. “Something stinks,” Clay said. “What’s going on, Charlie?”

“I wish I knew. Do you think more than one person could be involved? Jasper claims he saw somebody out there the day Leola died. Maybe Prentice did, too. Delia says she seemed to be nervous … worried about something. Now Prentice is dead, Jasper’s missing … and nobody knows what’s happened to Hattie. Where does the boyfriend come into this?”

He frowned. “You don’t believe me about the boyfriend?”

“That’s not what I said, but we have to find him, Clay. Maybe there’s a connection, but right now, I can’t see it.”

“Don’t give up on me, Charlie.
Please.”

Swallowing tears, Charlie turned away. There were too many things to cry about: The man she hoped to marry was in danger’s way every day, as was her brother Fain, Delia’s Ned, and oh so many others. She couldn’t afford to break down now. “I’m not giving up on you,” she said, facing him, “but I don’t know where else to look. I’ve thought of everybody it might possibly be, but none of them makes any sense.”

“You think I haven’t?” Clay set the milk jug inside the trailer and slammed the door. “I make lists in my sleep.
When
I sleep.”

Charlie hesitated before speaking. “There’s a possibility, you know, that Prentice made that up. Delia said she was upset with you over your objection to her going away to college this fall.… Well …
more
than upset really. She might’ve said that just to hurt you, Clay.”

He stiffened. “
No!
Prentice doesn’t—didn’t lie. Wish to hell she had, but she was telling the truth. I know it.”

Charlie looked at the empty trailer, the bright mass of roses; water dripped softly from the foliage. “Clay, do you know where Hattie is?”
Now what made her ask that?

Clay must have wondered, too.
“What?”

“She could know something important, Clay.”

In answer, he climbed into the cab of his truck, slammed the door shut, and started the engine. Silently, Charlie walked back to her car and followed him out to the road. He never did answer her question.

*   *   *

“I’m afraid I might’ve made a mess of things with Clay,” Charlie told Annie when she stopped by Phoebe’s later. She found Annie on the back porch, adding another coat of white polish to her sandals.

“I don’t know why in the world I said that,” she added, explaining what she’d done. “I’ve known Clay Jarrett all his life, but sometimes it’s hard to know what he’s thinking.”

Annie set the sandals aside to dry. The polish had covered most of the worn places and they would have to do for now. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said, and sighed.

Charlie frowned. “Oh, Annie, have you still not heard?”

Annie shook her head. “Something’s happened. I know it, and Frazier’s right in the middle of it. I’ve read all about what’s going on over there, heard it on the news. They’re trying to push past the Normandy beaches, take all those towns away from the Germans. It’s been
weeks
now, Charlie, and I haven’t heard a word. I know he would write if he could—even if it’s only a few sentences—just to let me know he’s all right.”

“Maybe his parents have heard something. Do you know how to get in touch?”

Annie wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “Well, I have their names and address. They live in this little town in north Georgia, somewhere up near the Tennessee line.”

“Then
call
them! Maybe they’ve heard something. At least you’ll know.”

“Okay, but I’ll wait until the mail comes tomorrow. Maybe I’ll hear something then,” Annie said.

Charlie smiled. “Good! Now, let’s go drown our problems at the drugstore. I’ve been thinking about a root beer float all day.”

Charlie asked Delia to join them, hoping it might help to cheer her up as well, and they took little “Pooh” along to gnaw on his usual cone—minus the ice cream—having learned from experience that otherwise the baby and everything within several feet of him would have to be scrubbed down afterward. “We’re going to be in trouble when he learns the difference,” Charlie said as they settled into a booth at Lewellyn’s.

Annie scooped a spoonful of vanilla into her mouth and glanced at the young man in uniform approaching them. “Who’s that?” she whispered, trying not to stare. He was exceptionally good-looking, so it was hard to look anywhere else.

Delia concentrated on stirring her chocolate soda with a straw. “Chenault Kirkland,” she whispered, flushing.

She looked up as he stopped by their booth. “I’m so sorry about your friend, about Prentice,” he said, speaking softly. “I still can’t believe that happened.”

Delia nodded and thanked him, her eyes welling with tears. Thank goodness right at that moment Pooh decided he wanted to climb onto the table and everyone scurried to move everything out of his way as Delia secured him safely in her lap.

Chenault Kirkland belonged in an advertisement for beachwear, with a towel over his shoulder and a girl on his arm—a blond girl with large breasts, Annie thought.

They were interrupted by a greeting from Bobby Tinsley, who had stopped in for his customary afternoon ice cream. “Chenault—glad I ran into you. The sheriff tells me they’ve found your mother’s purse. They tried to call your home but couldn’t get an answer.”

Chenault shrugged. “Probably out running around as usual. Is that the one that was stolen at Cooper’s grocery?”

“Sheriff’s pretty sure it is. Says she can claim it at any time.”

Chenault frowned. “Who took it? Or do they know?”

“Probably Jasper Totherow,” the chief said. “They found it on the hill near that old shed he used to sleep in.”

“Used
to sleep in. You think he’s dead?” Charlie asked.

“Either that or he’s disappeared somewhere. Nobody’s been able to find him,” Bobby Tinsley said.

Chenault shook his head and frowned. “Jasper Totherow. Isn’t he the man those little girls found? I thought they said he was dead.”

Bobby sighed. “Frankly, I think the old scalawag took that money and went on a spree. He’s holed up somewhere; you can bet on it.”

*   *   *

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody with eyes as blue as that,” Charlie said after the two men left.

“I assume you’re speaking of Chenault,” Delia said, “and may I remind you that you’re an engaged woman?”

Charlie laughed. “I may be engaged, but I’m not blind! It’s hard to ignore somebody who looks like that.”

Delia smiled. “Prentice and I used to make up stories about him. Both of us had a terrible crush—as if he would bother to look at two pitiful teenagers.”

Charlie drank the rest of her float, but she couldn’t help thinking that Prentice Blair at eighteen hadn’t been pitiful at all.

*   *   *

A letter from Will Sinclair was waiting when Charlie reached home. Snatching it up, she went immediately to her room. Hitler was using V-1 flying bombs to wreck havoc on England, with horrible losses, especially in the London area. And from the news, she knew Will’s unit had participated in bombing oil fields and protecting Allied bombers in Germany and Romania, but he didn’t write about that. She didn’t know how he managed to keep his letters light, sometimes describing the friends he had made and how they passed the time, usually including some kind of joke about the food. But there was an undercurrent of tenderness in every line. Charlie held the thin paper to her lips and kissed the scrawling signature. Although there was an ocean between them, she could feel his love as if he were right beside her in this very room. She hoped Annie had heard from Frazier, as well. Surely she would telephone if she had. Charlie was reading Will’s letter for the third time when her mother tapped on her door.

“When you can stop smiling long enough, you might want to phone Iris Ellerby,” she said. “She got home from camp this afternoon and seems eager to talk with you.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

“Mama said you wanted to talk to me about Prentice,” Iris said when Charlie called, and her voice didn’t sound eager at all, but weighed down with the sadness of the news that had awaited her.

Charlie glanced at the clock. It was almost five and Delia was upstairs giving Pooh his bath. After contacting most of their close friends after Prentice disappeared, her sister found it difficult to talk about her death and lately had avoided discussing it whenever possible.

“Would it be all right if I dropped by later?” Charlie asked. “It’s important,” she added, noticing Iris’s hesitation. “We’re trying to piece together everything we can to learn who’s responsible for this and you’re the only one we haven’t been able to get in touch with.”

Iris sighed. “I don’t know what more I could tell you, but … sure, come on if you think it might help.”

*   *   *

“Iris just got home from camp and I’m going by there in a few minutes to see if she has any idea who Prentice might’ve been seeing,” Charlie called to Delia from the top of the stairs. “Do you want to come with me?”

But her sister wasn’t interested. “You go on. I’m gonna feed Pooh an early supper and try to get a letter off to Ned.”

Although she would’ve welcomed the company, Charlie understood Delia’s reluctance to delve into questions about her friend’s death. Iris would probably be more likely to share a confidence with a close friend like Delia, but she would just have to do the best she could.

“She’s out back in the glider swing,” Iris’s mother told Charlie when she arrived a short while later. “Maybe I should’ve told her earlier about what happened to Prentice.… She’s taking it pretty hard. I’m so glad you’ve come. I think it might help to have someone to talk to.”

The glider swing rested under a tulip tree and Iris sat in the spotted shade with one leg curled beneath her, mechanically turning the pages of her high school yearbook. “I still can’t believe this has happened,” she said, looking at Charlie as if she expected her to tell her it was a cruel lie.

Charlie wished with all her heart that she could. She climbed into the opposite seat and wasted no time explaining to Iris that they suspected Prentice had been intimate with someone other than Clay.

“What?”
The swing jiggled as Iris sought to stand, but then she abandoned the idea. “Where in the world did you get a notion like that? She wasn’t even going
that far
with Clay, and you know how long they’d been together!”

Charlie waited for her emotional reaction to level off before telling Iris that Clay Jarrett himself had shared that information.

“Well, naturally he would!” Iris said, flushing. “How do you know he isn’t making that up to save his skin?”

“I don’t know … but what if he’s telling the truth? Prentice broke up with Clay a couple of weeks before she was killed, and according to him, she admitted she’d had sex with somebody else. You knew her better than most of us, Iris. Why would she have said that?”