Miss Dimple Picks a Peck of Trouble (17 page)

Iris shrugged. “
If
she said that, it was probably because he was so selfish about not wanting her to go away to college. I guess he pushed her too far and she wanted to get back at him.”

Charlie didn’t answer, and Iris correctly read her silence to mean she disagreed. “You know how Prentice was,” Iris protested. “There was never anybody but Clay. I can’t believe there was anything going on with somebody else.”

Her last statement wasn’t convincing, however, and Iris shifted her gaze to the yearbook in her lap, then looked quickly away.

“Iris, are you
sure
?
Think, please.
Do you remember her mentioning
anybody
—even in jest? Someone she admired or thought good-looking?”

Iris smiled slightly. “You mean other than Clark Gable or Tyrone Power? The only person I can think of would be Chenault Kirkland, but that was back when we were in the ninth grade. I think most of us had a crush on him then, but she hadn’t said anything about him lately.”

Charlie nodded. Her sister had, too, but Chenault Kirkland was rarely home on leave, and besides, she’d heard he was serious about some girl from Savannah. Prentice would’ve been much too young for Chenault, but she
was
beautiful, and it would be hard to believe he wouldn’t have noticed her. She reminded herself it certainly wouldn’t do to disregard him.

Charlie wished Miss Dimple were here. She sensed that Iris wasn’t telling her everything, and there was something about Dimple Kilpatrick that made others put their trust in her hands. “If you think of
anybody,
please let me know,” she said. “The longer Prentice’s murder goes unsolved, the greater the chance we’ll never know who did it.… And what’s to keep him from doing it again?”

Iris didn’t answer but continued to grip the yearbook in her lap, and it was obvious she wasn’t going to say anything more. Charlie said good-bye and started across the yard. She could see Iris’s mother watching from the kitchen window and felt sorry that not only had she been useless in comforting Iris, but she had made her feel even worse.

She had reached the corner of the house when Iris called to her from the swing. “Charlie … wait!

“There was
somebody,
but it’s … crazy to even think of it. I’m sure there’s nothing to it.” Iris glanced down at the unopened annual. “I used to tease her about him—just joking, naturally—and she’d get all flustered and turn as red as a beet. Honestly, I didn’t think there was anything going on—not with Prentice. Who would believe she’d—”

“Who,
Iris?” Charlie tried not to scream. “Tell me who!”

“Look, I’m not sure about this, but maybe she really did have a thing for him. Got kind of mad when I teased her.” Iris lowered her voice. “It was Mr. Reardon. Seth Reardon, the drama coach.”

Seth Reardon.
Charlie tried to picture his face and couldn’t. The drama teacher wasn’t someone who would stand out in a crowd. Dark-rimmed glasses, brownish hair, medium height—not someone she would expect. She drew a blank when it came to his face. Seth Reardon was just sort of there. She’d worked with him some her junior year when he was adviser to the annual staff, and remembered him only slightly. Pleasant enough. Kind of low-key. And much too old for Prentice.

Good Lord, Prentice! Why?

*   *   *

Although it was still sweltering in late summer, Charlie felt the need of a cup of tea. When she reached home, her mother looked up from her ancient rolltop desk, where she wrote her weekly society column for the
Elderberry Eagle
, and acknowledged her daughter with a wave of her hand. Delia was nowhere around. Probably upstairs writing to Ned, Charlie thought as she waited for the kettle to boil.

Iris Ellerby was only guessing about Prentice and Seth Reardon, and it wouldn’t do to blow it all out of proportion with nothing to go on but secondhand gossip. Miss Dimple would know best where to go from here, Charlie decided. It was too late to phone her tonight, but she would talk with her first thing tomorrow.

Her mother glided past her to put her coffee cup in the sink and yawned. “How did you find Iris?” she asked. “Poor girl! It’s hard for her, I know, to lose a friend like that, and then have to leave for school right away. She goes to Wesleyan, doesn’t she?”

“Uh-huh. Sophomore year.” Charlie didn’t look up. She wished she could confide more in her mother, but there were some things she’d learned not to share with Jo Carr or her sister Lou. The two liked nothing better than to latch onto the trail of a possible suspect, and Charlie didn’t want to be responsible for them putting themselves in danger.
It was different, of course, if she did it herself … but she wasn’t going to think about that.

Her mother leaned on the edge of the sink. “So … did she have anything to say—about Prentice, I mean?”

“She was still in shock, I think. I don’t believe Iris has had time to come to terms with what happened. She’s pretty broken up.”

“I’m not surprised. Well, bed for me. I’ve had enough for one day.” Sighing, Jo kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.” Charlie smiled. Her mother always said that, and Charlie always answered in the same way, and then went to bed as late as she pleased. It was a ritual. “By the way,” she added, “did Annie phone while I was gone?”

But Jo shook her head. “I sat on the porch for a while to cool off, but I would’ve heard the phone ring, and of course Delia was inside to answer it. “Now, don’t forget to turn out the kitchen light.”

*   *   *

Before she went to bed, Charlie pulled out her high school yearbook, the
Eagle’s Eye.
In addition to advising the annual staff, Seth Reardon coached the debate team and directed most school productions. He was nice-looking enough, she thought, examining his faculty photograph, but nobody who would make you do a double take. Delia had mentioned once that she thought he had a droll sense of humor. Maybe that was what had appealed to Prentice.

If
he had appealed to Prentice. That was something they would have to find out.

*   *   *

When Charlie dropped by Phoebe’s the next morning, she found Dimple at the kitchen table with her usual cup of ginger mint tea and one of her unappetizing Victory Muffins. She had returned earlier from her customary morning walk, and aside from Odessa, who was hanging out clothes, and Phoebe, out watering her drooping begonias, Dimple was the only one up. Annie was still asleep, she was told, and if she had received a letter from Frazier, Miss Dimple wasn’t aware of it.

Naturally, Miss Dimple practically insisted Charlie have one of her muffins, proclaiming their value in aiding digestion, and, she added, “in keeping one regular.” But Charlie had been led down that path before and found that one sample of foul-tasting sawdust was more than enough. “Thank you, but I just had a big breakfast and can’t eat another bite,” she said, then wasted no time telling Miss Dimple about Seth Reardon.

“Hmm … it says here he lives on Oglethorpe Street,” Miss Dimple said, thumbing through the thin volume of the Elderberry telephone book. “Must be that large Victorian house on the corner. I believe it’s been made into apartments.”

“I wonder who else lives there,” Charlie said. “It would be better if we had a reason to drop by.”

“Alma Owens rents an apartment downstairs,” Phoebe told them when she came in to fill her watering can, and I believe Florence McCrary lives on the other side. That used to be the old Douglas place.”

“
Florence McCrary!
Well, no need to ask any further,” Charlie said. “That woman knows
everything
about
everybody
in this town!”

Most people suspected that Florence, as the local telephone operator, frequently listened in on private conversations, but Miss Dimple was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Did I hear somebody mention the old Douglas place?” Velma Anderson, still in robe and slippers, helped herself to coffee, making a point to bypass the offending muffins. “Mary Edna Sizemore and her mother rented the upstairs there until they moved into that place in the north end of town. You all know Mary Edna—teaches home ec at the high school.”

Everyone acknowledged that they did. “I believe Seth Reardon’s living there now.” Velma rustled cornflakes into a bowl, added milk, and sat at the table with Dimple. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he moved on to other things soon, though. He’s getting married, you know.”

Charlie didn’t. She waited.

“Girl from Virginia,” Velma continued. “Think they went to school together. Heard she was an actress or something. Good Lord! What would she do
here
?”

“He hasn’t resigned, has he?” Miss Dimple asked.

“Not yet. Wedding’s not till December. He showed me her picture once. Seems right attractive, but she’s no spring chicken.… Of course, Seth isn’t, either. I think he’s been taking classes at the university this summer—working on his master’s.”

Charlie glanced at Miss Dimple, who pretended not to notice. This complicated matters. A fiancée made the situation even more unlikely. Could Iris have imagined this? After all, she never actually witnessed anything that might be compromising.

“How are we going to manage this?” she asked Miss Dimple after they moved to the front porch. Annie joined them there, silently shaking her head to let Charlie know she still hadn’t heard from Frazier, and both Velma and her roommate, Lily Moss, had left for errands in town. Phoebe and Odessa were bustling about the kitchen, making watermelon-rind pickles, and the house was soon filled with the tart smell of vinegar and spices, which quickly became overwhelming. Charlie thought longingly of the preserves her aunt Lou made of watermelon rind, but that would take too much sugar. The pickles would have to do until after the war.

“I think we should all confront him together,” Annie said, having been informed of Iris’s suspicions. “There’s not much he could do to the three of us. How do we know he didn’t kill Prentice to keep her from telling his fiancée?”

Charlie agreed. She had thought of asking Clay to accompany them, but if the rumor about Prentice’s involvement turned out to be true, there was no telling what his reaction might be. “But we still need a plausible reason to visit him, and I can’t think of a thing,” she admitted.

“I believe I can,” Miss Dimple said after a few moments of silence. “If you’ll remember, Prentice had one of the featured roles in the school production of
H.M.S. Pinafore.
It seems to me her aunt Elberta might like to have a copy of that script to remind her of happier times, and who else would we ask to help us find another than the person who directed it?”

*   *   *

The morning was half gone by the time the three women walked the several blocks to the house on Oglethorpe Street, having decided it was best not to telephone in advance. On the way, Annie confided that she would put in a long-distance call to Frazier’s parents if she didn’t hear from him in the afternoon mail. The opportunity to confront Seth Reardon would at least help to distract her friend for a while, Charlie hoped.

A gray Plymouth coupe, which they assumed belonged to Seth Reardon, was parked in the narrow gravel driveway, and Miss Dimple didn’t hesitate as she led the way inside and up the stairs.

They found his name on a card attached to his door and waited for what seemed like an eternity after Miss Dimple knocked.
What do we say now?
Charlie wondered, and for a brief minute, she found herself hoping Seth Reardon wouldn’t be at home.

“Just a minute!” someone called from inside, and the sound of hurried footsteps drew nearer.

Naturally, he recognized Charlie right away, since it had been only a few years since she was a student at Elderberry High. “Why, it’s Charlie, isn’t it? Charlie Carr. You’re Delia’s sister, aren’t you?” Puzzled, he looked about. “And Miss Dimple—how nice to see you. What can I do for you ladies?”

You can tell us if you had anything to do with Prentice Blair’s murder!
Charlie thought, but she wisely let Miss Dimple do the talking.

“We’ve come asking a favor,” Miss Dimple began. “I’m sure you’re aware of what happened to Prentice Blair.…”

The man’s face turned doughy white and he grasped the door frame as if he were afraid his legs wouldn’t hold him up. “Yes … yes, of course … but what—”

“Is it all right if we come in?” Miss Dimple barged past him without waiting for an answer, and the others followed meekly.

But not before Charlie heard Annie whisper behind her, “‘Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.’”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Leave it to Annie to quote Shakespeare at the most inopportune times, Charlie thought, but she welcomed the lighthearted respite, however brief.

The room they entered was large, sunlit, and practically bare, with a daybed in one corner, two shabby overstuffed chairs, and a radio on a small table. An electric fan whirred in the window and books lined two walls and overflowed onto the floor.

“Oh—here, sit down, please.” Seth Reardon grabbed a handful of papers from one of the chairs and brought a straight chair from the adjoining kitchen. Charlie and Annie sat on opposite ends of the daybed; Miss Dimple chose one of the armchairs, and the drama teacher perched uneasily, Charlie thought, on the one from the kitchen.

He looked from one to the other as if he expected them to say something, but nobody spoke. “That was a horrible thing that happened to Prentice,” he began finally. “Have they learned anything more? I thought it might have been connected to those killings in Atlanta, but now they say no.”