Miss Dimple Picks a Peck of Trouble (8 page)

Delia almost cried out when someone suddenly tugged at her sleeve, and she turned to find herself facing a black-veiled apparition in a huge rose-crowned hat. The woman’s dress, the color and texture of long-dead leaves, looked and smelled as if it had been stored in somebody’s basement for the better part of a century. The long skirt lumped and bunched over what looked to be about six or seven crinolines.
Hattie McGee.

She tried not to flinch when the woman grabbed her arm.

“You watch out, girl! They’ll be after you next.” Hattie’s voice was hoarse, unaccustomed as she was to talking.

“They? They who?” Delia found herself being herded into the hallway that led to the Sunday-school rooms. The air was close and stuffy, and Hattie hadn’t bothered to bathe lately. Delia held her breath.

“Scarlett knows. Scarlett knows who. Don’t you go back, you hear? Don’t go back there again!” The words were almost singsong; the black-veiled face loomed closer. Delia ducked her head and inhaled quickly, noticing Hattie’s gloved hand on her arm. The tattered lace mitt was edged in tiny seed pearls and felt scratchy on her skin.

“What do you know? Tell me. Where am I not supposed to go?” She wanted to pull away and run, but suppose Hattie really did know something?

“The Shed. I know what I saw there. I know what I found … but they don’t. They don’t even know I have it.” The veil hid the woman’s eyes, but there was triumph in her voice.

“Delia? Are you in here?” Delia heard her sister’s voice and was relieved to see Charlie and Miss Dimple appear behind them in the narthex.

“She says she knows something,” Delia told them. She was surprised at how shaky her voice sounded, and she wasn’t sure her knees were going to support her. “Says she saw what happened to Prentice.”

“Hattie, if you know something, you must tell the police. It could be something that would help.” Miss Dimple spoke with a voice of reason, but reason was lost on Hattie McGee.

“No! That’s just what they want. Don’t you know that? It’s in my secret place. They’ll never find it there. They’ll never find me.”

There was fear in her voice and it went to the bone. Dimple felt it like an electric shock and it was obvious that the others reacted to it, too. Charlie hurried to her sister and pulled her out of Hattie’s reach.

“What did you find?” Miss Dimple continued, speaking in a soft voice. “Tell me. What are you afraid of?”

Hattie shook her head, showering a flurry of wilted petals. A pink one caught on her veil; a red one seesawed into the water fountain and stuck there, looking like a big drop of blood.

“Why, the Nazis, of course, and you’d better be afraid, too. They took her, you know, and that’s when they dropped it—right back there behind that shed.”

“Dropped
what
?” Delia ignored her sister’s calming hand on her arm. Mad Hattie couldn’t help being as crazy as a bedbug, but Delia had lost her best friend. Her head ached, her dress stuck to her back, and she resented being cornered by this smelly creature who spoke in riddles.
“What did they drop?”
she asked again.

Hattie McGee lunged closer, her flowery hat tilting at an angle. “Why, it was gold!” she whispered with breath that could be used to subdue the enemy. “It was gold—
real gold!”

“Look, we have to go,” Charlie said, stepping between them. “Our family’s waiting for us to go to the cemetery, but if you really know something, anything—” But before she could finish her sentence, Hattie turned and fled down the hallway, shedding rose petals like some macabre flower girl.

By the time they made their way outside, most of the people had dispersed except for a few groups murmuring sad good-byes in the shade of the old stone building, and the funeral procession was already winding its slow, antlike way to the cemetery.

Miss Dimple hurried to join Virginia, who had waited for her in the narthex and had overheard only part of the commotion in the hallway. “What was that all about?” she asked.

“I wish I knew,” Dimple admitted.

*   *   *

Delia and Charlie made their way across the steaming asphalt parking lot to find their mother and aunt Lou, who were already in the car with the motor running. Charlie slid quickly into the backseat and Delia hurried to join her. It would be awful to be late for Prentice’s graveside service because of Hattie’s ridiculous ramblings.

What now?
she thought when she heard running footsteps behind her and turned, to find Clay racing in her direction.

For a horrible minute, she thought he was going to take her hand. Clay’s tie was crooked, his coat rumpled, and his face damp and flushed. He looked like an overgrown Boy Scout. But, damn him, he wasn’t!

“I’ve got to talk to you, please!” Clay stumbled to a stop and put out a hand to brace himself against the car. Delia stepped back instinctively.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you. Look, you know I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Prentice. You’ve got to believe me!” Clay glanced at Charlie, who was watching him with interest, and lowered his voice. “Delia, listen, I really need your help. Can you meet me somewhere later?”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Jo Carr inched her vehicle into the somber line behind Dora Delaney’s faded Plymouth, which was jammed with everybody who had ever filed a nail or shampooed hair at Total Perfection. Bertie always had her hair cut there, and Dora had closed the salon for the funeral.

“What does Clay want to see you about?” Charlie asked, having tried and failed to overhear the conversation.

Delia sank back against the seat and closed her eyes. “Says we need to talk.”

“Whatever for?” her mother asked. Perspiration fogged her glasses and she snatched them off and wiped them on her sleeve.

“Wants to talk about Prentice. About what happened—or didn’t happen, I guess. Clay swears he wouldn’t have hurt her.”

“Do you believe him?” Charlie asked.

Delia didn’t answer. She could hardly bear to look as they drove past the grammar school, where playground swings hung limp and empty in the sun. How many times had she and Prentice played there to see who could swing the highest, made tiny houses in the roots of the giant oak?

Her mother turned left at the corner and followed the chain of cars past Lewellyn’s Drug Store where Phil Lewellyn, the pharmacist, stood respectfully in the shade of his green-striped canopy with the local dentist, Lou’s husband and the girls’ uncle Ed. There was hardly any traffic in town because almost everybody in Elderberry was in the funeral procession.

“Well, do you?” Charlie persisted.

Their aunt spoke up from the front seat. “I think we should at least hear what he has to say,” she announced.

“We?”
Delia glanced at her sister, who rolled her eyes. Their aunt was incredibly nosy.

“Well …
someone
should be with you, Delia. There’s safety in numbers, you know.”

Delia was grateful when her mother stepped in. “Your aunt Lou has a point,” she said, “but I doubt if Clay would speak freely with one of us hanging about. He might be less intimidated if Charlie went with you instead.”

“I don’t even want to be in the same room with him,” Delia said. “Why should I listen to Clay Jarrett if he had anything to do with what happened to Prentice?”

“But what if he didn’t?” her mother said.

*   *   *

Jo spied her at the end of the block when a blob of dark skirt bobbed into view. She resembled a dusty balloon after most of the air had escaped. Hattie McGee. It was a wonder the woman hadn’t dropped from heat exhaustion in all those underskirts. Jo lifted her foot from the accelerator; they were practically crawling along as it was. “I can’t believe she’s out in all this heat,” she said. “Do you suppose she wants a ride to the cemetery?”

Before anyone could answer, the old woman glanced behind her and darted into a side street.

“Seems to be going the other way—thank goodness!” Delia said. “Looks like she’s planning to sit on Doc Morrison’s wall.”

Jo glanced down the narrow, tree-shaded street and saw Hattie McGee perched there, knees up, her back propped against the low column of the Morrisons’ brick wall. She hoped Amanda Morrison didn’t have any roses she’d mind sharing. “Guess she’s only cooling off a little. I suppose she’s all right.” She hated to leave her there like that, but there was no time to stop. Jo gained speed to catch up with Dora’s car before winding up the hill to the cemetery.

“That woman’s never going to be all right,” Delia said. “I like to have never gotten away from her back there at the church! Thought I’d die of asphyxiation.”

“Honey, she can’t help the way she is,” her aunt Lou reminded her.

“Well, I’m sorry, but she nearly scared me to death … all the time carrying on about Nazis and gold and people chasing after her. Claims she saw what happened to Prentice.”

“Poor Hattie.” Jo slowed to a stop as the cars ahead began to turn into the cemetery gate. “She has this thing about gold—especially the Confederate gold. Says she knows where it’s hidden, and to hear her tell it, the Yankees have been on her trail for years, but she’s harmless, I reckon. Must’ve overdosed on
Gone with the Wind.
”

“And now she thinks Nazis are after her, too,” Charlie said. She ran her fingers through her blond shoulder-length hair and lifted it off her neck as her mother parked on the side of the road. “Has she always been this way?”

“Long as I can remember,” her aunt said. “I think she had a high fever from some kind of illness when she was a young girl and it left her this way. Family’s long gone, of course. Sister married and died somewhere in Texas, I believe. But Hattie was quite gifted, they say—played the piano and had a beautiful voice. Young girl like that. Her whole life wasted. What a pity.”

Grass crunched underfoot as they followed the others up the dusty hillside to where Prentice’s flower-decked casket waited under the bright blue canopy.

Pity
is not a strong enough word, Delia thought.

*   *   *

The hat was hot and heavy and the veil tickled Hattie’s chin. If only she could take it off for a minute, but Mammy would have a fit. It wouldn’t do to get too much sun, bad for the skin. And what if she got
freckles
?

She’d never had freckles before. Had she? But somebody had. Somebody nice. A girl. Hattie couldn’t remember her name, but she saw her face, saw it plain as day: blue eyes and freckles, and a mouth that laughed. They’d played together, made mud pies and baked them in the sun. The girl didn’t care about freckles. Neither did she. Where was Mammy then?

Gone, of course, and the mud pie girl was gone, too. She was alone. Hattie closed her eyes and rested her back against the column. This was such a nice wall, and shady. They wouldn’t think to look for her here. Surely these people wouldn’t mind if she rested a spell, and there were roses, too—such a pretty color! She’d sure like to have one like that, almost an apricot it was. Maybe she’d come back when it was darker, cooler, and help herself to a cutting. She didn’t think they’d care.

The music woke her. Somebody was playing the piano. Hattie had heard that piece before; her fingers stretched and arched, plucked at her skirt. “The Minute Waltz” it was called, and whoever had played it before did it much better than the person who lived in this house with the apricot rosebushes. The clumsy musician kept breaking off in mid-measure, starting all over again. Hattie wanted to burst inside that house and rap the pianist’s knuckles, show her how to play it right. But she couldn’t remember how.

Her hat slid over her face. Most of the roses had fallen from it, and, sighing, Hattie took it off and laid it aside. The sharp edges of the wall cut into her legs and she slipped off it and sat on the sidewalk just long enough to stretch. She hadn’t had anything to drink since she left home for the funeral and her throat was so dry, it hurt to swallow. A little water from the hydrant by the porch would taste mighty good if only she had something to drink from.

Hattie McGee stiffened when a car pulled up alongside her and somebody blew the horn. It was a shiny black car, and at first she thought it was the hearse that had taken that poor girl’s body to the cemetery. Now it was back for her.

Never show fear.
Pretend … pretend … pretend. But Hattie’s hands trembled as she quickly jammed her hat back on her head and snatched up her string bag. Her legs felt weak when she tried to walk. After a futile attempt to smooth her skirt, she began moving away from the car. If she wished hard enough, maybe the car would go away.

But it didn’t.

“Are you all right?”

Hattie glanced over her shoulder and saw the big car backing alongside her. The driver leaned over the seat to speak through the window on the passenger side. “It’s all right; I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to see if you were okay. You looked … well, you were down there on the sidewalk, and I thought you might’ve fallen.”

Hattie slowed but didn’t answer. She knew that voice, knew the woman it belonged to. Hardin. That was her name. Hardin … Haynesworth … something. Couldn’t let go of her maiden name so she dragged it along behind her like so much baggage. Why, Hattie didn’t know. Granddaddy was poor as a church mouse, but at least she wasn’t a Yankee. And it
was
awfully hot. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk all the way home.

Hattie opened the door and, bundling her skirts about her, slid in beside the driver, oblivious to the woman’s expression of distaste. “A ride would be mighty nice,” she told her.

The woman had been drinking. You could smell it all over her—not that Hattie cared. She wasn’t above taking a toddy herself if anybody were to offer, but nobody ever did. From beneath her veil, Hattie slyly eyed the driver and saw her slip a mint into her mouth. All the mints in the candy store wouldn’t cover up that boozy breath, she thought, and a crooked little laugh angled out and strained through the limp black net.