Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause

BOOK: Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause
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With gratitude to all the “Miss Dimples,” and especially to our fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Eddie Mae Lang, who read to us and loved us

Acknowledgments

Again, to Hope and “both Lauras,” with a million thanks for holding my hand!

Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Also by Mignon F. Ballard

About the Author

Copyright

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Darkness was an ally and trees don’t tell. How deep was deep enough? The shovel struck a stone, a root, but the earth was softer here. Soon leaves would blanket this secluded spot. Oh, God, forgive me!

*   *   *

“Virginia?” Miss Dimple Kilpatrick stood in the doorway of the Elderberry Library and looked about. On low shelves beneath leaded casement windows, open now in early September, worn volumes tumbled against one another, waiting for the next reader, and Miss Dimple hesitated before rejecting the urge to straighten them. Cattus, the gray-striped resident cat, slept curled in the rocking chair by the empty stone fireplace, and a vase of wilting pink roses shed petals on the dark, glossy surface of the piano in the corner. Probably left over from the Woman’s Club meeting earlier in the week, Miss Dimple thought, stepping closer to inhale their dainty fragrance. Cattus, so named by the librarian, Virginia Balliew, who had taught Latin years ago before she married Albert, jumped down and curled around her ankles, and Dimple stooped briefly to stroke her. If she didn’t love teaching so, Dimple Kilpatrick thought she would be perfectly happy spending her days in this blissfully peaceful place, and she’d have to admit she was sometimes a little envious of her librarian friend.

“Virginia?” she called again, noticing the half-filled mug of coffee on the large oak desk where a stack of books waited to be checked in and her friend’s familiar blue raincoat on the coat rack behind it. Probably taking a restroom break, she thought, or chatting with a patron in the tiny nonfiction section in the rear. Virginia didn’t run what Dimple considered “a tight ship” and was more relaxed in her routine than she herself could possibly endure, but the tiny log building everyone called “the cabin” was the hub of their town, with people constantly drifting in and out to browse through books, catch up on local news, or stretch out on the old cracked leather chaise lounge to read. It wasn’t unusual to find somebody belting out the latest tune on the piano, and Virginia herself was known to entertain listeners with “Take Me Home Again, Kathleen,” when the mood struck her. It was the only song she could play all the way through.

The room smelled of old books, old wood smoke, and new fall apples heaped in a wooden bowl on the window sill, and Miss Dimple basked in the comfort of it. She added the two Christie mysteries she was returning to books that had come in earlier and stuck her head in the back room just as a figure darted between the stacks. She was just in time to glimpse the top of Virginia’s once-red hair over the row of fraying
World Book Encyclopedias.

“What in the world are you doing back here, Virginia? I’ve called to you two times. You might want to consider getting your hearing checked,” Miss Dimple demanded.

“Oh, thank goodness it’s you!” Her friend emerged sneezing. “I really have to dust back here … I thought you were Emmaline. She’s supposed to be headed this way, and I’m just not in the mood to deal with her today.”

“What about tomorrow?” Dimple suggested, smiling.

“Then, either.” Virginia followed her back into the larger room and switched on an ancient electric fan in the window. “Must be almost ninety in here. I was hoping that shower this morning would cool things off.”

“I don’t suppose that new Eberhart book’s come in,” Miss Dimple said, frowning as she checked authors under
E.
“And what’s all this about Emmaline? Is she still after you about the War Bond Rally?”

Virginia held up a copy of
Wolf in Man’s Clothing.
“Came in just this morning. I hid it behind Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
.” She sighed, scooping Cattus onto her lap. “You know how Emmaline is—won’t take no for an answer. She’s been after me to ask her nephew to promote the rally, and I really don’t need the help, but Buddy’s between jobs again and she thinks it might be a good idea to give him something to do.”

Miss Dimple accepted the book with halfhearted dismay. “I know you shouldn’t have held this for me, but I’m so glad you did,” she said, setting the book aside with her bottomless handbag embroidered with multicolored yarn flowers. “Now, Buddy, he’s her brother’s son, isn’t he? Used to sell insurance.”

Virginia nodded. “And farm equipment … wholesale groceries … even furniture, if I remember right. Must be in his forties now, and too old for the service—thank the Lord—although I understand he drills with the Home Guard.” She laughed. “God help us if we have to depend on Buddy Oglesby to stand between us and the enemy!”

“But this is strictly volunteer. You’re not being paid to be in charge of the rally, and he certainly couldn’t expect compensation,” Miss Dimple pointed out as she selected a Lord Peter Wimsey mystery for Virginia to stamp.

“Emmaline thinks it will boost his confidence, and heaven knows he needs it.” Cattus leapt to the floor in pursuit of a shadow, and Virginia stood and studied the wisteria vines outside the window behind her. “She’s due here any minute for that meeting, and there’s no way I can avoid her, so I suppose I’ll just have to think of
something
to keep Buddy busy.” She sighed. “You know I’m glad to do whatever’s asked of me for the war effort, but if I had known Emmaline was going to take charge of entertainment for the rally, I might’ve had second thoughts.”

“What meeting?” Miss Dimple gathered up her books and started for the door.

“A planning meeting for the entertainment.” Virginia smiled. “Are you interested?”

She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t get one. “According to the
Eagle,
there’s to be some kind of pageant at the high school,” Dimple said, referring to the town newspaper. “I wondered who would direct it.”

“Well, wonder no longer,” Virginia said, shaking her head. “And I understand there will be a parade as well.”

Dimple Kilpatrick nodded, thinking of the reason for the rally. “I think we could all use a bit of festivity. You can put me down for ticket sales.”

The country was winding up its second full year in a war against the Axis, which included Germany, Japan, and Italy, and although the British Eighth Army had landed in Southern Italy, German troops still occupied Rome.

“Did I hear somebody mention a parade? That oughta liven things up around here!” Delia Varnadore, who had just turned twenty and looked even younger, maneuvered a baby carriage containing her six-month-old son through the doorway and wheeled it to one side. “Wonder if I could still remember how to twirl a baton,” she said, giving the carriage a jiggle.

Miss Dimple doubted if she could’ve forgotten in the three years since she’d graduated from high school and married Ned Varnadore. “We were discussing the upcoming bond rally,” she whispered, peeking at the sleeping child. “I believe he looks something like your father.” Charles Carr, if she remembered correctly, had that full lower lip and hair the color of daffodils.

“Oh, you don’t have to whisper,” Delia told her. “Tommy … well, we call him Pooh … can sleep through anything. Even the train doesn’t bother him. Remember when you used to read us about Winnie the Pooh, Miss Dimple? Doesn’t my little baby bear remind you of him?”

Miss Dimple didn’t see the resemblance but she smiled and agreed just the same.

“Charlie’s on the way,” Delia said, referring to her older sister, who was beginning her second year teaching the third grade at Elderberry Grammar School, where Miss Dimple Kilpatrick had been shaping first graders for so many years she’d almost lost count. “She stopped by Mr. Cooper’s to pick up a few things for supper. Jesse Dean called to let us know they got in a couple of bushels of sweet corn, and that’s probably going to be the last of it till next summer.”

Miss Dimple looked forward to enjoying some of the same at Phoebe Chadwick’s rooming house, where she stayed. She had walked part of the way to town with the Chadwick’s cook, Odessa Kirby, who was on the same mission. Jesse Dean Greeson, the grocer’s young clerk, usually notified their regular customers when something special came in, and with wartime rationing, many foods were in short supply.

“I’m here to learn more about that pageant,” Delia added, dropping into a chair. “Maybe that will give me something to do.”

“I’d think you’d have your hands full with this little elf,” Virginia said with an admiring glance at the baby.

“He keeps me busy, all right, but his conversational skills leave something to be desired. Most of my friends are away at college and Charlie’s teaching all day.” Delia shrugged. “With Mama working part-time at the ordnance plant over in Milledgeville, I miss having somebody to talk to.”

“And what do you hear from Ned?” Miss Dimple asked. Ned Varnadore had been a bright child, but a bit impulsive. She’d never forget how he’d nearly frightened her to death when he came close to being hit by a car while chasing a ball into the street, and hoped he had become more cautious.

Delia’s face brightened. “I just came from the post office. I try to write him every day, but it’s been a while since we’ve heard anything … he’s in Italy, you know.” She stood abruptly and turned away to examine the titles at hand, and Dimple exchanged knowing looks with Virginia. Hardly more than a child herself, Delia Varnadore was lonely, frightened, and primarily responsible for a tiny life while her young husband risked his in a foreign land.

“Hope I’m not late!” Delia’s sister, Charlie, appeared in the doorway and paused to shift her bag of groceries to the floor before stepping in front of the fan. “I’ve had enough of this rain! Humidity’s awful out there, and it’s not much better in here. Aunt Lou promised to drop by later with a churn of peach ice cream, but it looks like we might have to drink it.”

As refreshment chairman of the club, Louise Willingham took advantage of that fact to miss much of the business part of the meetings, and everyone looked forward to the good things she would bring. Today she was using some of the last of the summer peaches for a favorite dessert.

“Let’s hope it holds off until after they get the cotton in,” Virginia said. “I understand they’re letting the schools out to help pick this Thursday if the fair weather lasts.” Everybody knew you couldn’t get a good price for wet cotton and a few days of sun should help to dry out the fields and the crop.

Charlie wasn’t sure how much actual picking to expect from her boisterous third graders, who considered the outing a good excuse for a picnic, but with most of the young men away at war, local farmers had to rely on whatever help they could get. She laughed. “Some of the mothers had the class making their own child-size cotton sacks this morning out of whatever they could find in the rag bag, and I wish you could see the results!” She looked about. “They haven’t started the meeting, have they? Annie’s not here yet, and I know she promised to help choreograph some of the dance numbers.”

Virginia looked at her watch. “Emmaline should be here soon, and I believe Reynolds Murphy has agreed to help organize the parade.”

Charlie was glad. The owner of the local ten-cent store where just about everyone traded seemed glum since his wife ran off with that notions salesman a few years before and left him with their ten-year-old son. She hoped this would help him focus on something positive.

Delia tucked a receiving blanket around little Tommy’s toes, although the day was still summertime hot. “Who else is coming?” she said.

“I believe Mr. Weaver mentioned something about it at dinner,” Charlie told her. Sebastian Weaver, the new chorus director at the high school, had taken up residence at Phoebe Chadwick’s rooming house, where Charlie’s friend Annie and Miss Dimple lived, and Charlie and several others from the community took their midday meals there as well.

“He seems awfully quiet, don’t you think, Miss Dimple?” she continued. “Maybe this will give him a chance to get to know people.”

BOOK: Miss Dimple Rallies to the Cause
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