Free Miss Dimple Picks a Peck of Trouble by Mignon F. Ballard Page B

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