A Deceptive Homecoming (14 page)

“Let us in, Gus,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “I'm having trouble with my key.”

“Mrs. Chaplin?” a man's voice said through the door.

I wondered, since Mrs. Chaplin was supposed to be retired, how Gus recognized her voice. She probably visited the school far more than she'd admitted. Oddly, his voice sounded familiar to me, though I distinctly remembered on my first foray to the school after dark that Gus had not uttered a word.

“Yes, yes. It's me. Miss Davish and I would like to come in. Please unlock the door.”

The sound of jingling keys and then a
click
signaled that he'd unlocked the door, but when Mrs. Chaplin opened it and stepped inside, Gus was nowhere to be seen. She immediately headed for her former office.

“Gus is a bit odd, isn't he?” I told Mrs. Chaplin about how he hadn't spoken to me before.

“He seems perfectly competent to me.” I didn't tell her that Miss Woodruff had rifled through Frank Hayward's office while Gus was on duty.

“When did the school start requiring the need of a night watchman?” Had the incidents at the school been more rampant and dangerous than I'd been told?

“After the fire in the classroom. The firemen determined it had been set deliberately. After the money from the students' annual bazaar was stolen, the fire was the last straw. Mr. Upchurch was right to hire him.”

“But what if the incidents are being caused by students or teachers that are here during the day?” Mrs. Chaplin stopped in midstride and I nearly bumped into her.

“What are you saying, Hattie? That someone at the school may be doing all this?” I was surprised the thought had never occurred to her.

“Yes, I've even heard several people mention Frank Hayward's name. It's very possible. I can see a stranger stealing money or even setting fire to the school. But who else would tamper with enrollment documents, typewriters, and shorthand dictionaries but someone associated with the school in some way?”

“But nothing else has occurred since we hired Gus.” I shook my head and reminded her of the champagne incident at the lake. She put her hand to her cheek.

“I'd forgotten about that.” She continued again down the hall. “I'd hate to think that you're right, Hattie, but that's why I got you to come, isn't it? You have more a mind for this criminal activity than I do.”

I grimaced at her “compliment.” Luckily she had her back to me. I've been unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with a few murderers, but that didn't qualify me as an expert of criminal activity. I opened my mouth to voice my objection but thought better of it. Mrs. Chaplin was still talking.

“So it could be anyone: a student, a teacher, a maid, a cook . . . a secretary.” She turned back to measure my response and laughed. I tried to smile, but I didn't want to encourage her. I think she was actually enjoying herself. I could imagine, if I were living the life of a retired widow, how bored I'd be. But I wouldn't recommend sleuthing to fill the days. “Here we are,” she said as we reached the president's office.

Mrs. Chaplin grappled with her string of keys, found the one she was looking for, and unlocked the door. I was surprised when she led me through the outer office, not toward Asa Upchurch's office door but to the now-locked storage room. Again she fumbled through the keys until she found the one she wanted. I studied the jumble of keys in her hand and recognized what they meant. Mrs. Chaplin hadn't truly retired or intended to after all. She hadn't even given up her keys. How involved in the school was she? How does Asa Upchurch handle Mrs. Chaplin's input in, what should now be, his affairs?

With his usual charm, I suppose,
I thought.
His charm doesn't work on Miss Gilbert, though, does it?

My reverie was cut short when Mrs. Chaplin swung open the door, revealing a large closet, lined with bookshelves. One bookshelf was filled from ceiling to floor with day books and ledgers. Mrs. Chaplin walked in and began scanning the ledgers. I took the time to examine the other shelves, filled with typical office supplies: stationery, writing tablets, carbon paper, typewriter paper in several sizes, pens, pencils, rows and rows of bottles of ink, paper clips, rubber bands, rubber erasers, chalk crayons, blackboard erasers, typewriter ribbon, typewriter oil, and type cleaning brushes. I nodded my head in approval. Every clip, every ream of paper was in its place as it should be at a school that trains secretaries.

So it was completely unexpected when Mrs. Chaplin nearly shouted, “One of them isn't here.”

“One of what?”

“One of the accounting ledgers, from the time since I've retired, is missing.”

“Could it be somewhere else? Mr. Upchurch's office, perhaps? Or in Miss Clary's desk? Could it be in Mr. Hayward's office?”

“It shouldn't be. Everything has its place.” I couldn't recall how many times I'd heard that motto. Yet another lesson I'd learned at Mrs. Chaplin's school. “But let us look regardless.”

I followed her out of the closet, watched her lock it back up and head toward Mr. Upchurch's office. I followed her in and between the two of us, searched the office for the ledger. When I'd been here earlier, I'd been struck at how simply, yet richly, the office had been furnished. But now as I searched through desk drawers, I realized how austere the room truly was. With the exception of a photograph of his wife on the desk, President Asa Upchurch kept nothing personal in the room—not a plant, not a personal book, not even a hidden bottle of whiskey. He obviously felt strongly about keeping his personal and professional lives separate. It was admirable; he was living by example, as this was something else strongly advocated by the school. Until very recently I'd managed to follow closely to this principle. However, dead bodies and handsome, persuasive doctors tend to complicate things.

“I found nothing.” Mrs. Chaplin sighed. “You?”

“No.”

“Let's keep looking.” And we did. We searched every inch of the outer office, including Miss Clary's desk. We went to Frank Hayward's office, but it had been cleared out of everything.

When had this happened? I wondered. Last night the office still contained books, papers, and more. And who took it all? Miss Woodruff? President Upchurch? Ginny? Miss Woodruff's voice saying “more evidence” sounded in my head. Could there have been something of importance in his office?
The ledger!
I thought. Of course, but where's it now?

“Where could it be?” Mrs. Chaplin grumbled, echoing my thoughts. “Everything has its place!” In her frustration she wasn't seeing the obvious.

“Someone has taken it, Mrs. Chaplin.” She looked at me with wide eyes.

“It too has been stolen? Who's doing this? Who's trying to sabotage my school?”

“You think the missing ledger is merely one more incident?”

“Don't you?”

I shook my head. “Maybe, or it could be much more serious.”

“You mean someone stole the ledger to prevent us from doing exactly what we intended to do tonight?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“But who? Who would do such a thing?”

I hesitated, not wanting to be the one to voice the name we were both thinking. I looked about me at the empty office of the former bookkeeper. Mrs. Chaplin followed my gaze.

“No. Do you really think Frank Hayward would do such a thing?”

“I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so, but if he wasn't the man we buried last week . . .” I couldn't bring myself to accuse him outright. Besides, it was all still supposition. “We still don't know what's happened to him.”

“I'd no idea it was this sinister,” Mrs. Chaplin said, glancing about the empty room again before stopping her gaze on me. “Oh, Hattie, what have I gotten us into?”

“T
hank God for God,” my mother used to say.

I'd always thought it an odd phrase, but over the years I grew to understand what she meant. Many times in my life I've found solace in a holy place, whether it was St. Patrick's in Kansas City, St. Mary's in Newport, or the little chapel in Eureka Springs. I've always come away refreshed, calm, focused, and thankful. This morning, attending Mass at the Cathedral of St. Joseph with its single-squat bell tower and its memories of attending Mass with my mother, was no different.

I'd struggled to sleep last night. When I'd returned from Mrs. Chaplin's home there was yet another dinner invitation from Nate Boone waiting for me. His persistence and impudence was exasperating. And then there was Dr. Hillman. I'd written Bertha Yardley and posted the note before going to bed. Yet despite telling myself that the doctor's lies and his confrontation with Levi Yardley were none of my concern, I couldn't deny the desire to confront the man and hear what he had to say. But it had been the questions about the missing ledger, the disappearance of Frank Hayward, and the undeniable possibility that the two were linked that had kept me awake. Mass this morning soothed my restlessness. And after savoring the scent of incense one last time, I walked out of the cathedral into the bright, warm late August morning at peace again.

It ended the moment I stepped off the streetcar. This time there was no doubt; I was being followed. The feeling of being watched surged through me like electricity. I whirled around, certain I'd confront my mysterious pursuer but yet again found no one but an elderly man, with the aid of a cane, alighting from the streetcar behind me. I apologized to the frightened old man, stepping out of his way, but peered about the street for signs of the person following me. I was rewarded when I spied a man holding his hat on his head as he sprinted down Faraon Street. For a brief moment, I considered pursuing him, but he was fast and already too far ahead. He passed a row of two-story whitewashed brick houses and disappeared around the corner, two blocks away.

A mixture of anger, relief, and confusion rooted me to the spot as other passengers disembarking from the streetcar had to make their way around me. After a disgruntled comment from a nanny herding several small children and a baby carriage that bumped into the back of my legs, I moved out of the way and sat down on the bench. I pulled out my notebook and pencil.

My mind raced as I thought who would want to track my every move. I added names to the list.

I let my notebook drop to my lap, distressed that I could be suspicious of people I loved, and considered what to do next.

At least I know I was right,
I thought.

Someone has been following me. I wasn't imagining it. Although I hadn't seen the man's face, I was now certain I'd seen him at least twice before. He wore a Panama hat.

“This came for you, Miss Davish,” Mr. Putney announced when I arrived back at the hotel. He handed me a folded piece of paper with my name written on it. I sighed. I'd thought confronting Mrs. Chaplin would put an end to mysterious notes. I opened it up. It was from Mrs. Yardley.

How could I refuse?

I looked at the wall clock. It was quarter past eleven already. I shrugged my shoulders at the confused desk clerk before turning on my heel and heading back outside. Luckily the police station, a three-story redbrick castle, complete with turret and pointed roof, was a short walk from the hotel. I entered through the arched doorway, C
ENTRAL
P
OLICE
S
TATION
etched into the stone above. Mrs. Yardley was sitting on a bench staring out the window, but she jumped to her feet the moment she saw me.

“Oh, Miss Davish, I knew you would come.” Mrs. Yardley used the almost exact phrase as Mrs. Chaplin. The irony wasn't lost on me.

“Of course, Mrs. Yardley, but how can I help?” Instead of answering me, she glanced over at the approaching policeman. No taller than I, he had very broad shoulders, a square jaw, but almost no neck. His uniform fit snugly over the thick muscles in his arms.

“Miss Davish?” The officer indicated for me to sit next to Mrs. Yardley on the bench. “I'm Officer Quick. Mrs. Yardley said you have something to tell me about the disappearance of her husband.” I looked to Bertha for guidance.

“Please, Hattie, tell him everything you know about what happened to Levi.”

The officer took the seat beside me and waited. I've had several experiences with police of late. Luckily in this case, I wasn't directly involved in any way. I could relate my pertinent information to the man and let him take it from there. And the man seemed patient enough to listen to my story. So I did.

Bertha Yardley slowly paced the room, occasionally stopping to glance out at a buggy passing or to squint closely at the World's Fair print hanging near the door. (
I truly am the only person who hasn't been.
) Ignoring her anxiety, I told the officer everything: from my misgivings at the funeral, to my learning about the escaped patient from the asylum, to the nurse's confirmation that Levi Yardley was the escaped patient, to Mrs. Upchurch's identification of Levi Yardley arguing with Dr. Hillman in the street.

Officer Quick sat quietly and listened. Not once did he roll his eyes, shake his head, pick at his fingernails, or display any other dismissive behavior. Instead, he gave me his full attention and gave me every reason to believe he was taking me seriously. After all, I wasn't trying to do his job. It was a refreshing change from times past.

“With both of them missing, I can't prove that Levi Yardley was mistakenly buried as Frank Hayward, but that is my suspicion,” I said. “I suspect that because these two men resembled one another so closely that they were mistaken for each other and at least one of them is dead.”

Officer Quick nodded his head, placed his finger across his lips but said nothing for several moments. A few moments too long for Bertha Yardley.

“Well?” She strode across the room and stood over us. “What are you going to do about it?”

The policeman calmly rose. “What do you propose, Mrs. Yardley?”

“Dig him up!”

“Are you formally requesting that I exhume the body of Frank Hayward?”

“No,” Bertha said, shaking her hands about her, flustered. “I'm asking you to dig up the body of my dead husband, Levi Yardley.”

“Who Miss Davish suspects was buried wrongfully in the casket bearing Frank Hayward's name?”

“Yes.”

“If my husband is buried in Frank Hayward's grave, I want his body back. To be buried with his family, not misidentified as some stranger.” The policeman nodded but said nothing. Compared to the other policemen I'd encountered, Office Quick was a man of few words. Now I'd learn whether he was also a man of action.

“If what you say is true, Miss Davish, where's the body of Frank Hayward?”

“I have no idea.” And then I remembered the incident on “Lover's Lane,” when a buggy raced by driven by a man I thought resembled Frank Hayward. That couldn't have been the escaped patient as I'd once thought. Levi Yardley would've already been dead. Could it have been Frank Hayward after all? And what about the man who's been following me? Could he be Frank Hayward? “I can't say for certain he's even dead.”

“But his family believes he is, correct?”

“Yes, his daughter identified the body.”

“But you think the damage to the man's face misled her.”

“Yes, considering how much the two men resembled each other.”

“Besides Levi's nose, of course,” Mrs. Yardley added. The policeman nodded.

“If Frank Hayward isn't dead,” the officer said, “why hasn't he come forward? Why would he prolong the grief of his family?” I shook my head. That's the one question I'd asked myself over and over and still couldn't answer. The Mr. Hayward I remembered adored his daughter. He wouldn't want her to suffer one moment if he could prevent it.

“He too must be dead,” Bertha Yardley said. And then I had a thought.

“Or incapacitated in some way.”

“How?”

“Like being locked up in the Lunatic Asylum,” Bertha said, thinking the same thing I was. I nodded. “One patient for another. If Miss Hayward mistook Levi for her father, couldn't Dr. Hillman have mistaken Frank Hayward for Levi?”

“But then the nurses would've known they'd found the escaped patient, wouldn't they?” I said.

“Not if Dr. Hillman lied about that too,” Bertha said.

“So to be clear,” the policeman said, “you ladies think that Mr. Yardley, trampled by a horse, was mistakenly buried for Frank Hayward while Frank Hayward may have been mistaken for Levi Yardley, the escaped patient, and returned to the asylum?”

Bertha and I looked at each other. Having someone else repeat our speculations out loud made them seem fantastical, but nonetheless true. We both nodded.

“So you'll dig up the body?” Bertha Yardley asked. The policeman stared at Mrs. Yardley for a moment and then at me. With an answer not coming forthwith, Bertha added, “You do know that Miss Davish has helped the police solve murder cases? You should take what she says with great consideration.”

I cringed. I'd hoped to get through this interview without my past experiences being mentioned. I should've known better. There had been few conversations I'd had since I arrived home where someone hadn't mentioned them. How could I've thought an interview with a policeman would be any different?

Officer Quick said nothing but tilted his head as he regarded me. I felt like he was looking at me for the first time. “I will consult with Chief Broder,” he finally said, turning to Mrs. Yardley.

“Does that mean you will dig up Levi so I can bury him at home in Omaha?”

“Rest assured, Mrs. Yardley, we'll look into the matter.” He stood, walked over to the door, and held it open for us. “Thank you, ladies, for coming.”

“Does that mean I'm going to get Levi's body or not?” Mrs. Yardley asked me when we were outside. I shook my head.

“I don't know, Bertha.”

“Well, I'll dig him up myself if I must.” I stifled a chuckle at the image of Bertha Yardley grave-robbing in the middle of the night. But then I realized she was in earnest.

“No, Bertha, you must let the police take care of it. You'll get your husband's body back and some much-needed peace of mind.”

She nodded, though I wasn't sure if she believed me. And then I realized I wasn't sure if I believed it either. After all, I'd never told the policeman about my pursuer or about the acts of vandalism and theft occurring at Mrs. Chaplin's school. Why? Because I didn't think they were related to what happened to Levi Yardley and Frank Hayward? Officer Quick seemed trustworthy enough. So why didn't I tell him?

“Yes, thank you, Hattie. You're right. Peace of mind, that's what I'm doing all this for,” Bertha said, unaware of my doubts.

Me too,
I thought. But for whom?

 

And that question brought me back to Ginny's house, despite her desire for me not to return.

“What do you want, Hattie?” Ginny said, finally, the words coming slow and with difficulty.

I didn't know what to say. She'd been kind enough to see me when Mrs. Curbow informed her I'd come. But I was shocked by the change in Ginny's appearance and manner. A few days ago, she was calm, composed, and, despite dressed in black, had color in her cheeks. Now with deep circles under her eyes, she was pale and her hair was barely contained in a hastily pinned bun. She'd entered the parlor without a word, sat down, and without regarding me once, stared at the floral pattern on the rug to the right of her feet for several minutes. She blinked but twice. I'd come to tell her about the police's involvement, the possibility that her father's coffin might be exhumed, and my concern that if Levi Yardley was found in her father's place, that her father's fate might have been to take Levi Yardley's place, at the asylum. Yet she seemed unfit to hear such news. I had to tell her something.

“Ginny, I have news that may be both a relief and a concern. I don't want to add to your grief, but I think it's important that you know.” She gave no indication that she'd heard me or that she wished for me to continue. I had to continue. I owed her that much. “There's a woman, Mrs. Bertha Yardley, who's asking the police to exhume your father's coffin.” That got her attention. Her head jerked up and she stared straight into my eyes.

“What? Why would she do that? Why would the police do that?” How did I tell her it was because I'd convinced them that her father wasn't buried in the coffin that bore his name? She'd already forbidden me from getting involved. Our friendship was already strained. If I told her the whole truth, she may never speak to me again.