A Deceptive Homecoming (18 page)

“We'll see,” I said, stepping by the policeman and through the door as his smile was replaced by a furrowed brow and a genuine look of confusion. “We'll see.”

“I
'm sorry, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Curbow said. “It's late and Miss Hayward isn't seeing any visitors. Not even you, I'm afraid.”

If she'd said, “Especially not you,” I wouldn't have been surprised. But I couldn't take no for an answer. This was too important. Ginny had to know.

“I'm sorry too, Mrs. Curbow.” She frowned and shook her head, misunderstanding me. “Has she seen the papers today?”

“No, of course not. Unless it's crumpled up and wiping my windows, I say newspaper is good for nothing.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Ah!” The housekeeper cried out as I pushed past her.

“Ginny!” I yelled. “Virginia, I must speak with you.”

“Miss Davish, this is highly irregular. Miss Hayward—”

“Must see me,” I said, interrupting her. “Ginny! It's imperative I talk to you! I've come from the police.” Mrs. Curbow's face turned pale as her hand went to cover her gaping mouth.

“But why?” she asked. I ignored her and yelled again.

“Ginny!” Like an apparition, a figure in a white muslin nightdress and stockinged feet appeared at the top of the stairs.

“What do you want, Hattie?” There was a cold edge to her voice.

“I must speak to you about your father. Have you seen the headlines?”

She dashed down the stairs so fast, the large, ruffled lace collar of her nightdress flapped about her face like wings. Any moment I expected her to trip and fall. She descended the stairs without incident but slipped when she reached the highly polished parquet floor and slid several feet, waving her arms about her before stumbling right into me. I caught her in my arms, surefooted in my heavy-soled boots, which prevented us both from tumbling backward to the floor. She was so close I could smell the Florida water on her skin. Once we would've giggled at her clumsiness, but there was nothing to laugh about now. She immediately pulled away from me.

“What headlines?” she said, brushing herself off.

“You may want to sit down.”

“When did you get so dramatic, Hattie? Just tell me.” I shrugged and glanced at Mrs. Curbow as if disavowing any responsibility of what might happen next. Mrs. Curbow, her face still pale as a sheet, had her arms wrapped tightly around herself and was rocking slightly back and forth.
Maybe she's the one who needs to sit,
I thought.

“The police exhumed your father's coffin.”

“What?” Ginny shrieked, her hands in fists at her sides, her face a combination of fury and, could that be, fear? “When? Why? They can't do that without my permission. How dare they!”

“The coroner ordered it due to suspicions of mistaken identity.”

“Hattie,” Ginny said through a clenched jaw, “did you have anything to do with this?”

I ignored her question. “And they may have uncovered evidence of a serious crime.”

“What crime?”

“Murder.”

I caught the expression on Mrs. Curbow's face out of the corner of my eye and had barely enough time to dash to her side as she collapsed. I caught the weight of the old woman and went down with her, landing hard on my knees, but keeping her head from smacking against the floor. Her head rested gently in my lap as I tapped her cheek. Ginny rushed to her side.

“Mrs. Curbow? Are you all right?”

The old housekeeper's eyes fluttered and then slowly opened. She nodded her head slightly but showed no signs that she was inclined to sit up.

“What murder?” Ginny hissed over the prostrate figure of her housekeeper.

“A man named Levi Yardley. He was the man buried in your father's coffin ... not your father.”

“That can't be.” Color drained from Ginny's face. “I saw Father with my own eyes.”

“Through the autopsy, the medical examiner determined positively that it was Mr. Yardley and not your father.”

“But how could that be? I saw him with my own eyes,” she repeated, hanging her head as she stared at the floor.

I shook my head and then remembered the photograph I still had in my pocket. I pulled it out to show Ginny. “As you can see, Mr. Yardley and your father look a great deal alike.”

Ginny slowly raised her head, took the photograph from me, and studied it. “Besides his nose of course,” Ginny said, wrinkling hers.

“Do you know him or have you ever heard of Levi Yardley?”

“No, never.” She handed back the photograph.

“Mr. Upchurch must've mistaken Mr. Yardley for your father when he found him in the street. When he brought him here, you assumed it was your father as well. As you say, with the disfigured nose, it would've been difficult to tell them apart.” She nodded, accepting my explanation. “That and the missing scar.”

“But you said this other man was murdered?”

“It's not conclusive yet, but that's what the police suspect.”

“And my father?” Mrs. Curbow moaned. I shrugged.

“I have no idea. He's obviously missing.” I didn't want to voice the possibility that he too could be dead. “Do you have any idea where he might be? Or why he hasn't contacted you?” Ginny shook her head, speechless.

Mrs. Curbow moaned again and began struggling to sit up. We aided her and got her into an upright position.

“Are you feeling better, Mrs. Curbow? Can you stand?” I asked.

“I don't know. My legs feel as wobbly as an uncooked soufflé.” I put my arm around her waist and helped her to her feet. Ginny remained crouched on the floor. The housekeeper looked down at her. “Is she all right?” I couldn't answer that.

“Let's get you to a chair.” I helped her into the nearby parlor, sat her down, and poured her a brandy from the tray on the sideboard. “Here, drink this. It should help. I'm going to check on Miss Hayward.” I left the housekeeper sipping the brandy slowly. Ginny hadn't moved.

“There's more, isn't there?” she asked without looking up.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” I told her about the newspaper's claim that her father was a suspect in Mr. Yardley's death.

“My father didn't kill anyone.” Ginny looked straight into my eyes for the first time.

“It would explain why he hasn't contacted you.”

“But why? Why would he do such a thing?”

“It would certainly be a convincing way to fake one's own death, killing someone who looks just like you.”

“No, Father would never do such a thing!”

“He might if he were desperate enough. Could he have been involved with what's going on at the school?”

“What's going on at the school?”

I explained to her about the incidents at the school: the fire, the vandalism, the theft, as well as the missing accounting ledger.

“I knew about some of it. Don't you remember, I even wrote you about it?” I remembered that she'd only written about her concern. She'd said nothing specific. “But this is the first time I've heard about a ledger gone missing.”

“The ledger was found buried in your father's coffin alongside Levi Yardley.”

“And there's suspicion that my father was involved?” I nodded. “With what? Stealing bazaar money? Dumping champagne into the grass? Ripping out pages from shorthand dictionaries? Hattie, that's absurd. And to think you believe he's capable of killing someone over such pettiness. . . .” Her face reddened with anger.

“Actually he's suspected of embezzling money from the school.”

“No! My father loved the school. He'd never do anything to harm Mrs. Chaplin or the school's reputation. He certainly wouldn't steal from it.”

“There's one way to prove it.”

“What's that?”

“Do you have a sample of your father's handwriting?”

“Of course, but how is that going to help?”

“Please, Ginny, indulge me.” Ginny stood up and walked into the parlor. I followed her. Mrs. Curbow was still clutching the brandy glass between two hands. It was almost gone.

“Are you well, Mrs. Curbow?” Ginny asked. The housekeeper nodded but said nothing and took another sip.

Ginny pulled an envelope out from one of the pigeonholes from a secretary placed in the corner of the room. “Here's a letter he was writing to a friend the night before he died. He never finished it.”

“May I?” She handed me the letter.

I skimmed it, looking at the formation of the letters and not the content. I didn't need to match it to the first pages of entries in the ledger. I recognized it as Mr. Hayward's hand. Then who belonged to the second hand?

“Thank you.” I handed the letter back. “The handwriting in that letter confirms that your father made the first few pages of entries in the ledger. From what I saw, there was nothing suspicious about them.”

“Then everyone will know he did nothing wrong,” Ginny said.

“Not necessarily. Until the police discover who killed Levi Yardley, or until your father reappears and clears his name, the police will suspect him.”

“No, Hattie, no. You know my father. He'd never harm anyone.”

“The fact remains, Ginny, he's missing, and until we find him . . .” I hesitated. I caught myself from saying “alive or dead.”

“What?” The desperation in Ginny's voice was heartbreaking. She reached for her locket that wasn't there.

“Until we find him, he'll be a suspect. It was his coffin the dead man was found in, after all, with one of his ledgers beside him.”

“But he didn't do it, Hattie. He didn't do any of it.”

“Then where is he, Ginny?”

Her shoulders sagged and she shook her head violently. I knelt down beside her and put my arms around her. She clung to me. Mrs. Curbow, revived by Ginny's need, set down the empty brandy snifter, stood up, and came to stand next to Ginny's chair.

“Now, now, Miss Hayward, it'll all be all right.” She handed Ginny a handkerchief.

“I'm so sorry, Hattie,” Ginny said. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay.” I said it over and over. She shook her head again.

“You tried to tell me. You tried to be a good friend and look how I treated you. I spurned your aid and now look what's happened.”

“It's okay.” I was relieved that Ginny finally understood my motives.

I'd only wanted to help. But I also couldn't help thinking that some of this was my fault. If I hadn't questioned the man in the coffin's identity in the first place, maybe Ginny would be better off. But no, without my questioning, Mrs. Yardley would always have wondered what had become of her husband, a killer would've never been sought, and Frank Hayward would've been left to his current fate, whatever that may be. No, I did what I had to. It didn't mean I had to like the pain I'd caused, though.

I gently pushed Ginny away and looked her in the eyes. “Can you tell me anything about where your father may be or why someone would put the ledger in his coffin?”

Mrs. Curbow, who had sat at the end of the settee nearest Ginny, scooched to the edge of her seat and stared expectantly at her. Ginny hesitated. At first I thought she was catching her breath, trying to hold back tears, but something in her manner, the way she looked away, the way she searched the room with her eyes as if looking for answers, made me wonder.

“No, I'm sorry. I have no idea.” And then she looked up, a strange look in her eye. “When I gathered his things from his office, I didn't find anything unusual, nothing that didn't belong to him.” So that's why Frank Hayward's office was empty. “But I could guess who might've stolen the ledger.”

“Who?”

“Asa Upchurch or Malinda Gilbert.”

“Why them?”

“They were competing for the head position. Maybe one of them wanted to hide something that would lessen their chances.” Maybe, I thought. “And then there's Miss Woodruff. She was acting particularly strange at the funeral. Like she had something to hide.”

“You noticed that too? She was overly distraught and emotional. I thought she simply was mourning the loss of your father.”

“She hardly knew my father.”

“But then why steal the ledger?” For the first time since I'd arrived home, I saw a small smile steal across Ginny's lips.

“I don't know. Isn't that your job to find out?” It was her way of apologizing for rejecting me and my previously offered help. I was relieved to have my friend back.

“If that's what you want, Ginny. If that's what you want.”

D
espite reconciling with Ginny, I was worn out, down, and discouraged by the time I returned to my hotel. Ginny was holding something back. But what? If she knew something about her father's whereabouts or about what's been going on at the school, why wouldn't she tell me? I was relieved that we weren't at odds anymore, but something between us had been lost forever. I didn't quite trust her either.

Good thing I have work to do,
I thought, grateful once again to Sir Arthur for the much-needed distraction.

I retrieved my handwritten notes on General Thompson from my room and then the ledger from the desk clerk and took it all with me to the school.

“You're working late, miss,” a young girl, wearing an apron, said as she locked the school door behind me.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. Where's Gus?”

“He's around here somewhere. Said you might be coming. I heard you knocking first, though, seeing as I was right here cleaning the floors. Where to, miss?”

“Miss Gilbert's room, please.”

“Then follow me.”

With her lantern held high, she led me up a flight of stairs and down the hall to the typing instructor's classroom. The maid lifted her ring of keys, holding them in the light of the lantern to find the right one.

“Why don't you turn the lights on?”

“Wish I could.” She singled out a particularly thick key from the bunch. “It sure would make mopping easier. But Gus says Mr. Upchurch won't allow it. Says it costs too much to burn the lights at night.” She lifted the key toward the door but as she pushed the key in, the door opened slightly.

“It was already unlocked?” The maid sighed as she put her keys away.

“Happens all the time. Getting these teachers to lock their doors is like trying to scrub the black off an iron kettle.”

I was surprised to hear this since discipline and orderliness was the foundation of what Mrs. Chaplin's school taught me. I expected Miss Gilbert, of all people, to be more diligent, especially with the vandalism and theft of late. The maid reached into the room and pushed on the electric lights. We both put our hands to our eyes to deflect the brilliance.

“There you go. You know where to find me, and Gus should be around every half hour or so if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” I set my things down next to the nearest typewriter. “I'll be here.” She raised her lantern in response and went back to her bucket and mop.

Having been interrupted the last time, I had plenty of typing to keep me preoccupied. I heard Gus pass by three times before I took a break. I'd been typing details I'd learned about General Thompson's involvement with the Pony Express. The Pony Express lasted only eighteen months, yet the daring overland journey had made the riders famous. I suddenly remembered the ledger I'd brought with me. I still hadn't had time to examine it closely. After finishing the page I was working on, I put my work aside, picked up the ledger, and opened it to the first page. I noticed immediately that there were eraser marks, a great deal of them. I flipped through the pages and realized that almost every page had them. But that could be explained by a distracted or incompetent accountant. Frank Hayward was definitely not the latter, but the former was a real possibility. However, that wasn't what had bothered me earlier. As I'd noticed before on pages entered by someone other than Frank Hayward, several of the figures didn't add up. The cost of a dozen bottles of ink varied over several months with no discernable pattern, as did almost everything from a box of paper clips to typewriter ribbon. And the payment to the electric company was often twice the price of the actual cost.

No wonder Mr. Upchurch thinks the light bill is too high,
I thought.

I looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching. I'd heard the heavy tread of Gus go by several times, but this wasn't Gus. Nor was it the sound of the maid's light tread. I closed the ledger, stepped hurriedly to the wall, and pushed the lights off. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness as I listened to the footsteps grow louder and louder. Then there was silence. The person had stopped outside the door.

I let out a sigh and then peered out the door at the sounds of retreating footsteps. Except for the hand that held the candle, the figure, dressed in black, was almost imperceptible. Had Miss Woodruff come back? What was she looking for this time? She'd already searched Mr. Hayward's office for anything that might implicate him in the so-called incidents that had been occurring at the school. Had she learned of “more evidence,” as she put it? But why was she haunting the hallways after hours when she knew Gus was on duty? What she was doing wasn't a secret anymore.

As quietly as I could, I stepped into the hall and followed. However, this time she didn't pass by Mr. Upchurch's office as before but tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

The maid was right,
I thought. Mrs. Chaplin would not be pleased.

I watched her enter the office and close the door behind her. I waited a few minutes before following. I tried the door; it was still unlocked. The smooth porcelain knob slipped under my grasp as I twisted it and eased the door open a few inches. No one was in the outer office, so I inched the door forward enough to allow me through. I gently closed it behind me and stood with my back against the wall. A vague shape loomed out at me from the middle of the room. As I tiptoed past, I discovered it was Miss Clary's desk. Suddenly a light streamed beneath the closed door of Mr. Upchurch's office. The woman had turned on the electric light. I put my eye to the keyhole. All I could see was her figure leaning over the front of Mr. Upchurch's desk, with her back to me. She began wadding up papers and tossing them into a metal wastebasket. Before I realized what she was doing, she picked up her candle, lit the corner edge of a sheet of paper, and tossed it too into the basket. Flames leaped up as the other paper caught fire.

“Stop! What are you doing?” I yelled as I burst into the room, the door smashing against the wall behind it. I rushed to put out the fire.

Startled by my sudden appearance, she screamed. Burning wax, smoke, and Florida water mingled in the air as she dashed past me. For a moment I scoured the room, yanking open drawers, but found nothing, not a half-empty pot of tea, not a watering can, not even a bottle of sarsaparilla, to douse the flames.

Curse Mr. Upchurch's austere principles,
I thought.

And then she lunged for the lights on the wall. She hit the brass light plate and plunged us into darkness. The flickering flames burning in the wastebasket reflected on the tin tiles of the ceiling directly above. The silk of a newly formed spider's web sparkled in the fire's light.

“What are you doing?” I asked again. She grunted in response.

I reached out, groping for some hold on her. With some luck, I snatched the sleeve of her gown. She slapped at my hand, but I held tight. She dragged me across the floor toward the open door. With her free hand, she tried to grab hold of the bookcase against the wall. My pull on her sleeve unsteadied her grasp and only a book came away in her hand. She flung it at me but missed. It landed on the floor with a thud. She grappled again with the bookcase. Gaining purchase, she yanked on it, pulling it forward. In an instant, I released my grasp and flung my arms up in defense. A dense, leather-bound book smacked the top of my head as someone screamed. And then I was deafened by the sound of hundreds of books crashing about me. Sharp corners stabbed my arms, hard spines smacked my hands, and flat covers pelted my shoulders as I fought to keep my balance. One book, which read
School Management,
its gold leaf title shining in the dying firelight, jabbed me in the middle before bouncing off my stays. And then the heavy, unyielding form of the bookcase struck me. I fell back and crumpled beneath its weight as it collapsed on top of me. A loud whack reverberated in my head as I hit the books on the floor beneath me.

And then there was silence.

Where am I? Are my eyes open? Everywhere about me was impenetrable dark. I tried to move, but I couldn't. Was I back in the asylum tunnel? Had they found me and chained me to the wall?
Help!
I tried to scream, but neither my voice nor any other sound could penetrate the silence. I tugged at my chains, feeling the weight of the restraints about me until I no longer had the strength to fight.

And then he was there, wearing a brand-new gray fedora. He smiled and laughed as he jiggled the silver ring of keys before him.

Father!
My breath was ragged and shallow, but he beamed when he heard me.

In that instant the keys disappeared and he held a golden trombone. A crystal chandelier dangled just above his head. The light reflecting off the crystals danced about my father's jolly face. He waved to me to follow as he drifted down the asylum tunnel, playing “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” I yearned to follow, to be in my father's presence once more. I struggled to move, but my head, my feet, my legs, even my hands refused to budge. And then the ceiling of the tunnel lifted, taking the chandelier and the crushing weight on my chest with it. Above me was nothing but welcoming, dazzling light.

And then there was a deep moan in my ear. My father floated toward the light, beckoning for me to follow. I longed to bask in its brilliance, to embrace its warmth. But where was that moaning coming from? For a moment, I heard heavy footsteps approaching and then glimpsed a man, his faceless head floating above me beneath the pale crown of a Panama hat. Something salty dripped into my mouth. The light flickered, wavered even as my body rose in the air to meet it.

Wait for me, Father,
I yelled, but couldn't be heard over the endless moaning. And then he and the light and everything else were gone.