A Deceptive Homecoming (11 page)

“In for the night then, Miss Davish?”

“I am.”

I hardheartedly visualized the vexation on Nate Boone's face when he realized I wasn't coming. “Thank you, Sir Arthur,” I said under my breath. Writing up what I'd learned about General Thompson was the cure I needed after an unnerving afternoon and I had a good excuse to stay in.

“I have much work to do, Mr. Putney. Do you have a typewriter I could borrow?”

“G
us, is that you?”

Unable to find a typewriter I could use at the hotel, my plans to stay in for the night changed. After a quick telephone call to Mrs. Chaplin and a short streetcar ride to the school, I'd happily settled myself at one of the student typewriters in Miss Gilbert's classroom, a square room with white walls, highly polished oak floors, and two dozen desks perfectly lined up in three rows. The night watchman Gus, a silent, broad-shouldered man who wore his cap low over his eyes, had let me in before continuing with his rounds. Simply being surrounded by the sturdy machines put my mind at ease and for several hours I'd heard nothing but the reassuring rhythmic tapping of the keys as I worked. It was the most peaceful I'd felt since I'd arrived. And then I heard footsteps. I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning.

“Gus?” I called again, and rose from my chair.

There was no answer. I walked to the open doorway and peered into the dark hall, lit only by the sharp electric light streaming from the classroom. A figure, a woman dressed in dark clothing, was disappearing around a corner. I looked up and down the hall and saw no one else. Leaving my work in the classroom, I followed her. Having some experience before, I knew how to step lightly and keep my presence unknown. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark hallway, but when I caught up to her not far from Mr. Upchurch's office, I could easily see by the dim light of her lantern. I hid in the deeper shadows of a doorway as the woman stopped outside an office a few doors down. She glanced about her before entering the room. I couldn't clearly see her face, she'd pulled the veil from her hat down over her eyes, but from the feather plume that fluttered as she walked to the row of buttons on her kid gloves, everything she wore was black.

I slipped down the hall, stopping shy of the door. All the doors in the school were ornamented with a brass plate, but as the woman had taken the lantern with her, I couldn't read it in the darkened hallway. Only the slices of light beneath the door and through the crack where she'd left the door slightly ajar seeped across the floor. I felt around for the plate on the door and traced the engraved letters with my finger, F. H
AYWARD.
Why would Ginny sneak into her father's office at night? I peered through the gap as the figure moved about frantically from desk to bookshelf to filing cabinet, pulling open drawers, turning over papers, and rifling through books. For a moment the figure's fingers lingered over a pasteboard pencil box left on the desk. She slid it open. Two of the gray slate pencils were missing.

And then she looked up. It wasn't Ginny. I jerked my head back, flattening myself against the wall, and held my breath.

“Un, deux, trois.”
I counted silently, hoping she hadn't seen me. When I reached ten, I dared to let out my breath. Since she hadn't called out or come to the door to investigate, I assumed she hadn't caught me spying. Yet I still didn't move. Instead, I listened as she continued her search. And then I heard another set of footsteps heading in my direction from down the hall. These were much heavier and steadier than those made by the woman inside the office. A thin light glowed from the same direction.

Gus
.

In response, I heard the distinct sound of breath blowing out the lantern and footsteps approaching the door. The woman's ragged breath was inches from me as she peered into the hall. Could she hear me breathing? What would she do if she found me here? Why didn't I confront her? She slowly pulled the door closed and the moment was lost. Soon Gus would find me hovering outside Frank Hayward's door. I felt my way to the nearest door—luckily it was unlocked—and slipped inside. We waited, in our respective rooms, the woman and I, for several minutes as the heavy footfalls of the night watchman grew louder. The approaching light illuminated dust particles floating through the open transom as Gus passed by. And then the light and the sound of Gus's steps grew fainter until there was silence and darkness again.

He doesn't even know we are here,
I mused.
No wonder the incidences keep occurring.
But why had I hidden from Gus instead of making him aware of the intruder's presence?

I cracked open my door and waited but a few moments more before I heard more than saw the woman streak by me, her boots clacking against the wooden floor, as she ran in the opposite direction from Gus. I stepped into the hall and listened to her hasty retreat before finding my way back to the blinding light of Miss Gilbert's classroom. I sat behind the typewriter once again, but unlike before, couldn't bring myself to work. My hands hovered over the keyboard until my fingers ached. I stared at the letters between them, DFGHJK, wondering what Miss Woodruff was doing in Frank Hayward's office.

 

“If you could, perhaps, maybe, give the girls one piece of advice, Miss Davish, what would it be?” Miss Corcoran, the English instructor, asked, stabbing a stewed tomato from her plate. “That is, if you'd be so kind?”

After returning from Mrs. Chaplin's school in the early morning hours, I managed a few hours' sleep. I awoke well after sunrise and had to forgo any leisurely hike. After a light breakfast of coffee, toast, and butter, I telegraphed Sir Arthur, packaged the research I'd finished typing up last night, and made my way to the post office.

How ironic,
I thought as I entered the imposing stone building with a six-story clock tower on the corner of Eighth and Edmond. It was here that General M. Jeff Thompson supposedly pulled down the flag at the onset of the Civil War. And now I was mailing Sir Arthur what I'd uncovered about the general.

When I emerged from the post office, I made my way back toward the Pacific House Hotel, where I'd been invited to lunch. Miss Woodruff would be in attendance and all of my thoughts were of her as I crossed at the corner of Seventh and Francis. Suddenly, I felt that all too familiar feeling that I was being watched. With at least a dozen buggies navigating the intersection and countless pedestrians, on both sides of the road, going about their day, I saw no one staring at me. I'd continued on my way and had tried to ignore the hairs raised on the back of my neck. Yet the feeling never left, even when I'd joined the ladies for luncheon.

“My father used to say, ‘The customer gets what the customer wants.'”

I was happy to have an excuse not to eat the stuffed pheasant and potatoes I'd been served. With Miss Woodruff seated directly across from me, I had little appetite.

“And in our case, the customer is our employer. It's essential that you understand your employer and strive to give him or her exactly what they expect.”

“I don't understand,” Miss Meachem, one of the students, said. She had a stubby little nose and numerous blemishes on her high forehead. “Doesn't an employer who hires a typist want a good typist?”

“Of course they do, but often they expect far more than simply the fastest typist they can get.” The girl blushed at my reference to her reputation as being the fastest typist in the school. “You need to determine what beyond the basic skills is expected of you.”

“Perhaps, maybe you could give us an example?” Miss Corcoran said. “If you wouldn't mind?”

“Of course. For example, if your employer expects loyalty, you need to give them every reason to believe in you. If your employer expects you to be discreet, never give them reason to doubt you. If your employer expects you to be humble, never speak out of turn, never.”

“But why isn't being a fast typist enough?” Miss Meachem asked.

“Because we women need to be competitive in the workplace. There are many fast typists. You need to excel beyond that. Simply put, be the best at your assigned tasks, act exactly the way they expect, and they won't know what they did without you, and more importantly, won't be able to imagine anyone taking your place.”

“Is that what you did, Miss Davish? You're obviously speaking from experience. Do you do whatever your employer demands?” Miss Gilbert twisted my words, making me sound unscrupulous.

“No, Miss Gilbert, I don't do whatever an employer demands. However, I do speak from experience. I've had to learn on my own that employers expect more from their personal secretaries, people they have given access to their most personal and confidential affairs, than simply someone who works in a typing pool. As a personal secretary, you're the buffer between your employer and the world. There's no set job description. You have to be flexible, capable, and motivated.”

Despite my retort, the next several questions from the girls were more in line with Miss Gilbert's.

“Have you ever been asked to do anything immoral?”

“Do you hold secrets that could compromise your previous employers' life or livelihood?”

“Have you ever had to fight off unwanted advances?”

“No, of course not,” I lied. I could've said yes to all three questions, but I didn't want the students to misunderstand the nature of my work. They were already thinking the worst. “It's a business arrangement, ladies, a job,” I said. “You work for an employer. You do your best to meet their expectations, but they don't own you.”

“So you say,” Miss Gilbert mumbled under her breath, chewing on a fingernail.

“Is there anything else you would like to ask Miss Davish before dessert is served?” Miss Woodruff said, giving Miss Gilbert a sideways glance of disapproval. I'd avoided her glance during the luncheon, but now I took the opportunity to study her. Except for the dark circles that stood out against her pale skin, she seemed at ease. But what had she been doing in Frank Hayward's office last night?

A girl raised her hand. She was wearing a pretty straw hat with a rosette of wide satin ribbon and a bunch of orange silk flowers.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering, Miss Davish, if you could tell us some of the non-secretary work you've done lately.”

“Non-secretarial work? I'm not sure I understand.”

“She's talking about the snooping into murders you've been up to lately,” Miss Gilbert said, snidely.

“Oh.” I was afraid that's what she meant. “Well, it's another example of performing to the best of your abilities when you're required to do more than type. A few of my employers have requested my aid at such times and I met the challenge. In fact, I used many of the skills I learned at Mrs. Chaplin's to help me.”

“I'm sure you did,” Miss Gilbert said.

“I did, in fact. So, girls, learn everything Miss Corcoran, Miss Woodruff, and all of your teachers can teach you. If you learn to think, observe, and organize, you can do anything.”

“And now for dessert,” Miss Woodruff said, as the bread pudding with brandied peaches was served.

“Speaking of dessert, wasn't that Nate Boone scrumptious?” Miss Meachem said. I'd taken a bite of the bread pudding, which almost immediately soured in my mouth. I set my fork down.

“Did you know Miss Davish and Mr. Boone were childhood friends? And the tale was that they were even engaged?” I was stunned by Miss Gilbert's audacity. “Oh, look at Miss Davish blush. It must be true.” My face reddened even more as everyone gawked at me and I tried to quell my anger at Miss Gilbert's teasing.

Un, deux, trois,
I counted in my head.

“Really?” Miss Meachem said.

“I don't think Miss Davish's private life is a topic for discussion,” Miss Woodruff said. “It's not anyone's place to examine whom and why we love.” Cupping her hand over her chin, Miss Woodruff glanced down at a red splotch where a tomato had dripped onto the white linen tablecloth. She was still dressed in black crape.

“Thank you, Miss Woodruff.” I was sincerely grateful and yet baffled by her unexplained behavior.

“Well, then, let's discuss why on earth Mrs. Chaplin chose to hire Mr. Upchurch when she retired.”

“I don't think that's an appropriate topic either, Miss Gilbert, especially in front of the students,” Miss Woodruff said.

“It concerns them as much as it does us how this school is managed. I think if Mrs. Chaplin were to know what was going on . . . ”

“What's going on?” a student asked.

“I think Miss Gilbert's talking about all the ‘incidents,'” Miss Meachem whispered behind her hand.

“Yes, incidents,” Miss Gilbert said. “More like acts of negligence and incompetence. None of these ‘incidents' would've occurred if I were president.”

“You mentioned them at the lake. What do you think is going on?” I asked.

“I think it's a string of unrelated coincidences,” Miss Woodruff said. “No one can fault Mr. Upchurch for the classroom fire—”

“Poor management,” Miss Gilbert interrupted.

“Or the missing pages from the shorthand textbooks? Or the emptied champagne bottles?”

“Again poor management.”

“What about the missing money?” Miss Corcoran said. “Goodness gracious! You don't think our president stole that, do you?”

“From the rumors I've heard, Mr. Hayward might've had something to do with that,” Miss Meachem said coyly behind her hand.

“That's a hurtful lie!” Miss Woodruff shot up out of her seat and slammed her palms flat down on the table.

The girl shrank back, her mouth agape as the glassware wobbled precariously for a moment. The entire table fell silent. The clinking of silverware and the muffled words of the other diners' conversations filled the void. Miss Gilbert merely raised an eyebrow.