A Deceptive Homecoming (12 page)

Is Miss Woodruff always this peculiar?
I wondered. She persisted in wearing black, I'd discovered her rifling through papers in a dead man's office, and now her eyes blazed as she leaned over the table, challenging anyone to speak ill of that same dead man. Why would Mrs. Chaplin employ someone unstable?

Miss Woodruff knows something.
The thought struck me so unexpectedly I gasped.

“That may be, Miss Woodruff,” Miss Gilbert said slowly, “but either way, the rumor gives more credence to what I've been saying. Mrs. Chaplin's School for Women, under the management of President Asa Upchurch, has become a place of gossip, thievery, and vandalism. I don't think that's at all what Mrs. Chaplin intended.”

“No, of course, it isn't,” Miss Woodruff said. She sat down, her face flushed with embarrassment. She again covered the scar on her chin with her hand. “Forgive me, girls. I haven't been myself lately.”

“If I may, I would have to agree with Miss Gilbert. There does seem to be an instability about the school since Mrs. Chaplin retired,” Miss Corcoran said. Miss Gilbert smiled in triumph. “But I'm not sure, and it's only my opinion, but I don't think that Mr. Upchurch has anything to do with it.” Miss Gilbert stopped smiling.

“Tell me then, Miss Corcoran, who or what is responsible, if not President Upchurch?” Miss Gilbert demanded. The timid English instructor blanched and immediately stared at the napkin in her lap.

“Does Mrs. Chaplin know what's going on?” I asked.

Miss Woodruff shook her head. “We don't think so.”

“Why haven't you told her, Miss Gilbert?” She shrugged at my question and took a sip of her coffee.

Why not tell Mrs. Chaplin? I wondered. Miss Gilbert had certainly taken every available opportunity to voice her displeasure in Mr. Upchurch's management of the school. Did she think she jeopardized her chances of replacing Mr. Upchurch if she played the role of tattletale? She certainly didn't hesitate to divulge my secrets. Or did she fear the danger of being the bearer of bad news? Was she waiting for someone else to step forward?

“You could tell her,” Miss Gilbert said, setting her cup down. Her pronouncement shouldn't have come as a surprise. I should've known. Why else invite me to luncheon? She didn't want me to advise her students, she wanted me to intercede with Mrs. Chaplin on her behalf. “We all know you're her darling, her prize student, her star. She'd listen to you.”

“Mrs. Chaplin is retired,” Miss Woodruff said. “Do you really think we should be bothering her with such matters?” She looked expectantly at Miss Gilbert, who then turned her attention to me. All eyes followed.

“What say you, Miss Davish?” And there she had me. We both knew Mrs. Chaplin well. We both knew that the old matron, if presented with such news, would take immediate action. She was one to have a hand in everything that occurred at her school. It was still difficult for me to imagine her retiring to the peace and quiet of her back parlor.

“Yes, Miss Woodruff,” I said. “I do think Mrs. Chaplin would want to know that all is not well at the school.”

“You agree to tell her then?” Miss Gilbert said, triumphantly, as I looked into the expectant, adoring eyes of the students at the table.

“Yes, Miss Gilbert, I will tell her.” The table burst into a flurry of talk as the students speculated what Mrs. Chaplin would do once she heard about the incidents at school, about how she would react, and how they were glad it wasn't they who had to break the news.

I merely glared at Miss Gilbert, who raised her coffee cup to me and smiled before taking another sip.

Don't blame Miss Gilbert,
I thought, forcing myself to return her smile.
You got yourself into this mess
.

“T
hank you for inviting me, Miss Corcoran.” Everyone pushed back from the table and prepared to leave. “I enjoyed this very much.”

Especially the bread pudding,
I thought. It was one of Father's favorites. I hadn't had it with brandied peaches since leaving home.

“Oh my, thank you, Miss Davish, for being so accommodating. If I may say so, the girls were inspired and will have much to think on after listening to your adventures and advice.”

“I do hope I helped.” I noticed over the English instructor's shoulder that Miss Woodruff was the first to reach the dining room exit.

“Miss Woodruff, may I have a quick word?” She waited for me by the door. “If you'll excuse me, ladies.”

“What is it, Miss Davish?” Mollie Woodruff said.

“May we go somewhere where we won't be overheard?” Her eyes widened at my request, but she didn't hesitate to respond.

“If you think it best.”

She led me down the hall to a small parlor. Furnished with an oak parlor suite, covered with blue and gold heavy silk tapestry and two side tables, it was quiet and empty.

“What is it, Miss Davish?” Miss Woodruff said the moment she stepped in the room and closed the door behind her. Her eyes were wide with worry. I indicated for her to sit, but she shook her head. “Tell me. What's wrong?”

“I saw you last night.”

“Saw me?” She tilted her head slightly. “Saw me where?”

“At school. In Mr. Hayward's office.” She twisted her neck, almost looking over her shoulder, avoiding my gaze. She again covered her chin with her hand.

“Oh.”

“Why were you there? What were you looking for? What did you find?” She sank into the nearest chair and looked up at me.

“I couldn't let it go on. It's not right.” I grabbed a side chair, placing it opposite her, and sat down.

“What's not right?”

“You've heard the rumors. What else could I do?”

“What are you talking about? Which rumors?”

“About Frank, of course, rest his soul.” She dropped her head and stared into her lap.

“What about Mr. Hayward?”

She looked up at me, her brows knitted. “You're not daft, Miss Davish. Haven't you heard a word I've said?” I didn't want to remind her that she was the one being obtuse.

“I'm listening very carefully, Miss Woodruff. Please tell me about what's not right. Tell me about Mr. Hayward.” Did she too believe that Frank Hayward wasn't in the casket? But if so, why was she still wearing black? Why was she wearing black anyway? What did she know that she wasn't telling me?

“It's not right that he should be accused of wrongdoings. He was an honest, decent, conscientious, hardworking man, devoted to his daughter and to his school.” Miss Woodruff's passion for her subject grew with every word. “I can't have him blamed for something he didn't do!”

“No one wants to see an innocent man falsely accused, but what does that have to do with your foray into his office in the middle of the night?”

She looked at me again as if I were the daffy one. “To get rid of any more evidence. Before anyone else finds it.”

More evidence?
What could she mean by that?

“But if he's innocent, there would be no evidence,” I said.

“Exactly. I found nothing.” Before I could ask her what she meant by any “more evidence,” she twisted her head toward the door. “Did you hear that?”

I glanced toward the closed door and we listened. All was quiet. I had heard something, like something rubbing against the door, but it had stopped. Had I been followed even in here? I wondered. I jumped up, crossed the room in a few steps, and threw open the door. No one was there. I glanced down the hall in both directions. An elderly couple, hunched over with their arms entwined as much for mutual support as for affection, had their backs to me. At their pace, they had passed the door long before we heard the sound.

“Excuse me.” I overtook them easily.

“Oh” and “My” were exclaimed at my sudden approach, their deeply creased faces turned to greet me.

“I didn't mean to startle you, but did you happen to see anyone in the hall a moment ago? Particularly outside the parlor door?”

“Just a lady, like you,” the old man said. His wife nodded in agreement.

“How was she like me? Was she young, thin, brown hair?”

“Maybe not so thin,” the wife said. “You must eat more, dear. And not young, but you aren't that young either, are you?”

“No, I'm not.” I was trying to be patient. I needed to know if someone had been eavesdropping on our conversation and if so, why? Maybe I could finally discover who'd been following me. “Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“She definitely had brown hair,” the husband said. “Or maybe it was blond.”

“And she wore a . . .” the wife said.

“Yes?” I hoped to get something, anything that would help me identify this mystery woman. “A particularly patterned dress? A hat with distinguishing flowers?”

“She wore a straw hat. Yes, that's it. And it had a ribbon about it and some flowers on it.”

Like every other woman under the age of eighty,
I thought. The wife herself wore a narrow, black, high-set bonnet, fashionable when I was a little girl twenty years ago. I wanted to shout in frustration, but instead said, “Thank you for your help.” At least I knew that there was another person, a woman, in the hall around the time Miss Woodruff and I heard the sound at the door.

“Well, they weren't very helpful,” I said, entering the parlor, “but at least we know—” I stopped mid-sentence. The parlor was empty. Miss Woodruff was gone.

 

I returned to the dining room in search of Miss Woodruff, but she and Miss Gilbert were gone. I accompanied Miss Corcoran, Miss McGill, and the students back to Mrs. Chaplin's, all the time wondering what Miss Woodruff meant by “more evidence.” After a quick search, it was obvious she hadn't returned to the school. But I wasn't about to waste the trip. I pulled out the photograph of Levi Yardley and I headed for President Upchurch's office.

“Can I help you, Miss Davish?” Miss Clary, the president's secretary, looked up from her typing.

She sat behind a Remington set on a small walnut desk in the outer office, simply furnished with area rugs with geometrical patterns of green and white scattered about the room. Behind the desk were two doors, one labeled, P
RESIDENT
, on a brass plate, the other, slightly ajar, led to a storage room. Several new posters from the World's Fair hung on the walls.

“Yes, I was wondering if Mr. Upchurch was in?” I approached her desk. A souvenir spoon with the famous Ferris Wheel imprinted on it sat next to a steaming cup of coffee.

“Yes, he is. Please follow me.” She pushed back from her desk and walked to the president's office. She knocked loudly once and then opened the door. “Mr. Upchurch, Miss Davish is here to see you.”

Asa Upchurch looked up from his large, elaborately carved mahogany desk and smiled. Sunlight streamed through the tall double windows behind him, making the room brighter than I'd expected with mahogany paneling and numerous mahogany bookshelves.

“Ah, Miss Davish, what a delight. Thank you, Miss Clary.” Mr. Upchurch rose from behind his desk as his secretary left. He approached me and then touched my arm slightly while indicating for me to sit. “Please, please, have a seat.” He sat on the edge of his desk as I picked the armchair closest to me. “I want you to know what a treasure you are to this school.”

“Oh, I don't think—”

“Now, now, no denials, young lady. Mrs. Chaplin said you'd be modest.” He leaned over and patted my shoulder. “You're undoubtedly the best student we've ever had. And what with all that's been going on, you've no idea what a boost in morale your visit has given the students and teachers alike.”

“Thank you, Mr. Upchurch.” I tried to sound gracious when I felt quite awkward. “I'm glad I could help.”

“Yes, you most certainly did help. Now, what can I do for you, Miss Davish?”

I revealed the photograph Bertha Yardley had given me and handed it to him. “I wonder if you recognize this man?”

Mr. Upchurch took the photograph and studied it briefly before looking back up at me. “I'm sorry, but I can't say that I do. Who is he?”

“His name is Levi Yardley.”

“Levi Yardley,” he repeated, looking carefully at the photograph again. “No, his name isn't familiar either. Why do you ask?”

“Because except for his nose, I think he looks extremely similar to Frank Hayward.”

“Really?” A slight frown stretched across Asa Upchurch's face as he continued to study the photograph. “Yes, I guess he does.” He shook his head as he finally handed it back to me. “Is he a relation you're trying to track down for Virginia? I didn't see him at the funeral.”

“I think maybe you had but didn't realize it.”

“Oh?”

“Could it be possible that the man you saw in the street, the man you thought was Frank Hayward, was actually this man, Levi Yardley?”

“Oh now, my dear Miss Davish, I don't mean to sound critical, but no. I know Frank Hayward. I worked with the man six days of the week. I wouldn't make such a terrible mistake. No, no, I can't even imagine such a heinous thing.”

“What are you talking about, ‘heinous thing'?” We both turned at the voice to see Mrs. Upchurch entering the office, wearing the latest style dark plum velvet wrap and matching silk gloves I'd seen in Herr's department store window. It would've cost me a month's wages. “Hello, Miss Davish. Enjoying your visit?”

“It's been interesting.” She smiled down at me, her dimples deepening, and then approached her husband, who kissed her cheek.

“What heinous thing, Asa?”

“No need to trouble yourself about it, Emily,” her husband said. “Miss Davish and I were discussing the funeral. Sad business, that. What can I do for you, dear?”

His wife ignored his question and looked back at me. “What heinous thing, Miss Davish?” I glanced at Mr. Upchurch for permission to answer his wife's question. He tossed his head and threw up his arms in mock dismay.

“Whatever my wife wants, my wife gets,” he said, playfully dramatic. His wife smirked at her husband's acquiescence.

Perhaps he was attempting to shield his wife from distress, but I couldn't approve of his lighthearted treatment of my concern.
This is nothing to joke about,
I thought.

“I was speculating that perhaps Mr. Upchurch had been wrong about the man he found dead in the street.”

Emily Upchurch's smile instantly vanished from her face. “My, my, that is serious. What would make you think such a thing?”

“I can't dismiss the resemblance of this man,” I said, handing her the photograph, “to Frank Hayward. His name is Levi Yardley.”

“Where did you get this?”

“The man's wife. Do you know him?”

“Yes, in a way, I do.” A thrill ran through me and I stood up. Mr. Upchurch's eyes narrowed and his face reddened.

“Emily, you couldn't possibly know this man.”

“Oh, but I do, Asa.” His wife continued to stare at the photograph. “I saw him the other day arguing with someone in the middle of Charles Street.” She looked up at her husband and then at me. “He seemed quite oblivious to the traffic doing their best to avoid him.” She handed the photograph back to me. “Are you saying this is the man we buried instead of Frank Hayward?”

“No, no, dear, of course not,” her husband said, even as I nodded.

“Really?” she asked me. “Then where's Frank Hayward?”

“I don't know.” It was the question that had haunted me since the minute I doubted the identity of the man in the casket.

Asa Upchurch smiled at me while shaking his head. “Well, I do, dear ladies. Frank Hayward, rest his soul, is dead and buried in Oakland Cemetery. We all saw him with our own eyes. I assure you, Emily, Miss Davish, it wasn't this Levi Yardley I found in the middle of Third Street. It was Frank Hayward.”

“But I've no doubt that this is the man I saw in the street.” Mrs. Upchurch pointed to the photograph in my hand.

“I don't doubt that you did, my love, but that doesn't mean he was the man I found. The two men obviously were in the area of Charles Street and Third at different times and for different reasons. Unfortunately, it was Frank, and not Mr. Yardley, that suffered the worst consequences.”

How could President Upchurch believe what he was saying? Spoken out loud, such a coincidence seemed preposterous. Did he truly believe what he said or was he rationalizing away his part in burying the wrong man?

“Besides, even if you question my judgment,” he said, “which would be a blow, dear Emily, how can you question Miss Hayward's? She too knows the man that I found, the man that we buried, was her beloved father.”

“It is a conundrum,” his wife agreed. “I don't doubt your judgment, Asa.”

“Thank you, dear.”

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. “Or that of Virginia's, though she was indeed distressed enough to make a mistake. But—”

“But what?”

“I do marvel at such a coincidence,” she said. I nodded in agreement. “Two men, who resemble one another, both finding themselves, for whatever reason, in the middle of Charles Street traffic.”