A Deceptive Homecoming (19 page)

F
ather!
I thought as I tried to sit up. I immediately regretted it. A sharp pain shot through my head, and every muscle in my shoulders, arms, neck, and back ached.

And then it all came rushing back to me: the burning papers in Mr. Upchurch's office, the struggle, the bookcase, and the visions. I moaned as I slowly eased myself back onto the upholstered armrest of the sofa. Fighting the melancholy threatening to overpower me, I focused on my surroundings. I was in the instructors' parlor, a small, comfortable room filled with thickly upholstered furniture, a couple of bookshelves packed tight with books, heavy velvet curtains, and a side table on which sat a silver tea service. I'd been here once before, when I was a student and sent by Mrs. Chaplin in search of the often tardy dance instructor. It had been over ten years and the room hadn't changed; only the colors had faded some.

If only everything could be as untouched by time as this,
I thought.

“Thank heaven, you're awake,” a voice boomed. I flinched in pain.

Knowing better than to use any sudden movements, I cast my eyes about until I found the source of the voice. Mrs. Chaplin, spectacles perched near the tip of her nose, sat in an armchair with an issue of
Lippincott's
magazine open on her lap.

“You've had quite the accident, I hear. A fallen bookcase. If you listen to Gus, you'd think he rescued you from an evil black phantom.” She chuckled as she closed her magazine and rose from her chair.

So Gus must've caught a glimpse of Miss Woodruff as she made her escape. Maybe he'll be able to get the instructors to lock their doors now.

“I'm sorry for the poor accommodations, but you weren't willing to have us send for a doctor and we were afraid to move you too far.”

“It wasn't an accident,” I whispered. Mrs. Chaplin, setting her magazine and spectacles down in the chair, spun around to face me.

“What?” Again her loud voice pounded in my head.

“It wasn't an accident. Miss Woodruff pushed the bookcase on top of me.”

“What are you talking about, Hattie? Mollie Woodruff wouldn't squash a spider if it were crawling across her bedclothes.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Chaplin, but I saw it with my own eyes.”

“It can't be.”

“I caught her burning papers in Mr. Upchurch's office and then she deliberately pushed the bookcase in my direction. Maybe you think she's not strong enough but—”

“No, I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Hattie. When I say it can't be Mollie, it can't be. Along with several others from the school, Miss Woodruff was playing whist at my house last night. We had quite the lively evening. She was there until well past two.”

How can that be? I saw her. Or did I? I replayed the events in my mind and realized I never did see the woman's face. I'd assumed it was Miss Woodruff, but it could've been anyone. But who? And why?

“Why would anyone dress like Miss Woodruff? Is there someone who doesn't like her?”

“No, not that I can think of. She can be a bit scatterbrained, but otherwise she's a gentle girl. I think you should be asking that question of yourself, Hattie. Why would someone want to hurt you?”

“Not hurt me, prevent me from discovering who they were.”

“Who would be so desperate?” It was a rhetorical question, but a few names popped into my head. “By the way, what were you doing in Mr. Upchurch's office in the first place?” she asked.

“I was working late in Miss Gilbert's room when I heard footsteps. I followed them to President Upchurch's office. I thought I'd discovered who was behind all of the unfortunate ‘incidents' that have been occurring.”

“Maybe you did. It would explain why they reacted so foolishly, not wanting to be exposed as our troublemaker.”

“Yes, and as the figure was wearing black I assumed it was Mollie Woodruff. Obviously I was wrong.”

“You don't think . . .” Mrs. Chaplin hesitated, not sure whether to voice her suspicion or not. The idea had occurred to me, but I wasn't willing to voice it either. There was one other person who was dressed in mourning, Virginia Hayward. But anyone could dress in mourning, I thought, banishing the thought of Ginny deliberately trying to hurt me.

“I hope not,” I said. “I truly, truly hope not.”

“My work!” I forced myself up. I was alone. I had drifted into a light slumber when a dream I had, of someone trying to cut keys from my typewriter while I tried in vain to hit them with a ledger, reminded me that I'd left all my work for Sir Arthur and the school's missing ledger in Miss Gilbert's classroom. I struggled to get my feet on the ground, for although the pain in my head had lessened considerably, the stiffness in my back, shoulders, and neck had grown worse.

If only Mrs. Chaplin was still here,
I thought.

She'd offered to stay, but I could tell she had obligations she was neglecting while she sat by my side. I couldn't inconvenience her any longer. Disregarding the soreness in my hands, I pushed myself up and took a few tentative steps toward the door. Getting that far without mishap, I took a few more. I could feel the protest in my muscles, but I'd kept my balance so I kept moving. Soon I was at the door and stepping into the hallway. If I remembered correctly, Miss Gilbert's classroom was on the same floor, albeit at the far end of the hall. I'd hoped to find someone to help me but judging by the silence in the halls, everyone was in class. It took me far longer than I'd expected and my patience was wearing thin when I finally arrived at Miss Gilbert's room. As I reached for the doorknob, the door swung open.

“Who's hovering outside my door?” Miss Gilbert blanched when she saw me. “Miss Davish, what . . . how . . . here, let me help you.” I must've looked a fright for Miss Gilbert to come to my assistance. She rushed forward, put her arm around my waist, and helped me to the chair behind her desk. The students, released from their instructor's watchful eye,jumped up from their desks and crowded around me.

“Give her air,” Miss Gilbert commanded. “Let the poor woman breathe.”

“Thank you, Miss Gilbert. I'm feeling much better.”

“You don't look much better,” one of the girls said. Several giggled.

“Mind your manners,” Miss Gilbert said. “I speak for all of us, Miss Davish, when I say that we're relieved you weren't more injured.”

“Thank you, Miss Gilbert. That's kind of you to say.” The typing instructor nodded curtly.

“Was there something you wanted, Miss Davish?”

“I'm sorry to disrupt your class, but I left some research papers and things in here last night. Have you seen them?”

“No, there was nothing here when I arrived this morning. Girls?” In unison the students all shook their heads. “I'm sorry, Miss Davish. Someone must have taken them.”

Probably the same person who tipped a bookcase on top of me,
I thought.

“Why would anyone steal Miss Davish's things?” one of the girls asked.

“I'm not surprised,” Miss Gilbert said, “what with everything that's been going on. Such thievery wouldn't happen if I were running this school.”

“So what are you going to do now, Miss Davish?” another girl asked.

What I was going to do, but couldn't reveal, was find the missing ledger and discover why it had been stolen twice.

“I don't know about Miss Davish, but I do know what you all are going to do,” Miss Gilbert said, shooing the girls back toward their desks. “Get back to your lesson.”

“Aaahhh,” the girls moaned.

“I thought we could help Miss Davish with her mystery,” one said.

“Yes, can we? Can we?” several girls pleaded.

Before Miss Gilbert could squash their enthusiasm with her sharp tongue, I said, “Thank you, but I won't be party to your delinquency any longer. You young ladies must learn your lessons and I must find my papers. I'm certain we'll both be successful.” I nodded to Miss Gilbert and limped out of the room.

I stood with my back against the closed door, taking deep breaths, willing my body to stay upright. I couldn't believe how that short conversation had sapped my strength. Or was it learning that the ledger had gone missing again and I was no closer to learning its secrets?

Then get to it,
I thought as I pushed away from the wall and headed toward Asa Upchurch's office.

 

“Miss Davish!” Miss Clary leaped up from behind her desk. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

How many times has Walter teased me about using that phrase?
I wondered, stifling a smile Miss Clary would misinterpret.

“I'm looking for the research papers I left in Miss Gilbert's classroom last night. You wouldn't happen to know—”

“Oh, yes, they're all right here.” She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out everything, including the ledger. Without hesitating, she handed the stack to me. “They were on my desk when I arrived. I didn't know whom they belonged to. I was going to give them to Mr. Upchurch when he arrived.”

Thank goodness I arrived when I did then, I thought. Mr. Upchurch already suspected Frank Hayward of misconduct. If Mr. Upchurch discovered the ledger, there'd be further accusations.

“Gus probably found them,” Miss Clary said.

“Yes, probably.” I held the pile tightly to my chest.

“When I came in this morning and found the chaos in Mr. Upchurch's office, the books everywhere and the bookcase collapsed on the floor, well, I couldn't imagine what had happened. And then Gus told us. How horrible! I was just saying to Miss Corcoran that I can't believe that you aren't in the hospital. People have died from bookshelves falling on them.”

I barely heard her pronouncement of the danger I'd been in. All I could focus on was a set of letters fanned out across the desk.

“Are you a graduate of the school, Miss Clary?” She tilted her head to one side and frowned at my abrupt change in subject.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“I thought so. Your penmanship is excellent.” I pointed to the letters on her desk. “May I?” She blushed at the compliment and without thinking handed me the topmost letter.

“Well, I do pride myself on it. I'm not the fastest typist, you see, but . . .” She continued on about her skills or lack thereof, as I studied her handwriting. “And so you see that's why I think I was hired over Miss Dimond.”

“Thank you.” I handed her back the letter. I'd never seen her handwriting before. She wasn't the embezzler.

Then who is it?
I wondered. But before I had time to consider, Mr. Upchurch arrived.

“My dear Miss Davish! I just learned what happened here last night. Are you all right? Shouldn't you be sitting down?”

“I'm fine.” He put his arm around my shoulder. I tried hard not to flinch as he squeezed my sore arm.

“If there's anything I or the school can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you.” I wanted to squirm out of his embrace. He released me and strode toward his door.

“My God!” he exclaimed when he saw the disarray of his office. I walked over and looked over his shoulder. No one had moved the bookcase yet or picked up the books. I shuddered, not from considering that I once lay prostrate beneath the chaos, but from having to restrain myself from charging in and tidying it all up.

How can they leave such a mess just lying there?
I thought. I was immediately answered by Miss Clary.

“Don't worry, Mr. Upchurch, they're sending one of the men up from downstairs to straighten everything out.”

“Good, but what's this?” He had entered the room, avoiding the bookshelf and carefully stepping between books. He had stopped near his desk. He was staring down into the wastebasket. He picked up a blackened fragment of paper.

“The intruder burned some of your papers.” I made my way across the floor, picking up books with my free hand and stacking them in piles until the pain grew to be too much. “That's why I tried to stop them.”

“But why?”

“That's what I'd like to know. Do you know which papers were burned?”

The school president took a quick inventory of his desk, flipping through piles on the desk, opening drawers and skimming through files. Unfortunately, I'd no chance to see a sample of his handwriting. “It seems that some of the invoices for the lake party are missing.”

“Why would anyone want to burn invoices for the lake party?”