A Deceptive Homecoming (2 page)

“M
ay I have a moment, Ginny?”

“Of course, Hattie. What is it?” She glanced around the room instead of looking at me. I followed her gaze and noticed the gentleman with the muttonchops who had comforted her earlier now preoccupied by several women in a corner of the room.

Who is he?
I wondered as I watched him nod his head in earnest agreement to something one of the ladies had said. He then embraced the woman. When I returned to Ginny, she was still watching him.

“It's very important, Ginny.” I needed to pull her attention back to me. I touched her lightly on the arm. She flinched at my touch.

“Well, what is it?”

Her impatience took me aback and I hesitated. What had happened to the girl I knew? Grief alone couldn't possibly explain her coldness, her altered behavior. I hadn't been sure how to broach the subject, but now it took all I had to tell her the truth.

“You might want to sit down.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine.”

“What I have to say may come as a shock.”

“My father's dead, Hattie. What could be more of a shock than that?” She still refused to meet my glance. She began twiddling with the locket again. I leaned in closely even as she shied away from me.

“The man in the casket isn't your father, Ginny,” I whispered. My friend's head snapped around and her eyes flared open.

That got her attention
. Was that hope, shock, or fear I saw flash across her face? In an instant, the look was gone, replaced by a very distinct snarl of anger.

“How dare you?” she seethed under her breath, grabbing my arm and pulling me to the side.

“I know it sounds inconceivable, but it's true.”

“Hush, Hattie. You hush up!”

“Ouch, Ginny, you're hurting me.” She released the pinching grip she held on my arm and took a step back.

“I'm sorry,” she said, unable to meet my gaze.

“I'm sorry too. I didn't know I'd upset you this much. I actually thought you'd be relieved.” If someone had given me hope that my dear father had been alive, I would've been grateful, not livid. “I thought it would bring you hope.”

“What are you talking about, Hattie?”

“The man in the casket doesn't bear your father's eyebrow scar.” It was the one distinguishing mark I knew Mr. Hayward to have, a prominent scar above his right eye, across his eyebrow. I remember staring at it as a student wondering what had created the wound. Being that close, it must've been a relief when his eye wasn't damaged. I'd asked Ginny once, I'd been so curious, but she didn't know.

Ginny's shoulders sagged as she took a deep breath. With her eyes still averted, she shook her head. Finally, she looked at me. “I'd heard you'd been mixed up with the police and murders and other ghastly business, but I never thought it would affect your judgment. You've always been a very rational, practical girl, Hattie Davish.”

“I still am. Your father had a scar above his right eye, across his eyebrow.” I motioned to the exact placement of the scar with my finger above my own eye. “The man in the casket doesn't bear that scar.”

“It was above his left eye, Hattie. His left.” His left side was the side damaged by the horse. Any trace of the scar would've been destroyed by the trauma done to the poor man's face.

As realization of the mistake I'd made dawned on my face, Ginny surprised me again. Instead of railing against me for my ghastly mistake, for the false hope I'd placed in her, for the spectacle I'd made at this most solemn of occasions, her countenance softened and she patted me on the cheek.

“I'm his daughter, Hattie. Do you think I wouldn't have noticed?”

“I'm sorry, Ginny.” I placed my hand on hers. “I don't know how I could've made such a dreadful mistake.” Truly, I'd no idea. All of my memories of Mr. Frank Hayward had the scar cutting across his right eyebrow. Could time have tainted all my memories of home? “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, Hattie. You meant well. Coming all this way after all these years. I remember how difficult it was when your father died. You were trying to spare me the same grief.”

She was right. If my memories of anything or anyone in St. Joseph were tainted it was because they were clouded by the loss of my father and the memory of his horrible end.

“Thank you for coming, Hattie.” She gently pulled her hand away. I nodded, still shocked by what I'd done. I was suddenly eager to put distance between me and the friend whom I'd traveled hundreds of miles to see. I'd come to comfort her, not to cause her more pain. “Be safe returning home.”

Home. She'd said it gently, but the irony wasn't lost on me, even in my present state. Where was home? Newport? Where Walter waited for me? Richmond, where Sir Arthur lived? Any of the countless cities and towns I'd visited in my travels? No. Wasn't St. Joe supposed to be my home? I'd been born and raised here. I was baptized here. My parents and baby brother were buried here. Yet clearly Ginny knew, whether I wanted to believe it or not, that St. Joseph wasn't my home anymore.

“We will begin.” A broad man wearing the clerical collar of a minister took his place near the casket.

As I made my way toward my seat, I heard Ginny call out, “Mr. Upchurch,” a slight pleading in her voice. I glanced back to see Ginny reaching out to the man in the muttonchops. He immediately left his companions, crossed the room in a few long strides, and took her hands in his.

“Are you not well, my darling girl?” Tears began to stream down her face as she shook her head. He gently guided her into his comforting embrace. He then led her to her seat.

I turned away before the tears welled up in my own eyes. I nodded greetings to a few girls who inappropriately waved and giggled as my gaze fell upon them. Before I had time to ponder why they were acting silly, the minister began the service. I put my head down, unable to look at Ginny or the casket, while the minister's voice rose and fell in accordance to the sentiment he was trying to convey. I heard little of his actual words. Instead, I prayed: for Mr. Hayward's soul, for Ginny's peace, and for forgiveness for my unconscionable mistake. When I finished, I glanced up and wished I hadn't. Ginny sat stiff in her chair, a handkerchief clenched in her hand in her lap. Her face was frightfully pale, even her normally rosy lips were pale. She looked straight ahead, her clear eyes unblinking. For an instant she glanced my way and our eyes met. Mortified, I dropped my gaze once more. When I finally glanced about again, a small bouquet of flowers caught my eye. In a vase, set between a large wreath of intertwining cypress and weeping willow, and a bouquet of marigold, heliotrope, and forget-me-nots, was an arrangement of zinnia and mullein with sprigs of agrimony tucked in.

How odd,
I thought.

If I'd been anywhere else but a funeral, I would've dismissed the message the flowers conveyed as accidental or ill-conceived. But here, I couldn't fathom how anyone could make such a blunder. Or maybe I could, immediately recalling what I'd just done.

How could I've made such a horrible mistake?

I glanced at Ginny. Her posture and gaze hadn't changed. With a tightening growing in my chest, I focused again on the flowers. The sprigs of agrimony must've been added as an afterthought, for surely the florist would've corrected the error. Obviously someone hadn't realized the message they conveyed by adding the tiny yellow flowers. Agrimony means “gratitude” or “thankfulness.” What an unfortunate sentiment to make at someone's funeral.

With the service finally over and one last glance at the bouquet, I rose from my seat as quickly as decorum allowed. I slipped past the mirror and the paintings draped in black crape in the hall, and was one of the first out the door. The warmth of the sun on my face was cold comfort knowing that I wasn't the only one who'd made a dreadful mistake today.

“I
can't believe I'm talking to Miss Hattie Davish,” the girl squealed. She, and several of the girls around her, giggled.

“Hush, girls. This is a place of mourning. You will pay more respect to the occasion, and that includes not pestering Miss Davish.”

“Yes, Miss Gilbert,” the girls answered in unison.

“Thank you, Miss Gilbert. It was very nice to meet you all, though.” I was still taken aback by the attention I'd received from the students.

After the funeral, I'd taken a place toward the back of the procession that walked to the cemetery. After the interment of the body, many of us walked back to the Hayward house for a light meal. The moment I stepped in the door, I'd found myself surrounded by starry-eyed, giggling students from my alma mater, Mrs. Chaplin's School for Women, who bombarded me with questions.

“What was it like to find your employer in a trunk?”

“Is it true that you saw a dead Santa Claus?”

“Were you really poisoned by a traitorous copperhead?”

“Wasn't it glamorous to work for Mrs. Mayhew?”

Other than Mrs. Trevelyan's death, which, due to her political prominence, had made several national newspapers, I'd no idea that word of my misadventures had preceded me. From their smiles and giggles, these silly girls had no idea how horrible it was to find a dead body. Their enthusiasm was ghoulish and particularly inappropriate. My friend's father had been brutally killed and these girls wanted to know about how many times the Newport socialite changed dresses during the day. I was quite relieved when Miss Malinda Gilbert, the school's typing instructor, stepped in.

“Besides, you'd think Miss Davish was a celebrity for all the hullabaloo.”

“But she is, Miss Gilbert,” one of the students, a round-faced, chubby girl, said. “She's worked with Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew, Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan, and countless other rich and famous people. And she's solved murders that the police couldn't! Geez, Miss Gilbert, Miss Davish is probably the most famous person to ever attend our school.”

“Fiddlesticks! Now go, all of you. Go help with refreshments.”

“Thank you, Miss Gilbert,” I said, watching the girls race away. I was still taking in the idea that these naïve girls thought I was someone to idolize. “Can you believe that we were that young once?”

“I wouldn't encourage them,” she snapped. “I wouldn't want you to be responsible for having those impressionable young minds see you as a role model, given the path you took.”

“Pardon me? The path I took? I'm well-respected because I took advantage of my education at Mrs. Chaplin's, and I strive to be the best at what I do. I'd never discourage another girl from emulating me.” I'd never had to defend myself so blatantly, but then again I'd done all kinds of things in the past year I'd never done before.

“No one denies you've been very successful in your professional life. But to involve yourself with the darkest side of our society calls into question your personal judgment.”

“The darkest side of our society? I've encountered a great deal of unseemly behavior of late. Which are you referring to: saloon smashing, poisoning, smuggling, slogan shouting, extravagant spending, rotten vegetable throwing, or character assassinating?”

“Murder, Miss Davish,” Miss Gilbert said coldly. “No woman can soil herself with the stench of murder and think she is clean.”

“I didn't kill anyone.”

“You didn't have to.”

She bit the nail on her little finger. I remembered her habit from my student days. “To type, one must keep one's nails very short,” she'd explained. I preferred to use a trimmer and file.

“Hattie!” Mrs. Chaplin shouted as she approached, trailed by several faculty members I recognized from my days at her school. I smiled as I recalled how often that same booming voice had sent shivers of fear down my spine. Now she was coming to my aid.

Unusually tall with thick white hair piled on top of her head, she'd barely changed since the last time I saw her. She had a few more wrinkles about her shrewd blue eyes, perhaps, and a slight stoop in her right shoulder, but she was the same dynamic woman I remembered. She stopped before me and patted me briskly on the back, almost causing me to take a forward step. She'd lost no strength in her hands, but I could see now why she'd decided to give up her post as president of the school; her fingers were knobbed with arthritis.

“I see you've been reacquainted with our capable Miss Gilbert.” That wasn't the word I would've used to describe her, but I held my tongue and simply nodded. “And, of course, you remember these ladies?”

“Of course.” I was glad to see their smiling, friendly faces.

Madame Maisonet, the French teacher, a tiny, white-haired woman in her late sixties, took my hand and patted it. “
Bienvenue, ma chère!
Welcome!”

“
Merci,
Madame.”

Every student of Mrs. Chaplin's school was required to take Madame Maisonet's rudimentary French language class. “Every educated person in this world knows some French,” Mrs. Chaplin had said. She'd been right. My lessons had allowed me to read menus at several high-society dinners, as well as communicate with Mrs. Mayhew's French chef more easily. But in addition to adding a touch of sophistication to my résumé, I owed much of my sanity to this little French lady. Without her trick of counting in French to calm down, I probably would've let my impatience and frustration get the best of me more than once.

“We're very proud of you, Miss Davish,” a middle-aged woman with spectacles that kept slipping down her thin nose said. I couldn't recall her maiden name but remembered she'd taught the shorthand classes before she left the school to marry.

“Yes, we all are.” Mrs. Chaplin's voice boomed as she nodded vigorously. “Especially since we can take credit for some of your success!” The ladies shared in a subdued laugh. “You wouldn't have broken out of that shell of yours if we hadn't pushed you. ‘Don't sell yourself short,' I said. ‘Don't drown in a typing pool,' I said. ‘Be a secretary, Hattie,' I said. ‘A stenographer or a typist is paid to do, but a secretary is paid to think,' I said. Do you remember, Hattie?”

“Of course, I owe you all so much.”

“Well, then, when you have time, if you get a chance, perhaps you could share some of your secrets for success with my students?” Miss Corcoran, who taught English and penmanship, said. A few years older than me, she'd been teaching only two years when I took her class. I remembered her as a small, meek woman with stubby fingers. She differed little from my memory, except now a few strands of gray streaked through her dark flaxen hair.

“Of course, if you think it appropriate.” I purposely avoided Miss Gilbert's glare.

“Always the humble one,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “Ah, Hattie, you haven't changed a bit. Of course you will speak to the students. I've already spoken to Mr. Upchurch and it's all arranged.”

There was that name again—Upchurch, the man with the muttonchops who was comforting Ginny. I wanted to inquire as to who he was, but first I had to know what Mrs. Chaplin was talking about.

“All arranged? What's all arranged?”

“As soon as we found out that you were coming, we arranged for a lake party. You'll be the guest of honor,” Mrs. Chaplin explained. “You can speak to the girls then. The girls will be inspired and the faculty will get a much-needed morale boost.”

“A lake party?”

I needn't ask which lake. When someone in the area said “lake,” there was no doubt that they referred to Lake Contrary, thus called because its source, Contrary Creek, flowed north, contrary to all other creeks and rivers in the area, including the Missouri. A large oxbow, created when the Missouri River changed course, it was once nearly eight miles long and one half to a mile wide. And I needn't ask why host a party there. It's what everyone did in St. Joseph in the summertime. One could easily find an announcement for a lake party every single day, May through September, in the
Social and Personal
of any area newspaper. But why now?

“I'd be glad to help distract everyone from the shock and grief of losing Mr. Hayward,” I said, “but do you really think a lake party appropriate this soon after—”

Mrs. Chaplin cut me off. “Yes, yes, it's tragic what happened to Frank Hayward, but I think even Virginia would agree that your arrival couldn't have come at a better time.”

I knew for certain Virginia wouldn't agree. She'd have been happier if I hadn't arrived at all. And I certainly could think of a better time to arrive than for a funeral.

“I myself won't be attending, so I expect a visit from you before you leave town, young lady.” As I opened my mouth to protest the lake party again, she said, “I won't hear a ‘no' from Mrs. Chaplin's School for Women's star alumna. You must think of the school, Hattie.”

“Very well, Mrs. Chaplin,” I said. “If you think it will help.”