A Deceptive Homecoming (20 page)

“I have no idea.” And then his cheeks began to burn red. “I'm getting fed up with these unexplained ‘incidents.'”

“Do you think they are related?”

“How could they not be?”

He had a point. It would be too extraordinary of a coincidence for them to be unrelated events. Although most of the incidents seemed relatively harmless yet provocative, they were now becoming more violent. First the fire in the etiquette classroom, and now this. Was someone trying to get the school's attention or was this personal?

“Has anyone contacted the police yet?” I asked.

“No police,” President Upchurch snapped. “It would be bad for the school's reputation if the police became involved.”

“But—”

“Don't worry, Miss Davish. We'll deal with this. We don't need the police.”

“Does Mrs. Chaplin know how you're handling this? When I was a student, Mrs. Chaplin made it quite clear that she expected her students to work with and within the law.”

“Mrs. Chaplin has given the grave responsibility of the school's welfare to me. Thank you for your advice, Miss Davish, but I already have it in hand.” I refrained from commenting to the contrary.

He glanced about him, his eyes lingering now and then on a particular book or notebook on the floor. “I'm so relieved you were unhurt by all of this.” He noticed the stack of papers and ledger I was holding. “Thank you, Miss Davish, but you can leave all that right here on my desk. I'll see they get put away.”

“Actually this is my own work.” I clutched the pile tighter. “It's what I was working on last night.”

“Oh, my mistake.” If Mr. Upchurch recognized the ledger, he didn't give any indication. “Again, if there's anything we can do?”

“Thank you, but I'd like to return to my hotel and rest.”

“Of course. Miss Clary,” he shouted, “can you see that Miss Davish has an escort back to her hotel?”

“No need. I'm fine.”

“But—”

Before he could protest further, I navigated between the remaining books on the floor and headed out the door. I couldn't say why, but I had an overwhelming desire to be away from that office and the school. Or was it the need to be alone with the ledger that spurred me on? Either way, before I left the building I heard faint footsteps and sensed that I was being watched again. Weary and annoyed, I barely made an effort to look about me. But when I did, no one was there.

“M
r. Putney, could I ask you for a favor?” The desk clerk pushed his spectacles farther back up his nose and blinked rapidly for a moment.

“Of course, Miss Davish, what can I do for you?” I handed him the stack of papers I'd been working on for Sir Arthur and the accounting ledger.

“Could you keep all this for me again? I have to go right out again and would like to know that all my hard work is in safe hands.”

When I returned to the hotel, I realized that after the previous night's episode, I couldn't face the idea of being closed in by four walls, even those of my hotel room, for any longer than I had to. I needed to clear my head and loosen up my stiffened, aching muscles; I had to hike.

“Of course.” Mr. Putney took the material from me reverently. “I'll keep them safe until your return.”

“Thank you so much. I knew I could count on you.”

“Yes, you can.” He proceeded to bring the ledger and my work to a back room while I made my escape outside.

Used to the solitude of my early-morning hikes as I was, I was surprised by how crowded the trolley was all the way to its northern terminus, Krug Park. I'd never been there before. The park, at least twenty acres adjacent to Henry Krug's mansion, the businessman who had given his name and the land to the park, opened to the public less than five years ago. Mrs. Chaplin had spoken of it over dinner, raving about how Superintendent Rudolph Rau, formerly the gardener to Kaiser Wilhelm, had transformed the park into a showcase. Remembering how much I enjoyed hiking, she'd recommended I take the time to visit. And I was glad I had. Although my gait was slowed by my sore, stiff muscles and I had to forgo climbing the seventy-foot observation tower, I enjoyed the novelty and beauty of the park. I strolled around lovely circular gardens and lingered in the gazebo, but I also passed areas that were under construction. Already picturesque with tree-lined paths, expanses of manicured lawn, and an abundance of bright, colorful flowers in bloom—New England Aster, Chrysanthemum, Sedum, and Helenium, to name but a few—I could only imagine what Superintendent Rau had in store.

I wandered about the edges of the garden, hoping to find a weed or native flower for my collection that hadn't been mowed or pulled up, but I found little and that which I did find, I already had. I'd been spoiled in Newport and Eureka Springs, both offering me a plethora of species I'd never heard of or had only read about in books. But here in St. Joseph, I'd already combed the countryside, the cracks in the sidewalks, and the lawns of the largest houses for every species native to my hometown. I'd hoped to add something new but wasn't surprised that I couldn't. Even the garden plants were not exotic enough to add. I had to content myself with the fresh air, the warm sun, and the minimal exercise. In the end they were enough.

I grew tired and sat on a bench under an oak tree with such a wide girth that it must have been here long before the park. I spent several minutes watching the passersby: a dapper gray-haired man wearing a white Mackinaw straw hat and carrying an umbrella, a nursemaid pushing a baby carriage, two little boys, who should've been in school, skipping stones across the pond. When a man in his thirties and his young son, both wearing Chicago-style white with blue striped baseball caps, stopped not far from me and began tossing a ball back and forth, I instantly thought of my father.

 

SMACK!
I felt the burn as the ball hit the palm of my gloved hand. I stared at it with disbelief and sheer joy.

 

When I returned to the hotel, I was exhausted; hours in the bright sun, exercising my injured body, and my lack of sleep were finally catching up with me. I wanted nothing more than to collect my things from Mr. Putney, return to my room, and sleep. But yet again, things didn't go as planned. I'd collected my work and the ledger, but when I arrived at my room, the door was slightly ajar.

“Not again!” I shouted as I pushed the door wide open. “This is getting ridiculous.”

My room, as on previous occasions, had been entered and searched while I was out. The wardrobe door was open. My suitcase had been taken off the shelf and left opened next to the bed. My hat boxes and lids were scattered on the floor. My pillows and bedclothes had been rumpled. The drawers of the dresser were ajar with the contents disheveled.

After straightening up, I hobbled back down to the lobby as fast as I could. Could Mr. Putney have done this? I'd thought Mr. Putney's curiosity was harmless. Had I been wrong? Had he been snooping about my room?

“Someone has been in my room, Mr. Putney.”

The clerk's mouth dropped open as he fumbled with his spectacles, which he'd been wiping with a rag. With his eyeglasses once again perched on his nose, he looked up at me. I didn't know his eyes could open so wide.

“Oh no! How could anyone do such a thing? I didn't give out your key, Miss Davish. I swear I didn't.”

“Then how did they get in my room?” I said it harsher than I intended.

“I'm so sorry. I did take a break. Maybe Maude let someone in your room or one of the chambermaids. Don't worry, Miss Davish, I'll find out what happened and I promise you, it will never happen again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Putney.”

The little man leaned a bit on the desk. “Was anything taken?” In my vexation, I hadn't even thought to consider what the perpetrator was searching for.

The ledger,
I thought. By happenstance, in a hurry to get outside, I'd left it safe with Mr. Putney.

“No, thank goodness. But I'd still appreciate knowing who might have entered my room.” Whoever that was, I thought, was involved in more criminal acts than searching my room. I thanked Mr. Putney once more, headed to my room, and immediately sat down in front of the open ledger.

“Time to find out what this is all about.”

I spent the next couple of hours poring over the figures, the tables, and the inventory lists that filled the ledger. I made calculations and checked them over and over again, only to confirm my previous suspicions. I'd thought the mistakes of overpayment and miscalculations of costs I'd seen earlier were accidents, but they weren't. No wonder someone wanted this ledger to disappear; someone was embezzling money from the school.

But who? Who had access to the school's ledgers and could effectively change the figures without others noticing? Who could profit from it without drawing suspicion? Was it the same person who placed the ledger in the coffin, or did he or she have help? I pulled out a blank sheet of stationery and started a list of possible suspects, beginning with those Ginny had mentioned.

I hesitated, holding my pencil above the paper, not wanting to commit myself to the suspicion, but I couldn't exclude them because I wanted to. I continued my list.

Find the person with the matching handwriting, find the embezzler,
I thought.

As someone other than Frank Hayward had made the majority of the entries, the entries with the discrepancies, I drew a line through his name. As I'd seen samples of several others' writing that hadn't matched, I could eliminate several others as well. With gratification, I drew a line through Ginny's name. More reluctantly I did the same for Miss Gilbert and Miss Clary.

I looked at the names that were left. I couldn't imagine how Miss Corcoran, as the English and penmanship teacher, could have much access to the ledgers, but Miss McGill was the office management instructor. She'd know basic bookkeeping and might've found an excuse to see them now and again. But now and again wasn't enough. Did she have almost exclusive access? It didn't seem likely. And then there was Mrs. Chaplin. Could she be embezzling from her own school? She did seem reluctant to retire. She could've demanded access and no one would've questioned her. And why hadn't Frank Hayward continued as bookkeeper in the first place? Had he stepped aside as a favor to Mrs. Chaplin? Had she feigned the need to stay involved all the while planning to steal money from the school? Why would she need to do such a thing? I'd seen no evidence at her home or in her appearance that suggested she was destitute.

I dropped my pencil, exhausted and disgusted with the very thought of suspecting my former mentor. I stuffed the list into the open ledger and slammed the cover down. I staggered over to my bed and fell into a fitful sleep. When I awoke early the next morning, I wasn't any more refreshed. I glanced at my list again after dressing and felt the same revulsion for my situation. So many unanswered questions! And now I'd discovered that there was an embezzler among my friends. Could there be a murderer among my friends as well? The thought horrified me. I snatched up my hat and pinned it hastily to my head.