A Deceptive Homecoming

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  But what did Madame Maisonet mean by ‘strange incidences’? I wondered.

  “She always expected to succeed Mrs. Chaplin, didn’t she? We all did. What happened? Why was Mr. Upchurch hired instead?”

  “Who knows?” Madame Maisonet shrugged.

  “But . . . ?”

  “Well, I do know that Madame Chaplin was hesitant to retire in the first place. I too know that Monsieur Upchurch wisely continues to consult her on certain matters. Perhaps Madame Chaplin was concerned that Malinda would not be congenial with such an arrangement. And then there are the financial troubles. I hear Monsieur Upchurch excels in financial matters.”

  “What financial troubles? From the number of students I’ve seen, the school seems to be thriving.”

  “It’s gossip, ma chère. I don’t know any more.” She suddenly lifted her hand to the side of her mouth, shielding her words from being read. “Though Monsieur Hayward’s name has been associated with those rumors.”

  “In what way?” This was the first time I’d heard any ill about the dead man.

  “He was the school’s bookkeeper, after all.” Madame Maisonet nodded knowingly. I couldn’t believe it. I remember Frank Hayward as a loving father, a fair teacher, and a conscientious employee.

  Madame Maisonet put her finger over her wrinkled closed lips as two girls, students I’d met after the funeral, approached, each offering me a silver tray, one containing flutes filled with champagne and the other containing a variety of desserts: cheesecake, pound cake, sponge cake, plum cake, pastry biscuits with dollops of stewed fruit, fruit turnovers, and jam puffs. I declined the champagne but happily took a slice of plum cake and an apple turnover. Madame Maisonet’s mention of Frank Hayward reminded me of something.

  “By the way, madame, when did you learn that I was coming home? It seems everyone knew I was coming before I did.”

  “I have no idea. Someone told me you were coming for Monsieur Hayward’s funeral and that we were to have this party, but for the life of me I can’t remember who it was. Does it matter? Ah, Mademoiselle Woodruff.” The old lady waved over a short, plump young woman with close-set brown eyes, a round face, and thin pale lips who was passing by. She had a noticeable scar across her chin. The young woman stopped, wrapping her arms around her ample bosom as if giving herself an embrace. Her unadorned black dress, in contrast to her porcelain skin, was an instant reminder that not everyone was enjoying a lovely day at the lake. “Have you met Mademoiselle Davish yet?”

  “I saw you at the funeral, Miss Davish, but we haven’t been introduced.”

  “Mademoiselle Woodruff came to the school not long after Madame Chaplin retired,” Madame Maisonet said. “Our newest shorthand instructor.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance,” I said. The young woman nodded her head but said nothing more.

  Despite the levity of the conversation about us, the music (the band was playing “Daisy Bell,” to which, I hated to admit, I’d been tapping my toes), the sunshine reflecting on the lake, and the warm summer breeze, Miss Woodruff seemed immune to the lightness of the day. Her eyes were puffy, her manner slow and solemn. She was at a party but obviously wishing she were somewhere else.

  “Mollie, ma chère, are you all right?” Miss Woodruff nodded but couldn’t lift her eyes to look at the old lady. “And why do you wear black?”

  Miss Woodruff’s head jerked up. “Mr. Hayward is dead, Madame,” she said with surprising conviction.

  “Yes, ma chère, but you needn’t wear black anymore. Only the family is so obliged.”

  To our surprise, as well as to those around us, Miss Mollie Woodruff cried out, “Oh!” and threw her hands over her face, and ran out of the pavilion. She barely missed colliding with a man carrying a large tray of dirty champagne glasses.

  “Now what was all that about?” the elderly French teacher said as we followed Miss Woodruff’s retreat with our eyes. I shook my head in answer to the rhetorical question. “She can be a silly girl, that one.” She shrugged. “Tant pis.” Oh well.

  “Were she and Mr. Hayward close?”

  The old lady shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  As I’d been speaking with Madame Maisonet, I’d been occasionally looking around at the group gathered: clusters of girls, giggling, whispering, drinking, dancing, and teasing one another over Nate’s perfectly timed winks, while the instructors stood alone or in small groups huddled together sipping their champagne and scrutinizing the students for any inappropriate behavior. Miss Corcoran, her shoulders slumped, dabbed raspberry jam from the corner of her mouth. Therefore I saw when Asa Upchurch abruptly swallowed a full glass of champagne, handed the glass to a waiter, patting the man on the shoulder, and left his wife’s side. He casually strolled across the pavilion, through the crowd, and stepped out onto the lawn. He continued until he reached a small whitewashed shed next to a hedge of tall viburnum bushes. He glanced about as if making sure no one was looking before disappearing behind the shrubs.

  There’s a proper place to do that, I thought, appalled by what I suspected the president of Mrs. Chaplin’s school of doing.

  But he was gone for less time than it would take and when he reappeared his face was red. He tugged at his burnsides as if he was trying to rip them off his face. Something had happened to upset him in that short span of time. But what?

  Watching Mr. Upchurch make his way back, I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye in the direction of the hedgerow. As I turned to look, another man stepped out from behind the shrubs and strode rapidly in the opposite direction. I never saw his face, but I recognized the Panama hat he was wearing.

  Surely it’s not the same man I ran into at my father’s shop?

  As I considered the possibility and wondered what he’d been doing behind the bushes, an image of Frank Hayward popped into my head.

  “By the way, madame,” I said, turning back to my former French teacher, “and this is going to sound a bit odd, but when you were at the funeral, did you ever question that the man in the coffin was Frank Hayward?” The old lady peered at me, one of her thick eyebrows slightly raised.

  “Oui, you are right. That is an odd question. So the rumors about you are true, Mademoiselle Davish.”

  “Rumors about me?”

  “That you’ve become a hawkshaw, a sleuthhound, un détec-tive.” I smiled, relieved that’s all she was referring to.

  “I’ve had the opportunity to help investigate crimes lately, yes. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Mais no, I didn’t, because I don’t want to encourage you in any way. Sleuthing is not a ladylike endeavor.”

  “But . . . ?”

  The elderly lady leaned in closer. “But . . . I agree Mr. Hayward did not look himself. Even with the disfigurement and reconstruction, I’d wondered.” She leaned back again and shrugged. “Mais mon Dieu, my goodness, but who else could it be?”

  CHAPTER 11

  “It distresses me to say it, but he might have met with trouble had he lived,” Asa Upchurch said. I’d been mingling in the crowd when his comment caught my attention. He was standing with a group of teachers, his wife at his side.

  “Why do you say that?” the English teacher said quietly.

  “You know as well as I do, Miss Corcoran, that there have been strange incidents at the school lately.”

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with Mr. Hayward?” Miss McGill, the office management instructor, asked.

  “I will not speak ill of the dead but . . .”

  “Oh, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Upchurch said, spying me. She interrupted her husband before he could say more. “Are you enjoying the party?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Upchurch. But I couldn’t help overhear Mr. Hayward’s name being mentioned.”

  “Mr. Upchurch was telling us how he came across Mr. Hayward the day he died,” Miss McGill said. I knew full well that wasn’t the topic of conversation, but I was interested nonetheless.

&nb
sp; “Really, Mr. Upchurch? I’d be grateful for you to tell me the tale. I’m afraid I’ve been having doubts whether the man in the coffin was indeed Frank Hayward.” The women gasped.

  “Miss Davish!” Miss Corcoran admonished.

  “Who else could it be?” Miss McGill said. That’s what Madame Maisonet had said.

  “Of course it was,” Mr. Upchurch declared. “As Miss McGill said, I found him myself. I was driving when I saw something ahead, sprawled out near the side of the road.”

  “Where was this?” Miss Corcoran asked.

  “Near Sherwood’s coffee and spice shop on South Third. I’d stopped there on my way home.”

  “And then what?” Miss McGill asked.

  “As I drew closer, I realized that it was the body of a man. I halted my horse, wrapped the reins around a nearby pole, and raced over to the fallen man’s side. There was blood splattered beneath him and he wasn’t breathing or moving. Finally, I drew the courage to turn him over, and was shocked by the grisly wounds, his nose was smashed, his jaw shattered, his cheekbones crushed. I was grateful I hadn’t yet eaten my supper. Then I wiped away enough blood and grit to recognize the face. It was obviously Frank Hayward.”

  “Why do you say it was obviously him?” I said. “As you say, he’d suffered ghastly facial wounds. How did you know for certain it was him?”

  “Because . . .” The president hesitated, searching for his reason. “Well . . . it looked like him. So, of course, I dragged him into my buggy and brought him to the Hayward house. Miss Hayward herself identified the man as her father. So it obviously was him. And like I was saying before, it was probably all for the best.”

  “How can you say that?” I was mortified.

  Miss Corcoran held her fingers over her mouth in shock. She still had jam on her cheek. “Are you possibly perhaps insinuating the rumors about the school’s financial troubles are true and that Frank Hayward, as the bookkeeper, was involved?”

  “Like I said before, dear lady, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but . . .” Mr. Upchurch pulled his arm from around his wife’s waist and leaned forward.

  “I think that’s enough solemn talk for now,” Mrs. Upchurch said. “Miss Davish, have you tried the refreshments?”

  As she led me to a table laid out with elaborate picnic fare—fried chicken, egg and anchovy sandwiches, cheese and lettuce sandwiches, several different cakes, stewed fruit, pickles, butter and biscuits—I couldn’t help but feel dismayed and confused. I’d come home to comfort my friend, not uncover a scandal. I absentmindedly took a jam puff, popped it into my mouth, and excused myself from Mrs. Upchurch’s company. I found an empty chair at the edge of the pavilion and pulled out my notepad and pencil from my chatelaine bag. I jotted down a quick list.

  1. Was Asa Upchurch insinuating that Frank Hayward was in some way responsible for the school’s financial troubles? If so, how?

  2. Could this be what Ginny had hinted about in her last correspondence?

  3. Did Ginny suspect her father’s involvement in some criminal activity?

  4. Could any of this explain Ginny’s attitude toward me?

  5. What were the incidences Mr. Upchurch referred to?

  6. How can I make my excuses and leave? “Vandal!”

  Suddenly the gathering hushed and the music stopped in the middle of playing “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” another favorite of mine from my youth. It always reminded me of my mother. Despite my bitterness toward Nate Boone and my displeasure at seeing him again, I had to admit he knew how to charm me. With the exception of the obligatory Sousa pieces, which I regard as grating noise, Nate had played all of my favorite music. No one else would know why he’d chosen to play “Sweet Genevieve” and Strauss’s “The Blue Danube,” but I did. But he was going to have to do far more than play Gilbert & Sullivan songs if he was seeking my forgiveness.

  “What’s going on here?” Mr. Upchurch moved through the crowd toward the source of the cry. I jumped up from my spot and joined the others who stepped in behind him. He led us to the edge of the pavilion where waiters had stacked wooden bottle crates and food boxes, many labeled, CLEMENS BAKERY. Following the waiter who had sounded the call, we rounded the stacks to find at least a dozen empty glass bottles strewn about on sodden grass.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Mr. Upchurch, sir, someone’s emptied all of the remaining champagne bottles onto the ground,” the waiter replied.

  “Could it, maybe, possibly, have been an accident?” Miss Corcoran asked. The waiter raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

  “No, the bottles were secure in their crate. Someone intentionally removed them and poured the champagne into the grass.”

  “This is all your fault, Asa Upchurch,” Miss Gilbert said, stomping her way through the crowd, finger wagging in incrimination. “None of this would’ve happened if I were in charge.”

  “Ah, Miss Gilbert.” Mr. Upchurch raised his hand in an attempt to touch the woman’s shoulder. Miss Gilbert glared and took a step back. Upchurch continued as if nothing had happened. “I regret this unfortunate act of vandalism, we will all miss having one last glass of champagne, but we’re in a public park; who knows what miscreants are about.”

  “You should’ve planned ahead, preventing such a thing from happening.”

  “How could I have foreseen such an event? If you’re clairvoyant, a talent you have kept well hidden, I will gladly take your recommendation for prevention in the future.” Mr. Upchurch smiled at those around him, but Miss Gilbert ignored Mr. Upchurch’s lighthearted jibe.

  “And what about the fire in the etiquette classroom? Or the money earned at the annual spring bazaar that was stolen? Are you saying you’re not responsible for those either?”

  “Not personally, no. In fact, I was telling some of the ladies that maybe Frank Hayward . . .”

  Thankfully Miss Gilbert ignored Mr. Upchurch’s insinuation and continued after taking a breath. “Or the vandalized typewriters? The missing pages from the new shorthand dictionaries? Are you denying responsibility for those as well?” Before he could reply, Miss Gilbert stepped within inches of the president, her height matching his own. “And the ‘misplaced’ enrollment documents? Are you denying responsibility for the missing documents?”

  “I think you misjudge me, Miss Gilbert.” Mr. Upchurch placed a hand on her arm. She shrugged it off but stayed where she was. “As president, I take full responsibility for everything that occurs during my tenure. However, I will not be accused of negligence by one of my own staff in public. I believe you owe me an apology.”

  “Missing enrollment documents?” someone whispered behind me.

  “I hadn’t heard about the fire, had you?” someone else added.

  “Did he say Frank Hayward stole the bazaar money?” another whispered. I turned to see who might have said the last comment, but all eyes were on Mrs. Upchurch as she pushed her way through the gathering crowd.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me.”

  “I will never apologize to you, Mr. Upchurch!” Miss Gilbert declared. Mr. Upchurch sighed and shook his head.

  “That’s enough, Miss Gilbert,” he said. “I don’t think this is the time or the place to be discussing school affairs. We have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

  “Well, then, if it’s our reputation you’re concerned about, maybe we should reconsider the management of the school and hire someone else to be president!”

  “I think you’ve said your piece, Malinda,” Mrs. Upchurch said, stepping between her husband and the typing teacher and waving to one of the girls serving. “Here,” she said, taking one of the last glasses of champagne off the tray, “have a drink and enjoy the party.”

  Malinda Gilbert turned her nose up at the offering and stormed back through the crowd. Mrs. Upchurch nodded at Nate, who began playing again, this time “Beautiful Dreamer.” Before I could question Mr. Upchurch about Miss Gilbert’s accusations, he had offered his wife his a
rm and escorted her in the opposite direction Miss Gilbert had gone.

  What a party, I thought. At least now I knew what strange incidents Madame Maisonet had referred to. I felt certain that Frank Hayward wouldn’t have had anything to do with such pettiness. But then who would?

  It’s none of your concern, Hattie, I told myself as I made my way back to the table for more sponge cake.

  Unlike the boisterous ride to Lake Contrary, my return trip was quiet and alone. Much to my hosts’ chagrin, I decided to leave early. I had no intention of speaking to Nate Boone again, or listening to Miss Gilbert complain about Mr. Upchurch’s management of the school, or hearing one more comment insinuating that Frank Hayward had something to do with the school’s rumored financial troubles. I’d agreed to go to the lake party because Mrs. Chaplin insisted my presence would be a boon to the grief-stricken students and instructors. I’d hoped to enjoy myself. But I should’ve known better when the lady herself declined to go. I never was one for school politics and scandals, even when I was a student and current with all of the rumors. In the end my being there merely set the stage for an unwanted reunion with Nate, disturbing rumors about Frank Hayward, and more questions about working for Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew.

  I admit the lemon cheesecake was delicious (though I could’ve walked over to Prinz’s on Edmond for the best cheesecake in town). And it was lovely to see the lake again, but I hadn’t a moment to hike and explore it on my own. However, the party had mostly cemented my feelings that it was time to return to Newport. At least that’s what I was thinking when I inquired at the hotel desk for any mail.