A Deceptive Homecoming

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  How ironic, I thought as I entered the imposing stone building with a six-story clock tower on the corner of Eighth and Edmond. It was here that General M. Jeff Thompson supposedly pulled down the flag at the onset of the Civil War. And now I was mailing Sir Arthur what I’d uncovered about the general.

  When I emerged from the post office, I made my way back toward the Pacific House Hotel, where I’d been invited to lunch. Miss Woodruff would be in attendance and all of my thoughts were of her as I crossed at the corner of Seventh and Francis. Suddenly, I felt that all too familiar feeling that I was being watched. With at least a dozen buggies navigating the intersection and countless pedestrians, on both sides of the road, going about their day, I saw no one staring at me. I’d continued on my way and had tried to ignore the hairs raised on the back of my neck. Yet the feeling never left, even when I’d joined the ladies for luncheon.

  “My father used to say, ‘The customer gets what the customer wants.’”

  I was happy to have an excuse not to eat the stuffed pheasant and potatoes I’d been served. With Miss Woodruff seated directly across from me, I had little appetite.

  “And in our case, the customer is our employer. It’s essential that you understand your employer and strive to give him or her exactly what they expect.”

  “I don’t understand,” Miss Meachem, one of the students, said. She had a stubby little nose and numerous blemishes on her high forehead. “Doesn’t an employer who hires a typist want a good typist?”

  “Of course they do, but often they expect far more than simply the fastest typist they can get.” The girl blushed at my reference to her reputation as being the fastest typist in the school. “You need to determine what beyond the basic skills is expected of you.”

  “Perhaps, maybe you could give us an example?” Miss Corcoran said. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course. For example, if your employer expects loyalty, you need to give them every reason to believe in you. If your employer expects you to be discreet, never give them reason to doubt you. If your employer expects you to be humble, never speak out of turn, never.”

  “But why isn’t being a fast typist enough?” Miss Meachem asked.

  “Because we women need to be competitive in the workplace. There are many fast typists. You need to excel beyond that. Simply put, be the best at your assigned tasks, act exactly the way they expect, and they won’t know what they did without you, and more importantly, won’t be able to imagine anyone taking your place.”

  “Is that what you did, Miss Davish? You’re obviously speaking from experience. Do you do whatever your employer demands?” Miss Gilbert twisted my words, making me sound unscrupulous.

  “No, Miss Gilbert, I don’t do whatever an employer demands. However, I do speak from experience. I’ve had to learn on my own that employers expect more from their personal secretaries, people they have given access to their most personal and confidential affairs, than simply someone who works in a typing pool. As a personal secretary, you’re the buffer between your employer and the world. There’s no set job description. You have to be flexible, capable, and motivated.”

  Despite my retort, the next several questions from the girls were more in line with Miss Gilbert’s.

  “Have you ever been asked to do anything immoral?”

  “Do you hold secrets that could compromise your previous employers’ life or livelihood?”

  “Have you ever had to fight off unwanted advances?”

  “No, of course not,” I lied. I could’ve said yes to all three questions, but I didn’t want the students to misunderstand the nature of my work. They were already thinking the worst. “It’s a business arrangement, ladies, a job,” I said. “You work for an employer. You do your best to meet their expectations, but they don’t own you.”

  “So you say,” Miss Gilbert mumbled under her breath, chewing on a fingernail.

  “Is there anything else you would like to ask Miss Davish before dessert is served?” Miss Woodruff said, giving Miss Gilbert a sideways glance of disapproval. I’d avoided her glance during the luncheon, but now I took the opportunity to study her. Except for the dark circles that stood out against her pale skin, she seemed at ease. But what had she been doing in Frank Hayward’s office last night?

  A girl raised her hand. She was wearing a pretty straw hat with a rosette of wide satin ribbon and a bunch of orange silk flowers.

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering, Miss Davish, if you could tell us some of the non-secretary work you’ve done lately.”

  “Non-secretarial work? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “She’s talking about the snooping into murders you’ve been up to lately,” Miss Gilbert said, snidely.

  “Oh.” I was afraid that’s what she meant. “Well, it’s another example of performing to the best of your abilities when you’re required to do more than type. A few of my employers have requested my aid at such times and I met the challenge. In fact, I used many of the skills I learned at Mrs. Chaplin’s to help me.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Miss Gilbert said.

  “I did, in fact. So, girls, learn everything Miss Corcoran, Miss Woodruff, and all of your teachers can teach you. If you learn to think, observe, and organize, you can do anything.”

  “And now for dessert,” Miss Woodruff said, as the bread pudding with brandied peaches was served.

  “Speaking of dessert, wasn’t that Nate Boone scrumptious?” Miss Meachem said. I’d taken a bite of the bread pudding, which almost immediately soured in my mouth. I set my fork down.

  “Did you know Miss Davish and Mr. Boone were childhood friends? And the tale was that they were even engaged?” I was stunned by Miss Gilbert’s audacity. “Oh, look at Miss Davish blush. It must be true.” My face reddened even more as everyone gawked at me and I tried to quell my anger at Miss Gilbert’s teasing.

  Un, deux, trois, I counted in my head.

  “Really?” Miss Meachem said.

  “I don’t think Miss Davish’s private life is a topic for discussion,” Miss Woodruff said. “It’s not anyone’s place to examine whom and why we love.” Cupping her hand over her chin, Miss Woodruff glanced down at a red splotch where a tomato had dripped onto the white linen tablecloth. She was still dressed in black crape.

  “Thank you, Miss Woodruff.” I was sincerely grateful and yet baffled by her unexplained behavior.

  “Well, then, let’s discuss why on earth Mrs. Chaplin chose to hire Mr. Upchurch when she retired.”

  “I don’t think that’s an appropriate topic either, Miss Gilbert, especially in front of the students,” Miss Woodruff said.

  “It concerns them as much as it does us how this school is managed. I think if Mrs. Chaplin were to know what was going on . . . ”

  “What’s going on?” a student asked.

  “I think Miss Gilbert’s talking about all the ‘incidents,’” Miss Meachem whispered behind her hand.

  “Yes, incidents,” Miss Gilbert said. “More like acts of negligence and incompetence. None of these ‘incidents’ would’ve occurred if I were president.”

  “You mentioned them at the lake. What do you think is going on?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a string of unrelated coincidences,” Miss Woodruff said. “No one can fault Mr. Upchurch for the classroom fire—”

  “Poor management,” Miss Gilbert interrupted.

  “Or the missing pages from the shorthand textbooks? Or the emptied champagne bottles?”

  “Again poor management.”

  “What about the missing money?” Miss Corcoran said. “Goodness gracious! You don’t think our president stole that, do you?”

  “From the rumors I’ve heard, Mr. Hayward might’ve had something to do with that,” Miss Meachem said coyly behind her hand.

  “That’s a hurtful lie!” Miss Woodruff shot up out of her seat and slammed her palms flat down on the table.

  The girl shrank back, her mouth agape as
the glassware wobbled precariously for a moment. The entire table fell silent. The clinking of silverware and the muffled words of the other diners’ conversations filled the void. Miss Gilbert merely raised an eyebrow.

  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.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Thank 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.

  “O
h” 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.