“You obviously realize that I’m the one that sent you the anonymous letters to your hotel.” I nodded.
“And the funeral notice.” I was guessing.
“Oh, figured that out too, did you? Well, yes, but I bet you didn’t know that I’d begun planning the lake party before you even arrived? Don’t tell Emily Upchurch, though. She thinks it was all her idea.”
“But why?”
“Because I knew you would come.”
I shook my head in confusion and frustration. “I don’t understand. Why did you want me to come? And why be secretive about it? Why not write me in your own hand and ask me to come?”
“Would you have made the cross-country trip for Frank Hayward’s funeral if I’d simply asked?” I began to answer yes, then hesitated. She was right. I thought I’d come for Ginny’s sake, but if I was being honest the intrigue of the mystery behind the funeral notice letter probably did more to persuade me to come than I’d like to imagine.
“I don’t know. But why was it important that I come in the first place? I obviously brought cold comfort for Virginia Hayward. Did you too suspect the dead man wasn’t Frank Hayward?”
“What? No. What crazy idea is that? Of course not! What are you talking about?”
“You mean you sent me the funeral notice for another reason?”
“I sent you the notice because I need to know what’s going on at my school.” That wasn’t what I expected. “There have been a string of unfortunate incidents. And they may seem petty to you, but who else would investigate them for me? Isn’t that part of what you do now?” It seemed Miss Gilbert was wrong; Mrs. Chaplin knew about the problems all along.
I picked up the stack of the torn-out shorthand dictionary pages. “But what about these? I found them under the tea table.” Mrs. Chaplin took the stack from me.
“See, that’s precisely the sort of thing I’d hoped you do, find clues, find answers. Unfortunately I already knew about these.”
“Did you tear them out of the books?” I couldn’t believe I was accusing my former head matron, my former mentor, of defacing books, but the evidence was undeniable.
“No, no.” She shook her head, dismissing the idea. She set the stack on the table again. “No, these came to me anonymously, stuffed in a large envelope.”
“Anonymously?” This was becoming an all too common form of communication.
“Yes, that’s how I got the idea to write to you. No one but you would be able to translate the Burns’ shorthand. And of course, the challenge of it would further intrigue you and persuade you to come.”
How well she knows me, I thought. Perhaps better than I knew or would like to admit to myself.
“So will you help me?”
What else could I say to the woman I owed so much but, “Of course, I will.”
“Good. Now where do we start?”
“Obviously you’re aware of the dictionaries, but do you know about the fire at the school?” She nodded. “And the other acts of vandalism, the stolen typewriter keys and the emptied champagne bottles at the lake party?”
“Yes, I know about all that as well as the missing applications and stolen bazaar money.” Somehow Mrs. Chaplin had been kept well-informed.
“Have you heard the rumors that the school is in financial trouble?” Her face blanched. She obviously hadn’t heard about that. “And that Frank Hayward’s name has been connected with possible criminal activity?” I didn’t like repeating the rumor, but Mrs. Chaplin deserved to know everything I did. She’d founded the school by herself over twenty years ago with the money her late husband left her. She’d been a rich, educated widow, with grown children and nothing to do.
She shook her head slowly; then she squinted at me. I remembered her doing that when I’d yet again burned the roast in cooking class. She wasn’t happy. Taking me by surprise, she suddenly stood.
“Let’s go!”
I scrambled to my feet and I followed her lead as she headed toward the door without further explanation. Never one to suggest frailty, Mrs. Chaplin moved with a swiftness I found hard to match.
“Where are we going?”
“To the school, of course. I think it’s time I came out of retirement, don’t you?”
“I admit I wondered why you retired in the first place. But why go to the school now?”
“After apple pudding and such enlightening conversation, I have a sudden hankering to look at the accounting books.” She smiled like the Cheshire cat. She hadn’t lost any of her wit, her charm, or her determination in her old age. I admired her more in this moment than ever before.
With my help, she clambered into her ladies’ phaeton carriage. “But why do you need me to tag along?”
I hoped it wasn’t to drive. It was one lesson Mrs. Chaplin hadn’t taught and I’d been glad, having always given horses a wide berth. And considering what happened to Levi Yardley (yes, I told myself it was Levi Yardley and not Frank Hayward who was trampled), I was right to do so. I’d held the reins of a horse once, and even that had given me a fright. Luckily she took the reins herself. Though I hadn’t been surprised that she refused to wait for her driver, again I hadn’t anticipated her response.
“You always were the better bookkeeper, of course.” And with that she snapped the reins and we were off.
“Who’s there?”
Mrs. Chaplin and I’d arrived at the school well after dark. Without a single light emanating from within the building, the only illumination we had to guide us was the electric glow of the streetlamps. Mrs. Chaplin had fumbled in the dark with her key.
“Let us in, Gus,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “I’m having trouble with my key.”
“Mrs. Chaplin?” a man’s voice said through the door.
I wondered, since Mrs. Chaplin was supposed to be retired, how Gus recognized her voice. She probably visited the school far more than she’d admitted. Oddly, his voice sounded familiar to me, though I distinctly remembered on my first foray to the school after dark that Gus had not uttered a word.
“Yes, yes. It’s me. Miss Davish and I would like to come in. Please unlock the door.”
The sound of jingling keys and then a click signaled that he’d unlocked the door, but when Mrs. Chaplin opened it and stepped inside, Gus was nowhere to be seen. She immediately headed for her former office.
“Gus is a bit odd, isn’t he?” I told Mrs. Chaplin about how he hadn’t spoken to me before.
“He seems perfectly competent to me.” I didn’t tell her that Miss Woodruff had rifled through Frank Hayward’s office while Gus was on duty.
“When did the school start requiring the need of a night watchman?” Had the incidents at the school been more rampant and dangerous than I’d been told?
“After the fire in the classroom. The firemen determined it had been set deliberately. After the money from the students’ annual bazaar was stolen, the fire was the last straw. Mr. Upchurch was right to hire him.”
“But what if the incidents are being caused by students or teachers that are here during the day?” Mrs. Chaplin stopped in midstride and I nearly bumped into her.
“What are you saying, Hattie? That someone at the school may be doing all this?” I was surprised the thought had never occurred to her.
“Yes, I’ve even heard several people mention Frank Hayward’s name. It’s very possible. I can see a stranger stealing money or even setting fire to the school. But who else would tamper with enrollment documents, typewriters, and shorthand dictionaries but someone associated with the school in some way?”
“But nothing else has occurred since we hired Gus.” I shook my head and reminded her of the champagne incident at the lake. She put her hand to her cheek.
“I’d forgotten about that.” She continued again down the hall. “I’d hate to think that you’re right, Hattie, but that’s why I got you to come, isn’t it? You have more a mind for this criminal activity than I do.”
I grimaced at her “compliment.” Luck
ily she had her back to me. I’ve been unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with a few murderers, but that didn’t qualify me as an expert of criminal activity. I opened my mouth to voice my objection but thought better of it. Mrs. Chaplin was still talking.
“So it could be anyone: a student, a teacher, a maid, a cook . . . a secretary.” She turned back to measure my response and laughed. I tried to smile, but I didn’t want to encourage her. I think she was actually enjoying herself. I could imagine, if I were living the life of a retired widow, how bored I’d be. But I wouldn’t recommend sleuthing to fill the days. “Here we are,” she said as we reached the president’s office.
Mrs. Chaplin grappled with her string of keys, found the one she was looking for, and unlocked the door. I was surprised when she led me through the outer office, not toward Asa Upchurch’s office door but to the now-locked storage room. Again she fumbled through the keys until she found the one she wanted. I studied the jumble of keys in her hand and recognized what they meant. Mrs. Chaplin hadn’t truly retired or intended to after all. She hadn’t even given up her keys. How involved in the school was she? How does Asa Upchurch handle Mrs. Chaplin’s input in, what should now be, his affairs?
With his usual charm, I suppose, I thought. His charm doesn’t work on Miss Gilbert, though, does it?
My reverie was cut short when Mrs. Chaplin swung open the door, revealing a large closet, lined with bookshelves. One bookshelf was filled from ceiling to floor with day books and ledgers. Mrs. Chaplin walked in and began scanning the ledgers. I took the time to examine the other shelves, filled with typical office supplies: stationery, writing tablets, carbon paper, typewriter paper in several sizes, pens, pencils, rows and rows of bottles of ink, paper clips, rubber bands, rubber erasers, chalk crayons, blackboard erasers, typewriter ribbon, typewriter oil, and type cleaning brushes. I nodded my head in approval. Every clip, every ream of paper was in its place as it should be at a school that trains secretaries.
So it was completely unexpected when Mrs. Chaplin nearly shouted, “One of them isn’t here.”
“One of what?”
“One of the accounting ledgers, from the time since I’ve retired, is missing.”
“Could it be somewhere else? Mr. Upchurch’s office, perhaps? Or in Miss Clary’s desk? Could it be in Mr. Hayward’s office?”
“It shouldn’t be. Everything has its place.” I couldn’t recall how many times I’d heard that motto. Yet another lesson I’d learned at Mrs. Chaplin’s school. “But let us look regardless.”
I followed her out of the closet, watched her lock it back up and head toward Mr. Upchurch’s office. I followed her in and between the two of us, searched the office for the ledger. When I’d been here earlier, I’d been struck at how simply, yet richly, the office had been furnished. But now as I searched through desk drawers, I realized how austere the room truly was. With the exception of a photograph of his wife on the desk, President Asa Upchurch kept nothing personal in the room—not a plant, not a personal book, not even a hidden bottle of whiskey. He obviously felt strongly about keeping his personal and professional lives separate. It was admirable; he was living by example, as this was something else strongly advocated by the school. Until very recently I’d managed to follow closely to this principle. However, dead bodies and handsome, persuasive doctors tend to complicate things.
“I found nothing.” Mrs. Chaplin sighed. “You?”
“No.”
“Let’s keep looking.” And we did. We searched every inch of the outer office, including Miss Clary’s desk. We went to Frank Hayward’s office, but it had been cleared out of everything.
When had this happened? I wondered. Last night the office still contained books, papers, and more. And who took it all? Miss Woodruff? President Upchurch? Ginny? Miss Woodruff’s voice saying “more evidence” sounded in my head. Could there have been something of importance in his office? The ledger! I thought. Of course, but where’s it now?
“Where could it be?” Mrs. Chaplin grumbled, echoing my thoughts. “Everything has its place!” In her frustration she wasn’t seeing the obvious.
“Someone has taken it, Mrs. Chaplin.” She looked at me with wide eyes.
“It too has been stolen? Who’s doing this? Who’s trying to sabotage my school?”
“You think the missing ledger is merely one more incident?”
“Don’t you?”
I shook my head. “Maybe, or it could be much more serious.”
“You mean someone stole the ledger to prevent us from doing exactly what we intended to do tonight?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“But who? Who would do such a thing?”
I hesitated, not wanting to be the one to voice the name we were both thinking. I looked about me at the empty office of the former bookkeeper. Mrs. Chaplin followed my gaze.
“No. Do you really think Frank Hayward would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought so, but if he wasn’t the man we buried last week . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to accuse him outright. Besides, it was all still supposition. “We still don’t know what’s happened to him.”
“I’d no idea it was this sinister,” Mrs. Chaplin said, glancing about the empty room again before stopping her gaze on me. “Oh, Hattie, what have I gotten us into?”
CHAPTER 18
“Thank God for God,” my mother used to say.
I’d always thought it an odd phrase, but over the years I grew to understand what she meant. Many times in my life I’ve found solace in a holy place, whether it was St. Patrick’s in Kansas City, St. Mary’s in Newport, or the little chapel in Eureka Springs. I’ve always come away refreshed, calm, focused, and thankful. This morning, attending Mass at the Cathedral of St. Joseph with its single-squat bell tower and its memories of attending Mass with my mother, was no different.
I’d struggled to sleep last night. When I’d returned from Mrs. Chaplin’s home there was yet another dinner invitation from Nate Boone waiting for me. His persistence and impudence was exasperating. And then there was Dr. Hillman. I’d written Bertha Yardley and posted the note before going to bed. Yet despite telling myself that the doctor’s lies and his confrontation with Levi Yardley were none of my concern, I couldn’t deny the desire to confront the man and hear what he had to say. But it had been the questions about the missing ledger, the disappearance of Frank Hayward, and the undeniable possibility that the two were linked that had kept me awake. Mass this morning soothed my restlessness. And after savoring the scent of incense one last time, I walked out of the cathedral into the bright, warm late August morning at peace again.
It ended the moment I stepped off the streetcar. This time there was no doubt; I was being followed. The feeling of being watched surged through me like electricity. I whirled around, certain I’d confront my mysterious pursuer but yet again found no one but an elderly man, with the aid of a cane, alighting from the streetcar behind me. I apologized to the frightened old man, stepping out of his way, but peered about the street for signs of the person following me. I was rewarded when I spied a man holding his hat on his head as he sprinted down Faraon Street. For a brief moment, I considered pursuing him, but he was fast and already too far ahead. He passed a row of two-story whitewashed brick houses and disappeared around the corner, two blocks away.
A mixture of anger, relief, and confusion rooted me to the spot as other passengers disembarking from the streetcar had to make their way around me. After a disgruntled comment from a nanny herding several small children and a baby carriage that bumped into the back of my legs, I moved out of the way and sat down on the bench. I pulled out my notebook and pencil.
1. Why would anyone want to follow me?
2. Does it have to do with Frank Hayward?
3. Does it have to do with Levi Yardley?
4. Does it have to do with Dr. Hillman and his lies?
5. Is my pursuer doing it for himself or was he hired by someon
e?
My mind raced as I thought who would want to track my every move. I added names to the list.
6. If hired by someone, who? Nate? Mrs. Chaplin? Ginny?
I let my notebook drop to my lap, distressed that I could be suspicious of people I loved, and considered what to do next.
At least I know I was right, I thought.
Someone has been following me. I wasn’t imagining it. Although I hadn’t seen the man’s face, I was now certain I’d seen him at least twice before. He wore a Panama hat.
“This came for you, Miss Davish,” Mr. Putney announced when I arrived back at the hotel. He handed me a folded piece of paper with my name written on it. I sighed. I’d thought confronting Mrs. Chaplin would put an end to mysterious notes. I opened it up. It was from Mrs. Yardley.
Dear Miss Davish,
You have been so kind and helpful I hate to beg one more favor of you, but I don’t know who else I can turn to. Would you be so kind as to meet me at the police station this morning? If my husband is dead and buried, I must know. I must lay him to rest in our family cemetery. Then Levi and I can both find peace. But I can’t face them alone. My appointment is for half past eleven. Will you, Miss Davish? Will you come?
Your friend,
Mrs. Levi Yardley
How could I refuse?
I looked at the wall clock. It was quarter past eleven already. I shrugged my shoulders at the confused desk clerk before turning on my heel and heading back outside. Luckily the police station, a three-story redbrick castle, complete with turret and pointed roof, was a short walk from the hotel. I entered through the arched doorway, CENTRAL POLICE STATION etched into the stone above. Mrs. Yardley was sitting on a bench staring out the window, but she jumped to her feet the moment she saw me.
“Oh, Miss Davish, I knew you would come.” Mrs. Yardley used the almost exact phrase as Mrs. Chaplin. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
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