“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.
CHAPTER 25
“Mr. 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.
“Come on, Hattie, you can do it. Keep your eye on the ball!” Father shouted as Hymie threw the ball at me again.
We’d been playing for what seemed like hours and I’d yet to catch the ball. When Father and I played alone, he’d toss the ball gently and aim it for my glove, but the others felt no compulsion to go easy on me. In fact, all of the boys, except maybe Nate, felt resentful that my father insisted that I join their impromptu game. My father coached the neighborhood boys’ team and took time out to practice with them as much as his work would allow. He loved to sneak out in the middle of a beautiful sunny day to play catch in the street and the boys loved him for it.
This was the first time he’d asked me to join them. It was the first time he’d called a team practice since my mother died. I thought, after our picnic and the boys arrived, I’d simply sit on the blanket and watch as I always did. I was nervous and thrilled at the same time. The boys, however, tolerated my presence for his sake.
SMACK! I felt the burn as the ball hit the palm of my gloved hand. I stared at it with disbelief and sheer joy.
“Yeah, Hattie!” Nate shouted. “You did it!”
“That’s my girl!” Father said. “Now toss it to Stanley.”
My sense of triumph dissipated the minute I threw the ball. It lobbed in a high arc falling several feet short of Stanley and his awaiting glove.
“Ah, Mr. Davish,” Stanley whined. “Can’t we play by ourselves? She throws like a girl.”
“That’s because she is a girl, Stanley.” Father winked at me. “It’s our job to teach her not to throw like one. Now toss me the ball.”
“Okay, Mr. Davish, whatever you say.” Stanley threw the ball to my father.
“Now go long.” Father pulled back his arm and threw it far over Stanley’s head. As Stanley took off after it, Father came to stand next to me.
“I’m not very good at this, Father. Maybe Stanley’s right. Maybe I should let you play with the others by yourself.”
He put his arm around me. I could feel the strong, taut muscles of his arm and chest on my shoulders as he squeezed me.
“We’re not quitters, you and me. We can do anything we set our minds to.” I nodded, having heard this speech several times since my mother’s death. “So I’ll keep teaching you and you’ll keep trying, won’t you, my girl?” I looked up into my father’s bright eyes and matched the smile on his face with one of my own.
“I will, Father. I promise.”
“That’s my girl!” He kissed the top of my head before releasing me from his embrace and returned to his place in the circle.
I’d known at that moment that I’d promise my father anything he asked. But I’d no idea how hard that would p
rove to be.
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.
1. Asa Upchurch
2. Malinda Gilbert
3. Mollie Woodruff
4. Emily Upchurch
5. Miss Clary
6. Miss McGill
7. Miss Corcoran
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.
8. Mrs. Chaplin
9. Frank Hayward
10. Virginia Hayward
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.
“Ouch.” I’d stuck myself. That’s what you get, Davish, for being so careless.
“So stop being careless!” I shouted to myself out loud.
What would Sir Arthur think if I treated his research in such a lackadaisical fashion? My friends’ futures were far more important. I couldn’t afford to get careless now. I grabbed the list from the ledger and slipped it into my bag. I picked up the ledger, planning to have it safely locked up downstairs. I locked my door behind me and with it my cares. I took a deep breath and headed out to find some answers.
CHAPTER 26
“Hello, Miss Davish.”
I’d gone straight to the school and had met Miss Woodruff by coincidence in the hallway. She was carrying a stack of shorthand dictionaries toward her classroom. She was still wearing black.
“I’m surprised to see you. I’d thought you’d headed back home by now.”
Her simple statement stung. This had been my home.
“No, actually,” I said, “I have a few loose ends I need to tie up before I can leave.”
“Oh.” Miss Woodruff pushed her way into her classroom. I immediately recognized it as the same room in which I’d taken shorthand during my time here.
“By the way, have you seen the newspaper headlines?”
“No, why?”
“So you haven’t heard that another man was found buried in Frank Hayward’s coffin?” She turned to look at me.
“I had heard a rumor but . . . Is it true?”
“Yes, I’ve confirmed it with the police.” She turned her face away again.
“And Mr. Hayward?”
“Still missing, but now there’s hope he’s alive.” Miss Woodruff stopped. Her whole body shuddered as she gasped for a deep breath. “But then there’s the possibility he’s involved with the other man’s death. The police suspect murder.”
“No!” Miss Woodruff swung around with such force, the top book on the stack she was holding flew into the air. It dropped with a thud on a nearby desk. “Frank would never hurt anyone!”
“As I said, it’s just a possibility.”
“You don’t suspect him, do you, Miss Davish? Are those the ‘loose ends’ you’re trying to tie up?” Her face grew paler with each word.
“No, actually I’m here because I’ve discovered that someone has been embezzling money from the school.”
Crash! Miss Woodruff dropped the books and covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God!” She dropped to her knees, unaware she knelt on the spine of an overturned book.
“Miss Woodruff, if yo
u know anything about this, I need you to tell me.” The young woman shook her head, muttering incoherently. “Miss Woodruff, did you steal the money?”
And then I pictured her at the funeral, after the wreath and flowers had been knocked down, her face as white as the coffin, as white as it was now. I hadn’t questioned it then; we were at a funeral. But what had made her go so pale?
“Did you hide the accounting ledger?” She jerked her head up and stared at me.
“The accounting ledger?”
I grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. I guided her to the chair behind her desk. “Miss Woodruff, what do you know?”
“I did it.” She hid her face in her hands. “I did it.”
“What did you do? Did you steal the money, hide the ledger, or both?”
She hesitated. “Both,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.
“Why did you steal from the school?”
“Because . . .” Again she hesitated. “Because . . . I needed the money.” Something in her voice didn’t ring true.
“Why steal it? Why not ask Mrs. Chaplin for help?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t think. I was desperate. I thought if I hid the ledger no one would ever know.”
“You could go to jail for this.”
She nodded, finally taking her hands away and looking at me. “How did you find out?”
“The police found the ledger when they exhumed the coffin and then gave it to me. Miss Woodruff, it’s none of my business what you needed the money for.” My mind raced considering the possibilities: a brother’s gambling debt to pay off, an ill parent’s surgery to pay for, a widowed cousin’s children to feed. “But you teach shorthand. How did you get access to the books? How did you collect the money? When did you learn bookkeeping?”
“Frank taught—” She stopped mid-sentence, an expression of horror flashing across her face. “I mean, I just did it. All of it.”
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 19
