“Mary! It’s a bullet hole,” Miss Woodruff said. “Isn’t it sacrilegious or something to tamper with it?”
“Only if the police were still investigating the crime,” I said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. It will further damage the plaster.”
“Yes, it will further damage the plaster, Mary,” Miss Woodruff repeated. “Besides, it doesn’t even look much like a bullet hole, does it? I hadn’t expected it to be that big.”
“It wouldn’t have been,” I said. “But as you know, hundreds, maybe even thousands, of others have come before us over the years. I’m guessing Mary wasn’t the first to want a part of the wall.”
“Miss Davish is right,” Miss Wells said, pulling several yellowed newspaper clippings from her bag. She riffled through them until she found the one she wanted. “See here. They have a picture of the original hole and it was much smaller.”
She held it out before her. Miss Woodruff and I looked at the newspaper article over her shoulder. It was an article from The Manhattan Enterprise dated April 4, 1882, the day after the shooting. It contained two photographs, one of Jesse James dead in a semi-upright coffin and one of the bullet hole in the wall, which was a great deal smaller.
“Where did you get this?” Miss Woodruff asked.
“I clipped it out of the paper that day and kept it with others as keepsakes. I brought them along knowing I was coming here. If you look closely, you can see the bullet hole in his head.” Miss Wells moved the paper closer to Miss Woodruff’s face. That lady promptly turned pale and looked away. “See, Miss Davish,” Miss Wells said. “Some people don’t think it was him, that he’s still alive, but look, the dead man looks exactly like the live one.”
She riffled through the clippings again and this time pulled out one containing a photograph of Jesse James posing for a portrait with other men. “See.” Miss Wells held the pictures, the portrait with Jesse James alive and the other of him in his casket, next to each other. “Of course, he’s much younger here. It was supposedly taken during the early days of the James-Younger gang, but still I don’t know how anyone could think this wasn’t him.”
“Wishful thinking, perhaps,” Miss Woodruff said flippantly, though not willing to look at the photographs.
Not noting the sarcastic tone of her cousin’s voice, Miss Wells said, “Maybe. It is thrilling to think that he might still be alive. What do you think, Miss Davish? Is this really him?”
I looked at the comparison photographs, not to confirm that the outlaw was indeed dead (Hadn’t the night policeman confirmed it?) but because something caught my eye in the portrait picture. Agrimony. The flowers on the backdrop behind the men looked like agrimony.
Like the misplaced flowers at Frank Hayward’s funeral, I thought.
I studied the portrait, wishing I’d brought my hand lens with me but couldn’t determine from the yellowing gray photograph if I was right. But then I saw something that made the identity of the flowers irrelevant.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s ghoulish, I know,” Miss Wells said, mistaking my exclamation for revulsion. “But that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I said, heading toward the exit.
“What is it, Miss Davish? Are you all right? Shall we go with you?”
I turned to look at Miss Woodruff. I inwardly cringed at the concern on her face. She didn’t deserve to have her heart broken again. But if she knew what I was about to do . . . I couldn’t let myself think anymore. I had to go.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could muster to say as I ran from the room. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Well, that’s strange,” I heard Mary Wells say behind me. “Did you see the look on her face? I thought she’d swoon right here. I know the dead man’s picture is ghastly, but you’d think after finding so many dead bodies, she’d be less squeamish than that.”
If she only knew, I thought as I raced out of the house and down the hill. If she only knew.
CHAPTER 33
“Tell me about your father, Ginny.” Ginny looked up from pouring the tea.
“What do you mean, Hattie? You knew my father. What do you want to know?”
After leaving a puzzled Miss Woodruff and Miss Wells behind at the Jesse James House, I’d run down to Ninth and Penn streets and caught a streetcar. I hadn’t wanted to lose any time in confronting Ginny. What I’d seen in the newspaper photograph had equally exhilarated me and appalled me. I’d finally solved the one piece of the puzzle that had eluded me, but it also meant that my friend had been lying to me from the moment I’d arrived.
“I want to know where he is.”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” I took a sip from my teacup. “I understand you wanting to protect him, but I know, Ginny. I know. He can’t hide forever.”
“If you’re talking about the embezzlement, you yourself led the police to Asa Upchurch. My father had nothing to do with that.”
“I’m not talking about the money or the incidents at the school, Ginny. I’m talking about your father. I’m talking about Charles Mayfield.”
“Who’s Charles Mayfield?”
“And I’m talking about Jesse James.”
“Hattie, what are you talking about? I have no idea who Charles Mayfield is. And what does Jesse James, a notorious outlaw who’s been dead for over a decade, have to do with the whereabouts of my father?”
“Everything and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the kind.”
“Does the flower agrimony mean anything to you?”
“No. Why?”
“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Ginny. I know why your father hasn’t been seen since the funeral.”
“Maybe he’s locked up in the asylum like you said.”
“No, the staff there denies ever seeing your father and to be certain, the police searched the entire building after they arrested Dr. Hillman.”
“Then maybe my poor father is dead after all.” She pouted, but her eyes belied what she said. She didn’t believe it any more than I did.
“Your father is alive and well and you know it. What I don’t know is where and why you still think you need to lie to me.”
“Hattie! How can you say such a thing? I’m not lying to you. I have no idea where my father is and I’m worried sick about it.” Her teacup shook in her hand. She watched me over the rim of the cup as she tried to take a drink but couldn’t bring it to her lips. She set the cup and saucer on her lap. “You believe me, don’t you? We’re friends after all.”
“I believe that you’re worried sick about him. I know what it’s like to see your father in peril. But I can’t leave this alone, Ginny. Your father has to confess to what he’s done.”
“No!” Ginny leaped up from her seat, sending the teacup and saucer crashing to the ground. The tea seeped into the Belgian carpet, forming a dark irregular stain at her feet. “You stay out of this, Hattie Davish.”
“I’m sorry, Ginny. It’s too late for that.”
“Don’t you dare do anything to hurt my father.” Ginny’s face was red with fury.
“It may be too late for that too.”
“Get out! Mrs. Curbow!” Ginny screamed. The housekeeper, who must have been very close, appeared a moment later. “Get this woman out of my house. She’s never to be allowed in again.” Mrs. Curbow, staring at me with a gaping mouth, barely nodded. “Now!” Ginny commanded again.
“I’m sorry it had to come to this.” I set my teacup down on the table and stood. “I came home to give you comfort and friendship. This is the last thing I would’ve wanted. I wish I could’ve helped you and your father. Not this.”
“I wish you’d never come at all,” Ginny said to my back as I left the room.
So do I, I thought.
“You!”
Maybe it was being turned out of Ginny’s house or it was the burden of the truth I now knew, but when I saw the man with the Panama hat ling
ering behind an ice wagon across the street, I didn’t hesitate to confront him. He’d been following me for days and I’d nothing left to lose.
He bolted when he realized I was yelling at him. This time I grabbed ahold of my hat, picked up my skirts, and ran after him. I caught up to him when a passing streetcar momentarily blocked his way. I leaped forward and grabbed ahold of his coattails.
“Why are you following me?”
“Let go of me and I’ll tell you.” He turned to face me. It was the first time I’d gotten a good look at his face. And I didn’t recognize him.
“Who are you?”
“Well, at least I did something right,” the man said. Then I recognized his voice.
“Gus?” It was the security man from Mrs. Chaplin’s school. He nodded. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Davish. I really am.” He pushed his hat back from his forehead and reached into his breast pocket. As his fingers grasped for something hard beneath his jacket, he glanced about to see if anyone was near. Only a long-haired gray cat scratching a nearby tree was close enough to witness. “But I’m just doing my job.”
“No!” I cried out in surprise and instinctively threw up my hands in defense. I leaped backward, nearly tripping on my skirt.
“Oh, no, Miss Davish,” Gus said, waving his free hand. “It’s nothing like that.” He pulled out a card case, not a gun, and handed a card to me. I sighed in relief and to cover my embarrassment.
What’s wrong with you, Davish? I silently chided myself. I looked down at my hand holding the card. It was shaking.
To avoid his gaze and gather my composure, I focused on his card. It read:
GUS ANDERSON, DETECTIVE.
LOCKE’S WESTERN DETECTIVE AGENCY, P.T. LOCKE, CHIEF.
CENTRAL OFFICE, COMMERCIAL BANK BLOCK
SIXTH AND EDMOND, ROOM 50, TELEPHONE 125
I flipped it over. On the back was an image, a single wide-open eye in the middle of a rising sun with the words above it: OUR EYE IS EVER ON YOU. It sent shivers down my spine. Maybe I had cause to be leery after all. I immediately handed it back.
“I was hired by Mr. Upchurch when the incidents at the school started,” Gus said.
“So you must know that Miss Gilbert was behind the thefts and the fire and the petty acts of vandalism?”
“Really? No, I hadn’t heard that. I had the night off last night and haven’t spoken to anyone at the school today. Wow, I never would’ve suspected Miss Gilbert. Never.”
“So you don’t know that Mr. Upchurch was arrested for embezzling money from the school either, do you?” Gus blinked several times before a big smirk crossed his face.
“Well, you don’t say.”
“But why have you been following me?”
“Mr. Upchurch paid me extra to watch you, see what you were up to and report back. I have to say you made my job extremely difficult. I’ve shadowed a lot of people, but you’re one of the most observant I’ve ever known. You almost caught me several times.”
“But why would Mr. Upchurch want me followed?” Gus shrugged his shoulders.
“That was his business, not mine.”
“Could he have been concerned I might discover what he was up to?”
“Now that you say that, I do remember him becoming extremely agitated when I told him you were talking with the police. So yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Then you can stop following me.”
“Yeah, of course. I’m glad of it too. I hated following a lady like you. And ah . . . sorry for giving you a fright.” He held up the card case for a moment before putting it back into his pocket. I blushed with embarrassment and said nothing. He tipped his Panama hat. “Good day, Miss Davish.”
“And to you, Gus.” I was relieved to no longer be someone’s quarry. Then I turned and headed back to the Hayward house as fast as I could. I had my own quarry to pursue.
CHAPTER 34
I waited less than five minutes before Ginny emerged from her house. She looked about her furtively as she descended the stairs. Hidden behind a coal wagon parked across the street, she never saw me. To my shame, this wasn’t the first time I’d followed someone in an effort to spy upon them. But to my credit, I’d learned to do it very well. I easily kept Ginny in my sights, carefully hiding myself behind hedges, wagons, or among groups of fellow pedestrians heading in the same direction. It was easy until we encountered the Labor Day parade.
As we approached Sixth Street, crowds lined the sidewalks as marching bands in gold tassels and tall red hats, carriage after carriage decorated with rainbow-colored bunting carrying dignitaries who waved out the window, and open wagons of all kinds draped with banners advertising which union or brotherhood the men crowded in the back represented passed down the street. As Pryor’s Military Band passed, the cacophony of Sousa’s “Across the Danube March” mixing with the cheers and claps of the crowd bounced off the buildings. Distracted by the noise, I caught a glimpse of Nate Boone next to Mr. Pryor leading the band. When I turned my attention back to the crowd, Ginny was gone.
I zigzagged my way, pushing past men with children on their shoulders and groups of girls in identical school uniforms. And then I spotted her. She was trying to dodge a slow-moving confectionary vendor attempting to move his cart through the crowd. And then I lost her again until I reached a congested corner. As I searched the multitude, I caught sight of her heading away from the bustle and toward an awaiting streetcar. I took off running as fast I could, dropping all pretense of concealment. She boarded the streetcar, which continued to wait a minute or two longer. It was enough time for me to grab the back handrail and hop aboard. I ducked down into a seat as the streetcar started down the rails. Ginny was sitting in the front, her back to me. I caught my breath as I dropped my fare into the box. I watched and waited for her to turn back and see me, but she never did. We passed block after block as I anticipated her sudden departure, which never came. She was taking the car to the end of the line, to Rochester Road, otherwise known as Eugene Field’s “Lover’s Lane.” That’s where I’d spied a man bearing a resemblance to Frank Hayward, driving his carriage in a mad dash to leave town the day after his supposed funeral. I’d dismissed the coincidence, thinking it might be the escaped patient from the asylum. I’d had it backward. The escaped patient was dead and buried in Frank Hayward’s coffin and Frank Hayward was escaping. I could never have imagined what he was actually escaping from. I’d come to believe it was related to Mrs. Chaplin’s school, either the embezzlement or the incidents, both of which were wrong. I even speculated he might have had something to do with Levi Yardley’s murder. But again, I would’ve been wrong. But now I knew. At least that’s what I was hoping following Ginny would confirm.
But then what? I wondered.
Before I could ponder over an answer, the streetcar stopped and Ginny got off. A young couple, arms intertwined, rose and proceeded to alight as well. I was the last person on the streetcar.
“End of the line, miss,” the driver said. I approached the front and through the window watched Ginny walk up the lane. “You need to get off here.”
“Yes, of course.” I descended the stairs slowly.
“I’m running on a timetable, miss,” the driver fumed.
“Sorry.” I stepped off without taking my eyes off Ginny.
As the streetcar drove away, I sprinted to the nearest tree and hid. I peered around it, watching Ginny’s progress. Feeling confident she was far enough away, I stepped back into the lane and followed her, careful to keep close to the tree line. She never turned around but after a quarter of a mile or so, she headed down a smaller lane to the right. The moment she did, I hurried to follow. I caught sight of a hat with a large russet-colored chrysanthemum on the crown lying beside a large oak tree. As I passed, the young couple I’d seen on the streetcar peeked around the tree, surprised to see me dashing past. Their cheeks were red, either from embarrassment or from passion. I’d obviously caught them kissing.
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br /> I turned into the secondary lane, a quiet path with a few homes spread out down its length. Except for a farmer and some field hands far out in a pasture with two horses and wagon, no one else was about. I watched Ginny, her black silk dress contrasting against the white picket fence as she entered through a gate. She disappeared into a one-story whitewashed stone farmhouse about an eighth of a mile down the lane. I strolled down the lane, taking my time to figure out what I was going to do next. If I was right, Frank Hayward was inside that farmhouse.
But what if I’m wrong? I wondered, as I approached the gate.
My friendship with Ginny was already in tatters. If I was wrong and I’d followed her on false pretenses, she’d be infuriated with me and I’d look the fool. But if I was right, I’d break her heart.
I’m right, I thought, as shadows crossed the windowsill.
But now what? Do I simply walk up to the door and knock? What then? What do I say? That I knew that Frank Hayward was alive and well and hiding inside? That Frank Hayward must confess to his crimes and accompany me to the police station? I hadn’t thought this out very well. If he was guilty of the crimes I suspected him of, would he voluntarily go with me?
As I stood staring at the whitewashed little house debating what to do, the decision was mercifully made for me. The door opened and Frank Hayward stepped outside. I immediately noticed the scar across his eyebrow, his right eyebrow.
“Please come in, Miss Davish,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you for some time.”
“Oh, Hattie, forgive me. Please forgive me!” Ginny threw her arms around me the moment I stepped into the house. Her porcelain cheeks were blotchy, long strands of her silky yellow hair fell unfettered from one side of her head, and her beautiful emerald eyes were red from crying. Although I’d expected to find him, seeing Frank Hayward standing alive and well before my eyes had unnerved me. And if that hadn’t, seeing Ginny completely disheveled would have.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 24
