A Deceptive Homecoming

 

 

“Ms. Loan-Wilsey writes with vivid imagery that immediately brings to life the late nineteenth century in this engrossing and thoroughly enjoyable tale. Miss Hattie Davish is a force to be reckoned with, and I'm eagerly awaiting more of her adventures.”—Kate Kingsbury

 

“Fans of historical mysteries should be delighted with this debut.”

 

“
A Lack of Temperance
shows no lack of a fresh setting, spunky amateur detective, fascinating characters and intriguing mystery. Anna Loan-Wilsey has a real talent for pulling the reader into a past world of both charm and chaos. Heroine Hattie and her typewriter certainly travel well! I can't wait to read her next adventure.”—Karen Harper

 

“This historical cozy debut showcases the author's superb research. Readers will be fascinated . . . this is a warm beginning.”

 

“Eureka Springs is usually a peaceful spa resort, but when Hattie Davish arrives with her typewriter she finds the town in uproar. Temperance ladies are attacking saloons and her new employer is missing. This is a fast-paced and fascinating read, peopled with feisty females, giving us a glimpse of how far women were actually prepared to go for the cause.”—Rhys Bowen

 

 

“Loan-Wilsey combines meticulous research with sturdy characters.”

 

 

“Thoroughly entertaining . . . well researched and plotted, this fast-paced historical mystery delivers.”
—RT Book Reviews

Books by Anna Loan-Wilsey

 

 

A LACK OF TEMPERANCE

 

ANYTHING BUT CIVIL

 

A SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT

 

A DECEPTIVE HOMECOMING

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

ANNA LOAN-WILSEY

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

I would like to thank Sarah Elder, Curator of Collections at the St. Joseph Museums, for her time, her expertise, and her willingness to guide me through tunnels below what is now the Galore Psychiatric Museum and was once part of the State Lunatic Asylum #2. Her insights into the history of St. Joseph were invaluable, and any errors are mine alone.

I would also like to thank the St. Joseph Convention & Visitors Bureau, especially Mary Supple, for going out of their way to be helpful and welcoming. I left their office loaded with historical research materials, a contact list of local experts, and the address for the best tearoom in town. A true Midwestern welcome!

To the art duo of Kristine Mills and Judy York at Kensington, I want to express my gratitude and awe for re-creating the very scene I imagined as Hattie returned to her childhood home.

Finally, I'd be more than remiss if I didn't thank my husband, Brian, for his inspired suggestions. This would've been a very different book without them!

—C
ONFUCIUS
, 551–479
B.C.

A
nd then it was my turn to view the body.

So, why was I hesitating?

Was it the whispers I heard as the girls spoke to each other behind their hands? Did they think I hadn't noticed their stares? Was it the surprise and dismay that flashed across Ginny's face when I arrived? Was it the unpleasant transformation of a room I'd laughed in, played in, felt at home in? Or was it the memory of other dead bodies I've seen in less familiar settings?

“Ahem . . .”

I turned to the buxom woman waiting behind me in line at the casket. The plumes of gray egret feathers on her hat dangled down, tickling her cheek. She ineffectively tried to blow them away.

“Are you going to pay your respects, miss?” She blew at the feathers again.

“Yes, of course.” I took a deep breath and took a step forward. I glanced across the room at Ginny once more, now deep in conversation with a woman I faintly recognized, before turning toward the body.

Poor Ginny,
I thought as I gazed down at the dead man. And then I froze, breathless. Despite seeing my share of dead bodies, nothing had prepared me for this. I'd known Mr. Hayward in life. Besides being my friend's father, Frank Hayward had taught me everything I knew about bookkeeping.

“I heard he was disfigured,” the woman behind me said, leering over my shoulder, “but I had no idea.” I could feel her breath on my neck as she blew at her feathers again.

Frank Hayward had aged considerably since I'd last seen him: His hair was completely gray, deep wrinkles stretched out about his eyes and mouth and across his forehead, and the skin beneath his throat sagged. I couldn't resist the urge to gently touch his cheek. His skin felt waxy as I expected but was dotted with strange indentations, as if someone had periodically poked him with a pencil. And then there was his nose, or at least what the undertakers had made of it.

“Trampled by a horse, they say,” the woman, her breath reeking of onions, said against my ear. I jerked my hand away.

Why must she stand so close?
I glanced behind me hoping she would take a step back, but her eyes were focused on the body in the casket in front of me. She blew at her feathers again.

“Un, deux, trois . . .”
I began counting in French to calm down. The woman wasn't going anywhere, so I took a deep breath and turned toward the body once again.

The animal had smashed the left side of the dead man's face, crushing his left cheek and completely disfiguring his nose. The undertaker had attempted to reconstruct his face, painting his face with a tan cosmetic, filling his cheek with something to try to puff it out again and adding painted clay to his nose. Whether he was working from a poor memory or a bad photograph, the undertaker had failed in his effort to make the deceased appear as he had in life.

Something's not right,
I thought.

Crash!
“Aaaah!”

We all turned at the sound of glass breaking and startled shrieks. Marigolds, periwinkle, rosemary, and branches of cypress, mixed with small shards of glass that twinkled in the candlelight, littered the floor. A wreath stand, one of its three legs broken, lay sprawled on top of the flower heap. In its descent, it had knocked down several glass vases set on a table beside it. Two middle-aged women, both with red faces and hands held to their chests, stood a few feet away. One took a deep breath and giggled in embarrassment.

“How silly to be startled by flowers,” she said to no one in particular, “though the stand did nearly hit us.” The other woman nodded as she continued to stare at the jumble of glass, ribbon, wood, and flowers near her feet.

A young girl appeared almost immediately with broom in hand. A stout woman with dimples rushed in to help. I glanced over at Ginny. She, like the rest of us, stood watching, transfixed by the unfortunate scene. When she looked up, our eyes met. She immediately turned to the portly man beside her. I turned my back and stared down once again at the corpse. I instantly felt the overwhelming sense of anxiety again.

“Please move along.” The woman behind me nudged me with her elbow. I ignored her and stood my ground as I searched the dead man's face, hands, and body for a clue to explain my misgivings. The woman behind me, in danger of herself being replaced at the casket's side by an elderly man with a cane, not so gently bumped me with her ample, plump hip. “You've had more than your share of time.”

“I'm sorry.” I stumbled a few steps away from the casket, not so much from the woman's push but from the growing apprehension that I was missing something vital.

“What's wrong with me?” I mumbled to myself. The face of the dead man had been disfigured and then reconstructed almost beyond recognition. What was it I expected to find? And then it hit me!

I glanced in horror at the tableau before me. The white casket, the flickering candlelight, and the bouquets of brightly colored flowers struck a sharp contrast to the lifeless figure lying prostrate, the line of grieving well-wishers, and the distraught daughter receiving more friends and family all dressed in black. It was wrong, all wrong.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped.

“Miss Davish, are you all right?” Miss Clary, a slender young woman, stood before me with concern in her large blue eyes. “You look like a specter tapped you on the shoulder.”

I'd met her when I'd first arrived and had to wait to speak with Ginny. She was the secretary to the president of Mrs. Chaplin's school. I stared at her, unable to respond.

“Are you all right?” she repeated. I nodded but allowed her to guide me to a nearby chair. I sat, staring at Ginny. Did Ginny know? How could she? How could she not?

“How could who know what, Miss Davish?” Miss Clary was standing beside me. I'd no idea she was still there. I'd no idea that I had said anything out loud.

“It's not there,” I whispered, barely audible to myself let alone the young woman beside me.

“Did you say something, Miss Davish?” Miss Clary bent down to hear me. I shook my head. What could I say? I couldn't tell her the truth. But I knew whom I should tell. I rose from my chair, aware of Miss Clary's hand on my arm. “Feeling better?”

“If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Miss Hayward.”

“Of course. Poor Virginia.”

I merely nodded in response, still in shock and baffled as to how I was going to tell Ginny what I discovered. Her father wasn't the man in the casket.

Ginny had asked me the same question when I arrived earlier.

I had traveled hundreds of miles across the country to be here and had come straight from the depot. Thinking only of her, I'd immediately scanned the Haywards' parlor for Ginny. Little groups of people, dressed in black and speaking in hushed voices, had mingled about, and the room was bursting with bouquets, wreaths, and colorful, fragrant flowers. The fireplace was lit to warm the crisp morning air, but the room was dimmed by the thick, drawn curtains. I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief as I stared at the mantel. A portrait I knew to be of Mr. Frank Hayward was draped in black crape above it; the end of the fabric had been singed by the fire. I then glanced at the white coffin against the far wall, its lid raised like a flag and glowing in the reflection of a dozen candles lit nearby.

I spotted Miss Gilbert, the longtime typing instructor, a tall, thin woman with pursed lips and gray hair with a few lasting black streaks, who must now be in her late fifties. She chewed on the nails of her long fingers as she watched over the proceedings. I caught her eye and gestured to her in recognition. She nodded slightly before focusing her attention on a group of young girls, students most likely, who were whispering behind their hands as I passed by. Each stole a glance at me and then giggled.

What's that all about?
I thought.

“That is her,” I heard one whisper before they all openly stared at me.

“Girls!” Miss Gilbert hissed, appropriately chastising the girls into silence.

And then I spied Ginny and forgot about the girls. She was standing near the piano, the instrument barely visible beneath dozens of garlands of marigolds. She was flanked by a portly, middle-aged man, with a profusion of white curls and long, thick burnsides, who held her hand in both of his, on one side, and a stout woman of similar age, with wispy, fawn-colored hair, deep creases about her eyes, and dimples, pronounced despite her clouded countenance, on the other. Both were dressed in the highest fashions and wore black mourning jewelry, embellished with diamonds.

With porcelain skin, silky, perfectly coiffured yellow hair, Ginny stood out, as she always did in any crowd. It didn't matter whether it was a ball, an etiquette class, or a stroll in the park; she always drew everyone's attention. So I wasn't surprised that even at her father's funeral, dressed in a black Henrietta, embellished with black ribbon and crape, and a simple bonnet with a long crape veil, she was stunning. I pulled a stray strand of hair behind my ear, brushed my skirt for soot (a useless task as I was wearing black as well), and straightened my hat before making my way across the room.

“Hattie?” Ginny said when she saw me approach. She was fiddling with the gold heart-shaped locket her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday. I was one of only a few people who knew it contained a lock of her mother's hair.

“Oh, Ginny. I'm truly sorry.” I leaned in to give her a hug. She barely returned my embrace.

“What are you doing here?” It wasn't the response I'd anticipated.

“What do you mean? As soon as I learned what happened, I had to come. How are you doing? Is there anything I can do?”

“How did you find out?”

“Someone sent me the funeral notice from the newspaper.”
Why does that matter?

“It was nice of you, Hattie, but you really didn't need to come all this way.”

And with that she turned to the man who'd been standing beside her since the moment I walked in. He put his arm around her and whispered something in her ear. I stood still for a moment, half expecting her to turn back to me, half waiting for her to introduce me to her companions. When she didn't, I glanced behind me at the line of callers waiting to speak to Ginny and slowly stepped aside. When an elderly lady in a half-mourning hat of black and brown stepped in front of me to catch Ginny's attention, I took the moment to study my long-time friend. Her deep-set frown was understandable, but not at all the expression I expected. I'd seen my share of sorrow, especially of late, but Ginny didn't show any visible signs that I recognized: red-rimmed, puffy sad eyes, and bowed, trembling shoulders. Her countenance bore deep-seated dismay or displeasure, and not grief. She hadn't even been holding a handkerchief. The Ginny I knew would've been inconsolable, not simply put out.

At Mrs. Chaplin's School for Women, Ginny, Myra, and I had been close, the Three Musketeers, Mrs. Chaplin had called us. We'd taken every class together, attended every lecture, picnic, and concert together, and shared with each other the dreams only young girls dare to have. When my father died, I'd been so shaken, so despondent, I'd thought of leaving school. Ginny and Myra had convinced me to stay. After we graduated, we corresponded regularly. Myra had taken a post as a stenographer in the mail order department at Jordan Marsh in Boston while Ginny stayed in St. Joseph to run her father's household. Like me, Ginny's mother had died when she was young and her father had never remarried. Tragically, Myra died of influenza a little over a year ago. Ginny had been my last true friend, until I met Walter. Ginny and I had continued to write. In fact, she'd written me less than a month ago voicing concerns about the school. She hadn't confided any details and I'd been left to wonder. When I'd learned of her father's sudden death, I didn't hesitate to attend the funeral and do whatever I could to ease her pain.

Yet now, after seeing the wrong body in the coffin, I wished I had never come.