Read Online A Deceptive Homecoming by Anna Loan-Wilsey - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna Loan-Wilsey
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drifted from gravestone to gravestone. Finally, it was late enough to give up the pretense of sleeping and get dressed.
I examined my new plant specimen before stepping out for a hike. I planned to hike along the river and then across the iron bridge, but before Iâd gone two blocks down Charles Street I had the same uneasy feeling someone was watching me again. As before, I looked about me and saw no one besides peddlers heading to Market Square with their produce.
âWho are you?â My shout was rewarded with a scowl by the driver of a passing gig. I listened to the fading clip-clop of the horseâs tread until it was taken over by the clanking of an approaching streetcar. It was no use. Whoever it was, they werenât going to reveal themselves to me.
âWhoever you are, stop following me!â
Yesterday Iâd been frightened and sad, but today I was angry. I was angry that Ginny didnât appreciate the effort I had made to get here. I was angry that I could no more go on a leisurely stroll through the city of my birth without wondering, worrying if someone was following me. I was angry that someone thought they could send me an anonymous note and expect me to comply with their wishes. I was angry that even to my friends at Mrs. Chaplinâs school, of all places, my accomplishments as a secretary had been overshadowed by my association with socialites and murderers. When Iâd set out on this journey, this wasnât the homecoming I was expecting.
âUn, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.â I counted as I turned around and stomped back to my hotel.
Iâd counted to deux cent trente-trois by the time I arrived, much calmer than minutes before. And then I heard the clerk call my name as I headed toward the dining room for breakfast.
âAnother letter for you, Miss Davish,â Mr. Putney said.
Oh, no, not another one, I thought, warily taking it from his shaking hand. I turned it over and was relieved to see a well-formed hand on the envelope and the return address of Mrs. Chaplinâs school. It wasnât from the anonymous shorthand writer after all.
âThank you, Mr. Putney.â He bobbed his head as he lifted his teacup to his lips. I continued to the dining room, and after being seated and served oatmeal with a side of pears, toast, and coffee, I sliced open the letter with my fruit knife. It was an invitation, or reminder, of the dayâs planned âLake Party,â with me as its guest of honor. A carriage would be sent to pick me up at one oâclock.
That gives me time, I thought.
After breakfast, and Mass at the Church of the Immaculate Conception a few blocks away, I walked to the Hayward family home, a small, two-story redbrick house with a bay window, a small side porch, and a mansard roof on South 12th Street. The exercise did me good. Not once did I sense someone following me. It was a welcomed relief; I was already anxious about seeing Ginny again.
But I had to talk to her. I was uncomfortable with attending a party the day after my friend buried her father. I wanted to make sure that she didnât object. I also hoped to discuss the mysterious letter. She knew more about Mrs. Chaplinâs school now than I did. Maybe sheâd be able to shed some light on who mightâve sent it and why. Despite the black crape tied with white ribbon on the door, the housekeeper, an elderly woman who had been working for the Haywards longer than Iâve known them, invited me in to see Ginny when I arrived.
âGood morning, Mrs. Curbow,â I said, as she indicated for me to follow her into the parlor. All evidence of the funeral was gone except the portrait draped in black crape and the lingering scent of flowers. Instead I noticed several books lying out on the side table. One was a shorthand dictionary.
âSo good to see you again, Miss Davish,â the housekeeper said. âIâve heard all about your
I examined my new plant specimen before stepping out for a hike. I planned to hike along the river and then across the iron bridge, but before Iâd gone two blocks down Charles Street I had the same uneasy feeling someone was watching me again. As before, I looked about me and saw no one besides peddlers heading to Market Square with their produce.
âWho are you?â My shout was rewarded with a scowl by the driver of a passing gig. I listened to the fading clip-clop of the horseâs tread until it was taken over by the clanking of an approaching streetcar. It was no use. Whoever it was, they werenât going to reveal themselves to me.
âWhoever you are, stop following me!â
Yesterday Iâd been frightened and sad, but today I was angry. I was angry that Ginny didnât appreciate the effort I had made to get here. I was angry that I could no more go on a leisurely stroll through the city of my birth without wondering, worrying if someone was following me. I was angry that someone thought they could send me an anonymous note and expect me to comply with their wishes. I was angry that even to my friends at Mrs. Chaplinâs school, of all places, my accomplishments as a secretary had been overshadowed by my association with socialites and murderers. When Iâd set out on this journey, this wasnât the homecoming I was expecting.
âUn, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.â I counted as I turned around and stomped back to my hotel.
Iâd counted to deux cent trente-trois by the time I arrived, much calmer than minutes before. And then I heard the clerk call my name as I headed toward the dining room for breakfast.
âAnother letter for you, Miss Davish,â Mr. Putney said.
Oh, no, not another one, I thought, warily taking it from his shaking hand. I turned it over and was relieved to see a well-formed hand on the envelope and the return address of Mrs. Chaplinâs school. It wasnât from the anonymous shorthand writer after all.
âThank you, Mr. Putney.â He bobbed his head as he lifted his teacup to his lips. I continued to the dining room, and after being seated and served oatmeal with a side of pears, toast, and coffee, I sliced open the letter with my fruit knife. It was an invitation, or reminder, of the dayâs planned âLake Party,â with me as its guest of honor. A carriage would be sent to pick me up at one oâclock.
That gives me time, I thought.
After breakfast, and Mass at the Church of the Immaculate Conception a few blocks away, I walked to the Hayward family home, a small, two-story redbrick house with a bay window, a small side porch, and a mansard roof on South 12th Street. The exercise did me good. Not once did I sense someone following me. It was a welcomed relief; I was already anxious about seeing Ginny again.
But I had to talk to her. I was uncomfortable with attending a party the day after my friend buried her father. I wanted to make sure that she didnât object. I also hoped to discuss the mysterious letter. She knew more about Mrs. Chaplinâs school now than I did. Maybe sheâd be able to shed some light on who mightâve sent it and why. Despite the black crape tied with white ribbon on the door, the housekeeper, an elderly woman who had been working for the Haywards longer than Iâve known them, invited me in to see Ginny when I arrived.
âGood morning, Mrs. Curbow,â I said, as she indicated for me to follow her into the parlor. All evidence of the funeral was gone except the portrait draped in black crape and the lingering scent of flowers. Instead I noticed several books lying out on the side table. One was a shorthand dictionary.
âSo good to see you again, Miss Davish,â the housekeeper said. âIâve heard all about your
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