A Lack of Temperance

Book 1: Hattie Davish Mystery

by Clara McKenna

Genres: Historical Fiction; Small Town & Rural; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Introducing Hattie Davish, a traveling secretary who arrives in small Ozark town only to discover her new employer has disappeared . . .
 
On the eve of the heated presidential election of 1892, Miss Hattie Davish arrives in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, a scenic resort town where those without the scent of whiskey on their breath have the plight of temperance on their tongues. Summoned for her services as a private secretary, Hattie is looking forward to exploring the hills, indulging her penchant for botany—and getting to know the town’s handsome doctor. But it’s hard to get her job done with her employer nowhere to be found . . .
An army of unassuming women wielding hatchets have descended on the quiet Ozark village, destroying every saloon in their path—and leaving more than a few enemies in their wake. So when their beloved leader, Mother Trevelyan, is murdered, it’s easy to point fingers. Now that she’s working for a dead woman, Hattie turns to her trusty typewriter to get to the truth. And as she follows a trail of cryptic death threats, she’ll come face to face with a killer far more dangerous than the Demon Rum . . .
“A wonderful read from a welcome addition to the genre. This one shouldn’t be missed—it has it all!” —Emily Brightwell, New York Times–bestselling author
 
“[A] delightful debut . . . Cozy fans will eagerly await Hattie’s next adventure.” —Publishers Weekly
 
“This historical cozy debut showcases the author’s superb research . . . this is a warm beginning.” —Library Journal

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

It was chaos. Several whiskey barrels had been left smashed and blazing in the middle of the road. Stray dogs fought over a pile of refuse on the side of a building. Despite the late hour, I had to dodge crowds of spectators milling about on the sidewalks, all curious bystanders like me. Dozens of women with placards reading WE SERVE THE TYRANT ALCOHOL NO LONGER and ’TIS HERE WE PLEDGE ETERNAL HATE, TO ALL THAT CAN INTOXICATE marched in a loose configuration, shouting taunts. Several others actually brandished hammers and axes. Most wore sky blue sashes tied at their waist, and all were hatless. I plunged into the crowd of women. Could it be that some of the demonstrators had only a few hours ago waved and laughed at me from a tally-ho coach? They seemed frightening figures now as they began to sing in unison.

I fought my way through the marchers and settled against a pillar on the porch of a dry goods store. Several men, reeking of whiskey, leaned against the shuttered store window, the gaslight flickering on their shadowed faces. A gang of children, with their feet dangling over the side, lined up along the porch with their backs to me, as if ready to watch a circus parade. All eyes were directed at a squat, unpainted, wooden one-story building across the street, the Cavern Saloon. A small solitary female figure, as if on cue, appeared in a window, waving a hatchet above her head from inside the saloon. The barroom’s sign, a yellow geyser of foaming ale, swung above the door in counterpoint to the woman’s waving arm. My first impression of the scene had been right; the world had gone topsy-turvy.

“Home wrecker!” she screamed as she brought the hatchet down.

The windowpane exploded outward, raining glass in all directions. Instinctively I threw up my hands. The dogs scattered in opposite directions, one with two links of sausage dangling from its mouth. A bystander dropped into the dirt screaming, covering her face. A man in a top hat raced over to her aid.

What am I doing here? I wondered why I had ever left the comfort and luxury of my room. I never should’ve come down here when I heard that shout of “fire.”

A shouting contest between the marching women and several bystanders began as the figure in the window was grabbed by other larger silhouettes and lifted from view. They reappeared moments later in the doorway. It was almost comical. Three men between them carried a nymph of a woman, and still she had an arm free with which she whacked her assailants with a cane.

“Get the police,” one of the men shouted.

They made the mistake of setting her down. With a hard rap on one man’s head and another on a second man’s knee, the tiny woman freed herself and ran back into the saloon.

“Get out of here, you crazy woman!” someone shouted from within.

She reappeared moments later in the doorway, with a lighted lamp above her head.

“The righteous will prevail,” she proclaimed. “Evil will burn eternal.”

“She isn’t really going to do it, is she?” I said out loud to no one in particular. Several worried faces nodded in reply.

There was a collective hush in the instant before the woman smashed the lamp to the floor and disappeared in a plume of smoke. As men streamed into the saloon to contain the rising flames, two women, dressed entirely in sky blue, emerged from inside. They looked appalling. Brown and yellow splotches covered their dresses. One woman’s sleeve had been rent off at the shoulder; the other’s hem dragged behind her. Each carried a hatchet in one hand and an arm of the tiny window-smashing arsonist in the other, dragging her from the burning building and across the street. A third woman in blue raced from the saloon and joined them.

Is that the woman I met this afternoon? It couldn’t be.

For several minutes, my view was obscured by the temperance supporters who gathered around the women, shaking hands and patting each other on the back. Who is this woman at the center of the chaos and destruction? What kind of person goes around vandalizing saloons at night? I pressed into the crowd for a better look.

She wasn’t what I expected. Guarded on all sides by her associates in blue, she loomed large for her petite frame, wearing a black dress and black turban hat with veil netting that had ripped in two places, and she was old, very old, with white hair and skin that was wrinkled and sun-spotted. Her high-necked collar accentuated a mark on her face, either a birthmark or smoke ashes, which extended from her right ear across her entire cheek. She gasped for breath, and her knuckles were white from clenching her cane. Her stooping shoulders gave the impression that her body was frail, but we were all witnesses to that deception. She looked up and caught me gaping at her. Her face was flushed and her eyes were piercing blue, but she seemed dazed and unable to look me in the eyes for long. She wasn’t like any old woman I’d ever met before.

“It’s the police,” someone shouted.

Whistles blew as a police wagon parted the people milling about in the street. Two of the younger women immediately lifted the old woman easily to her feet. One of them grabbed my arm briefly for support. Only then did I realize, to my horror, that the brown splotches on the women’s dresses were blood.

“We’ve got to get Mother Trevelyan to safety,” one of the women in blue said to her companions.

Mother Trevelyan?

I nearly shouted after them that there must be some mistake. I watched, aghast, as three bedraggled figures in blue escorted my new employer down the street.

I should’ve suspected something was amiss earlier that afternoon when I had arrived in town. A porter, his shoulder wedged against an overloaded cart, barely missed running over my hem as I stepped from the train. Two squealing children ran past me into the crowd. Countless invalids being pushed in chairs or leaning on crutches mingled seamlessly with the more mobile travelers about me. I stood on the platform, shielding my eyes from the late-afternoon glare, and stared at my fellow passengers. What kind of place is this?

I gazed up into the shadows towering above at the sweet gum and oak-covered hillsides, at the colorful leaves still tenaciously clinging to the branches, at rocky outcrops promising a few new specimens for my collection. I was already looking forward to my first hike. But that would have to wait. Brimming with the excitement and anticipation that always came with a new engagement, I adjusted my gloves, brushed my new suit for soot, straightened my new bonnet, and stepped off the platform.

Weaving through the flurry of one-horse gigs, buggies, and buckboards loaded with crates and burlap sacks that crammed the depot yard, I made my way toward the public omnibus. As I waited in line for the bus, I pulled out my book, opening it to chapter 3: Wild flowers and where they grow. I’d read two pages on the family Compositae when a humped old woman in an old-fashioned black bonnet interrupted me.

“Are you here for the springs?”

“The springs? What springs?”

“What springs?” The old woman cackled, poking me with the walking stick she clutched between two knotted hands. “Oh, my, that’s clever, miss, this being Eureka Springs and all. Yes, very funny.” She stopped laughing when she realized I hadn’t been joking. “Oh, you really aren’t here for the springs, then, are you?”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not. Are you?”

“Oh, my, yes.”

She pointed to a man at the end of the line, leaning heavily on a crutch, and to the woman in line ahead of me, wearing a very fashionable small bonnet of blue felt with a green velvet bow tied under the chin. I fluffed the ostrich feathers on my straw hat self-consciously while staring at hers in envy.

“Most of us here are,” the old woman said. “I’ve heard the waters can cure anything.”

That explained the invalids I saw. They all thought they’d be cured by drinking water. The idea made me a bit uneasy.

“I’ve been plagued by the summer-complaint, and here it is November.” The old woman stared at my face, then down at the book in my hands. “You should try it. The waters are also known for helping folks relax.”

I closed my book. “Thank you, but like I said, I’m not here for the springs.”

“Then maybe you’re here for the temperance rally?” the old woman said.

“I’m here for the springs,” a raspy voice behind me said. We both turned toward the lady in the blue felt hat. I could now see she wore a patch over her left eye. Poor woman, I thought. And to think I was jealous of her hat.

“Oh yes, I’m blind in this eye. It’s completely crusted over.” She pointed to the patch.

Her hand trembled from the effort. “An uncle had the same condition, but worse. Both eyes were glued shut. He looked like a sea creature, as if his eyelashes were encrusted in rime and barnacles.” She shivered slightly. “But he stayed three months, used Crescent, Johnson, and Oil water, and came back a cured man.”

“Will you also be attending the ladies’ temperance convention, then?” The old woman pointed to a button on the blinded lady’s lapel. With a sky blue background, which I would later learn was the official color of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, representing purity and heaven, the button read AWTC in black capital letters. “I’m not a member, but I’ve timed my visit here in hopes of attending a few meetings and the Saturday-night rally.”

“I am a member.” Crimson rising in her cheeks, the blinded woman lowered her voice. “I’m ashamed to admit it, though, since I’d forgotten all about the temperance convention until I read about Mrs. Trevelyan in this morning’s newspaper. They can slander her all they want, but that there’s a God-fearing woman for you.”

“Amen to that,” the old woman exclaimed. “Someone on the train read me that article in the Cassville paper. That’s the third saloon smashed in a month. I hope I catch a glimpse of her at the rally. You don’t think the police will prevent her from attending, do you?”

Slander? Police? And I thought working for Captain Amsterdam was a challenge.

“You’re not suggesting that Mrs. Trevelyan . . . ?” I said.

“Don’t worry; the righteous . . . will . . . prevail.”

The blinded lady faltered in her reply as her attention was drawn to a black man in a rumpled floppy felt hat who stomped in our direction. He deftly avoided the infirm as he navigated the crowd.

“You Hattie Davish?” he demanded.

“Yes, I’m Miss Davish.”

“I’ve a wagon waiting.”

“Thank you, but I’ll ride the bus.” As I turned toward the approaching omnibus, the man stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice.

“No, I’m to take you to the Arcadia,” the man said as he grabbed my suitcases and hatboxes.

“Not this,” I exclaimed, clasping the handle as he attempted to yank my typewriter case away from me. People in line turned to see what the commotion was.

“Are you all right, miss?” the old woman asked.

“Mrs. Trevelyan arranged it,” the man said. “Now, if you don’t mind?” He motioned for me to follow him.

I nodded tentatively to the old woman. After a quick glance over my shoulder at the people boarding the omnibus, wishing I were among them, I followed the man to a four-passenger depot wagon, parked behind a tally-ho coach. Hitched to four horses, the tally-ho carried at least a dozen animated women. The driver flung my luggage onto the top of the wagon. He stood by as I clambered into the vacant passenger compartment, then climbed into the driver’s seat in front of me, all the while scowling at the boisterous women in the overloaded tally-ho.

“Every year there’s more of you anti-liquor ladies.” He turned his head and spat. “Like a horde of deer flies, never leaving an honest fellow alone. Why do y’all have to come here, stirring up trouble, anyway?”

“You’re mistaken,” I said. “I’m not an ‘anti-liquor lady.’ ”

“Yeah, well . . .” The driver spat again, and then sat quietly for a moment, a crease forming on his brow. “But, ah, if I’m picking you up for that Mrs. Trevelyan, I thought . . .”

“Mrs. Trevelyan is my new employer,” I said, tapping on the case in my lap. “I’ve never even met her.”

The wagon lurched forward and we started toward town. Unlike cities that have convenient downtown locations, the train depot in Eureka Springs was situated at the far northeast corner of town, the closest parcel of flat ground the Eureka Springs Railway Company could find. Several minutes of silence had passed when the driver, pointing with his thumb behind him, said, “Ah, sorry about that there, ma’am.”

His reaction to Mrs. Trevelyan and the other temperance ladies had added to my rising anxiety, so I was grateful to clear the air. I leaned forward and extended my hand. “Apology accepted, Mr....?”

He switched the reins to return my handshake. “It’s Thomas.”

The wagon passed a cluster of people gathered near a curving rock wall. I craned my neck to look back. “Was that one of the springs, Thomas?”

He nodded but was distracted. I was still leaning out the window when the driver started shaking his head. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, ma’am. I mean, it’s too bad you had to come all this way to learn the truth.”

“What truth, Thomas? I don’t understand.” I pulled back from the window.

“Working folks can’t expect a lot from the likes of them. Someone might’ve had the common decency to warn you.” Warn me? About what? “They could’ve wired you so you didn’t have to waste your time.”

“But I did receive a telegram from Mrs. Trevelyan, two days ago. See? Here it is.” I pulled it from my handbag and read its contents for the third time.

“So here I am, at the exact time and place that she requested.” Thomas brought the depot wagon to a sudden halt. As I was thrown forward, I grabbed my typewriter case so it didn’t fly off my lap.

“But don’t you see, ma’am,” he said, twisting back to face me. “The lady might not even be here anymore. And she sure ain’t gonna need a secretary where she’s going.”

Thomas’s comment brought back the conversation I was having at the depot before he arrived. I wished I’d had a chance to question the women in line about Mrs. Trevelyan. They seemed to know more than I did.

“Then why did she hire me and tell me to meet her here?” I asked.

Thomas spat over the side of the wagon, barely missing the flanks of the tally-ho’s lead horse as it pulled abreast of our wagon. The tally-ho’s driver scowled at Thomas, but the temperance women, oblivious to the incident, continued to sing and laugh and joke. Several women waved as the tally-ho took the hill before us. I waved back, some of my initial exhilaration returning.

“That’s my point, ma’am,” Thomas said. “You shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

The Arcadia Hotel wasn’t at all what I’d expected. After traveling on the train for hours through empty countryside, the grand scale of the hotel took me by surprise. Nestled on the top of a mountain, overlooking “the Springs,” even from a great distance, it dominated the skyline of the town. I caught glimpses of it through the trees as we drove up the wide carriage road that wound toward the top of the mountain. It was a five-story limestone building with a gray slate roof, a lookout tower, and too many chimneys to count. Verandas surrounded the second and third floors. From what I could tell, the hotel afforded a spectacular view of the village and valley below.

“At least you get to stay at the Arcadia.”

Thomas, who wouldn’t say another word about Mrs. Trevelyan, didn’t have the same reservation about describing the hotel he worked for. According to him, the dining room served the finest food, the baths were unsurpassed, the service was renowned. They included a daily supply of bottled water, from any spring in town, on demand.

“. . . and there’s no less than three different springs being pumped into the bathing rooms. Of course there’s steam heat in every room. Even the servants’ quarters have electric lighting and indoor plumbing; the whole works,” he said. “There are dozens of hotels and boarding houses in town, ma’am, but the Arcadia is the best. And it’s not just me saying so. I’ve heard it’s as good as any of those fancy hotels out East.”

As we crested the hill, the forest opened up to reveal the hotel, resplendent in its row of flags across the front, immense gold-leaf painted clock, and meticulously manicured parkland, complete with stables, lawns, and gardens, radiating out in all directions. It was breathtaking.

And I’m to be staying here?

I caught a glimpse of an arbor-covered staircase going down the hill. A large fountain with marble statues dominated the center of a circular drive and sparkled in the last rays of the setting sun. Two hatless women sat on a wall encircling the fountain, laughing and dipping drinking cups into its basin.

Thomas helped me out of the wagon. I stepped down onto a red carpet that led up a long flight of stairs, passing over a wide front portico filled with rocking chairs, and ended at tall double entrance doors. The front portico was empty except for a white-haired man smoking a pipe.

“Is there a servants’ entrance, Thomas?” I asked.

“Not for you, ma’am. You’re a guest here now.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That wouldn’t be proper.”

A bellboy hovered around the entrance. He had flaming red hair that clashed with his uniform and brimless cap. He scurried over to collect my luggage as Thomas retrieved my typewriter case.

“Just so you know, Owen,” the driver said, gesturing with his thumb toward the approaching tally-ho laden with women I’d seen at the depot, “she ain’t one of them.” Then he tipped his hat. “Enjoy your stay, ma’am.” He was shaking his head as he mounted the wagon and drove away.

“Right this way,” Owen said. His free arm directed me toward the front doors. I walked up the stairs, amazed at the sudden turn in events. Two days ago, I was in Kansas City at Mrs. Larson’s Boarding House for Single Women, wondering what to do on my first day off in years. Today, I was at the Arcadia Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, the most luxurious hotel west of the Mississippi River.

Standing here, it was difficult to believe what they had said at the train station about my new employer. The woman as described wouldn’t be welcome at such a highly respectable hotel. Besides, Sir Arthur wouldn’t recommend me to someone of questionable character. Granted, I haven’t enjoyed every assignment that he has generously provided for me, but such is the working life. I’m grateful for his patronage, and I know how fortunate I am. I have always been able to rely on his sound judgment. Otherwise I might never have accepted this assignment, sight unseen, no matter how marvelous the accommodations.

“After you, ma’am.”

I hadn’t realized I’d been blocking the entrance. The corner of my suitcase pressed into my back as the bellboy, a few steps behind me, guided me through the open doors into the opulent hotel lobby. The chandelier’s crystal prisms in the high ceiling above were catching the setting sun, casting sparkling light across the expansive wooden inlay floors. The inside of the hotel was as impressive as the outside. I felt out of place and hastily tried in vain to contain the wisps of chestnut hair that hung loosely about my face.

A massive fireplace dominated the rotunda. Made of limestone brick, the hearth was six feet wide and loomed large enough for a person to stand in. Thick Persian rugs were laid out throughout the lobby. A cluster of plush-looking couches, armchairs, and rocking chairs spanned out in a wide semicircle. Several men, all reading the evening newspaper, sat with their feet propped up, availing themselves of the small fire burning in the hearth.

“May I?” I asked one of the gentlemen, pointing to a copy of the Cassville Democrat next to him on the table.

“Be my guest, young lady.”

Scanning the headlines and shifting through Cassville’s society pages, I could find no mention of a temperance rally. Instead, news and commentary on the upcoming elections filled the pages. Nor did I find anything more enlightening than a mention of Mrs. Trevelyan in a snippet about broken windows at a local barroom. The owner had insinuated “that temperance woman” was “not all she claimed to be.” This must be the “saloon smashing” the old woman at the depot had alluded to. Had I been needlessly anxious after all?

Beyond the fireplace, a series of French doors opened onto a smaller version of the front portico. Several women, with sashes of sky blue tied at their waist, emerged from the parlor on the right, singing.

The men around the fireplace looked up and frowned as one when the women approached. Without a sideways glance at the stares directed their way, the women passed me and continued singing right out the front door.

The chime of an elevator bell to my right drew my attention away from the temperance women. . .