A Deceptive Homecoming Read Free Page A

wreath of intertwining cypress and weeping willow, and a bouquet of marigold, heliotrope, and forget-me-nots, was an arrangement of zinnia and mullein with sprigs of agrimony tucked in.
    How odd, I thought.
    If I’d been anywhere else but a funeral, I would’ve dismissed the message the flowers conveyed as accidental or ill-conceived. But here, I couldn’t fathom how anyone could make such a blunder. Or maybe I could, immediately recalling what I’d just done.
    How could I’ve made such a horrible mistake?
    I glanced at Ginny. Her posture and gaze hadn’t changed. With a tightening growing in my chest, I focused again on the flowers. The sprigs of agrimony must’ve been added as an afterthought, for surely the florist would’ve corrected the error. Obviously someone hadn’t realized the message they conveyed by adding the tiny yellow flowers. Agrimony means “gratitude” or “thankfulness.” What an unfortunate sentiment to make at someone’s funeral.
    With the service finally over and one last glance at the bouquet, I rose from my seat as quickly as decorum allowed. I slipped past the mirror and the paintings draped in black crape in the hall, and was one of the first out the door. The warmth of the sun on my face was cold comfort knowing that I wasn’t the only one who’d made a dreadful mistake today.

C HAPTER 3
    â€œI can’t believe I’m talking to Miss Hattie Davish,” the girl squealed. She, and several of the girls around her, giggled.
    â€œHush, girls. This is a place of mourning. You will pay more respect to the occasion, and that includes not pestering Miss Davish.”
    â€œYes, Miss Gilbert,” the girls answered in unison.
    â€œThank you, Miss Gilbert. It was very nice to meet you all, though.” I was still taken aback by the attention I’d received from the students.
    After the funeral, I’d taken a place toward the back of the procession that walked to the cemetery. After the interment of the body, many of us walked back to the Hayward house for a light meal. The moment I stepped in the door, I’d found myself surrounded by starry-eyed, giggling students from my alma mater, Mrs. Chaplin’s School for Women, who bombarded me with questions.
    â€œWhat was it like to find your employer in a trunk?”
    â€œIs it true that you saw a dead Santa Claus?”
    â€œWere you really poisoned by a traitorous copperhead?”
    â€œWasn’t it glamorous to work for Mrs. Mayhew?”
    Other than Mrs. Trevelyan’s death, which, due to her political prominence, had made several national newspapers, I’d no idea that word of my misadventures had preceded me. From their smiles and giggles, these silly girls had no idea how horrible it was to find a dead body. Their enthusiasm was ghoulish and particularly inappropriate. My friend’s father had been brutally killed and these girls wanted to know about how many times the Newport socialite changed dresses during the day. I was quite relieved when Miss Malinda Gilbert, the school’s typing instructor, stepped in.
    â€œBesides, you’d think Miss Davish was a celebrity for all the hullabaloo.”
    â€œBut she is, Miss Gilbert,” one of the students, a round-faced, chubby girl, said. “She’s worked with Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew, Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan, and countless other rich and famous people. And she’s solved murders that the police couldn’t! Geez, Miss Gilbert, Miss Davish is probably the most famous person to ever attend our school.”
    â€œFiddlesticks! Now go, all of you. Go help with refreshments.”
    â€œThank you, Miss Gilbert,” I said, watching the girls race away. I was still taking in the idea that these naïve girls thought I was someone to idolize. “Can you believe that we were that young once?”
    â€œI wouldn’t encourage them,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t want