Death on the Homefront Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Emily Cabot Mysteries

  Also by Frances McNamara

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also published by Allium Press

  Praise for the Emily Cabot Mysteries

  “[Death at Pullman] convincingly recreates a pivotal moment in American labor history…Besides plausibly depicting such historical figures as Eugene Debs and Nellie Bly, McNamara throws in some surprising twists at the end. Laurie King and Rhys Bowen fans will be delighted.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “McNamara…proves, if anyone was asking, that librarians make great historical mystery writers…[In Death at Woods Hole] so accurately portrayed is that small-town-in-summer feeling, when towns are overtaken by visitors, who coexist uneasily with locals…I’d follow Emily to any location.”

  Historical Novels Review

  “A well-crafted plot with fascinating period detail...

  a cracking good mystery.”

  Publishers Weekly

  In [Death at Pullman] a “little romance [and] a lot of labor history are artfully combined…Creating a believable mix of historical and fictional characters…is another of the author’s prime strengths as a writer…[she] clearly knows, and loves, her setting.”

  Julie Eakin, Foreword Reviews

  “The combination of labor unrest, rivalries among local families, and past romantic intrigues is a combustible mix, an edgy scenario that is laid out convincingly…A suspenseful recreation of a critical moment in American social history, as seen from the viewpoint of a strong-willed, engaging fictional heroine.”

  Reading the Past

  Also by Frances McNamara

  *

  The Emily Cabot Mysteries

  Death at the Fair

  Death at Hull House

  Death at Pullman

  Death at Woods Hole

  Death at Chinatown

  Death at the Paris Exposition

  Death at the Selig Studios

  DEATH

  on the

  HOMEFRONT

  *

  Frances McNamara

  ALLIUM PRESS OF CHICAGO

  Allium Press of Chicago

  Forest Park, IL

  www.alliumpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events, organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not intended to be real.

  © 2020 by Frances McNamara

  All rights reserved

  Book and cover design by E. C. Victorson

  Front cover image: Adapted from Wake up America!

  poster by James Montgomery Flagg, 1917.

  Courtesy of the Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McNamara, Frances, author.

  Title: Death on the homefront / Frances McNamara.

  Description: Forest Park, IL : Allium Press of Chicago, [2020] | Series: Emily Cabot mysteries ; 8

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020040087 (print) | LCCN 2020040088 (ebook) | ISBN 9780999698273 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780999698280 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.C58583 D437 2020 (print) |

  LCC PS3613.C58583 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040087

  LC ebook record available at

  https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040088

  To Stuart Miller, co-worker and longtime beta reader

  ONE

  March 1917

  I just don’t understand how she could be so rude to Mrs. Spofford,” my daughter Lizzie hissed into my left ear. It was hard to believe my little girl would turn twenty-one in April. She was a beauty, no thanks to my side of the family. My husband’s mother had died when he was very young, but she was supposed to have been very attractive. I could believe it when I looked at my daughter. Her light brown curly hair fell softly around her square face, and the light in her amber eyes was like the sparkle of sequins on her pert little hat.

  “I’m sure there’s a reason Hazel couldn’t come,” I whispered back.

  “A meeting of the Woman’s Peace Party?” Lizzie sniped. She sat back in her chair.

  I sighed. Lizzie blamed me for getting her best friend, Hazel Littleton, involved in the pacifist group that had been founded by my friend Jane Addams. But Hazel was already deeply involved with the organization by the time I joined. She’d even traveled to an international peace conference in Europe in 1915. Besides, Lizzie knew full well that if there had been a peace party meeting, I would be there, instead of at the luncheon to raise funds for Belgian relief services we were attending.

  “There’s a whole table of WPP women over there.” I pointed. “I sold them tickets because you asked me to.” She had nagged me about it, telling me that protesting the war was a feeble effort compared to raising funds to feed the Belgians.

  We sat at one of the round tables in the ballroom of the Blackstone Hotel on Michigan Avenue. The event was sponsored by Lizzie and Hazel’s future mother-in-law Regina Spofford. She had seated Lizzie on her right hand. On her left, the chair for Hazel was empty. It was a grand room. Tall windows were darkened by the charcoal smudges of clouds in the dismal sky. Light from electric chandeliers reflected off crystal and mirrors around the room. A dozen tables laid with white linen, and centerpieces of yellow and white roses, warded off the gloom of the March weather outdoors. Most of the stylish ladies who sat in the velvet padded chairs were from more wealth than my modest household could claim, but I’d felt obliged to buy a ticket. Lizzie told me that Regina Spofford was worried she’d disappoint her husband. In any case, I had no problem supporting the Belgian relief effort even if I thought Mr. Spofford was much too gung-ho about getting America into the war that raged in Europe.

  Regina was a quiet woman who seemed to be dominated by her gregarious husband. When I first met her, I pictured her as an elegant but limpid vine draped around her husband. I thought she was lucky to have Lizzie as a future daughter-in-law since my girl was determined to prop her up. When Lizzie realized Mr. Spofford had assigned the task of organizing the event to his wife, she had taken up the cause of the older woman’s lu
ncheon enthusiastically. Apparently, the man would be harsh in his disappointment if the event were less than a huge success. My daughter was determined to make it a smashing hit that would save her fiancé’s mother from disgrace.

  Lizzie straightened up and announced, “I believe the donations have already exceeded your goals, Mrs. Spofford. We’re going to fund an enormous amount of relief.” She’d made it clear to me that she believed the significant money the Spoffords could raise to help the Belgians was far more important than the piddling efforts of the peace groups that were trying to stop the war.

  With a timid smile at Lizzie’s praise, Regina Spofford rose to introduce the speaker. As she approached the white podium she coughed nervously and fingered a string of pearls. Tall, with soft graying curls, she wore a walking suit of shiny gray silk. Her voice was too soft for the room, but the women quieted as they strained to hear her.

  A rustle behind me caught my attention and I saw a busboy hand Lizzie a folded slip of paper. While Regina introduced the English woman who was to be the first speaker, Lizzie grabbed my forearm and showed me the note.

  Dearest Lizzie,

  I’m sorry to interrupt but I must speak to you very urgently. I am behind the door in the stairway at the back corner of the room.

  Hazel

  I glanced in that direction. Waiters were still clearing away plates from the luncheon and pouring tea and coffee. The audience clapped politely as an elegant woman in black shook hands with Regina at the podium.

  Lizzie’s eyes were narrowed, and she pouted.

  “Aren’t you going to go to her?” I whispered in her ear.

  She shrugged and brought up a hand to cover her mouth as she whispered back, “I’m so angry with Hazel for not being here for the luncheon, she’ll just have to wait. The speeches have started, and I can’t leave till they’re all done.” She sat back, turning away to hear the speaker.

  I started to speak, then closed my mouth firmly. I was at a point with my daughter where too often our relations grated. I was terribly proud of her, but I couldn’t help being anxious about some of her choices. I had to be careful what I said because she always took any comment from me as criticism and that only made her do something contrary. I thought she should go and hear what Hazel had to say, but I sat back and listened to the speaker, hoping she’d come to that conclusion herself.

  The aristocratic speaker described the woes of poor Belgium. It had been invaded by Germany at the beginning of the European conflict and, for several years after, had been subject to the Germans. I was glad the speaker refrained from repeating some of the most outrageous charges of German atrocities against the civilian population. Stories of chopped off limbs and bayoneted babies had been repeated many times in the press before they were disproved. The truth was grim enough. The country lost soldiers and civilians when they were overrun, and then Germany felt no obligation to feed the people they had conquered.

  When the speaker mentioned the recent deportation of Belgians to Germany to work as forced labor, the audience stirred with indignation. I was aware of some of the background to these issues. The current controversy was threatening relief efforts. Money collected from many donors had been used to feed the Belgian people via some very clever diplomacy on the part of a Mr. Herbert Hoover who chaired the international relief committee. Unfortunately, the need to protest the forced deportations and other recent events was leading us toward a complete break with Germany. It was American neutrality that had allowed the supplies to get through. When that ended, the people of Belgium would starve. I wondered how many of the women in the room understood how tenuous the supply line was. Without it, the relief their money bought would never reach the suffering Belgians.

  In the wave of murmurs responding to the speaker’s description of the situation in Belgium, I heard a sudden yell of “No!” from the back of the room. Looking that way, I saw the women at the farthest table turn from side to side, then shrug. The speaker quickly drew attention back to her plea for donations. Her talk was followed by presentations of checks from several groups before the meeting ended with applause.

  “Lizzie, aren’t you going to see Hazel now? You’ve made her wait long enough.”

  “Oh, Mother.” Lizzie threw down her napkin and rose to work her way across the room. I watched her glide through a gold velvet curtain that hung over a doorway in the back. I had turned to Regina Spofford to congratulate her when I heard screaming.

  “Help, help!” It was Lizzie’s voice.

  I ran over, pushing my way through a knot of women gathered uncertainly in the doorway. The curtain and door were both pushed open to a stairway landing. Lizzie crouched, her arm around Hazel’s shoulders, trying to sit her up. There was a wound on Hazel’s temple and her golden hair was matted with blood. It looked like she had fallen back against the stairs. Her head dropped back on Lizzie’s arm. Blue eyes stared blindly at the ceiling and dark blood was dripping down the side of her head onto her clothing and Lizzie’s dress. I saw red bruises around her mouth and nose. “Hazel,” Lizzie said. “Hazel, please, come back.” She rocked her friend gently.

  A woman in a dark suit pushed her way through the hovering matrons. “Excuse me. I’m a doctor, please let me through.”

  Tears blurred my eyes as I watched the doctor feel for a pulse at the girl’s neck and wrist. She shook her head. “She’s gone.”

  “No!” Lizzie cried.

  The shadow of a tall man fell on us as I huddled over Lizzie and Hazel. “Oh, how awful. The young lady must have fainted and hit her head.” It was the head waiter. He tut-tutted, uncertain what to do. “Terrible accident, terrible.”

  I was uneasy with the assumption that Hazel had fainted. The wound was on the front side of her head, not the back. Someone had hit her.

  The doctor stood and faced the man before I could say anything. “No. She didn’t faint. I believe she was struck.” She pointed to the dead girl’s head.

  “No!” He was outraged.

  “Who could have done such a thing?” someone asked. Suddenly there was a spurt of chatter with an underlying tone of rising hysteria.

  I stood up. “You’ll need to call the police,” I said. “Immediately. And everyone should go back into the ballroom and wait for them. Please.”

  The head waiter turned on his heel and marched away, shooing women before him. Most of them retreated willingly, leaving Regina Spofford standing helplessly alone. Her face was as white as the table linens. I patted the doctor on the shoulder and pointed. She quickly took Regina’s arm and led her to a chair.

  Turning back, I stood over a weeping Lizzie. She clutched Hazel to her breast. “Hazel, oh Hazel, please,” she cried.

  I couldn’t take in what had happened. Someone struck down Hazel and now she was gone. Looking down, I saw only a body now, not the girl I’d known, so warm with health and beauty. Closing my eyes, I forced myself to remember her alive to fend off this awful vision. The last time I’d seen her, she was in my husband’s study with Lizzie, both with their legs tucked up under them on the sofa, earnestly sharing gossip in whispers. She wore a braid pinned to her head that day, her face flushed from the warmth of the fire. She was brimming with emotion, so alive, and that had been only a few days earlier.

  I opened my eyes, turning away. How awful for her parents. Who would tell them their only child was gone…and in such a manner? I doubted her mother, Henrietta Littleton, had attended the luncheon. Like my husband and me, the Littletons were academics. I felt a sharp pain at the thought that their world was about to end.

  But who would attack Hazel? Her hat had fallen to the floor beside her and she still wore her coat and gloves. A purse hung from her belt, and I could see that she wore a matching necklace and bracelet. If she’d been attacked by a robber, he must have run away without taking anything. It made no sense that someone would haunt the stairways of the hotel in search of
a victim. But why else would anyone hurt Hazel? What had she needed to tell Lizzie? Had someone killed her to stop her from speaking? I stared down at my daughter’s heaving shoulders. Was Lizzie in danger? If she’d answered Hazel’s note immediately, would she have been lying there, too?

  TWO

  Soon uniformed policemen were tromping around the ballroom. They told the women to return to their seats. The doctor, whose name I still didn’t know, came to us with a man she introduced as the coroner. He was a smallish, middle-aged man with sparse hair combed over a balding head and wire-rimmed spectacles. He asked us to return to our table.

  I hated to leave poor Hazel with a stranger, but I convinced my daughter there was nothing for us to do but help Regina Spofford. Lizzie stood up, sniffling, and looked down on her childhood friend for one last time, then bit her lip as she let me lead her back to our table. When she saw how blank faced Regina was, she stopped and drew herself up. I knew she would pull herself together to help her future mother-in-law, but first she turned to me. “Mother. We have to find out who did this. You’ll get Detective Whitbread to help, won’t you?”

  I was surprised. It shocked me that Lizzie assumed I could call on Whitbread for help. It had been eight long years since I’d last worked with him. Of course, she’d been busy growing up all those years and paid no attention to my problems. She remembered the times when she was young and I worked closely with the police detective. I felt a sudden rush of desire to see the crusty, lanky old detective. She was right, Whitbread was the only one I could be sure would find the guilty man. Incorruptible as a force of nature, we both knew he could be trusted in a world gone so awry. “I’ll certainly ask him,” I assured her.

  Lizzie went to Regina and knelt beside her, rubbing the woman’s cold hands in her own. A waiter approached with a decanter of brandy and glasses. I poured a small amount and handed it to Lizzie to give to the woman. Others at the table eagerly took their portions. Feeling a little weak kneed, I poured myself a small glass and felt the liquor burn down my throat.

  A stocky man in a shiny blue suit with a vivid pinstripe stepped to the podium. Wavy brown hair, stiff with hair cream, framed his round face and a brush mustache sprouted under his nose. I didn’t recognize him. “Ladies, please. I’m Chief Michael Kelly and I’m in charge here. I’m sorry to have to tell you that a young lady has died.” There was a murmur, but he waved his hands to quiet them down. “Now, you can be a big help by following my directions. I’d like all of you on this side of the room, in fact all of you except these two tables—” He pointed to the table in the back corner and our table. “—to gather your things and line up. My detectives will take your names and information, then you may go home. We’ll contact you if we need anything further from you. For those of you at the two tables I mentioned, I’d appreciate it if you’d be patient. We’ll want to speak with you separately. We’ll do it as quickly as we can. Thank you all for your cooperation.” He walked away to the doorway where other men in suits and uniforms had gathered. A few officers began wrangling the majority of the women into a line that stopped at a table with two detectives writing in notebooks near the door to the lobby. I noticed Regina Spofford had recovered enough to beckon to one of the busboys.