By Anna Loan-Wilsey
From Anna Loan-Wilsey comes the 1st installment of a brand new ancient secret sequence that includes Hattie Davish, a touring secretary who arrives in a small Ozark city basically to find her new organisation has disappeared. . .
On the eve of the heated presidential election of 1892, omit Hattie Davish arrives in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, a scenic lodge city the place these with out the odor of whiskey on their breath have the plight of temperance on their tongues. Summoned for her prone as a personal secretary, Hattie is asking ahead to exploring the hills, indulging her penchant for botany—and gaining knowledge of the town's good-looking health professional. yet it's challenging to get her activity performed together with her corporation nowhere to be came across. . .
An military of unassuming ladies wielding hatchets have descended at the quiet Ozark village, destroying each saloon of their path--and leaving quite a lot of enemies of their wake. So whilst their liked chief, mom Trevelyan, is murdered, it's effortless to indicate hands. Now that she's operating for a useless girl, Hattie turns to her trusty typewriter to get to the reality. And as she follows a path of cryptic loss of life threats, she'll come nose to nose with a killer way more risky than the Demon Rum. . .
"A brilliant learn from a great addition to the style. This one shouldn't be missed--it has it all!" --Emily Brightwell
Read or Download A Lack of Temperance (Hattie Davish Mystery, Book 1) PDF
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Additional resources for A Lack of Temperance (Hattie Davish Mystery, Book 1)
And then another, and another. And then a whole tangle of them came into view as I studied the payload more closely, and realized that each was a carefully wired charge— “It’s-a-bomb-sir,” I said. I couldn’t be sure—the soldiers were in the way now, milling about, but—it had to be. ” the colonel asked, as if I’d reported sighting a seagull. “A bomb, a bomb, a bomb,” I said, the words tumbling out so rapidly, it felt as though they were causing me to fall forward—and then I was—falling, running down the hillside toward the balloon.
Its payload scraped into a fold in the hill a few hundred yards off, and for a moment, the balloon floated there, stuck. “Stand down,” said the colonel. I looked down the hill and saw that some curious soldiers were already climbing toward it. The colonel summoned a pair of binoculars and studied the balloon for a while, until a gust of wind came. The balloon popped free, dragged itself and its cargo a few yards up the hill, and then gave up once more. The colonel handed me the glasses, which I thought generous until I realized he simply didn’t want to hold them anymore.
At communion, he filled the chalice with wine, almost to the brim, and drank down half of it. Then he saw me out of the corner of his eye, and held the chalice out to me. I took a sip and handed it back. He looked inside and handed it back to me. I took another sip. He grabbed it back out of my hands and drank down the rest. When Mass was finished, he told me to stay, and then rolled the altar cart back inside. He reemerged without the stole, carrying a package of cigarettes. He shook one out, looked at it a moment, and then lit it.