Rose permitted herself a tired sigh and pushed an errant fluff of red hair back under her thin indoor cap. She’d spent an hour on the telephone, gathering information about the train trip to Hancock. She’d made the trip before, but never in midwinter and never with little hope of a ride to the railway station. Somehow she’d have to get to the Union Terminal in Cincinnati, and with Mother Ann’s Birthday so close, it was doubtful that one of the brethren could be spared to drive her. With the country in such a slump, railway service from Languor, the nearest town, had been cut to a minimum. If she had to take the train to Cincinnati, it could add a day to her trip. Why had she ever agreed to do this? Surely there were competent police in Massachusetts.
Rose straightened the pages of notes scattered over the Ministry library desk. She’d make sense of them later, after her evening meal. She almost preferred the muddle of times and dates in front of her to the prospect of eating in the small Ministry dining room with Elder Wilhelm Lundel. The meal was sure to be a battle. Wilhelm would forget, as he often did, that they were now equal—elder and eldress—spiritual leaders of their community. He would forbid her to go off to Hancock and especially to get involved in another murder investigation. On the other hand, this time he couldn’t threaten to have her removed as eldress, since Hancock was just down the road from Mount Lebanon, the Lead Society, in New York. The Ministry surely knew of Fannie’s cry for help.
The bell summoning Believers to the evening meal rang at the same time as the telephone. Rose hesitated only a moment. A phone conversation with almost anyone was preferable to supper with Wilhelm. Eventually she’d have to inform him of her travel plans, but she was more than willing to put off their talk for a bit longer. She picked up the receiver.
A call was coming through from the Sheriff’s Office. She should have known. By now Gennie would have told Grady about the trip to Massachusetts, no doubt expressing confidence that Rose would let her come along. Grady was a kind, honest young man, but overprotective where Gennie was concerned. He was only slowly learning that, for all her gentle sweetness, Gennie was a determined young woman.
“Rose? You aren’t seriously thinking of taking Gennie all the way to Massachusetts, are you?”
“Well, I—”
“It’s the middle of winter, for heaven’s sakes. That’s a dangerous trip. I can’t have her traipsing around the countryside being accosted by who knows what on the railway. She’s just a young girl!”
Apparently, Grady didn’t consider the trip dangerous for Rose. She decided it best not to point out that if Gennie was such a “young girl,” she had no business getting married. “I haven’t yet told Gennie she could come along, Grady. I said I’d let her know later.”
“Rose, it’s outrageous to even consider taking her. I can’t allow—”
“Gennie wants very much to come, and I am indeed seriously considering letting her. In fact, I’d enjoy having her.” Grady was beginning to irritate her.
“Yes, but from what Gennie said, this isn’t just a pleasure trip. You’re going there to look into a murder, aren’t you? I don’t personally know the local police in Pittsfield, but I’m sure they can handle the investigation. I guess I can understand why the Hancock Shakers would want you there to keep an eye on things, but I can’t see why Gennie should go. She’ll just start investigating on her own and get herself into dangerous situations. She’s done it before, but I’ve always been around to—”
“Rescue her? Grady, you can’t possibly always be around, and Gennie is an adventurous young woman. I should hope it is one of the reasons you love her.”
Grady mumbled something Rose was grateful not to be able to hear.
“Gennie is smart and resourceful,” Rose said. “She’ll be a great help to me.” Until that moment, she hadn’t realized she’d made up her mind. Well, Grady had only himself to blame; he needed to learn that Gennie could take care of herself.
Static over the telephone line covered what was no doubt a huge sigh. “You’re both unbelievably stubborn, you know that, don’t you?” Grady’s voice conveyed defeat. “When must you leave?”
“Tomorrow, if possible.”
“All right, but I won’t have Gennie sitting up all night in a coach. I’ll take care of arranging the accommodations.”
“Grady, you know full well that our Gennie is independent-minded, and she might not want you arranging everything for her.”
“Nevertheless, leave the tickets to me. Furthermore, I’ll be driving you myself to Cincinnati, to the terminal. I’ll call this evening to let you know what time I’ll be picking you up tomorrow.”
Rose opened her mouth and closed it again. Grady could be imperious, but he had just solved her worst problem, besides confronting Wilhelm—transportation to the station.
“Rose?” Grady’s normally firm voice quavered slightly. “Is Gennie . . . I mean, does she want to get away from me? Do you think she doesn’t want to marry me?”
“Just give her time, Grady. Let her have her wings, and she will probably fly back to you.” Rose was not unsympathetic—in her past, she had felt the joy and the painful uncertainty of worldly love. But she was very grateful to have chosen the path of celibacy; it was less befuddling.
“Far be it from me to interfere with thy calling,” said Elder Wilhelm, one bushy white eyebrow arched in disdain. His insistence on using archaic language only increased the effect. “Though I can’t imagine why the death of a shop girl should be of any concern to thee. It isn’t as if she’d been a Shaker or even a novitiate.”
Wilhelm had finished his evening meal during Rose’s telephone conversation with Grady, and now the elder blocked the entrance to the Ministry dining room with his stocky, broad-shouldered body. Wilhelm wore his usual loose, brown work clothes patterned after those of the nineteenth-century brethren. His thick white hair was cut just to the nape of his neck, and he was clean-shaven, as decreed by the era he so admired, a century earlier, when the Believers were strong in number and highly expressive in their faith. He held his flat-topped, wide-brimmed work hat at his chest, to demonstrate his intention to go back to work as soon as he’d finished this unimportant conversation.
Rose wished Wilhelm would move away from the dining room door. She was hungry, and she could still smell the baked ham and pumpkin bread Lydia, the Ministry’s kitchen sister, had brought from the Center Family kitchen and reheated for them.
Wilhelm regarded her with cold blue eyes. Somehow he conveyed impatience while rooted in place.
“The tragedy occurred on village property,” Rose said. “The woman who was killed worked with the Hancock sisters in their Fancy Goods Store.”
Wilhelm snorted in derision, implying it was to be expected that murder would result from such a foolish pursuit as selling fancy goods to the world.
“She was found in the Summerhouse by a farm worker hired by the village, and one of their novitiates is under suspicion. The situation could hardly be of more concern to the Hancock Believers—and therefore to me!”
Rose forced herself to stand her ground, while Wilhelm drew air into his barrel chest as if preparing to belt out a homily.
“Our brothers and sisters at Hancock need a firmer hand at the helm,” he said. “Fannie is pure of heart, I am sure, but she is still merely . . .” Wilhelm’s gaze turned heavenward.
“Merely a woman?” Rose completed his sentence in a dangerous whisper. “Like Mother Ann was merely a woman?”
Wilhelm shrugged his massive shoulders. “We both know full well what has been happening to our Society. We grow weaker as we lose strong, young brethren. At North Homage, we at least have a community that is still productive, but in the East, the Society is mostly women these days. Women leading women. What place is there for brothers anymore? Why live as a Believer if thy life is to be governed by women?” For once, Wilhelm’s wind-roughened face showed sadness, rather than anger and scorn. “Moreover,” he added, “the theology left us by Mother Ann gave men and
women equal footing; it did not place women above men.”
For a moment, Rose was silenced. For her, the fading number of brethren in the Society had meant more difficulties for everyday life, but she had not thought about how it must feel to be one of those brethren. She found herself feeling a touch of sympathy for Wilhelm, and it surprised her. Then he gave her a faint smile, an expression Rose had come to dread.
“It doesn’t surprise me that Hancock is scurrying for help; they have no elder to take control and deal effectively with the world. I suppose the best poor Fannie could think of was to send for thee.” He pushed past Rose, and she decided to let him have the last word.
“By the way,” Wilhelm said, behind her. “I sent thy portion of the evening meal back with Lydia for distribution to the poor, since thy schedule does not permit thee to appear at serving time.”
With a heavy heart and an empty stomach, Rose walked through the Ministry dining room, past her untouched white place setting, and opened the door to the small kitchen. Lydia had gone already and taken the remains of the meal with her. Wilhelm’s few dishes and utensils had been washed and left to drain dry. Rose opened the door of the small refrigerator and found it empty. In the pantry she found a small crust of brown bread, wrapped in a cloth, and an opened jar of raspberry jam. It would have to do. She carried her meager meal into the dining room and sat at her place. She was glad at least to be alone with her thoughts.
The winter sun had nearly set, and the darkening dining room windows seemed to chill the cozy room. Rose savored the chewy bread with its sweet topping, but it wasn’t enough to lighten her sense of dread. Wilhelm had been right about the serious decline of men in the few remaining Shaker villages. She thought about Hancock. She had visited briefly, and she remembered that it had dwindled to mostly sisters. According to Fannie, in the past few months, the village had been blessed with the arrival of a goodly number of novitiates, potential Believers. Several of these hopefuls were men, and one of them was now suspected of murder. Rose knew that Believers would never, ever condone killing, even if it was sanctified by war. They would never knowingly hide a killer. Still, would it not be deeply important to Hancock that these men remain free to sign the Covenant?
Rose had the full support, the fervent pleas, of the eldress of the Hancock Society. What if Rose was unable to prove the suspected novitiate innocent of the crime? What if she had to be the one to turn him over to the police? Yet Rose could not quell her most chilling fear—that if she did not lend her aid, a murderer might be free to destroy life once again.
THREE
THE LOW-HANGING SUN BRIEFLY ESCAPED THE CLOUDS AND bronzed the winter countryside as Grady O’Neal’s brown Buick followed a rutted back road that led out of North Homage and north to Cincinnati. A weary Rose sat in the backseat, throwing her arms across the luggage each time the car bounced over a hole or veered to avoid a rock. Gennie sat in the front seat, gazing with simmering excitement at the countryside as if she’d never seen it before. She was too thrilled even to chatter, for which Rose was grateful.
Grady simmered with something darker—worry, perhaps. “I made a call last night to Pittsfield,” he said, raising his voice so Rose could hear him over the noise of the motor. Rose noticed the tight cords in the back of his young neck and his quick sideways glance at Gennie.
“Why?” asked Gennie.
“You said you didn’t know anyone in Pittsfield,” Rose said at the same time. Both their voices snapped with suspicion.
“Well, I couldn’t let you two go out there and walk into who-knows-what without trying to make sure you’d be safe. I figured you’d both be angry, but that’s—well, that’s just the way I am.”
“Interfering?” Gennie asked.
Grady’s shoulders twitched and his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
Rose held her breath, waiting for an argument to begin. She hoped Grady would keep his attention on the road. Gennie and Grady were young, in love, and had grown up only miles from each other, yet they came from such different backgrounds. Orphaned at ten years old, Gennie had been raised and educated by the Shakers. She had been taught and shown that men and women were equal in God’s eyes and, therefore, she would expect Grady to treat her as a partner. Grady had grown up in the world. The only son in a wealthy, tobacco-farming family, he’d attended college, served as deputy and now as sheriff, and he was used to having influence.
When Rose saw them together, it reminded her of trying to blend cold butter into milk; no matter how much she chased and mashed those little bits of butter, they remained separate unless she heated the mixture. Grady and Gennie’s love for each other, when it prevailed, smoothed their differences. The rest of the time, they couldn’t agree on much of anything.
Rose was tempted to indulge once again in her “Sister Gennie” reverie, but Grady surprised her. After a few moments of tense silence, he flexed his shoulders and spoke in a low voice. Without a thought that his words might not be meant for her hearing, Rose leaned forward.
“Gen,” he said, “I know you think I’m bossy, and maybe I am, a bit, but it’s because I’m worried. I just want to protect you.”
“I’ll be with Rose.”
“I know, and I know you’ve both handled danger before. Maybe that’s what worries me. You encourage each other.”
“We both want the truth, Grady. It’s what Rose taught me. Agatha, too. Your people brought you up to protect folks who are weaker or poorer than you, so you became a sheriff. The Shakers taught me to be honest and to abhor the killing of one human being by another.” Gennie’s voice brightened. “So you see, we want the same thing, both of us. I worry about you, too, but I don’t ask you to stop being a sheriff because it’s dangerous, do I?”
“No, but—”
“So I deserve the same consideration from you.” Gennie gave a quick nod of satisfaction, as if she’d just deciphered an obscure coded message. She turned back to the car window. The road had smoothed as they neared Cincinnati, though signs of desperate poverty dotted the landscape. Tattered shacks clustered at the base of rolling hills, stark brown with winter. Come spring, not far off, a near-tropical lushness would blanket the hills and disguise some of the destitution.
Grady’s silence gave Rose a chance to break in with the questions she’d been burning to ask. “Who did you call in Pittsfield, Grady? The police, I assume?”
“Yeah, I got the chief’s name and just called him at home. At first he was pretty sore that you all were butting—”
Gennie’s head whipped toward him.
“Sorry, I mean that you’d be investigating, too. But I think I convinced him you could be useful. I told him a bit about how you’d helped the Languor Sheriff’s Office in the past, and especially how much understanding you can add about the Shakers and how they think.”
“So you indicated we would be his eyes and ears in Hancock?” Rose asked.
“Well, more or less.”
Rose sat back to think through the implications of the role in which Grady had placed them. It would be best not to advertise any connection with the police if she hoped to gain the trust of the folks she’d be questioning, most of whom were strangers to her.
“His name’s O’Malley, and he seemed like a reasonable guy,” Grady said with a nervous jerk of his head toward the backseat. “I don’t think he’ll deliberately make things difficult for you. He even shared some information with me.”
“What?” Rose wasn’t hopeful that she’d learn anything Eldress Fannie hadn’t told her already.
“They have a suspect,” Grady said.
“The young novitiate?”
“Yeah, Sewell Yates was his name. I’ve got some notes I’ll give you at the terminal. Seems he was pretty friendly with the victim before he decided to become a Shaker, and some folks in Pittsfield suspect they never really broke it off.”
Old information, Rose thought. “They have no real evidence, though, do they?”
“Not much.
Everybody they’ve interviewed at Hancock says the suspect was still overfriendly with the girls, despite wanting to become a Shaker and all. More than one witness saw him flirting with a couple of the hired girls, including the victim.”
“That’s hardly evidence,” Gennie said. She’d learned a lot about such things since meeting Grady. “Flirting with someone doesn’t mean you’re getting ready to kill her. Maybe this Sewell is just a Winter Shaker and only says he wants to sign the Covenant. I’m surprised the eldress hasn’t tossed him out by now.”
Grady didn’t answer as he swerved to avoid a skinny jackrabbit that leaped out of a culvert, right in front of the Buick.
“Grady,” Rose said when she’d straightened up again, “did Chief O’Malley have anything to say about the murder itself? About the place where the body was found or the girl’s clothing? Fannie said she was dressed for a summer dance.”
Grady swerved again to avoid something Rose couldn’t see, and it was several moments before he spoke. “Yeah, he did mention something about that,” he said slowly. “He’s got a theory. He thinks the strangling was done somewhere else, maybe in the suspect’s bedroom, which was in the Shaker dwelling house next door. Then O’Malley thinks the killer carried the body out to the Summerhouse and left her there like that’s where it happened.”
“But why?” Rose asked.
“Well, his idea is that the killer wanted to confuse folks about the actual time of death by chilling the body. Maybe he wanted to establish an alibi or just make it tough for anyone else to establish one.”
Could there possibly be a Shaker, or even a novitiate, so calculating as that? Rose sat back against the leather seats and pulled her long, wool cloak tightly around her.
The Cincinnati Union Terminal did not seem to awe Rose, but then she’d seen it before. Gennie, on the other hand, had been only once to Cincinnati, as a young girl, before her parents had died. It had been Christmastime, a few years before the stock market crash, and they’d gone to Cincinnati to see the glorious decorations and to shop. Gennie’s years with the Shakers had certainly been happy and safe, but she yearned for some of that long-ago excitement. Union Terminal brought it back to her.
Killing Gifts Page 2