A Deadly Shaker Spring

by Deborah Woodworth

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. Unless, of course, certain others have their way and you are driven out of the county. But that has nothing to do with the bank or with me.” He slammed shut his ledger book and settled it under his arm, being careful not to wrinkle the fine wool of his gray suit. “Anyway, we can discuss the details at a later date. Say, next week? In the meantime, we will send you our offer by messenger, and you can begin to make whatever arrangements are necessary.” He left without bidding her farewell.

  Rose massaged her forehead to ease the pounding that had steadily gained momentum inside her skull. For the first time in her life, she felt despair settle over her like a thick wool cloak drenched by the rain. She pulled the ledger book toward her again but did not open it. The contents would not have changed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “TOMORROW I’LL EXPECT THEE AT THE MINISTRY dining room for an early breakfast,” Wilhelm said. He had stopped by her office on his way to work in the fields. Someone had to plant the crops, he’d said, while the world tormented the Society. Probably hoping to shout homilies to townspeople stopping by for their refunds, Rose thought in a weak, uncharitable moment.

  “I may be up late with the books tonight, Wilhelm. Breakfast may be sacrificed to sleep.”

  “Then clearly thy strength is not equal to the tasks of being both eldress and trustee.” He raised his eyebrows at her, but she allowed the comment to pass. It was time to preserve her energy, not waste it on squabbles with Wilhelm.

  “Our financial condition is deplorable,” he continued, “and it is because of thy inability to do all the necessary tasks.”

  This time, his stab hit the mark. “Wilhelm, you cannot hold me responsible for this financial dilemma. Forces are at work that I could never have anticipated, nor controlled. Richard Worthington has tampered with the bank’s books, our own records were purposely defaced and our receipts stolen—how could I control all that?”

  “Excuses,” Wilhelm said. “I will expect thee tomorrow morning, early,” he repeated. “We have important topics to discuss. We’ll talk more then.” With a quick nod, he turned and left.

  At midnight, Rose finally set aside her financial records and stuffed her own journal, in which she had unburdened herself, in the back of a drawer. The Trustees’ Office was quiet and dark, except for the circle of light at Rose’s desk. She had never felt less like sleeping, but the demands of the coming day would be great, and her community needed her at her best. Or at least as close to her best as she could manage after the day she’d just endured. She switched off the light and climbed the stairs to her retiring room.

  The nights were growing warmer, so Rose dug in the back of her dresser drawer for her light cotton nightgown. As she prepared for bed, her weary mind continued to race, but no helpful ideas surfaced. She prayed longer than usual, despite her exhaustion. She needed more strength than she carried within herself.

  Slipping between the cool sheets, Rose allowed the peace of prayer to relax her mind. But it did not last. She drifted into sleep only to encounter vivid nightmare images that clung to her even as they jolted her awake.

  Finally she gave up and tossed off her bedclothes. Slipping a light shawl over her shoulders, she padded barefoot to her sitting area. She gathered on her desk some of the materials she had been researching—Fiona’s chatty journals and the three powerful journal excerpts Sarah had given to her. They had been pushed to the back of her cupboard, and apparently her attacker had been too rushed to see and steal them. She regretted the absence of Agatha’s carefully vague journals, but she would have to make do with what she had.

  She had used small bits of paper to mark the important pages in the journals, and she read carefully through all those sections again. Nothing new emerged, but maybe she was just too tired. She took the three journal excerpts and placed them side-by-side in the order she guessed they had been written. The first page Caleb had given to Sarah implied that an unnamed man was implicated in or knew something about Sister Faithfull’s death. The other two segments filled in earlier details, mostly with hints and innuendos.

  She read through the pages quickly, one after the other. An idea tugged at her brain, a perception that wouldn’t form into words. She reached farther back into her built-in wall cupboard and drew out the other papers she had placed there: the copies of the Languor County Watcher, the announcement of the anti-Shaker town meeting, and the article from the Cincinnati Enquirer that had caused so much devastation in the past day. She laid them on her desk, putting the journal pages aside. Gritting her teeth, she read through each one. Again it struck her that all the articles had been written by the same person, Kentuck Hill, yet the styles showed clever differences. Each appealed to a different audience. If Kentuck Hill was truly Klaus Holker, he was not only an apostate Shaker, but a skilled writer as well. She spread out the three journal segments again. The style was both angry and lyrical, the sort of journal entry a Believer with a poetic bent might pen.

  What had Fee and Agatha said about Klaus? She checked Fee’s journals again. She saw no mention of any particular interest in written expression, but hadn’t Hugo said that he remembered an apostate who had worked for the Cincinnati Enquirer after leaving North Homage? Fee wrote that Klaus stared into space more than he worked, and she guessed that he was mooning around because he was in love with Evangeline, his future wife.

  Rose walked to her east window and pulled back the light curtain. A faint glow signaled the awakening sun. She had been reading and thinking and rereading most of the night. Her eyes felt sore and gritty. She rubbed them lightly with her cool fingers. That helped little, so she splashed cold water on her face from the worn porcelain bowl in her bedroom. As she reached for her cotton towel, the fog in her mind yielded to one clear question: What if Klaus was not smitten with Evangeline, but with Faithfull? Yea, indeed, it would explain why Klaus, as well as Samuel, declined to go on sales trips once Faithfull had returned to North Homage. The fury in the journal pages would be understandable—his love had died suddenly, and he blamed his rival, Samuel.

  If Klaus wrote those passages, then he must not have killed Faithfull himself. Did Samuel? Was that the real source of Samuel’s endless guilt and inability to confess fully? But why? Had Faithfull refused him in the end? Had she turned to Klaus?

  Rose’s mind clamped shut again. It was nearing breakfast time, and she would be no help to the Society if she didn’t sleep at least a little. She wrote a quick note to Wilhelm, explaining that she felt unwell and would be glad to breakfast with him the following morning. When she slipped down the staircase, the kitchen sisters were already brewing a rose hip and red clover tea and slicing brown bread. She asked one of the younger sisters to run the note over to the Ministry and give it to the kitchen sister there, to be handed to Wilhelm at breakfast. Pleading a headache, she declined breakfast and collapsed in her own bed. Finally, she slept, and if the nightmares returned, she was too tired to heed them.

  A firm knock on Rose’s retiring-room door yanked her out of deep sleep. Josie entered her bedroom clattering two cups on a tray.

  “Ah, Rose, I hate to wake you, but the kitchen sisters said you asked not to sleep past eight, and they didn’t have the heart to rouse you, and it is nine now . . .”

  “Nine! I’ve got to get up right away. I’ve got so much to do today.” Rose struggled to a sitting position, still groggy and light-headed from lack of sleep.

  “Well, I thought you’d feel that way, though I was hoping to convince you to spend the day resting, so I brought you a rosemary muffin and some pennyroyal and chamomile tea, to soothe your head—the sisters said you had a headache—and put you back to sleep.”

  “Nay, Josie, I can’t afford to rest, not yet. I have so many questions to pursue today, and they can’t wait. So much depends on the answers. I don’t even have time to join you for tea this morning.”

  “Oh, the second cup isn’t for me,” Josie said. “I know our Rose, so I also brewed a cup of rose hip and lemon
balm, with a pinch of dandelion root, to help perk you up and give you strength.”

  “Josie, you are a jewel,” Rose said, reaching for the second steaming cup.

  Josie placed her hand on Rose’s wrist. “First you must promise me that you’ll rest when this is over.”

  Rose laughed. “Yea, Josie, I promise, but it may not be today or tomorrow or the next day.” She wriggled into her work dress and pulled on her sturdy black work shoes.

  “Just so long as I have your promise.” Josie nodded briskly, sending her chins into vibration, and handed Rose the tea and muffin.

  “How is Agatha?” Rose asked. She bit hungrily into the muffin.

  “Agitated, poor dear. She didn’t sleep at all well last night. It’s as if she knows what’s been going on here, people returning our products and all, but I’ve made sure she heard nothing of it. She is terribly worried about something, though.”

  Rose paused with the teacup halfway to her lips. “Has she said anything?”

  “Nothing coherent since you talked with her. But maybe she’s just overtired. She’s had a string of visitors since she began to improve.”

  Rose drained her cup. “Thanks, Josie. You’ve been a godsend, as always.” She raced toward her retiring-room door, leaving Josie in the bedroom.

  “Wait, Rose,” Josie called, “you be sure to eat more than just that muffin. Do you hear?”

  Rose tossed back a noncommittal “uh-huh” and flew down the stairs. She went immediately to the phone in her office and placed a call to the Languor County Sheriff’s Office, thankful that for once she would not have to talk to Sheriff Brock. Grady’s gentle drawl came on the line.

  “Rose, Gennie filled me in on the mess you folks are in. She’s mighty riled, even sent off a letter to the Enquirer herself, denying everything that fellow said about you all.”

  “Bless her,” Rose said. “Not that it will do any good. I doubt the world has hated us this much since the days of Mother Ann. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve been digging into some records here from twenty-five years or so ago, and I think I’m beginning to understand these attacks against North Homage. I need your help.”

  “You bet,” Grady said. “What can I do?”

  “What have you discovered about the list of apostates I gave you? Could one of them have been the person who attacked me?”

  “Well, I had a chat with Caleb—as best I could, anyway. He was drunk as a—anyway, it was easy to take a look at his arms. I did see some scratches above his wrists. Hard to tell, but fingernails could have made them. Good supply of booze, too, some of it good stuff. Wonder how he got it. It looked to me like he’d been drinking for quite some time. I’ve never seen him this bad before.”

  “I suspect an apostate has been supplying Caleb with money for alcohol in exchange for inflicting cruelties on us. Agatha’s journals-indicated that Caleb had a troubled history when he lived here, and at the same time she reported episodes that sounded similar to what we’ve been experiencing lately. Including a rat hung in the kitchen.”

  “A rat, eh. Like in your schoolhouse.”

  “Yea, I suspect Caleb was involved in that. What else did you find?”

  “Floyd and Ned were easy. I saw both of them at work, with their sleeves hiked up enough for me to see they weren’t scratched. You sure you got the wrists?”

  “Nay, I can’t be completely sure,” Rose said. “I blacked out soon afterward.”

  “Richard Worthington was trickier, of course,” Grady continued, “but he’s friendly to me because my father’s such a good customer.” Rose remembered that Grady’s people were well-to-do tobacco farmers who poured money back into their farm and equipment. They had never believed in putting their savings in banks, so the Depression had barely slowed them down, but they were often good for a hefty loan.

  “I caught Richard in his yard, playing catch with his son, so I joined in. I got him to play hard, but he’s always the gentleman. Just wouldn’t roll up his sleeves. I caught a glimpse of his wrists and didn’t see anything much, but that’s the best I could manage.”

  “Evangeline Frankell and Klaus Holker?”

  “No one ever heard of them.”

  “Impossible. All of them lived here at North Homage together. Are you saying that even Caleb, inebriated as he was, managed to lie about knowing them?”

  “Well, to be honest, Caleb was pretty well passed out by the time I got to asking about them. The other three looked me straight in the eye and said they’d never heard those names. I asked a bit around town, too, both about the Holkers and those other names you gave me, Kentuck and Laura Hill. A few folks had heard of Kentuck and Laura, but no one knows where they live. Of course, Languor’s just big enough that in the right part of town a couple of strangers could pass without notice for a while. Especially if they had a secret place to stay.”

  “Are there any empty houses around town?”

  “Some foreclosed ones, scattered around.”

  “And Richard Worthington’s bank is the biggest one in town. Can you manage to find out which houses his bank has foreclosed on and see if anyone is living in one of them, perhaps without the bank’s knowledge?”

  “Interesting,” Grady said. “Yeah, I could do that.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  ROSE HAD SOME POINTED QUESTIONS FOR SISTER Elsa Pike, who seemed to know too much about Faithfull and Samuel and Sarah. Elsa would be cleaning up in the Center Family kitchen by now. Rose would let her finish her tasks. Rose’s stomach gurgled with hunger, and she decided a side trip to the Trustees’ Office kitchen was in order. An interview with Elsa on little sleep and an empty stomach sounded too onerous.

  She whipped into the small trustees’ kitchen and snatched a leftover slice of brown bread from a tray on the counter, slathered it with butter, and took a generous bite. Only one sister had remained to do clean-up. Rose gathered up dishes to be washed, assuring the sister that she was feeling better but would be unavailable all day, in case someone asked. Especially someone like Wilhelm.

  As Rose headed for the front door, she heard the phone ring in her office. She hesitated. It could be another Languor citizen asking for a refund, but it could also be Grady with the information she had asked him to get about empty houses in Languor. She rushed back to her office and grabbed the phone.

  “Reckon I found it,” Grady’s voice said as he replaced the operator. “I checked at Worthington’s bank, soon as it opened and before he got there. They listed three houses in town and one farmhouse they’d foreclosed on, and no one’s bought any of them yet. The farmhouse roof is falling in, and one of the houses is fire-damaged, so I checked out the other two.”

  “Did you go inside?”

  “Yeah, briefly. The bank vice president—I went to school with him—he lent me keys, and we agreed not to mention it to Worthington. One house was completely empty, but the other one—well, no one answered the door, so I had a quick look around. The top floors were empty, except for two rooms that looked lived in, had men’s clothes in the closet of one and women’s clothes in the other. But guess what I found in the basement—a printing press.”

  “Ah, that’s it, then.” Rose’s exhaustion yielded to excitement. “No sign of the inhabitants?”

  “Nope, but I didn’t stay more than ten minutes.”

  “Grady, do you still have that key?”

  “Yes,” Grady said, sounding guarded.

  “I’d like to take a look at the house.”

  “Rose, I don’t know about that. Harry wouldn’t like it much that I went in there at all. If I let you go, too, and he finds out, he’ll give me—uh, heck.”

  Rose laughed. “The sheriff has given us both ‘heck’ before, and we survived the experience. The risk is worth it, believe me.”

  Grady sighed, and Rose could almost see him run his hand through his straight brown hair. “I can’t let you go in there alone,” he said. “We don’t know how these folks would react if they came back and foun
d you there. All right, look, can you meet me in about half an hour? The address is 42 Ginkgo Lane. Worthington isn’t due at the bank until noon; I could still get the key back without having to explain myself to him.”

  “I’ll leave right now.”

  “You stay in your car until I see if the house is still empty,” Grady said as he leaned down to talk to Rose through the open window of the Society’s Plymouth.

  He knocked twice, then used the key to enter. Rose felt her first tingle of anxiety as a couple walked toward her car, arm in arm. She resisted the urge to sink down in her seat; that would look odd. Yet she felt exposed in her woven sugar-scoop bonnet, so she slipped it off. She stared straight ahead, watching the couple out of the corner of her eye. They passed her car and the empty house with no more than a quick glance in her direction.

  Rose released the breath she’d been holding in her chest just as Grady appeared at the front door and beckoned her inside. She hopped out of the car, picked up her skirts, and trotted to the house. Grady locked the door behind her and led the way down a dark corridor to the kitchen. Rose had become so accustomed to Shaker buildings, which were cleaned and aired daily, that she could smell the dust in the stale air. Grady had a flashlight, essential in this gloomy house where sunlight could not penetrate the heavy brocade curtains.

  “The steps are rickety,” Grady said. “Watch yourself.” He descended the staircase to the basement. Rose followed him and stopped at the bottom of the steps, unable to make out anything but a large shape that filled nearly half the room. She saw a cracked stool pulled up to what looked like a typewriter, which was attached to a complicated machine as tall as a man. She took it to be a printing press. Grady lit candle after candle, until wavering shapes emerged: a ring of empty chairs, dozens more unlit candles, oil lamps, and a table covered with stacks of paper. Piles of books cluttered the floor underneath the table.

  “They’ll smell those candles and know someone has been here,” Rose warned. “If they come back while we’re here, what do we do?”