“Why her?” Brock demanded.
Gennie looked flustered.
“We both noticed her,” Rose said. “She looked troubled.” Charity was no more than twenty-three and very pretty, in a wispy way. With the whites showing all around the green iris, her eyes seemed forever startled, but Thursday evening she had seemed especially edgy.
“All right, so what’d you see?” Brock snapped.
“Charity and Johann . . . they looked at each other,” Gennie said.
“They looked at each other,” Brock repeated.
Gennie nodded. “Johann was standing with the other guests, and Charity looked right over at him.”
Rose, too, had seen the special look, though Gennie had been closer. She remembered Johann leaning against the doorjamb, his shiny blond curls curving out from under his woolen cap. He had smiled crookedly in Charity’s direction and bowed his head slightly.
Brock was silent for a few moments. Grady O’Neal sat with his pencil poised.
“And?” Brock asked finally, an impatient edge to his voice.
Gennie looked up at him in surprise. “Well, that’s all I saw. You asked what I saw. They gave each other a special look, and Charity blushed.”
The sheriff snorted and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Kid,” he said, “I don’t care how special it was, if looks could kill, we’d have a prison on every block. A look don’t mean nothing in the eyes of the law.” He sprang up from his chair and paced.
“Now, you sayin’ those two was having a fling or something? You got hard evidence, like maybe you seen them fooling around behind the barn?”
“Sheriff!” Rose bolted up, ramrod-straight. At five-foot-eight, she could look Brock directly in the eye. “You know perfectly well that if any of us had found that Charity and Johann had fallen prey to the flesh, they would have been sent away instantly.”
Brock stopped pacing and faced Rose, a grin slowly forming. “Yeah, I know that. Just wanted to see what the girl would say.” He turned to Gennie. “Well, girl? Seen anything like that?”
“Nay,” Gennie said forcefully, “I saw no such thing.”
Brock shook his head and leaned toward Grady, but his words were swallowed by loud bursts of noise, piercing the normally quiet village air every few seconds. Grady bolted up so quickly that his chair clattered backwards. Both men rushed through the door and toward the road, kicking up billows of dust. Rose and Gennie followed quickly.
A small crowd had gathered at the foot of the steps leading to the Trustees’ Office entrance. Elder Wilhelm, planted on the top step with his arms outstretched, shouted to the air above the townspeople. His stern features hardened with the fierce concentration Rose had seen during his worship service homilies. Sister Elsa’s plump figure stood two steps below him.
“Come and join us,” Wilhelm shouted. “Live a pure life. Give up the sins of thy wretched flesh, which make thee no better than the beasts in thy barns . . .”
Sister Elsa nodded over and over, her eyes closed and her face toward the sky in trancelike agreement.
Renewed blasts blotted out the rest of Wilhelm’s exhortation. Now Rose identified the source of the racket. The sheriff’s office’s two Buicks were parked by the Trustees’ Office, next to the Believers’ shiny, 1936 Plymouth. In Languor County, no one locked doors of any kind, except maybe to the liquor cabinet, if one were lucky enough to have such an item. So the three sets of car doors swung wide open, and all the cars were stuffed with as many men as would fit inside. Those in the front seats jabbed incessantly at the horns.
“What the hell!” the sheriff shouted as he and Grady bolted toward their own cars. They grabbed arms and legs and dragged squirming bodies through the open doors. They pulled out at least ten laughing young men before turning their attention to the crowd, which shouted and clambered up the steps toward Wilhelm and Elsa. Rose noted that the sheriff did not bother to rescue the Society’s Plymouth.
The townspeople were only a few steps from Elsa and the elder and showed no signs of stopping. Their taunts grew louder and angrier. Wilhelm stood firm, one arm raised to the heavens as if calling down the thunder. Elsa had begun to fidget, her eyes darting between the approaching crowd and her leader. She eased backward up a step to be closer to him.
Grady raced up the steps two at a time, followed more leisurely by Sheriff Brock. Grady elbowed his way through the crowd. A muscular young man in the streaked dungarees of a farmhand knocked Wilhelm’s flat-crowned straw hat off his head just as Grady reached the front of the crowd. Grady clamped his hand over the young man’s wrist.
“No, Tom. Don’t do anything we’ll both regret.”
“Grady, you heard him same as me. He was blaspheming!” Tom tried to wrench free of Grady’s grasp.
“Now, you two, that’s enough,” Brock said as he rounded the edge of the group. “Tom, cool down now. Maybe he’s blaspheming, but . . .” Brock half smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “The law says he has a right to. You and me, we may not like it. But you hit him, and I gotta arrest you, and I’d hate to do that, Tom.”
Tom glanced uncertainly at Brock and back at Grady, then dropped his arm.
“All right, ya’ll head home now,” Brock said to the silenced townspeople. “You let us take care of things here. I promise you, we’ll do just that.”
Rose was grateful to see the crowd disperse, though the sheriff’s parting words gave her more than a twinge of uneasiness. Her previous dealings with the world had been conducted with mutual respect, even when she’d driven a hard bargain to purchase land. It worried her that such hostility had simmered so near the surface.
She sought out Josie, an older sister and also the Infirmary nurse, watching from a safe distance. Josie was no supporter of Wilhelm and made her opinions known, with the courage of the elderly, as often as she wished.
“What can Wilhelm possibly have been thinking?” Rose asked.
“What a moment to begin converting new Believers to the faith,” Josie said with a quick, mirthless laugh. She shook her head, jiggling several chins in the process. “I’m glad I’m too old to be picked for Wilhelm’s revival mission. I fear this is the reception they will find.”
FOUR
ROSE COULDN’T FACE AN AFTERNOON OF FINANCIAL accounts, not after the morning she’d just endured. She needed outdoor work. She assigned herself to pulling onions, since they were short of hands to complete the harvesting. Everyone, including the ministry, was expected to participate in the endless physical tasks necessary to keep a Shaker community fed and clothed. The founders had hoped that work would humble leaders who might think themselves better than the ordinary Believer. The idea appealed to Rose, but she doubted whether it really worked, remembering Wilhelm’s arrogance a few hours earlier.
Before she rounded the back corner of the Herb House, where the neglected onion bed lay, Rose heard two furious male voices.
“You’ve got no right to treat me like dirt,” said one angry voice. “I’m as good as you, every bit.”
“You were trying to get inside, weren’t you? Maybe the police would be interested in that. Maybe I should just call them now, eh?”
Rose recognized the second voice as belonging to Brother Albert Preston, the Society’s carpenter. She’d never heard him speak above a low, shy rumble before.
Hearing sounds of a scuffle, Rose rushed the last few yards around the building. Albert faced her, grimacing as he fought off the second man’s grip on his upper arms. Short and gaunt, Albert was no match for the taller, more muscular man. When he saw Rose, he paled and stopped struggling. His assailant spun around.
Rose gasped. Hard years had etched craggy lines in his face, but the old intensity still burned in his hazel eyes. It was Seth, Seth Pike. She hadn’t seen him for seventeen years, and she’d thought, hoped, that she would never see him again. Foolish, of course. He was Sister Elsa Pike’s son. Naturally he would return.
He smiled and tilted his head at her. “
Hello, Rose,” he said. “I’m back.”
Seth spread his arms, and for a moment Rose thought he would hug her. She stepped back involuntarily. Seth dropped his arms. Rose glanced at Albert and saw speculation in his eyes.
“What’s been going on here,” she asked quickly. “Brother Albert?”
Albert wasn’t really one of the brethren yet, just a novitiate, but the Society accorded him the title out of desperate need for new male Believers. He was normally reserved and took little part in the worship services, especially the dancing. A remarkably skilled and hardworking carpenter, Albert was the only hope for their furniture business, now that Hugo, nearly ninety and growing blind, was unable to work.
“Caught him trying to sneak into the Herb House,” Albert said. “Police said no one was to go in until they’d had more of a look around, so I came over to put a lock on the door. Good thing I did.”
“I was just walking past, OK? You were the one trying to sneak in, far as I could see.” He poked his index finger into Albert’s chest and pushed him a step backward. “I’ve got as much right here as anybody else. Mr. Lundel hired me to work, and that’s what I’m doing.”
“What’s to work on around here?” Albert challenged him.
“These onions, for one,” Seth said. “They’ve been ready for weeks, by the look of them.”
“I don’t believe you—”
“All right, both of you, that’s enough,” Rose said sharply. “I want you both to go back to your work, whatever it was, as long as it isn’t here and preferably at opposite ends of the village.” She ought to question Seth, but she didn’t trust herself yet.
With a last glare at each other, they stalked off. Before disappearing around the Herb House, though, Seth paused and turned back to Rose.
“Glad to see me, Rosie?” He turned again and was gone. Hearing one of his old nicknames for her startled her, but she was relieved that none of the old feelings stirred. Seventeen years was a long time. Maybe she would visit Eldress Agatha. The onions could wait.
“I trust Gennie is recovering from her terrible experience?” Eldress Agatha Vandenberg rocked herself gently. She was small-boned and thin. A worn blue quilt covered her lap and spread over the arms of her wooden rocking chair. To Rose she looked more fragile every day, her skin like rose petals left too long to dry. On her lap lay an open book containing the sayings of Mother Ann.
“Gennie is resilient,” Rose assured her.
Agatha nodded once. Her faded blue eyes focused inward on eighty-five years of memories. Her hand absently stroked a thin, satin ribbon sewn into the book’s binding as a marker.
The only other chair in the eldress’s sparse room was a three-slatted wooden one near the desk. Rose moved it close to Agatha and waited patiently, knowing that the eldress would break the silence when she was ready.
“Will she stay, do you think?”
“Gennie? I don’t know. I hope so.”
“You must work hard with her. She would make a good Shaker. A good Shaker.”
Agatha focused her filmy eyes on Rose. “You are troubled. Do you have an idea who might be responsible for that poor young man’s death?”
“Nay, it’s nothing so important.” Rose took a deep breath. Her own concerns seemed petty compared with Johann’s death, but Agatha was her confessor. “Seth Pike is back.”
“Ah.”
“Wilhelm has hired him to work here.”
“And this is difficult for you? Do you feel tempted?” Agatha’s soft voice had an edge of sternness.
“Nay, truly I do not. He does not even appear to be the gentle man I once knew. He is bitter, combative.” Rose shook her head. “I have made mistakes, and I regret them still.”
Agatha smiled. “Rose, my dear, remember that our Mother Ann married and bore children. Her understanding came later and after the loss of all those children. We are all weaker than Mother Ann, of course. We can only aspire to her strength and purity of spirit. To believe that you should never make mistakes—well, that is hubris. And to hang on to your regret long after you have confessed and been forgiven, that, too, is false pride.” Her eyes twinkled through the cloudiness that signaled advancing blindness. “Besides, there are plenty of fresher sins to worry about.”
Rose laughed, and her pale face brightened. As always, Agatha’s wisdom had brought her “round right.” She sobered quickly as Agatha sank back in her chair and lowered her chin as if slipping into sleep.
Rose frowned. How could Agatha, weak as she was, straighten out any of this mess? Rose knew, from stories told by older Believers, just how violent their enemies had become in the past. During the previous century, it had been common, especially during hard times, for North Homage’s neighbors to set fire to the Shakers’ buildings. Such violence was part of the past Wilhelm yearned to recreate.
Agatha’s eyes shot open. She sighed and closed her book on the satin bookmark. “So many are leaving, so many of the young and strong.”
“We have always lost many youngsters to the world, but others have come to take their place,” Rose said, as much to convince herself as to comfort Agatha. “Sometimes they leave and come back, as we both know.”
Agatha gave her a rare and gentle smile. “You see, you learned well from your time in the world,” she said. “It will help to make you a better eldress, when I am gone.”
“Agatha, don’t. All you need is rest and—”
The eldress waved her hand impatiently. “When you are eldress,” she continued, “you must not allow Wilhelm to force his will on the Society. His will is strong. It would almost be better if I could go soon. You are so much stronger now than I am.”
“Agatha—”
“Nay, listen to me. You are right when you say that new Believers have always come. But they will stop coming if we continue down Wilhelm’s path, farther and farther into the past. Our strength lies in our faith and our purity of living, not in costumes and behaviors that seem strange in the world’s eyes. New Believers will come only if they respect us and want to be like us.” Agatha smoothed her hand over the soft blanket. “Then again, maybe we have done our work and it is time for all of us to let go.”
Rose remained quiet. At thirty-five, she was far too young to consider her work done and the Society’s mission accomplished. But she was unsure whether she was the right choice to lead them forward. She thought of herself as a practical, day-to-day sort of person. Her spiritual understanding needed much deepening. She preferred not to face the issue yet. Agatha would get well; she had to.
“Enough of that,” Agatha said. “I do hope Gennie stays with us. There is evil waiting for her in the outside world. And now it has reached into our midst.”
Rose touched Agatha’s thin shoulder. “The police will find the person responsible for the killing, surely.”
“Perhaps, perhaps.” The eldress spoke softly. Rose leaned close to hear and smelled the fragrance of lavender that clung to the quilt.
“We have been touched by evil before,” Rose said firmly, “but never consumed by it. Remember that Mother Ann was attacked by an angry mob, but she endured it all, and the Society only became stronger.”
Agatha seemed to return from far away. “I remember that speech,” she said, raising her pale eyebrows at Rose. “As I recall I gave it to a certain young Rose Callahan, who had been teased by some village children and thought that she would be seen as weak if she didn’t break their little noses.”
Rose laughed with delight. “Well, then,” she said, “it is tried-and-true.”
With a swift movement, the eldress clutched Rose’s hand in a surprisingly tight grip. “You must seek the truth, Rose. The police do not know our ways. They cannot understand. You can. You know us, and you know the world. You know what to watch and listen for. I am very afraid that the misguided soul may be one of our own.”
“Are you saying that a Believer may have killed Johann Fredericks?” Until that moment, Rose had not taken seriously the idea that a
Shaker, having taken a vow of nonviolence, might be responsible for the murder. Nor had she realized the danger the Society would be in if this proved to be the case.
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” the eldress said. “Perhaps. And perhaps the police will think so.” She released Rose’s hand and held her book against her chest as if it were a restless infant. “I only know that I grow weaker, and I cannot do what must be done. But you can, Rose, and you must.”
“Truly, I don’t see what I can do. I’ve no training in police work, no experience—”
“Rose,” Agatha interrupted sharply, “your humility is admirable, but not what is called for here.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Rose said quietly. To be truthful, she knew she would not have been able to leave their fate in the hands of the police. She rose from her chair and moved it back to its place at the desk. “Will you rest now?”
“Yea, yea, don’t fuss over me.” Agatha’s old spirit came and went now. Sometimes she was her strong, old self, impatient and demanding of perfection. At other times, she seemed fragile and frightened.
Rose bent to kiss the soft white hair, free of the gauze cap that the eldress normally wore even in private. As Rose reached the door, Agatha said softly, “There are secrets in our community, Rose. More than you know. Find the truth.”
An hour of yanking onions, perhaps harder than they needed to be yanked, lightened Rose’s gloom. She allowed herself to begin thinking about what Agatha had asked her to do. Distasteful as the idea was to her, she knew she was the best person to tackle the search for Johann’s killer. As trustee, she was the only one used to working with the world, and she knew everyone in North Homage. Sheriff Brock longed for the killer to be a Believer. He wouldn’t look farther than their gate.
Rose slapped an onion against the hard ground to free its roots of dirt. A few loose clumps stuck to the skirt of her long, loose outdoor gown, and she quickly brushed them off. The dark blue wool hid most stains, but the dress wasn’t due for washing until later in the week.
Death of a Winter Shaker Page 3