“We only talked about the weather and the apple harvests, that’s all, truly,” Charity said. But her face puckered and her breath grew ragged.
“Charity, no one accuses you, but you must see how important this is. Someone has taken the life of another human being. That is terrible enough to any Believer, but the police are eager to blame one of us. So we have to search for Johann’s killer on our own, and to do that, we must know him, what he was like, how he treated you as well as others. We must have the whole truth from everyone.”
Charity nodded faintly and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at the tears spilling from her eyes. She took a deep, jerky breath.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said in a hushed voice. “It was after dinner one night a few days before Johann was . . . before he disappeared. I was cleaning up in the kitchen and splashed a pan full of water down the front of my dress.” She glanced ruefully down at the neckerchief crossed over her bodice, which showed sticky drips of apple pie filling. “I was soaked clear through, so I told Elsa to keep cleaning while I went to my retiring room to change into dry clothing. It was dusk and no one was about and . . . Johann just seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was holding a pink rose, and he handed it to me. He said I should wear it in my hair.” Charity’s cheeks reddened, and Rose wondered again if she were telling everything. “I gave the flower right back to him, I assure you. I told him that we Believers do not adorn ourselves with flowers.” Her pride steadied her voice.
“And what did he say to that?” Rose prompted.
“Oh, not much.” Charity shrugged, and stared over Rose’s shoulder out the dining-room window.
“What exactly did he say and do?”
“I’ve told you all there is. He just left.”
Could Johann have frightened her so that she feared him even after his death? Nay, Rose thought, more likely she fears losing her place in the Society. The best course would be to let it go for now and talk to her again later, reassure her that her transgression can be forgiven and forgotten. Unless it was murder, of course.
Sister Elsa Pike marched into the dining room on sturdy, determined legs. She faced Rose with flour-covered hands on her broad hips, her mouth hardened into a grim line.
“I got work to do,” she said.
“And you’ll be back to it soon enough.”
“If it’s about that Johann, all I can say is, he got what he deserved, and I don’t care who knows it, but him and me had nothing to do with each other. Anybody says anything else is a liar.” Her eyes narrowed to pencil-thin lines to match her mouth.
Rose felt her own jaw tighten for a fight. “You may want to believe that, Elsa, but the fact is that no fewer than four Believers told me that they saw you—”
The west door of the dining room slammed behind her. She twisted on her bench to find Brock and Grady bearing down on her.
“Well now, that’s mighty interesting,” Brock said, grinning. “You want to tell us what four Shakers saw Elsa Pike doing, Miss Callahan? Write this down, Grady.”
So much for her private interrogations, Rose thought. Elsa, however, saved her from the need to respond instantly.
“Harry Brock, you ought to be ashamed of yerself!” Elsa bellowed. “I mean, thee,” she added, at a lower decibel level. Brock grinned at her.
“Wipe that grin off thy face. I knowed thee since you was a kid, Harry Brock, and you got no call to accuse me of killin’ a man. Heck, if I didn’t kill that no-good husband of mine when I had the chance, I sure wouldn’t kill nobody now I’m a Believer.” She thrust out a plump, defiant chin. “I got a good life here. I got a religion.”
“Yeah, well, if you’ve known me, then remember, I’ve known you, too. I know a whole lot about you, Elsa Pike. So stop yammering and tell me what you know about Johann Fredericks.”
Elsa plunked herself down on a dining-room bench, brushing bits of flour and dough from her dress.
“All right, all right. I know’d a lot about Mr. Johann Fredericks,” she said, with a mixture of scorn and relish. “I’m more worldly than most Shaker gals, ya know. So I know his type.” She gave a satisfied nod. “He was after the girls, I could see that a mile off. Even went after that one, that Sister Charity.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Don’t ask me why, skinny little thing, no spunk.” She patted her own ample stomach and smiled.
“You got that name, Grady?” Brock asked.
“It was wise of you to want to protect the sisters,” Rose said quickly. “Did you by any chance try to speak to Johann about his behavior?”
“You bet I did!” For the moment, Elsa gave up her attempt to transform her vernacular into gentle Shaker language. “I gave that boy what-for, ‘specially when I caught him going after the young’uns, like that Molly, though I can’t say as how she didn’t give him ideas. She’s the type needs watchin’. Saw ’em talkin’ together in the apple orchard. I’d gone there to pray after supper,” Elsa said, with a pious tilt of her head.
“What’s this Molly’s full name, Elsa?” Brock asked.
“Ferguson, Molly Ferguson, no more’n seventeen and wild as they come.”
Rose’s heart sank. She should have moved much more quickly. Brock would have his Shaker villain in no time. She mentally added Molly’s name to her list.
“When was this that you saw the deceased and this girl together?” Brock asked.
“That Thursday night, the night he disappeared. I remember thinkin’ I had to git back for the Union Meetin’. Couldn’t hear what they was sayin’,” Elsa said, with evident regret. “But they was arguin’, clear enough. I know what arguin’ is, sure did it enough with that no-good husband of mine.”
“And you spoke with Johann after this incident?” Rose asked.
“Yup! I mean, yea, I did. Molly run off toward the Meetin’ House, so I went and told Johann to leave her and the other girls alone. I put the fear of God in that boy by the time I was done with him!”
Elsa could certainly reduce Charity to tears, but not a man like Johann. Rose suspected he would merely have laughed at Elsa.
“Did you discuss anything else?”
Was it her imagination, or did Elsa seem hesitant? Unlike Charity, Elsa showed no outward signs of nervousness. But she gave her answer a few moments’ thought, which was rare for her.
“Wouldn’t have no cause to discuss the weather after all that, would I now?”
Rose silently studied her, as she had Charity, but Elsa was woven from tougher thread. She met Rose’s inquiring gaze with steady eyes and complete silence.
“What about Molly? Did you speak to her about her meeting with Johann?” Rose asked.
“Yup, found her right before the Meetin’. I pulled her round back of the Meetin’ House and give her a talkin’-to she won’t soon forgit. She’d of been my child, she’d still be too sore to set down.”
“You didn’t strike her, did you?”
“’Course not! I know better’n that, now I’m a Believer. Besides,” she added with a snort, “never did no good for my own boys. They always did just what they wanted, ’specially that Seth, bringin’ that no-good Johann back with him.”
This was a direction Rose did not wish to take, not now, in front of Brock and Grady. She had hoped to talk to Elsa privately about her eldest son and how well he had gotten along with Johann. But if she didn’t ask now, the sheriff would.
“Elsa, about Seth,” Rose began. “We know that he and Johann rode the rails together and that Seth brought him to your . . . his father’s farm. And we think there was a falling-out of some sort just before Johann moved in here with us. What can you tell us about that?”
As Rose spoke, Elsa’s body stiffened, her face tightening into a grim mask.
“You got no call to accuse my son of nothing. You of all people. Oh, I know all about you, Sister High an’ Mighty, don’t think I don’t. I had eyes in my head, and—”
“Elsa,” Rose interrupted sharply, “we must kno
w about everyone who knew Johann. Everyone. That includes Seth.” Rose felt the sheriff’s eyes on her, but she focused on Elsa’s face, schooling herself to notice the slightest twitch or blush. And there were many, as every weatherworn line seemed in perpetual motion.
“Seth’s had some hard times, but he’s a good boy at heart. He is.” Elsa’s normally flat features twisted into fierce mother love. “He’s got a load of anger in him and maybe it shows too much, but he ain’t no killer. Why, when he was maybe fourteen, we had a workhorse get sick, and his pa wanted him to shoot it, and Seth couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even shoot a sick horse. His pa give him a swat with his belt, buckle an’ all, but Seth, he just walked away. Stayed mad at his pa for weeks and weeks, but he never did shoot that horse. He ain’t no killer. His pa, now there’s a killer.” Elsa’s face brightened at the idea of blaming her husband for Johann’s murder. “Shot that horse without a second thought. Always went around sayin’ he was gonna shoot the neighbors’ horses if they stepped on our land, and maybe the neighbors, too.”
Brock jumped in. “You suggesting he got hisself over here at night and killed a strapping young man like Johann? Poor Billy’s a cripple, you know that, Elsa.”
“Poor Billy? Ha! It’s God’s judgment on him, him bein’ lame, you can bet on that. The way he run around. Always cheatin’ on me with any woman from fifty miles around. Makes sense, don’t it, that God took away his legs?”
“Well, now, Elsa,” Brock said in that easygoing tone that Rose had learned to fear. “That’s not quite how I heared it. The way I heared it, Billy ain’t the only one was cheatin’ in your family.”
Elsa gripped the edge of the table and stiffened as though waiting for a blow.
“So tell me, Elsa,” Brock said. “Just who is Seth’s pappy?”
The ruddiness in Elsa’s face drained away, leaving only her fierce hazel eyes for color. For once, she had nothing to say.
ELEVEN
“WE’LL TALK TO THOSE TWO GIRLS, CHARITY AND Molly, later,” Sheriff Brock grumbled after allowing a grim and unresponsive Elsa to return to her kitchen duties. “But first, we got some questions for you and this Wilhelm Lundel.”
Brock and Grady now sat in Rose’s office, where she should have felt more in command, but even in these cozy surroundings, the sheriff kept her off-balance.
“Why me?”
“Seems like this Johann was quite a ladies’ man. I know how y’all feel about that sort of thing. Now, you claim you never spoke to him, but I was wondering, you sure you wasn’t one of the sisters the deceased got too fresh with, Miss Callahan?”
“No, I most certainly was not!” Rose bristled. “When you know us better, you’ll understand how insulting these questions are. I am a Believer. Do you understand what that means to me? It means that I worship God in my every act, my thoughts, in all that I am. When I do business with a merchant from the world, I am always honest because my work is worship. That chair you’re sitting in, feel the tight weave of the seat, the slight angle of the back, how comfortable and practical it is. Each chair is made with such care. And why? Because it is an act of worship. Nay, Sheriff, I do not lie. If I say that I never spoke with Johann Fredericks, then I did not.”
Without pausing, Rose sprang from her chair and unhooked her cloak from one of the wooden pegs lining the wall.
“We’ll speak with Elder Wilhelm,” she said as she tied the cloak across her shoulders and covered her light gauze cap with a stiffly woven bonnet. “He is harvesting apples this morning, but we can ask him to leave his work briefly.” She stood straight and tall, her chin squared in what Fiona used to call her no-nonsense pose.
The men rose slowly to their feet, Grady watching Sheriff Brock, and Brock watching Rose. There was a look in his eyes that Rose hoped was respect. But she did not delude herself. She needed to work fast.
“All right, you win, Miss Callahan,” Brock said, reaching for the hat he had thrown on her desk rather than hang it on a peg. “I reckon you’re truthful. Leastways, Grady seems to think you can be trusted.” He shot a glance at Grady, who stared at the floor. “But we’ll see about the others.”
Located across the village from the Trustees’ Office, the declining orchard delighted both children and adults. Once a lush ten acres, now the shrinking community could maintain only five acres with straight rows of apple trees. The less predictable peaches and plums had succumbed to disease and drought. Dead or feeble trees lined the outermost end, but these were hidden from anyone approaching the orchard from the village, the direction Rose, Brock, and Grady followed.
Elder Wilhelm balanced on a low ladder under an apple tree, his muscular arm yanking the ripe fruits and tossing them into a basket crooked over his free arm. When Rose called his name, he peered down through the branches, his face puckered with irritation.
“What is it? I don’t have time to waste.”
“If you would be so good as to give us a few moments . . .” Rose said with a slight movement of her head to indicate visitors behind her.
Wilhelm frowned at Brock and Grady. With a loud sigh, he descended the ladder in two long steps. Swinging his basket to the ground, he folded his arms across his broad chest. He stared down at the smaller Brock with a look that Rose had seen many times and which usually sent its recipient a step or two backwards. Brock stood his ground and returned the stare.
“Well?”
“We have a few questions for you,” Brock said in a conversational tone. “Likely you’ll want to come a ways out of here to talk,” he suggested, sweeping his arm toward the open field beyond the orchard.
Wilhelm hesitated. But the voices of nearby Believers seemed to convince him, and he silently led the way through the trees to a freshly harvested field dark with loose, muddy soil. Outside the protection of the orchard, a biting wind whipped their clothing.
“Is thy work done for the day, Sister?” Wilhelm said.
Rose willed her feet to stay where they were. She was not immune to Wilhelm’s stern power, but she wouldn’t be cowed. Anyway, she was irritated with him for calling her Sister only and not Rose. Shakers usually called each other by their first names, no matter what their positions in the Society. By refusing to do so, Wilhelm flaunted his superior rank.
“This is my work just now, Wilhelm,” she said evenly.
“Am I a suspect in this murder, then?”
“Now, no one’s callin’ you a suspect,” Brock said almost jovially. “Leastways, not yet.”
“All right, but be quick about it. We haven’t enough able-bodied workers to get the apple crop in as it is. Ask thy questions, Sheriff.”
Brock had a satisfied-cat look, his bright eyes half-lidded and a faint smile curving his lips. Rose was beginning to understand that beneath his drawl was a shrewd mind intent on getting what he wanted from each person he questioned, no matter how formidable.
The sheriff shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well, now, Mr. Lundel, seeing as how you knew the deceased—I’m not sayin’ you knew him more’n to speak to, mind you—but I’m thinkin’ you could tell us about him.”
“Tell what?” Wilhelm’s own hands must be stinging with the cold, but he kept them stiff at his side.
“Would you say Fredericks was, well, a respectful guest in your community?” Brock’s face showed only curiosity.
Wilhelm hesitated, the muscles in his jaw working visibly.
“Nay,” he answered briskly, “Johann Fredericks was not respectful of our beliefs. He pretended to be, even talked about joining us. He asked many questions about our beliefs and about us ourselves. Who we were, where we came from, where our other communities are located. But he was only collecting information for his own purposes. I soon saw what he was.”
“And what was that, Mr. Lundel?”
Wilhelm stared at the empty field, his back straight and proud, his shoulders squared. Rose had often been struck by his military bearing, so unexpected in a pacifist Shaker. He had come to the Society
as an adult and had confessed to the elder, rather than to the whole community during worship. Was he a former military man? Had those muscular arms carried a weapon at one time, even injured or killed another human being? Whatever his past, knowledge of it had died with the late elder.
Wilhelm’s voice, when he finally spoke, was slow and precise, as though he weighed and measured every word before uttering it.
“Johann Fredericks was . . . a disappointment. He wanted to use us. As do many others.” Wilhelm paused for a long moment. Sheriff Brock, head tilted to the side, watched him steadily. Grady held his stubby pencil poised over his small notebook.
“Look at this field,” Wilhelm said with sudden force. He flung his arms wide as though embracing the land. “The winter wheat ought to be planted by now, and we’ve barely prepared the soil. Once this field and hundreds of acres more besides were filled with long, straight rows. There were no complaints about too much work. We brethren sang as we finished the harvest. The sisters brought us food as we worked the long days and evenings, and sometimes they joined us to work in the fields. We raced to see who could do the quickest and best work and then shared in the pleasure of each other’s success.”
Wilhelm raised his arms skyward, exhorting a field full of spellbound Believers only he could see. Rose scanned the empty landscape and knew that the vision Wilhelm described was one he himself could never have experienced.
North Homage, facing rapid declines in membership and the devastation of the Civil War, had sold much of its acreage nearly sixty-five years ago. Five years before Wilhelm’s birth. And the scenes of intense productivity he described went back in time even farther—to the first half of the nineteenth century, when new Believers signed the covenant almost daily, often entire families at a time. He wants to duplicate the days of glory that he sees in his mind, Rose thought. He has even convinced himself that he was part of that history.
Wilhelm dropped his arms suddenly. “Johann was a disappointment because he could not really understand us, though he said he wanted to join us. He could never live as a Believer.”
Death of a Winter Shaker Page 8