Death of a Winter Shaker

by Deborah Woodworth

Molly had been with them for three years, yet they had taught her so little. She had never learned to value herself as a creature of God. She knew only how to give a man anything he wanted.

  “Molly, I believe you have been honest with me. Now I must ask you a difficult question. Look at me and tell me truly, did you kill Johann Fredericks?”

  “Nay! I told you, I loved him. Maybe I wanted to kill Charity and any other girl that looked cross-eyed at him. But I wouldn’t of hurt Johann. Do you believe me?” Molly sniffled and rubbed a sleeve across her eyelids.

  “Yea, I do.”

  Rose knew that she had to work fast. Sheriff Brock was looking for a reasonable suspect, and he was becoming very suspicious of Molly Ferguson. And the foolish girl had made the situation worse by her behavior.

  Gennie returned to the kitchen, alone this time, and Rose gestured urgently for her to join them. Sliding her laden tray onto the cluttered table, Gennie ran to them. With an arm around each girl and a glance toward the dining room, Rose led the group through the outside door.

  “Stay in your room, both of you, until I come to fetch you. Don’t venture out until then,” she warned, “even if it’s nearly suppertime. I’ll explain to the sisters that you won’t be back to work until later. Go now, and stay to the backs of the buildings, but walk at a normal pace.” She knew that from a distance the girls would look like any two Shaker sisters.

  Rose smoothed a few stray wisps of pale red hair back under her bonnet, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the Trustees’ Office, where she had promised to meet Brock and Grady to complete the interview with Molly. She told herself that she would not lie. She would certainly tell the sheriff all that she knew of Molly’s tryst. If he asked.

  ***

  “Whaddya mean I can’t question her no more? She got something to hide?” Sheriff Brock’s wiry body was rigid with anger.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I cannot allow her to be upset further. It’s my decision, not hers. Molly’s mother placed her in our care; she is our responsibility. Perhaps later we can speak to her again.”

  To her surprise, Brock relaxed. “All right, then,” he said, too politely for Rose’s comfort. “Grady, what’s that other name we got?”

  “Preston, Albert Preston.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. You see, Miss Callahan, we stayed quiet at lunch, like you asked, but afterward, being policemen, we couldn’t help but ask a question or two. Seems this Preston also argued with the deceased. So tell us about him.”

  There were times, Rose thought, when she regretted the famous Shaker honesty. Naturally, the brethren would answer truthfully any questions the sheriff put to them. But it made her task harder when the police riled everyone up before she could talk to them.

  “Albert is our carpenter,” she admitted. “He is new to this area and has not yet signed the covenant to become one of the brethren, but his novitiate period is nearly finished.”

  “This Preston’s from out of town, you say? Any idea where he’s from?”

  “I hold few personal conversations with the brethren, Sheriff.”

  By now Rose knew how Brock thought about this murder. Surely he was thinking that if Albert is a stranger, maybe not even a Kentuckian, he’d make a good suspect. Well, at least Brock had forgotten Molly for the moment.

  Feeling tired, Rose led the sheriff and Grady toward the Carpenters’ Shop, a short walk from the Trustees’ Office, across the central pathway. The distance seemed much longer, though, as Rose passed four young men from Languor lounging on the Trustees’ Office steps.

  “Hey, Harry,” one of the men shouted. “You arrested any of these freaks yet?”

  Brock responded with a tolerant smile and slapped one of the men on the shoulder as they passed.

  The rhythmic sound of hand-sawing and the crisp smell of freshly cut wood drifted from the open windows of the Carpenters’ Shop as Rose escorted the men up the two steps leading to the front door. She pulled the old wooden door and noticed how it swung easily and silently on its hinges. Albert Preston was truly a godsend for the Society. The Carpenters’ Shop had been locked and empty for ten years when Albert had arrived and put the old tools to expert use. He had moved a bed to the upstairs room at the back of the building, rather than live in the nearly empty Novitiates’ Dwelling House, and he seemed to work around the clock. He was a reserved man, who rarely spoke to anyone. But his carpentry skills were superb. He took to making Shaker oval boxes right away, almost as if he already knew how, and he soon moved on to ladder-back chairs and a beautiful new maple trestle table for the Ministry dining room. If his output continued at this rate, the Society would soon have extra furniture to offer for sale to the world. When not in the Carpenters’ Shop, Albert carried his tools from building to building, planing swollen drawers, fixing handles, lovingly smoothing distressed wood wherever he found it. A grateful community was more than ready to accept him as one of them.

  Albert raised his eyes briefly as they entered the shop and lowered them again to his task. With a quick, sure movement, he hammered a small, copper tack into the narrow end of one swallowtail in the finger-shaped joint holding together an oval box. Albert smoothed his long fingers over the tack and examined the thin, curved maple from several angles. He seemed satisfied and looked up at the visitors.

  “Albert Preston?” Brock asked in a clipped voice.

  Albert nodded once.

  “Sheriff Harry Brock. Got some questions for you.”

  Albert was a slight man, shorter than the sheriff, with a gaunt face and deep-set eyes. Rose wondered if he had managed to put on any weight at all since he had arrived, emaciated and coughing, six months earlier. At least the cough had disappeared.

  “Where you from, Preston?” Brock asked.

  “Back East.”

  “Where back East?”

  “All around. Wandered a lot.” Albert still held the oval box and gently rubbed his thumb over its smooth curves.

  “Where was you born?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  Rose and Grady seemed to be the only ones who saw any humor in this response. Both smiled and caught each other at it.

  “We can find out, you know.”

  “Probably won’t be any records. I was an orphan. Folks took me in and sent me to school here and there. Don’t remember my parents. Don’t even know exactly how old I am.”

  It was the longest string of words Rose had ever heard Albert utter, and she noted that his speech was educated, and the vowels had an elongated quality that sounded familiar to her.

  “Albert,” Rose said, “tell us what you know about Johann Fredericks.”

  He shrugged, calling attention to his work jacket, which hung too loosely from his shoulders. Was the man still ill and not telling them? Rose thought about calling in the doctor from Languor to look at him. Albert would never be the most beloved of the brethren, but he was one of them.

  “Didn’t know him,” Albert said. “Not really, just to talk to in passing. We weren’t friends. He wasn’t one of the brethren.”

  “Even so,” she continued, “you must have formed some opinions.”

  “He wasn’t much,” Albert said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Brock demanded.

  Albert studied the oval box he still held as though he would find the answer there.

  “Winter Shaker,” he said. “Only wanted to use us.”

  Rose nodded, and Brock cocked his head to one side.

  “I thought y’all believed in feeding anyone who’s hungry,” Brock said. “That’s sort of askin’ to be used, ain’t it?”

  Albert said nothing. He stroked his thumb against his box as if it were the soft fur of a kitten.

  “Where was you a week ago last Thursday, at nine in the evenin’ or thereabouts?” Brock asked.

  “Union Meeting.”

  “And after the meetin’?”

  “Came back here. Worked a while and went to bed.” Albert jerked his head upward
to his living quarters upstairs.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Nay.”

  “What about the next Monday night and the morning when the body was found?”

  “Here. Alone. As usual.”

  Brock didn’t seem to have much else to ask. Like everyone else, Albert had no alibis. The sheriff nodded at Grady to indicate the interview was at an end, and Grady flipped his notebook shut. Rose allowed herself a relieved sigh. Brock had found no one to arrest yet.

  THIRTEEN

  AFTER WATCHING SHERIFF BROCK AND GRADY DRIVE off without a suspect in custody, Rose set off to continue her own questioning. She heard the tolling of the Meetinghouse bell and quickened her pace. Four-forty-five already. She would have only a short time before evening meal, and she had two stops to make first.

  The Infirmary, conveniently situated in the middle of North Homage, contained a dozen sickrooms and an office. At one time the Society had its own doctor, one of the brethren, but now one sister with nurse’s training cared for the sick and called in the physician from Languor when necessary.

  Only one sickroom was occupied, and Rose felt a stab of guilt for hurrying past without visiting the elderly sister who slept fitfully in a cradle bed. She would return soon, she promised herself. She would bring a bouquet of lavender and lemon balm to sweeten the air.

  Sister Josie, approaching eighty herself, sat behind a desk in her small office, scribbling in a ledger. Her several chins jiggled as she looked up at Rose over a row of glass apothecary jars lined up before her. Her round, pink cheeks gathered in bunches as she smiled.

  “Rose, my dear child, I was just thinking of you. I’ve been taking inventory of our herbs and thinking I must ask you to raid the Herb House for me!” Her plump arms opened wide as though welcoming a miracle. “But do sit, child, and tell me what your trouble is. Is it illness that makes you look so pale and tired?” She bounced to her feet and pushed Rose into a chair. “Let me get a tonic for you. We must toughen you up for the winter. Nay, sit quiet now,” she said, as Rose tried to rise.

  “Josie, I am quite well,” Rose protested. But Josie flung open a glass-doored medicine cabinet filled with more apothecary jars and tins of various sizes. Humming a lively dance tune, she pulled down several bottles and gathered them in one arm.

  “Josie, I’m fine,” Rose said. “I’ve just come to—”

  “A moment, child, I must think what is the best formula to help you. Let’s see, gentian to stimulate the appetite. It’s so bitter, we’ll add some peppermint. Then chamomile and valerian, I think, to calm you and help you sleep. Any stomach complaints?” Josie asked without turning.

  “Nay, Josie, no stomach complaints, no complaints whatsoever, I just want—”

  “Fine, then, this’ll do. Won’t be a minute, Rose, just sit still and rest. I’ll make up a mixture for tea. We’ll have you right in no time.” She bore her selections back to the desk and lined them up next to a scale, where she measured the portions precisely, squinting down through her reading glasses at the numbers on the dial. Rose bit her lip, fretting about the passing time as Josie mixed the ingredients, ground them in a mortar and pestle, then spooned them into two tins.

  “There!” Josie said with her pink smile. “One cup of the gentian and peppermint before each meal and one of chamomile and valerian at bedtime.” She plunked the tins in front of Rose and settled back in her chair. “Now, what else can I do for you?”

  “Albert Preston. He looks unwell to me. Have you or the doctor seen him lately?”

  “Ah, Albert.” Josie plunked her chins on her fist and puckered her face in concentration. “Nay, I’ve not seen him here lately,” she said. “I saw him last night, I believe, at supper, and I must say that his color was good. His cough hasn’t returned, I’d certainly have noticed that.”

  “When he came to us last spring, he had a wound, did he not?”

  Josie sucked in her lower lip and frowned.

  “I know it isn’t right to pry,” Rose continued, “but Agatha has asked me to look into the death of Johann Fredericks, and I must ask uncomfortable questions.”

  Josie shook her head sadly. “Poor boy. To die so young, and not yet a full Believer.”

  Rose thought it best not to discuss the “poor boy’s” all-too-worldly activities before his death.

  Josie came to her decision with a sprightly nod. “All right, then, if it will help you solve this terrible killing. Albert did indeed come to us very ill, with a festering wound in his thigh. He said he got it when he was attacked as he rode the rails to our doorstep. But I don’t see—”

  “Is he completely recovered?” Rose wanted to avoid discussing her speculations with anyone but Agatha.

  “Yea, for many months.”

  “You see, he still looks as though he is losing weight. And I know that you always notice if Believers look ill”

  Josie pushed out her lips and shook her head slowly. Then her expression cleared. “Ah!” she said, bouncing up in her chair and sending her chins into vibration. “Now I see what concerns you. But his weight has stabilized, I do assure you, it is only that his clothes do not fit. I did take note of that. So,” she said, and slapped a palm on her desk. “No need to worry. It’s a problem for the tailor, nothing more.” Her cheeks piled up again in a grin.

  Rose smiled, too. She had the information she needed.

  “I’m so relieved,” she said.

  With less than an hour until the evening meal, Rose scooped up her skirts and trotted the short distance to the Laundry, next door to the Infirmary. The washing machines were quiet and the first floor empty as she entered. The sisters would all be upstairs finishing the drying and ironing before they closed the shop for the day.

  She went upstairs and directly to Sister Gretchen, an energetic young woman recently appointed laundry deaconess. Gretchen raised questioning eyebrows at Rose and continued to iron the butternut brown Sabbathday dress draped over her board. Rose explained what she wanted to know as Gretchen’s hands smoothed apart gathers in the skirt and pressed away the wrinkles. When Rose had finished, Gretchen paused with her iron inches above the fabric and cocked her head to one side.

  “Yea, I do remember now,” she said. “However did you guess that, Rose? We noticed that Albert was missing his second set of work clothes, so we sent him a spare to tide him over until the tailor could make him a new set.”

  “When was this, exactly?”

  “Recently, I’m certain. But let me check.” Gretchen upended the iron and went to a small desk under a west window. She flipped open a ledger book and ran her finger down a column of dates.

  “Ah. Here it is. Just two days ago, on Thursday the twenty-second. Is that all you need to know?”

  “Indeed,” Rose said. “Indeed it is.”

  ***

  Sawing sounds through the open window told Rose that Albert was still busy in the Carpenters’ Shop, despite the closeness of the dinner hour. He neither heard nor saw her enter, so engrossed was he in cutting a smooth swath through a long piece of maple. Rose watched him in profile, searching her memory for anything she had heard about him and his past. She remembered that he had confessed to having been arrested for theft years earlier, but he had been poor and hungry. Since then he had turned himself around, learned a trade. His gifted way with wood ensured that he need never steal again.

  She remembered that when he had first arrived, he had applied himself immediately to whatever work he could find to do. Winter Shakers often vowed that their fervent wish was to sign the covenant as soon as possible to secure a steady place for themselves at the dinner table, but many avoided work.

  Since the Society had done little proselytizing recently, anyone who stayed the course and became a novitiate usually either had been brought up by the Shakers or knew of them and sought them out. But Albert seemed to drift in from nowhere. As his health improved, he began asking theological questions, and one day Brother Hugo found him repairing a wobbly bench in the di
ning room. Hugo, nearing ninety and growing blind, happily turned over to Albert his repair duties and the long unused key to the Carpenters’ Shop.

  At that moment, Albert glanced up and started when he saw Rose watching him.

  “I’m sorry, Albert, but you were so attentive to your work. I didn’t wish to distract you. Might I ask you a question or two?”

  With clear reluctance, Albert placed his saw on the workbench and slid onto his stool. He nodded.

  “I won’t keep you, I know you’ll want to tidy up the shop before evening meal, but I’d like to know more about your relationship with Johann Fredericks.”

  “Told you. Didn’t know him.”

  “But I think you must have. Or at least you know more about his death than you are saying.”

  Albert’s thumb rubbed rhythmically against his finger, while his slight shoulders hunched inside his roomy work shirt. He knew something, she was convinced of that.

  “Albert, have you placed an order with the tailor for a new set of work clothes?”

  Albert stiffened and narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Well, you’ve lost a set, haven’t you? Gretchen noticed when she sorted out your laundry, and she sent you a spare set. That’s what you are wearing, isn’t it? One can see that it’s made for a stockier man.”

  Albert slid off his stool and turned to his workbench. His back to Rose, he began to tidy up the tools.

  “Suits me fine,” he said. “Comfortable.”

  “How did you lose the old set?”

  Albert shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t know.”

  “At the time, none of us thought to tell the sheriff to check inside the clothes that Johann wore when Gennie found him. As they are Shaker clothes, he should find the owner’s initials sewn inside. Shall I call him now?”

  Albert’s hand closed around a hammer on the workbench. He held it a few seconds too long before lifting it to a peg. But when he pivoted to face Rose, his face held fear, not threat.

  “Those were your clothes, weren’t they, on Johann’s body?” she continued more gently. “They were Shaker work clothes, too short for him, and your work clothes are missing. It makes sense.”