Killing Gifts (15 page)

FIFTEEN

G
ENNIE YAWNED BEHIND HER HAND
. T
HIS WAS HER THIRD
morning in the Hancock Fancy Goods Store, and each minute seemed longer than the last. The day before, she'd eagerly settled into a retiring room in the Brick Dwelling House, having arrived in the wee hours, just before the snow, with Helen Butterfield. Helen had wangled a room in the village as well, but at least it wasn't right next to Gennie's.

Then the excitement about the poisoned buckets started, and there was Gennie, trapped in the store, nibbling candied sweetflag for breakfast. For most of the day, the snow had kept them indoors and the customers away. Gennie tried to walk outdoors during her hour off, but everyone else stayed inside. She couldn't find a soul to talk to or spy on or anything. For hours and hours, it was just her and Abigail and Helen. At least Helen went across the hall to the parlor for half an hour or so. To look over the furniture, she'd said, though Gennie had heard her voice once or twice, as if she might be using the telephone.

Today was busier, now that the roads were passable and the sun was slicing through the clouds in pale slivers. Several folks had come to buy eggs and inquire about the upcoming celebration. Mainly, they seemed interested in the free foods, which no one begrudged them. Abigail had brought several cakes to the store, and she handed out samples to each customer, often slipping the children an extra bite.

Gennie was tired and, to be honest, thoroughly thwarted. None of her scheming had worked so far. Rose had filled her in on everything she'd found out, which only served to demonstrate how boring and useless Gennie's life was in contrast. She'd barely slept all night, waiting for something to happen, but of course nothing did, except that Helen had knocked on her retiring room door and stayed chatting for nearly an hour. Gennie had been raised to be polite to her el­ders, but Helen Butterfield would be a test to anyone's good breeding. Gennie had pleaded exhaustion to get rid of her.

Gennie's hour out of the store was still far off. She couldn't help wishing that Honora Stearn would make another visit, or that one of the other suspects would arrive and do something, well—suspicious. When she heard the front door of the Trustees' House open and shut, she hoped that perhaps God had taken pity on her frustration.

Dulcie Masters stood shivering in the doorway. She took a tentative step into the room, while her gaze took in the glorious colors and textures. Gennie wondered if she'd been in the store since her sister had worked there.

Seeing Gennie behind the glass counter, Dulcie gave her a tremulous smile. As she handed a basket to Gennie, she leaned over the counter and whispered, “Could I speak with you for a minute? Right away?”

Gennie glanced at Abigail, who, as always, sat across the room, rocking and knitting. “I suppose, but—”

“Please.”

Gennie had to admit her curiosity was intense. “Go across the hall to the parlor,” she whispered. “I'll meet you there in a few moments.”

“These are all the dolls we were able to make yesterday,” Dulcie said, in a normal tone. “What with the excitement, and all.” Without a word to Abigail, she left the store. There was no sound of the front door opening; Gennie hoped Abigail hadn't noticed.

Gennie grabbed a rag and dusted the counter, rubbing hard at a palm print left by a child reaching for some candy. She stood back as if to examine her handiwork, then folded the rag and stowed it in a basket on the floor behind the counter.

“Abigail,” she said, as she walked toward the door, “I'll only be a minute. I'm just going to . . .” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the washroom down the hall.

“Of course, dear,” Abigail said, peering over her spectacles. “Take your time. We seem to be in a lull.”

Gennie crossed the hallway and eased the parlor door shut behind her. Dulcie was pacing in circles on the rug.

“Thank you so much, Gennie. I was worried you wouldn't take me seriously.”

“I knew you were serious, but, frankly, I can't imagine why you'd want to talk to me,” Gennie said. She gestured to a settee, but Dulcie kept pacing. Gennie figured the conversation might take a while, and she might as well be comfortable, so she claimed the settee for herself.

“I can't find Rose anywhere,” Dulcie said.

“Yes?”

“You've got to help me find her. I must talk to her right away.”

“I would help you if I could,” Gennie said, trying for just the right touch of innocent confusion, “but I can't imagine what you think I can do.”

Dulcie turned on her with impatience. “I know you two are friends. I
need
to find her. My . . . Everything has gone wrong. She's the only one who can help me. Can't you tell me where she might be?”

It took several moments for Gennie to recover from her surprise. Dulcie resumed her pacing.

“How did you know?” Gennie asked.

“That you two are friends? It wasn't that hard, really. I saw her go into your room yesterday after supper. She didn't come out for a long time.”

“Weren't you supposed to be working in the kitchen?” Gennie's question came out more accusatory than she'd meant, but she and Rose had been so sure it was a safe time to meet in the hired women's wing of the dwelling house.

“I had something important to do,” Dulcie said. “I asked the kitchen sisters to let me go for the evening. I sat in the hallway for a while, thinking. I was in the shadow, I guess. Anyway, Rose didn't see me.”

“Couldn't you just tell me what you need to see Rose about? Maybe I could help you.”

“No! I mean, it's just between Rose and me.”

Gennie felt a twinge of jealousy. Rose had confided nothing about Dulcie that might lead to such agitation—except, of course, that Julia had been Dulcie's sister. But her anguish was immediate; perhaps it had nothing to do with her sister's murder. Unless Dulcie had a suspicion about who killed Julia. But why would Rose keep such information secret from Gennie? Was she still being the protective mother hen, afraid her little chick would rush out into danger?

Gennie's irritation dissolved when she noticed that Dulcie had slumped into a chair and begun to cry. Her tears were silent, the tears of despair. Gennie knelt at her side. “Dulcie, I know something is terribly wrong, and Rose has been helping you, but I promise she would urge you to let me help, too. Whatever it is, I won't tell anyone else. You've got to trust someone right now. Rose is so busy tracking down this . . . the person who hurt your sister. She could be anywhere, even off in Pittsfield talking to the police or something. Why not just confide in me, and we'll work out a solution together?”

Dulcie's tears stopped. She turned dull eyes toward Gennie. “There's no solution,” she said. “You can't help me. Rose can't either, but I always feel better when I talk to her. But this—she probably can't help with this.” Dulcie stood—with some difficulty, Gennie noticed.

“You'd best get back to work. Abigail will be wondering. I'm sorry I bothered you. Please don't worry about me. There's nothing you can do.”

 

With her frustration near the bursting point, Gennie was relieved when her hour off arrived. Dulcie would be in the kitchen, helping to wash up after the noon meal, so there was no point in making another attempt to pry her secret out of her. Maybe later.

Rose's description of her interview with Esther Jenkins had intrigued and puzzled Gennie, since Esther had seemed friendly when they'd met two days earlier.
Maybe,
Gennie thought, not without some worldly pride,
I'll be able to get more information from Esther than Rose can.
She decided to visit the deserted Meetinghouse again, in hopes of finding Esther with her children.

A sharp wind sliced through her wool coat as she crossed the slushy road to reach the north end of the village, which was now mostly abandoned buildings. The one drawback of pleading poverty so she could live in the Brick Dwelling House was that she couldn't just whip out twenty-six dollars to buy a Shaker cloak. Maybe Abigail would let her use one if she offered a small down payment and another reduction in her dwindling pay. It was worth a try. She could already feel the sniffles coming on, and she wouldn't be much of a sleuth if she ended up sick in bed.

Gennie turned back and gazed over the whole village, or as much as she could see. No one seemed to be wandering about. Good. She didn't want to be seen making a habit of entering unused buildings. On the other hand, it probably wouldn't be long before the whole village knew of her connection with Rose. Dulcie had certainly tumbled to it easily, and she might mention it to someone else. All the more reason to work fast.

As Gennie trudged toward the Meetinghouse, she came upon footprints in the snow. They looked fresh. She tried matching her steps to them. They were much larger than her small feet, and her legs couldn't span the spaces between the footsteps. Her suspicions were confirmed when she traced the imprints to the men's entrance. The feet had not belonged to Esther and her children. Two men had recently visited the Meetinghouse. She examined the snow nearby and saw no evidence of footsteps leading back toward the road. The men might still be inside.

Gennie's heart picked up speed in a most pleasant way. Probably the visit was innocent, but Gennie was desperate for excitement, and this was the closest she'd gotten to anything out of the ordinary. She decided not to announce her presence just yet, in case she might hear or see something helpful to the investigation.

The large windows to either side of the men's entrance were boarded up, so Gennie rounded the corner of the building and headed for the back, where no one could see her from the village. She was aware she was creating a new path in the snow, but she tried to walk on her tiptoes, to make it look more like animal tracks. Thank goodness Abigail had insisted on lending her some galoshes.

Two windows along the north end of the Meetinghouse still contained glass. She hugged the wall and edged close to the first window until she could see inside. The building looked dark and empty. The old glass was thick, so she couldn't hear even a mumble of voices. She leaned back against the wall and thought a moment. Her hands lay flat against the wood, and through one glove she could feel a rough edge that came off as she nervously picked at it. In her hand was a good-sized sliver of white paint. The back of her coat must be covered with bits of peeling paint. She'd have to remember to clean it off before going back to work.

This was getting her nowhere except frozen. On impulse, Gennie crouched below the bottom of the window and scooted underneath, gasping as the snow scraped her thighs. Once past, she stood again and edged toward the next window. This time, luck was with her. A corner of the glass had cracked and worked loose from the window frame, and no one had yet thought to cover the hole with a board—or perhaps no one had even noticed it.

Gennie peeked through the glass and still saw nothing. She pushed her ear as close as possible to the open corner of the window and listened. Now she heard voices—men's voices. No wonder she hadn't heard them before; they sounded calm and easy, like two friends discussing crops. There was nothing the least bit mysterious about them. She was disappointed. However, she wasn't about to give up so easily on her first chance at excitement.

She wanted to see who the men were, but it meant looking straight into the window and taking the risk of being seen. She thought a minute. Okay, if they did look over and see her face, she would wave eagerly and go right inside, as if she were just out on a jaunt, exploring the village, and was delighted to find someone to talk to.

Her courage bolstered, she peered directly into the building and looked around. There they were, in the southeast corner, standing close together with their heads bent over a large piece of paper that looked like it might be a map. She recognized them at once—Aldon Stearn and Sewell Yates. Her excitement dimmed as she remembered that Sewell was an architect assigned to see about renovating some of Hancock's deteriorating buildings. Aldon, as she recalled, worked with him. So all she'd discovered was two brothers doing their work.

Disappointed, she pulled away from the window and leaned back against the peeling wall. She hadn't used much of her hour yet, she thought. She still had time to search some of the other abandoned buildings for Esther and her brood. Still, she was here. She might as well watch for a spell, see if they got into a discussion of Julia's murder or something. Her feet weren't frozen to numbness yet; when they were, she decided, she'd give up and leave.

Again, she placed her ear against the hole in the window. The men's voices had become more animated. They were discussing future plans for the Meetinghouse, and the prospects pleased them.

“We could do a great service for the Society,” Aldon said, in his rich baritone.

“The space may seem too big for us now, but just think if we could dance again in here.” Sewell's higher, gentler voice quavered with excitement. “Others would join us, I'm sure of it. It would take some work, though. The roof leaks, some of the wood is rotten, and all the windows will need to be replaced.”

Gennie pulled back as she imagined the men looking around the building and gazing at each window. After a few moments, she felt safe enough to listen again.

“We'll talk the others into this,” Aldon was saying. “Mother Ann's Birthday is bringing in some extra funds; I'll approach Fannie about using some of them for building supplies. It's for our future. You have done well, Sewell.”

Sewell's response was muffled and husky, as if the compliment had choked him up. Gennie couldn't resist a quick peek through the glass. Both men were gazing at the drawing in Sewell's hands, and Aldon had stretched a fatherly arm around Sewell's shoulders. Surprise was not a strong enough word for Gennie's reaction; she was stunned. Was no one in this village what he or she seemed? From Rose's description and from her own observation, Aldon seemed so harsh and distant, more intent on fire and brimstone than on human compassion. Yet here he was, offering warm encouragement to another.