Killing Gifts (17 page)

Esther Jenkins's behavior seemed contradictory. With Gennie, she had been friendly and open, expressing disapproval of her rich parents' values; but when Rose questioned her, she had adopted an upper-crust arrogance and revealed as little as possible. Was she afraid that Rose might have the power to take her children away from her? She had denied knowing much about Julia and showed low regard for her “sort.” To Rose, it seemed that Esther had trapped herself with her own pride. She could not bear to admit her parents were right about Johnny, nor could she allow anyone else to raise her children. She needed Johnny back. Julia had set her cap for Johnny—indeed, she might already have captured him. Rose could envision Esther, with cold-hearted calculation, eliminating Julia to save her own economic security and allow her to keep her children.

Rose read back through her notes, then added one more name to the bottom: Otis Friddle. He didn't have an obvious motive for killing Julia, and he didn't seem to have the energy to plan such a meticulous murder, yet he had found her body, and he hadn't given a good reason for being near the Summerhouse. Had he been more attracted to Julia than he'd admitted? How might he have reacted to a cruel rebuff of his passion? It seemed farfetched, but she would keep him on the list for now.

On the edge of the page, she wrote two questions: (1) What does the attempted poisoning have to do with Julia's murder? (2) Who was Julia's lover at the time of her death—the one Julia believed was cheating on her? Rose wasn't ready to write down any speculations yet. Unless someone was trying to muddy the waters—perhaps to make it seem like an angry outsider was the guilty party—she couldn't see any logical connection between the two incidents.

When the bell rang for the evening meal, Rose was more than ready to put her work aside. She stowed it in the drawer of her desk, under some blank sheets of paper, just to be safe. She wished she could make better sense of what she had learned, and she prayed most fervently that nothing more would happen before she could do so.

SEVENTEEN

A
S SOON AS
R
OSE ENTERED THE DINING ROOM, SHE KNEW
that something must be wrong in the kitchen. Normally, the kitchen help had already arranged dishes, cutlery, bread, and pitchers of water on the tables by the time the diners arrived. Rose and Fannie sat down with the sisters, and they all waited in silence. And waited. With a gesture to Rose to stay put, Fannie went downstairs to find out what had happened. Within moments, she reappeared and signaled to Rose to follow her back down.

Carlotta was alone in the kitchen, hacking at a loaf of bread. “Don't expect supper anytime soon,” she said. “Not if you expect me to do everything around here.”

“Why on earth didn't you call for help?” Fannie asked. “Where's Dulcie?”

“Dulcie couldn't be bothered to show up. Don't ask me where she is, because she sure didn't tell me. I got a good mind to quit right now and let you cook your own meals.”

“Dulcie is usually so reliable,” Fannie said. “I hope she isn't ill again. The sisters told me she's been having dizzy spells.”

“Oh, she's snuck off before, without you knowing, you can be sure of that. She just figures somebody else'll do the work for her.”

Fannie shook her head. “That doesn't sound like her. I'm worried.”

“So am I,” Rose said. Gennie had told her of Dulcie's frantic visit to the Fancy Goods Shop. She should have paid more attention. “When did you see her last, Carlotta?”

“She was here at noon, not that she was much help. She was a real nervous Nellie, kept dropping things and forgetting what she was doing.”

“Did she leave before you did?” Rose asked.

“No, at least she stayed through the washing up. We left together and walked upstairs to our rooms. I told her she'd better have a nap or she wouldn't be no good to anybody. Not that she listened to me.” Carlotta scooped up a pile of bread slices and dumped them on a platter.

“What do you mean?” Rose asked.

“I mean she went right out again. My room is just two doors down from her, and not more'n five minutes later, I heard her door open and close again. She was trying to be quiet, but I got good ears. I opened my own door a little, and I saw her going down toward the staircase. I knew she was going outdoors because she was wearing that ratty old jacket of hers.”

“I'd better go search for her,” Rose said.

“I agree,” Fannie said. “You go on ahead, and I'll help Carlotta get the evening meal put together. On your way out, tell everyone to be patient, we won't be long. Here, take some bread with you.” She grabbed a slice from the cutting board, narrowly missing Carlotta's next swipe at the loaf.

Rose hurried back upstairs to reassure the hungry diners. On her way through the dining room, she caught Gennie's eye and tried to tell her to stay put. She knew Gennie's curiosity, but if they left together, everyone in the room would know of their connection. Gennie was much more valuable if she remained independent.

Despite Carlotta's observation that Dulcie had been dressed for the outdoors, Rose knew it would be foolish not to search the Brick Dwelling House first. Dulcie might have returned. She might be unwell and resting in her room, or even hiding for unknown reasons in another room. Dulcie might just have wanted privacy—perhaps Carlotta had made one of her typical insensitive remarks. But what if something had gone wrong with her pregnancy, and she was desperately ill, yet afraid of discovery? The thought sent Rose's feet into a run.

She began with Dulcie's room. It was empty, and there was no sign of her jacket. Either she had never returned, or she had returned but kept her jacket with her, perhaps for warmth.

The Brick Dwelling House was huge, with three floors, plus two attic lofts used for storage. Most of the retiring rooms were unused but held furniture and could be inhabited comfortably at a moment's notice. If Dulcie wanted to be alone, she could be anywhere. Now Rose wished she'd brought Gennie along. But it still wasn't the time to raise an alarm—not until she knew that Dulcie wasn't just trying to avoid curious, prying eyes by hiding in an unused part of the building.

For the sake of thoroughness, Rose quickly searched the two first-floor communal rooms; the large meeting room, where worship was held; the waiting rooms; and all the Ministry rooms, even Fannie's. Taking the sisters' staircase, she moved to the second floor, to the retiring rooms inhabited by Believers. She included her own retiring room, in case Dulcie might be waiting for her. She skipped the brethren's side, since she couldn't imagine Dulcie seeking refuge in the retiring room of a Shaker brother.

Rose's arms were feeling the strain of opening and closing doors, one after another after another. She had found no sign of Dulcie on the second floor or on the third floor, where the hired workers lived. She was not waiting for Theodore, that much was clear. Time was passing. Even with the delay in serving the evening meal, the diners would be finished soon, in a hurry to return to their duties.

She'd best search the attic lofts. It would be cold and dark and dusty up there, but she had to be certain. She climbed the staircase to the first attic level. She'd never examined the Hancock attics before, and she saw at once that they would be brighter during the daytime than she'd expected, due to a clever system of double skylights, which would allow natural light to penetrate both levels. However, the sun had long ago set, and grime had collected on the skylights, blocking the weak moonlight. Rose could see the dark shapes of furniture piled everywhere. She stood a few steps from the landing and listened intently. She heard no movement or sound of breathing but her own—and blessedly, no little rodent sounds, either.

She moved on to the top attic level. The air was stale and musty, but moonlight from the roof skylights made it slightly brighter than the attic below. She could make out shapes more clearly. None of them moved. She looked around for anything out of the ordinary helter-skelter of hastily stored items. One recessed corner, off to the left of the stairwell, struck her as odd. It was filled with furniture, as was the rest of the attic, but there was something almost roomlike about their arrangement. She went closer. A small pine desk, with a scratched surface, stood just inside the alcove. Behind it, facing outward, was a ladder-back chair with a woven seat. Despite one broken tape, the chair would surely hold an adult without collapsing.

The setting gave the impression that someone had recently been working at the desk, perhaps arising to go down five flights to evening meal. A small jar of ink rested in one corner, the ancient label stained with drips of black. Rose saw no pen. The alcove was cut off from the skylight, so it was far too dark for someone to work in. Rose looked around and found an old oil lamp set on the floor to the right of the chair. She picked it up. It still held oil.

Rose was torn. Dulcie could be in trouble, and she shouldn't waste any time in finding her. Yet something drew her to investigate this strange little attic corner. She took a step and her toe kicked a small object. She reached down and picked up a box of matches. She struck a match and lit the lamp.

She turned around slowly in the small area, using the lamp to light the back corners. Nothing unusual caught her eye, just dust and spiderwebs. She examined the desktop. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. A spot of blood had run along one of the deeper scratches. It looked as if some attempt had been made to wipe it off, but the red tinge remained. Rose leaned closer.
Nay,
she thought,
surely dried blood would not still be so red.
It had to be ink.

On impulse, she picked up the ink jar. There was liquid inside. She placed the lamp on the desk and unscrewed the lid. The jar was half full of a bright red substance. She sniffed it. Paint. Scarlet paint, still quite fresh. She replaced the lid and put the jar back precisely where she'd found it.

The desk had one drawer, which she pulled entirely out of its enclosure and laid on the desk. It held paper; a dried-up, old fountain pen with a black-stained nib; and, pushed to the back, a rolled-up rag. Her hands shaking, Rose unwrapped the cloth. Inside were three small paintbrushes, of the sort that might be used for spirit drawings—drawings once given as heavenly gifts to Believers who were dreaming or in a dancing trance. One of the brushes had been used and crudely cleaned. It still held traces of red paint.

Rose's instincts told her she'd found something significant, but she had no idea what it meant. This was no time to dawdle and figure it out. She'd return later. She placed the lamp and matches back on the floor, put the spent match in her apron pocket, and headed back downstairs.

The evening meal was ending as Rose reached the first-floor landing. Lines of silent men and women filed into the hallway and began to scatter. Fannie's worried, questioning eyes sought out Rose, who shook her head slightly.

“No sign at all?” Fannie asked.

“None. As far as I could tell, nothing but her jacket is missing from her room, so she probably did not intend to leave the village. I believe it is time to raise the alarm. With everyone helping, we can do a village-wide search in quick order.”

“I agree.”

Fannie called to everyone to regather in the hallway, and she explained the situation. She sent the Believers and novitiates to search the buildings they knew best, while Theodore, looking more angry than worried, ordered the hired workers to search the farm buildings and all the abandoned buildings. With regret, Rose stayed behind so that anyone with news could report to her immediately. Gennie followed a group of sisters, and Helen Butterfield tagged along.

When the last of the searchers had left, Rose paced the empty hallway. Waiting idly was not in her nature. Whenever she passed a window, she peered out into the darkness. Light appeared and disappeared inside buildings and the swinging brightness of lanterns punctuated the outside air. The minutes passed with aching slowness. Rose almost expected dawn to appear in the east, but the hall clock told her it had been only half an hour.

She couldn't stand the waiting much longer. She pulled on her galoshes, half inclined to step outside, but instead she resumed her pacing. As she looked out a corner window facing southeast, she saw a light emerge from the Round Stone Barn and begin to bounce toward the dwelling house. Someone was running. She grabbed her cloak and threw it around her shoulders without bothering to tie it around her neck.

Ignoring the paths, she ran toward the light. Sewell came into view. As soon as he recognized her, he stopped and bent over to catch his breath before she reached him.

“You've found her? Is she all right?”

Sewell straightened and held up his lantern, which gave his gaunt face an unearthly pallor.

“Sewell, tell me quickly.” Rose wanted so to grab his shoulders and shake him.

“She's . . . she's alive. Not by much, though, far as I can tell. She fell from the upper level of the Round Stone Barn—you know, from where we used to push hay down to the animals. She must have been ill and gotten dizzy or something.”

Fell or was pushed?
“Did you move her?”

Sewell shook his head. “I put an old blanket over her, and I came right out to get you.”

“Good. Run now to the dwelling house and phone the doctor in Pittsfield. Tell him it's an emergency, a girl's life depends on him. Then tell the others to meet me in the barn. Go now!” Rose took the lamp from Sewell's hand and sprinted awkwardly toward the Stone Barn, giving no heed to the snow that caked inside her galoshes.

Under a filthy blanket, Dulcie lay in a crumpled heap, her face drained of color. But she was still breathing. Rose lifted the blanket and looked her over, trying not to move her and risk worsening her injuries. She had landed on a pile of old hay, which might explain why she was still alive after such a fall. She had probably broken some ribs. Moving her out of the barn would be dangerous, but they couldn't leave her here to freeze to death. She might also have a concussion and who knows how many other internal injuries. One could only pray that her back was not broken.

Rose noticed a wet spot on Dulcie's dark blue dress. She ran her finger across it and smelled it. Blood. Gingerly, she lifted the girl's skirt to her waist. Her undergarments were soaked with blood. Rose covered her quickly and sat back on her heels, fighting back tears. The baby. The baby was dead.

She heard shouts outside and knew the others had arrived. For the sake of Dulcie's privacy, it would not do to let them all know about the baby. Not yet.

The barn door flew open, and, to Rose's astonishment, the first person to enter was Helen Butterfield, who ran with surprising agility toward the injured girl. She knelt and took Dulcie's pulse, then lifted the blanket before Rose could stop her. As the others approached, Helen quickly dropped the blanket.

“I'm a nurse by training,” she said. “This girl is alive but seriously injured. We need to move her with the utmost care. You two men,” she said, pointing to Johnny and Otis, “find another blanket and bring it back. We'll make a sling and lift her onto it. Then we'll have at least four men carry her back to the dwelling house with as little movement as possible. Go! Now!” she ordered, as Johnny and Otis hesitated. They took off, cooperating for once.

Helen pointed to Aldon and Theodore. “I'll need you two to help carry her, when the others get back, so you stay put. The rest of you, I'll need a room prepared for her, first floor. It must be warm, or at least bring extra blankets. In addition to her injuries, she'll be in shock. Go on now, scoot!” Everyone obeyed, except Rose, who had other plans.

As Helen knelt again by her patient, Rose backed away. She left the barn after the others, but she did not follow them. Instead, she walked around the outside until she found the entrance to the next level, the one from which Dulcie had fallen. The door was slightly ajar, so she slipped inside without making any noise. She walked delicately to the edge of the fall-off and looked over. Directly underneath, Helen still bent over Dulcie, apparently taking her pulse again. Across the radius of the barn, Johnny and Otis were shaking out an old blanket they'd just found.