Killing Gifts (4 page)

When they reached the ticket booth, they found Rose waiting on a wooden bench, one arm draped over the satchel next to her. She looked like a visitor from the previous century. Her long, loose dress and hooded cloak might have gone unnoticed, but the palm sugar-scoop bonnet over her thin, white indoor cap gave her away. The clothing of passersby ranged from smart to worn, but they all stared. Rose seemed oblivious. Gennie was willing to bet that the book on her lap was a copy of the
Testimonies of Mother Ann Lee
, the Shaker foundress. Rose hadn't been an eldress for very long—not much longer than Gennie had been out in the world. They both still had much to learn.

Grady collected their tickets and handed them over with clear reluctance. “I've gotten you berths together for overnight, so you won't have to sit up in coach.”

“Grady, you didn't have to pay for my ticket,” Rose said. “The Society can reimburse—”

“Nonsense. I can afford it, and I want the two of you to be as comfortable as possible. It's too bad you couldn't have delayed your trip until summer; I could have gotten you a roomette on one of those fancy new Pullmans.”

“Yea, it was rude of the killer not to wait,” Rose said quietly.

Gennie grinned and noticed that Grady, ever polite, pretended not to hear. He accompanied them to the tracks and hailed a redcap to stow Gennie's extra luggage in the baggage car.

“Remember, call me every other night, Gen,” he said, and gave her a farewell kiss. “You will at least try to stay out of trouble, won't you?”

Gennie merely laughed and gave his hand a quick squeeze. She couldn't blame him for being worried; she supposed she would be, too, if he were going off to investigate a murder hundreds of miles away. It was good for him to find out what it felt like.

“She'll be fine, Grady,” Rose said. “We are not going off into uncharted territory. Hancock is as quiet and gentle a village as North Homage.” At Grady's raised eyebrows, she added, “Well, perhaps
more
quiet and gentle, in some ways—at least, under ordinary circumstances. With God's grace and Mother Ann's assistance, circumstances will be ordinary again in no time.”

 

“Now tell me everything,” Gennie said. “What's the plan? What part shall I play? Will you call me your assistant, or should I just wander in and ask to be a novitiate? What do you think? Oh, I have an idea—didn't you tell me the dead girl worked in the Fancy Goods Store? What if I ask for a job there? Then I could room in Hancock, couldn't I? That might be easier, because I could chat with all the other hired help, and I wouldn't have to pretend to be a Believer, although I could, of course, and that might be—”

“Gennie, slow down! We have lots of time before we reach Pittsfield,” Rose said. They'd barely settled into a coach car, stowed their small satchels on the floor near their feet, and pulled away from the station. Not five minutes earlier, Gennie's face had been streaked with tears as she'd waved good-bye to Grady.

“Let me gather my thoughts for a bit, and then we'll talk.” Rose patted Gennie's arm, then leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Gennie couldn't help a small sigh. Rose seemed so calm about everything. She wasn't interested in watching the scenery or exploring the train or even planning their investigation. Well, it wouldn't hurt to explore by herself, would it? She stood and brushed the creases out of her new wool suit. Rose opened her eyes.

“I'm just going to look around the train,” Gennie said, “so you can have some quiet.”

Rose's eyes were closed again before Gennie had left her window view and edged into the corridor. Gennie didn't yet have her train legs, and she stumbled as the car rounded a curve. She reached the door and hesitated. Though she'd taken several short train rides since entering the world, she'd never walked from car to car by herself. Grady had always been there to hold her elbow as they negotiated the unsteady passage.

She squared her small shoulders, pulled open the door, and stepped outside. She expected the roar of the wind past the speeding train, but it seemed louder than she'd remembered, now she was on her own. The shifting floor over the coupling just about sent her scurrying back inside the car behind her. Instead, she scolded herself. After all, she was the one who didn't want to be treated like a helpless baby. She hurried to the next car and congratulated herself on her bravery.

The thrill was beginning to fade after Gennie had traversed three more cars full of sleepy, bored passengers. She decided to try just one more. As soon as she entered the next car, she had that delicious naughty feeling she got each time she tried on a stylish gown, especially when the bodice was cut a shade low for Shaker comfort. She had found the club car. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the acrid mixture of cigar and cigarette smoke. The few women in the car sat close to the door, reading or chatting. Despite the early hour, several men relaxed in stuffed easy chairs around small tables, sipping what looked to her now practiced eye to be whiskey.

Gennie was not the least bit shocked, and she was pleased with herself for this evidence of worldly sophistication. Fascinated by the scene before her, she took in every detail, from the worn but plush easy chairs to the waiter dressed in a crisp white jacket. Only slowly did she realize that every eye in the car had turned toward her. Some of the male gazes gleamed with appreciation. The women looked her up and down with grudging admiration for the new rust wool suit that hugged her slight frame and the small swirl of a hat perched amid her curls. Gennie knew these were well-off women; they envied her appearance, not her relative wealth. In fact, without Grady's help, she'd more likely be traveling in a boxcar. Gennie drew herself up with pride, as much as she could manage with a mere five feet of height.

She took a step into the club car, trying to look as if she belonged in such a place. A young man sitting near the middle of the car eyed her over his whiskey glass. He put down his drink, stood, and started toward her. Gennie's heart climbed up her throat. With a quick, nervous smile, she spun around and made for the exit. With more speed than grace, Gennie traversed the coupling and opened the door to the passenger car she'd recently left. She found herself inches from the sinister man she'd seen in the terminal. His eyes widened as if he recognized her and didn't expect to see her there. She noticed his eyes were bloodshot; perhaps the club car was his natural habitat. With a murmured “excuse me,” she slid past him and hurried back toward the safety of Rose.

FOUR

D
ULCIE
M
ASTERS LEANED HER FACE TOWARD THE SPICY
warmth of the baked bean soup bubbling in the Hancock Shakers' biggest stovetop cauldron. Today she wasn't feeling so ill, but she always seemed to be cold. And hungry. Maybe the Ritz wasn't serving up baked bean soup to the rich, but the lumpy red-brown stuff looked mighty tasty to Dulcie—better by far than her suppers before she'd come to work for the Shakers, when she was lucky to have a potato. She'd gone without for so long that her wispy brown hair had started to fall out, but now it was growing back nice and fluffy again. She reached up and smoothed her hand over her head.

“Need me to chop any more onion for that soup?” Carlotta DiAngelo's hand hovered over a large, yellow onion. “Dulcie, you here today?”

“What?” Dulcie started and spun around.

“Onions?” Carlotta's thin, sharp-featured face tightened in irritation, like an impatient fox waiting for something interesting to chase.

Dulcie shook her head. “No, save it. Winter's got some time to go yet.” It wouldn't do to run short of food; then the sisters might decide it was too risky to share their meals with the hired help. They might even let her go, her and Carlotta, and maybe even her fiancé, Theodore, and then there'd be nothing. Dulcie turned back to the soup to hide her pale, expressive face, in case it showed any evidence of her fears. Carlotta had known her since childhood, and she'd tease. It was her way.

“Well, then, what are we supposed to do next?” Carlotta had a nasal voice, which often grew into a whine, especially when she got bored. “You'd think they could've left us at least one sister in here. Why do we have to do everything ourselves?”

Dulcie gave the soup a good stir and took a deep, delicious breath, so she wouldn't get irritable, too. “I told you,” she said, without turning around, “they're all fixing things up for Mother Ann's Birthday and for that eldress who's coming to visit.”

“Just what we need—company. I suppose we'll have to wait on her, too.”

Dulcie heard the clatter of crockery and guessed Carlotta was gathering soup bowls for the imminent arrival of the Believers, several novitiates, and the hired help for their noontime meal. The clattering stopped. Dulcie guessed Carlotta was about to speak—probably another complaint or maybe a bit of gossip.

“Why don't you get those bowls set up in the dining room?” Dulcie asked quickly. “They'll all be along soon, and it'd be good if we could show the sisters we can work in the kitchen without them.”

“In a minute,” Carlotta said. Several moments of silence followed, which Dulcie filled with vigorous stirring.

“Listen, Dulcie,” Carlotta said. “Something's wrong, I can tell. I can always tell. It's Julia, ain't it? You can't let that bother you. I mean, it's not like you two was all that close, you know, despite you and her being sisters. She was wild. She got what she asked for.”

“You don't know anything about anything!” Dulcie's normally gentle voice seemed to crash around the room and bounce off the copper-bottomed pots. Carlotta jerked as if it had shoved her backward.

“Look, I'm just trying to help. If you want to feel sorry for her, that's your business, but Julia never deserved nothing but what she got. You gotta get on with things and look on the bright side—she's not around to embarrass you anymore. Seems to me Theodore will be grateful not to have her for a sister-in-law.”

To her chagrin, Dulcie was shaking, but not entirely from anger. She stumbled to the worktable and leaned over it, steadying herself with her hands flat on its nicked surface.

“Hey, you okay?” Carlotta asked, scraping a chair over to Dulcie. “Here, sit. Did you eat breakfast? I wondered about that. You disappeared right after we served, and you didn't come back to eat. What're you up to, anyway? Where do you sneak off to all the time?”

From the floor above them came the faint sound of feet scuffing across a wood floor, signaling the arrival of the Believers and their guests. Carlotta clicked her tongue and said, “I suppose those bowls of soup had better get served, or we'll hear about it. You're sure in no condition to do the carrying; you'd fall right over and take supper with you. I guess that leaves me.” With a sigh of martyrdom, she clattered some bowls on a tray. “Dulcie, my girl, you stay right here, and I expect to hear all about what's wrong, soon as I finish,” Carlotta said, as she piled some items in the dumbwaiter and headed upstairs to serve.

As soon as Carlotta's back had disappeared, Dulcie hurried up the stairs to the ground floor and left by a back entrance, forgetting to grab her frayed jacket from a wall peg.

 

Dulcie rounded the corner of the Brick Dwelling House and the wind sliced through her. She shivered and clasped her arms tightly around her upper arms. She wished she'd paused long enough to grab that old jacket of hers. Not that it would have helped much; the cloth had worn thin, and the patches at the elbow were working loose. Sister Abigail had given her the old wool Shaker dress she was wearing, and now she wished she'd gone ahead and used the white kerchief that the sisters used to crisscross over their bodices in the old days. At least it would have provided one more layer.

She hadn't really considered where to go, once she'd escaped the kitchen. They were running out of rosewater for their baking; maybe she'd visit the Fancy Goods Store. It always seemed warmer there—maybe because it was attached to the Trustees' Office, where lots of folks visited from the world. She could surely talk the sisters into contributing a bottle of rosewater from their supply. It wasn't as if they had many customers these days, though they were hoping that Mother Ann's Birthday might bring in a few more collectors to buy the special Shaker dolls and pincushions and so forth the sewing sisters were making. But, no, the sisters would be in the dining room, and Julia was no longer there to mind the shop over the noon hour, so it would be closed.

Dulcie stopped on the path. A convulsive shiver shook her as she looked around the deserted village and gulped back a sob. The emptiness felt like a punishment, all she could look forward to in her life. She'd done such an awful thing. Of course, it was Julia's fault as much as anyone else's. Shame caught like a bone in her throat. With Julia gone, there was no one she could talk to—not the sisters, kind as they were; not her so-called friend, Carlotta; not even Theodore. Especially not Theodore.

Her footsteps broke the silence as she stepped off the cleared path onto the crusty snow. All she wanted was to go back to the Brick Dwelling House, to her warm little room, in which the Shakers were letting her stay while she worked for them. She'd curl up into a ball on her narrow bed, and pull the soft wool coverlet over her head. She might get caught, though. Instead, she crunched through the snow toward the old Round Stone Barn. It wasn't used anymore. She could usually count on being alone there. Being alone terrified her but seemed only right, somehow. Maybe she'd stay there until she died of the cold. In her most frightening nightmares, she nearly always died of either hunger or the cold, so it was only fitting that she should miss supper and freeze alone in the barn. Maybe that would fix things again.

Clouds of deep gray easily overpowered the weak winter sun, turning noon to near dusk. The Round Stone Barn was built on a hill, with entrances by ramps to all three levels. Dulcie jogged stiffly toward the upper entrance, noting that hers were the first feet to make prints in the snow. If the village missed her too quickly, she supposed someone could follow her footsteps, but if the sky kept its promise, fresh snow would cover her tracks within hours.

She slipped inside the barn and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. At one time, hay had been delivered by horse and wagon to this level and then pitched down to the animals below. Dulcie had never seen the barn in those days. Now it was just a sad, old abandoned building, with wind whistling through the cracks between the stones. Bits of ancient hay had blown into corners and stuck there, and no hands could be spared to tidy it up.

Without purpose, Dulcie began walking around the circle, clutching herself more tightly each time she passed a crack in the wall. About halfway around, she saw an old blanket tossed against the outer wall, as if someone had made a futile attempt to heal the injured stone. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders, not minding the bits of hay that poked at her shoulders and back. Relief from the cold lightened her mood somewhat, and she started to walk again.

A few minutes later, she realized she was not alone. Someone must have entered at a lower level, so she'd missed seeing the footsteps in the snow. Voices drifted up to her—angry, male voices. Carefully, she peered over the edge of the hayloft walkway. Exiting the stall just below her, she saw the tops of three heads—gray, gray-black, and blond. She recognized them all. The three men were novitiates, who had expressed a desire to become covenanted Believers and were living in the village, working side by side with the Shakers, as they explored the faith.

Sewell Yates, his gray-streaked dark head bent toward the ground, kicked absently at some old hay on the barn floor. He looked downhearted, and Dulcie felt sorry for him. He was such a mild-mannered fellow, always friendly to the women, from the sisters to the hired help. Theodore hated how friendly Sewell was to her and kept muttering about how he shouldn't be a novitiate if that's the way he was going to behave. But whenever she looked in those sad brown eyes, Dulcie felt her heart soften.

“This barn is a useless eyesore. We ought to get rid of it, just tear it down and start fresh.” The harsh voice belonged to Johnny Jenkins, a tall, broad-shouldered man with wavy blond hair. Dulcie thought he was mean, but Julia had liked him a lot—probably because he was still legally married, and a Shaker novitiate to boot. Julia had always fancied herself a temptress. Dulcie shivered and pulled her scratchy blanket closer at the memory of Julia.

“We mustn't do that,” Sewell said. The poor man sounded like he was pleading, Dulcie thought; you'd never know he was in charge of fixing the buildings, and Johnny was supposed to follow his orders.

“This barn is an architectural marvel. There's nothing else quite like it anywhere. It's our duty to preserve it,” Sewell continued. “With some work, we can bring it back, I know we can.”

“But will it ever be
useful
again?” asked the third man of the group, Aldon Stearn. He leaned back against a wooden pillar and crossed his arms. “Sometimes, Sewell, I wonder if you're suited for this life. You continue to value worldly things, like buildings, over the tenets of your faith.” Though his words were cruel, his deep baritone sounded more disappointed than contemptuous.

Sewell tightened his shoulders and seemed to become even thinner.

“Our time would be better spent if we concentrated on saving the Meetinghouse,” Aldon said. “That building, at least, is central to our faith. We are here to create a heaven on earth, not to preserve Hancock Village as a monument to a glorious past. None of that matters. What we do here, now, that's what matters. We must do what is right every minute of every day.” His voice rose, clear and insistent, up to Dulcie. It mesmerized her. She'd heard some of the sisters say that Aldon needed to study humility more deeply, but whenever he spoke of the Shaker faith, she tingled. She could still hear the preacher's voice in him—the voice that had enthralled her all those years she'd attended his Congregationalist church in Pittsfield. At the same time, a sudden dread caught her like a blow in the chest, knocking the breath out of her.

Johnny snorted in derision. He paced in a circle, looking to Dulcie like one of those lions she'd once seen at the circus, with his blond curls burnished by a sudden appearance of the sun through the windows encircling the top of the barn. “You're both wasting time,” he said. “If we want to keep this place going, we gotta move fast. We need money to create heaven on earth. All the talking in the world won't do it.”

“Given the abysmal state of the world's economy, just what do you think will bring in all this . . . lucre?” Aldon asked.

The silent Sewell had returned to kicking the dirty floor, his head bent. Dulcie wanted to run right down there and tell him to speak up, but she could never do such a bold thing. After all, she never really spoke up for herself, did she? Another wave of shame brought a painful heat to her cold cheeks.

“We gotta think big,” Johnny said, warming to his subject. “Put this place on the map. We could maybe stick concrete in the holes in these walls and turn the place into a restaurant—you know, serve good Shaker food for a fair price. We've still got all that kitchen equipment from when the village had lots of Believers. We could get it working again, move it in here—it would help heat the place. We've got lots of extra tables and chairs and dishes. Not everybody in the world is poor. We've had some folks come by wanting to collect Shaker furniture. I bet lots more would come to sit on Shaker ladder-back chairs and eat real Shaker food. Maybe we could get the whole Brethren's Workshop going again, make lots of furniture and sell it to collectors. Then we could—”

“Perhaps we could even make use of all our spare beds and turn the upper stories into a
brothel
,” Aldon said. “We could hire more women from the world—like that shopgirl.”

Dulcie gasped despite herself, as she used to when Aldon had shouted about sin during a sermon. She wasn't shocked by his reference to Julia, whose reputation was well-known. She edged closer to the drop-off. Aldon stood, stiff and straight, his hands balled into fists. Sewell shrank back, and Johnny, for once, was silent.

To Dulcie's surprise and pleasure, it was Sewell who broke the stunned silence. “I . . . I think we're forgetting,” he said, “that this is a barn, and we have limited resources. It's a
good
barn, a special one.” Emboldened, Sewell straightened and waved his arm upward to draw attention to the structure. All three heads looked up, and Dulcie pulled back out of sight.