Killing Gifts (6 page)

A portly man returning from the washroom pushed past them with a critical glance at Hezekiah. Rose knew they didn't have much time. She was immensely curious about why Hezekiah would risk losing his position to speak to her.

Hezekiah took one step toward her and lowered his voice. “Maybe it's not my place to say this, Sister, but I wanted to warn you. They just had a murder at Hancock, a pretty young lady, and I noticed the young miss with you, and, well, I guess I just thought you oughta know what you're getting into. The Hancock Shakers are good people, but there's a killer in their village. I wouldn't go near the place, if I was you.”

“Hezekiah, I appreciate your concern, but I know about the murder,” she said, “because Sister Fannie sent for me to help find out what happened. If you left recently, then perhaps you knew the other hired workers and the novitiates?”

“Yes. I knew 'em all.”

“Then perhaps you might be willing to help me. I don't know those people. Could you tell me anything about them, anything you heard or noticed that might help me get to the bottom of this tragedy? It would be a great help to Sister Fannie and the others.”

Hezekiah's dark, broad face pinched in concern and concentration, and his deep brown eyes studied the flowered carpeting. “Maybe I shouldn't say this, but seeing as how it's for Sister Fannie . . . Those novitiates, they just arrived in the last few months I was there. I know the Shakers need more folk to join them, but I didn't trust these new ones, not a one of them.”

“Of all the novitiates, is there anyone you think could be capable of such a horrible crime?”

“Several of 'em, I'd say.”

An older porter, a small light-skinned man with curly white hair, entered the coach and raised bushy white eyebrows at Hezekiah.

“I'm sorry, Sister, but I'd best get busy. I can't lose this job.” He began to straighten the curtain over the upper berth, and Rose could see that his large hands were shaking.

“I understand, Hezekiah. If you think of anything, you'll tell me, won't you?”

“Yes, Sister.” Hezekiah turned to leave, then paused and turned back to Rose. “There's three I'd watch, if I was you—Sewell, Aldon, and Johnny. They all work together. To my mind, they don't act much like Shakers. Especially Sewell—his manner's a bit too free with the ladies, to my way of thinking. It's more than that, though. Ever since those folks arrived, that whole village changed. It's like they brought along the devil. Seemed like everybody turned mean. Some of them was going out and about at night. I'd see 'em from my window or hear them over my room, making noises like . . .”

“Like what, Hezekiah? You can say anything to me.”

“Well, Eldress Fannie used to say they wanted to live like the angels in a Heaven on earth, but by the time I left, it was like Hell sent up a pack of demons instead.” He spun around and was gone.

 

Gennie snuggled into her berth and turned toward the windows. The converted seats didn't create a bed as soft as hers back in her boardinghouse room in Languor, but the enclosed area was warm and cozy. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the train wheels soothed her jumpy nerves. Sleep didn't come quickly, as it usually did for her.

She watched the hills and villages glide by in the moonlight, gradually becoming more snow-splotched. She thought through the day. So far, the journey had lived up to her excited imaginings, but it seemed that every time she relaxed and enjoyed herself, that odd man would show up. It had happened again in the diner. She and Rose had finished their fresh fruit dessert and their planning, and they'd stood up to leave. Since they'd sat facing the direction the train was going, it was the first time Gennie had looked in back of her. There he was. He sat at a small table at the end of the car, sipping coffee and looking straight at her. He'd averted his eyes immediately and pretended to stare out the window. Gennie was only slightly encouraged—at least he'd seemed to understand that he'd been too forward. But she still felt a chill go down her spine.

Gennie wasn't about to confide her fears to anyone, including Rose. After all, she told herself, Rose might think she'd become far too prideful about her appearance. Since leaving the Shakers, Gennie had enjoyed many a worldly man's appreciation for her small, slender figure and her mass of auburn curls. Perhaps that was why she hesitated to marry Grady as quickly as he wished—she'd begun to see she had choices. At this moment, though, she missed Grady with a ferocity that shook her, even as she relished the adventure before her.

She curled up in a ball and pulled her covers tightly over her shoulders. Warmth relaxed her limbs, bringing her closer to sleep. Her eyelids wanted to droop, but she opened them as she felt the train slow to a stop. Out her window she saw a dimly lit platform and a dirty, snow-crusted sign announcing a town she'd never heard of. A small stone station, badly in need of a cleaning, was nearly dark inside. Under a meager shelter stood a large man, hunched in a thick overcoat, waiting for the coach doors to open.

Gennie watched sleepily, glad she was warm and snug in bed. A burst of wind swirled the snow under the wood benches lined up against the station wall. A figure exited the train and walked toward her. He stopped to chat briefly with the large man. They parted, and the large man stepped up onto the train. The exiting passenger walked past Gennie's window, almost close enough for her to reach out and touch. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, and he kept his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His dark hat was tilted over his forehead to stop the wind. Gennie didn't have to see his face to know it was the strange man who had set her nerves on edge since Cincinnati. He hurried through the station house door and slammed it behind him. Gennie held her breath. The train shivered, then started forward, but the man did not reappear. Gennie released her breath in a deep sigh. He would not be disturbing her again. She was asleep before the caboose had cleared the station.

SIX

“C
OME ON IN AND JOIN US
, G
ENNIE
. W
E'RE JUST HAVING A
glass of sherry together by the fire.” Mrs. Alexander, proprietor of Mrs. Alexander's Boardinghouse for Young Women, where Rose had insisted that Gennie stay, gestured her into her parlor to join the other boarders. “I have some nice tea ready, if you'd rather not imbibe, though I must admit I never saw the harm in a tiny glass of sherry, and I'm so glad that silly law is gone, so I can have a little sip in the evening again.” Mrs. Alexander looked as if she might often indulge in more than the occasional tiny glass, and as if this wasn't her first sip of the evening.

After the long train journey to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Gennie was more than ready for something stronger than tea. She glanced at the small circle around the fireplace and noted that she was the only young woman in the Boardinghouse for Young Women. She wasn't surprised. Times were hard, and any paying boarder must be a godsend. Besides herself, there were only two. An elderly man appeared to be snoozing in an overstuffed chair, one hand holding his sherry glass balanced on his thin thigh. He opened a sleepy eye when Mrs. Alexander introduced him as Mr. Bing, a long-term resident, then he resumed his nap. The other boarder—a plump, bright-eyed, middle-aged woman—scooted to one side of a worn velvet loveseat to make room for Gennie. The woman smiled warmly, and Gennie found herself settling on the frayed, lumpy cushion and accepting a glass of sherry, neglecting to mention her age. It suited her purposes to be thought of as older. She introduced herself, thankful that she could use her real name; a false name would be sure to confuse her at some point.

“I'm Mrs. Butterfield,” the woman next to her said, “but do call me Helen. Everyone does. Have a sip of your sherry, it'll warm your bones.”

Gennie did as she was told. The sweet liquid burned her throat all the way down, but she suppressed a cough and pretended sherry was an everyday indulgence for her.

“Now, tell me all about yourself,” Helen Butterfield said. “You have a sweet accent, rather Southern, I'd say. Where did you come from, and what is such a lovely young girl doing here all alone?”

Gennie put her glass on the table in front of her. She'd spent hours concocting her story, and it wouldn't do to let her mind get muddled. She reminded herself to keep it brief. It was more important to get information than to give it.

“Times are so hard back where I come from,” she said. “I just thought I'd come East to see if I could find a job.” She gave Helen her most ingenuous smile, then relaxed against the back of the loveseat and gazed around the room. She felt as if she'd been thrust decades back in time, the room was so littered with Victorian knickknacks. Next to her, a brocade-covered lampshade with a long fringe gave a rosy glow to her sherry glass. It brought back vague memories of her long-dead mother, who had loved pretty things. The light touch of a hand on her forearm brought her back to the present.

“You must be exhausted, poor dear,” Helen said.

“She just came in today, you know,” said Mrs. Alexander. “Probably had to sit up all night on the train, with heaven knows what sort of person snoring next to her.”

Gennie smiled and didn't offer the information that she'd slept peacefully in a berth, with Rose just above her. It would sound as if she had more resources than she'd led them to believe.

“Have you been here long?” Gennie asked Helen.

“Oh, no, dear, just arrived myself, though not from so far away as you, I suppose.” Helen sipped her sherry and sighed with appreciation. With disconcerting suddenness, she turned her bright gaze back to Gennie. “Tell me, do you have family back—where did you say you were from? The South? Tennessee, perhaps?” She raised her eyebrows and paused. Gennie chose to taste her own sherry again, and said not a word.

“Your family must be quite worried about you, traveling all alone like this. You must let me look after you while you're settling in.”

“That's most kind of you,” Gennie said, “but I'm sure I'll be fine. This isn't Boston, after all.”

“I should say not!” said Mrs. Alexander. “A young lady is quite safe here in Pittsfield. Why, we have Shakers nearby, after all.”

A snore from the snoozing Mr. Bing distracted them long enough for Gennie to decide that now was as good a chance as any to begin her questioning, despite the intrusive presence of Mrs. Helen Butterfield.

“Oh, I've heard of the Shakers,” Gennie said. “I've heard they are very generous and kind. Do you suppose I might get a job with the Shakers here? Do they need any extra hands, do you know?”

In the awkward silence that followed, Gennie turned her innocent gaze on each person in turn. Mr. Bing had opened his eyes partway and watched her with drowsy curiosity. Helen Butterfield's eyes were a shade too bright, and Mrs. Alexander was trying to hide her obvious excitement with a veneer of sadness.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Alexander, “I suppose you'll hear about it sooner or later, so I might as well tell you.” She slid to the edge of her seat and leaned forward. “Hancock Village is what our Shakers call their home, and I've been there many a time, buying eggs and butter. Never had the least trouble with them, not since I've been living here, which is my whole sixty years. Well, no trouble until recently, that is.”

Mr. Bing's head lolled back against his chair again, but the women all leaned in toward one another. Mrs. Alexander took a large gulp of sherry. “You see,” she said, “there's been a murder in Hancock Village. A pretty young girl it was, no older than you,” she said, nodding to Gennie, “though not so ladylike, of course.”

Gennie feigned shock. “Do they know who did it?” she asked.

“Well, as I said, a lady, she wasn't,” Mrs. Alexander said, raising her eyebrows.

“Celibates!” said Mr. Bing. He unfolded his long body from his seat, poured himself another sherry, and downed it in one gulp.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bing?” asked Gennie.

“Celibates,” he repeated, “pure and simple. In more ways than one.” He guffawed and poured another sherry. “It's unnatural, that's what it is. Leads to all kinds of evil doings.” He drained his glass. “My father was celibate. See what it got him.” He slid back into his chair and closed his eyes.

Gennie's mouth twitched. She tried to maintain her composure, but she lost the struggle when Helen caught her eye. Mrs. Alexander looked on in confusion as they laughed themselves to tears. Luckily, the sherry had sent Mr. Bing to sleep, and the unladylike behavior failed to rouse him.

“He was, you know,” Mrs. Alexander said. The drawn skin of her cheeks had turned a dull red, but she poured herself another glass of sherry.

“Who was what?” asked Helen.

“Mr. Bing's father. He was a Shaker. An orphan, he was, brought to the Shakers when he was just a baby.” Mrs. Alexander sipped twice. “He left at twenty-one or so. Word around town was he'd had a . . . well, you know, something going with one of the young sisters. He never would say, though. He was a closemouthed sort of man.” She drowned her regret in more sherry. “Not like the young ones nowadays.”

“Has anyone left the Shakers recently?” Gennie asked.

Mrs. Alexander cackled, and a few drops of amber liquid sloshed on her hand. She seemed not to notice. “There's hardly anyone left to leave,” she said. “and most of them older than me. I like the old sisters, though. It's those new ones . . . I s'pose the Shakers know what they're doing, and beggars can't be . . .” Her eyes blinked lazily and she frowned, apparently searching for her lost train of thought. “When I was a little tyke,” she said, “my mother used to take me along to visit the sisters for tea. Ooh, what a big, lovely place it was in those days.”

“These ‘new ones,' ” Gennie prodded. “Do you think they're just bread-and-butter Shakers?” When Mrs. Alexander squinted at her, Gennie realized she'd revealed more inside knowledge of the Shakers than she'd wanted to. “I mean, do you think they're just using the Shakers to get a bed and meals?”

“Oh, I wouldn't put it past that lot,” Mrs. Alexander said. “Poor Honora.” She shook her head sadly.

“I beg your pardon?” Gennie asked.

“Oh, you wouldn't know her, dear. Poor Honora had such a wonderful life once. She did love being a clergyman's wife, and she was very good at it, even though sometimes she had to look the other way when her husband's eyes started roving.”

Gennie had no idea what to say, or even if Poor Honora had anything to do with Hancock Shaker Village.

“Is Honora a Shaker now?” Helen Butterfield asked.

“Oh, dear me, no. It's that husband of hers, Aldon. He's the one went to the Shakers. Poor Honora never got over it. The shame, you know. I mean, it's one thing if your husband chooses to keep company with other women, that happens, but when he chooses—well, you know,
celibacy.
” Mrs. Alexander looked at her empty glass.

“Here, let me get you some more sherry,” Gennie said. She grabbed the glass from Mrs. Alexander's shaky hand, but she made no move toward the decanter. She wanted all the information she could get before Mrs. Alexander drifted off to the same land as Mr. Bing. Gennie was vaguely aware that Helen had settled back and was listening quietly.

“Do you know them well—the new lot?” Gennie asked.

“I most certainly do. My late husband, bless his soul, used to own the greengrocer's in town, and those children were such a nuisance.” She frowned at her own empty glass in Gennie's hand, then snuggled back in her armchair, apparently content to gossip.

“What children do you mean?” Gennie was losing hope that she'd get anything sensible from Mrs. Alexander, but it was worth a try.

“Oh, I don't remember all their names, it was so long ago. I can tell you, those children were nothing but little thieves, and they should be ashamed to set foot on Shaker land. Of course, they didn't come from good families, so I suppose they couldn't help themselves.”

“Are you talking about the novitiates?” Gennie could hear the frustration in her own voice. What good was a gossip if she couldn't follow her own storyline?

Mrs. Alexander squinted again; the term “novitiate” clearly meant nothing to her.

“Are these the same folks . . . ?” But Gennie could see it was no use. Mrs. Alexander had slipped sideways against the side of her wing-backed chair. Her face had softened into blissful peace. She and Mr. Bing snored in harmony.

“Perhaps we should let them rest, my dear,” Helen Butterfield said. “I'm sure you can find out more in the morning.”

“I wasn't trying to find out anything.”

“No, of course not.” Helen patted her shoulder, which for some reason irritated Gennie.

“You haven't mentioned what your business here is,” Gennie said.

“I guess we didn't get around to me.” Helen gathered up the empty sherry glasses and arranged them on a tray. She laughed lightly. “Well, I'm a collector, my dear, that's all. I collect Shaker furniture and whatnot. In fact, I'm planning a trip out to Hancock bright and early tomorrow morning. I have an idea—why don't we go together? We can go right to the Fancy Goods Store, and you can get that job you said you were looking for. I'm quite sure they'll welcome you. Good night, now.” She moved quickly for a large woman, and she was halfway up the staircase before Gennie could form her next question.

 

Rose tossed off her covers and shivered. Six
A.M.
seemed to arrive earlier in the East than it had in Kentucky, where it hadn't seemed so frigid outside of one's toasty bed linens. Her hands shook as she pulled on her wool work dress. Folks here must be tolerant of the cold, so they kept their buildings cooler than she was used to. Or perhaps Hancock had suffered even more than North Homage from this endless Depression, and they were cutting expenses wherever possible. Rose guessed the washroom might be even colder, so she wrapped her long outdoor cloak around her.

When she returned, she quickly tidied her retiring room, praying silently as she did so. She had arrived late the night before, and she'd chosen sleep in a real bed—one that wasn't moving—over unpacking her satchel. She folded her few belongings into the drawers built into the wall. She shook out her spare work dress and a winter Sabbathday dress and hung them on hangers, which she hooked over pegs lining the wall.

Rose looked around her temporary home. She'd barely glanced at it before falling into bed. The room was so like hers back at North Homage, yet different in ways that Elder Wilhelm would never have tolerated. On one wall peg hung a framed photo, probably dating back several decades, of horses in a pasture. An empty vase on her simple pine desk was, she knew from her previous visit, filled with flowers during warmer weather.

Rose started at the sight of her own thin frame and her pale, freckled face looking back at her from a large mirror hanging from several wall pegs. In North Homage, only a small, and usually cloudy, mirror was allowed in each retiring room, so Believers would not be tempted to admire their own appearances. It was one of Rose's duties, as eldress, to tidy Elder Wilhelm's room and mend his clothing, so she knew that he shaved with only a small pocket mirror.

The bell rang for breakfast, and Rose reluctantly slipped off her cloak and rehung it on a peg hanger. She would not be leaving the building until after the meal, so she had no good excuse to take it along.

She closed her retiring room door and found herself alone in a wide hallway, punctuated by numerous doors. Weak winter sunlight from two large windows did its best to brighten the hallway, but it also reflected off a thin layer of dust along the edges of the floor. Rose was torn between sadness and an ingrained desire to clean. She knew that the sisters did their best, but they were so few now, and growing older. They couldn't sweep every corner, every day—not in buildings that once had housed at least two hundred and fifty hard-working Believers. So much of the work was hired out these days, and cleanliness didn't have the same meaning for folks from the world. Rose vowed that, if she could find the time, she would help out wherever she could. In fact, it would be a good way to get to know everyone involved in the tragedy.