Killing Gifts (8 page)

The store was silent for several minutes after Honora's dramatic exit. Gennie slid into a ladder-back chair and thought fondly of her nice, quiet mornings in the Languor Flower Shop, where the angriest customer she'd dealt with had complained that his roses had wilted before he could present them to his sweetheart.

“Does she visit often?” Gennie asked.

“Once or twice a week, I'm afraid,” Abigail said. She released a long sigh. “She's very hungry, poor woman. Very hungry and very angry.”

 

Rose busied herself scrubbing pans, everyone's least favorite task, and pondered the silence. Fannie had introduced her all around the kitchen, then left. Rose was the only Shaker sister in the room, and the two hired women seemed to feel too shy to talk around her. They avoided looking in her direction, so she took advantage of the situation to study them.

Both young women appeared to be about the same age, but there the similarity ended. Dulcie Masters, the dead girl's sister, was dressed in an old, loose Shaker work dress and she wore no apron, so her figure was completely hidden. Her face was round and pale. She moved quickly and seemed intent on her task. Though no indoor cap covered her pale brown hair, she looked and acted as if she were indeed a sister.

The woman named Carlotta DiAngelo was dark and thin, all sharp angles, with the hooded eyes of a hawk. Her gray cotton work dress fitted her snugly and fell to just below her knees, as if she'd grown up wearing it. Her movements were slow, bored. Clearly, she would rather be somewhere else.

Though both women wore light sweaters, neither seemed to notice the chill, which drove Rose to keep her hands in the warm, soapy water as long as possible. The kitchen was located in the basement of the Brick Dwelling House, and the several large ovens mostly went unused, so the temperature was much lower than Rose was used to back in North Homage's kitchen. Her wool work dress wasn't enough to keep her shoulders warm. She'd thought about working in her cloak, but it would be awkward.

The pans finished, Rose dried her hands and decided it was time to get the two women to talk. The faster she resolved this terrible situation, the faster she could get home to her own warm, cozy kitchen.

“Fannie mentioned that you two grew up together in Pittsfield,” Rose said, as she swung a copper-bottomed pan onto a wall peg. She turned back around to find Dulcie staring wide-eyed at her as if she'd threatened them with expulsion into the cold.

“Why'd you want to talk to Fannie about us for?” Carlotta's expression had hardened into a mask of distrust. “We ain't important. We're just the hired help. Although you'd hardly know it to look at Dulcie.” She grinned at Dulcie, whose cheeks reddened.

“We do not think less of you because you are not Shakers,” Rose said.

Neither woman responded. Rose suspected they did not believe her. “Is there anything the sisters could do to make you feel more welcome here? I'd be glad to help.”

Carlotta snorted softly, and Dulcie said only, “The sisters have been very kind.” She lifted a flat broom from its peg and began sweeping up crumbs from under the worktable.

Rose had hoped to earn some trust to ease her questioning, but she saw her stay in Hancock stretching into weeks if she could not find a way to loosen the tongues of these people. Fannie had said that Carlotta was a bit of a gossip, but she certainly hid it well. Back in Kentucky, Rose could always count on a gossip to be a good source of information. Maybe people were different here, more closemouthed around strangers. Agatha wasn't there to urge her to be patient, and Rose was not one to sit on her hands. It was time to push ahead.

“Dulcie,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and friendly, “I'm so sorry about your sister's sad death. You must be very upset. Were you close?”

Dulcie stopped in mid-sweep and looked as if she might crumple. But she said only “Thank you,” and returned to her sweeping.

Rose tried again. “Carlotta, Fannie mentioned that you and Julia were the same age. Did you go to school together?”

Carlotta laughed. “If you can call fourth grade school,” she said.

“You didn't go to the Shaker school?”

Carlotta shrugged her bony shoulders. “For a year. It was boring. I had better ways to spend my time.” She snorted and tossed her straight dark hair, like a frustrated mare impatient for her feed. “Maybe things are different down where you come from, but around here, we have to work hard just to eat and stay warm. Julia and me, we didn't have rich families. We had to make do.”

“You went to work young?” Rose asked.

Carlotta didn't respond.

“I suppose you had to work also, Dulcie?”

Again, Carlotta gave her characteristic snort. It was beginning to irritate Rose. “Dulcie? No, she's the baby sister. She got to go all the way through the Shaker school, got herself this job, and even got herself engaged, didn't you, Dulcie?” The bitterness in Carlotta's voice was unmistakable. She slopped a damp cloth onto the worktable as if it were responsible for her hard life.

“It's not my fault you and Julia were so wild,” Dulcie said. Her soft voice slid into a whine. “You didn't have to go and—”

“You mind your own affairs, Miss Dulcie Goody Two-Shoes,” Carlotta said, “and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you're wilder than you let on.” She tossed her cloth in the sink and headed for the door. “You two can clean this place up by yourselves.”

Rose watched Carlotta's thin back disappear. It seemed her questions had poked at a sore spot or two. It might be worth tracking down some information about this so-called wildness that Dulcie had attributed to both Carlotta and Julia. At this point, Rose was willing to look at anything that might help explain the girl's death. She turned to ask Dulcie for more information, but the young woman's cheeks had lost all color, and her chest heaved under her loose bodice. Before Rose realized what was happening, Dulcie's eyes rolled upward, and she collapsed, crashing against a ladder-back chair as she fell.

Rose ran to her and felt her pulse, which was slow and weak. She had broken the delicate chair and scraped her forehead on a cracked slat. An alarming amount of blood ran down the side of her head. Rose grabbed a clean rag and pressed it against the wound. She decided not to raise the alarm just yet. The cut was small, surely too small to need a stitch, and she knew that even slight head wounds bled profusely. This might be her only chance to probe Dulcie's secrets without prying ears around. She wished fervently that she could call Josie, North Homage's Infirmary nurse, whose discretion could be counted on.

In a few minutes, the bleeding stopped. Dulcie moaned and opened her eyes. She squinted at Rose as if she couldn't place her, then tried to scramble to her feet too quickly and tumbled down again. This time, Rose was able to catch her by her shoulders, which felt surprisingly thin.

“You've hurt yourself, but not too badly,” Rose said, helping Dulcie to an undamaged chair. “But I'm very concerned about this fainting spell. Have you had any before now?”

Dulcie shook her head.

“Have you been feeling unwell?”

“Just a little. It's nothing to worry about.” Dulcie tried to stand, and Rose pushed her back down.

“A fainting spell is indeed something to worry about,” Rose said, using the firm tone she reserved for sisters who tried to avoid a much-needed confession. “You need to tell someone. If you are afraid to talk to Fannie or any of the Hancock sisters for fear of losing your job, then you'd better tell me. I can help you, and I give my word as a Believer that I will do my utmost to protect you.” She pulled over another chair and sat directly across from Dulcie. “Let me help you,” she said, more gently.

Tears spilled down Dulcie's cheeks and diluted the track of drying blood. She wiped away the tears and swallowed hard. Her red-rimmed eyes searched Rose's face with the hope and longing of a terrified child.

“If you tell,” she said, “my life will be over.”

Rose leaned toward her and took her cold hands. “If you don't let someone help you, this secret, whatever it is, might make you very ill.”

Dulcie took a deep, ragged breath. “I'm not ill,” she said. “I'm pregnant.”

EIGHT

P
ART OF THE
B
RICK
D
WELLING
H
OUSE'S THIRD FLOOR
had been set aside to house the female hired help who needed a place to live. Despite the sparse furnishings, for most of the women these were the warmest, cleanest, and most private rooms they had lived in for many years. After Dulcie's startling revelation, Rose accompanied the young woman back to her room to extract the whole story. Since she'd become eldress, Rose had heard enough of the sisters' confessions to know that nothing could shock her—and that the process could work miracles with a soul in desperation. It mattered little that Dulcie was not a Shaker sister.

Surrounded by her own belongings, Dulcie was calmer. Rose glanced around the room, so familiar to her because it was so similar to all other Shaker retiring rooms. Dulcie put some effort into keeping it neat. The linens on the narrow bed were as smooth as any Shaker hands could have made them. The floor was swept, and a spare Shaker work dress hung from a hanger hooked over a wall peg. However, Dulcie's worldly sensibilities showed in the decorations she had placed wherever she could find a surface—a cluster of old photographs in cracked frames; an empty red glass vase; a bottle of cheap perfume; and an old Shaker box, in need of refinishing.

Shyly, Dulcie offered Rose the one ladder-back chair, then sat on her bed. “It was kind of you to bring me back to my room,” she said. “I'm feeling much better now, really I am. You don't need to stay.”

“I was hoping we could talk awhile,” Rose said.

Dulcie's puffy eyes roamed around her room, landing everywhere except on Rose. “I wish I could offer you some tea or something.”

“That isn't necessary.” Rose pulled her chair closer to the bed. “Dulcie, I think we should talk about what you told me just now in the kitchen.”

Dulcie scooted farther back on her bed. “There's nothing you can do,” she said. “It's my problem.”

“Nay, it isn't just your problem,” Rose said. “You are carrying a child, and if you do nothing to care for yourself, you and your child will both suffer.”

Dulcie nervously twirled a ring with a small red stone around her finger.

“Is that your engagement ring?” Rose asked.

“It's a promise ring. Theodore gave it to me. He's saving for a real engagement ring.”

Rose's question seemed to upset Dulcie even more. “I believe that I can help you,” Rose said. “If you will let me. Have you been to a doctor?”

“I could never afford a doctor.”

“The sisters would take you, and they would pay.”

“No, they can't know. You don't understand. Oh, I shouldn't have told you anything. It was so stupid of me. Theodore is right about me.” With an awkward movement that seemed to cause pain, she pulled her legs underneath her.

“Theodore is your fiancé, isn't he? Did he warn you not to reveal your condition to anyone?”

Dulcie said nothing.

“If he values the world's opinion over your health and the baby's future, if he won't take responsibility, then he is not worthy of you.” The words came out harsher than Rose had intended.

“I know the Hancock Shakers well. I can promise you that Sister Fannie will help you through this, but you must confide in her. Or let me tell her. She and I will guard your privacy as long as possible, and you will have a place to live and be cared for during the birthing.”

“No!” Dulcie flinched, as if the power of her own voice had frightened her. “You can't tell
anyone.
Please.
Theodore would find out. He would never stand for it. He would leave me. I can't . . . I can't let that happen.”

Rose's compassion was being sorely tested. She considered tucking Dulcie into her bed, then marching right over to Fannie and telling her everything. After all, the Believers considered it helpful to air sins to the entire community. Better to get this all out in the open. Better that she hadn't gotten involved in the first place, Rose thought. Her still evolving eldress instincts had gotten her into quagmires before. Yet on the other hand, both Dulcie and Theodore were connected with Julia, the dead girl, so Rose must inevitably involve herself with them.

“I'll tell you what,” she said. “You won't be able to hide your condition forever, but I won't reveal it for as long as possible. Meanwhile, I myself will take you to a doctor.” Wilhelm wouldn't like it, but she could have Andrew wire her sufficient funds to cover the expense of a doctor's visit and whatever medication might be necessary.

“But then the doctor would know,” Dulcie objected. “He would tell Theodore and everyone else.”

“Doctors don't do that. He will respect your privacy. If it will help you feel safer, I will take you to a doctor in another town. You
must
get medical care. You are obviously ill and in pain, and you are putting your baby in danger.”

Dulcie was silent for several moments and then raised her eyes to Rose's face. “All right,” she said, with a steadier voice. “I'll go with you to see a doctor. I know it may not seem like it, but I want my baby to have a good life.”

Rose sighed with her whole body. She urged Dulcie to snuggle under her covers and rest. Feeling drained herself, Rose turned out the light and closed the retiring room door behind her. Her work had just become even more complicated. Regretfully, she rejected the notion of a nap and, instead, headed out into the cold to find Brother Ricardo, who oversaw the Brick Garage, so she could arrange to borrow an automobile as soon as possible.

 

After the excitement of Honora Stearn's visit, the Hancock Fancy Goods Store had settled into what was, for Gennie, frustrating boredom. Kitchen work was tedious, but at least cooking and cleaning up kept her busy. The flower shop she worked in was slow at times, but she could always immerse herself in arranging flowers and herbs. Here in the Fancy Goods Store, she had absolutely, totally nothing to do. Though it had only been a few hours, she felt as if she'd already sat for days, watching the door for any sign of an actual human being.

Sister Abigail spent her time in apparent bliss, rocking gently and knitting a red scarf at breakneck speed. She had asked nothing of Gennie, and she offered nothing in the way of conversation. Meanwhile, Gennie had wiped imaginary dust from every item in the store and rearranged the display of boxes. At Abigail's urging, she had sampled the candied sweetflag, savoring its sweet spiciness. Now she slumped against the curved slats of a ladder-back chair and lapsed into fond thoughts of Grady and longings to be with him.

Working in the store, she decided, would net her nothing except to keep her safely away from the excitement, which she suspected was Rose's intent all along. She should have insisted on pretending to be a novitiate. She'd be in the thick of things right now, working side by side with the murder suspects. The thought of what she was missing propelled her out of her chair so fast that it scraped the floor. Abigail started, gave her a puzzled look, then began to count her stitches.

“Sorry, I . . .” Gennie said, but Abigail was already engrossed in her knitting. With a sigh, Gennie turned to the window. A young man was approaching the store. He was dressed in simple brown work clothes, clearly Shaker in style, though not as old-fashioned as the clothing Wilhelm insisted they wear in North Homage. He must be one of the novitiates.

From what she could see, he was tall and thin and not at all bad-looking. She'd lived with the Shakers long enough to experience a twinge of guilt when she noticed an attractive man, but that didn't stop her. He swept some snow off the steps with his feet, then whipped off his hat as he crossed the porch toward the front door. Gennie caught sight of wavy black hair, streaked with silver.

By the time he came through the inner door leading to the Fancy Goods Store, Gennie had positioned herself behind the counter. She gave him a welcoming smile as he entered. He stopped just inside the door and returned her smile, holding her gaze with his own. There was something else in those liquid brown eyes, something compelling. Now she felt genuine guilt. However, she told herself that this intriguing man was a Shaker novitiate and just being friendly to the newly hired help. Nothing to worry about. But she rearranged her face into a more businesslike demeanor.

“Sewell, how nice of you to stop by,” Abigail said, carefully pushing her knitting back on the needles and laying it on her rocking chair seat as she rose to greet him. “Let me introduce you to Miss Gennie Malone, who has come all the way up from the South to help us. Gennie, this is Sewell, soon to be one of the brethren, we hope.” Such was the pride and warmth in her voice that Abigail might have been introducing her own son.

Sewell shifted his gaze back to Gennie, tilting his head with interest. Gennie felt her cheeks flush.

“All the way from the warm South, just to help us? We are honored,” he said. He had a gentle voice, which reminded Gennie of her favorite crick, behind the herb fields at North Homage, after a spring rain. It was impossible to take offense at his teasing.

“Sewell has been such a godsend,” Abigail said. “He has architectural training, you know, and he has been developing all sorts of wonderful plans for saving our poor old buildings.”

Gennie noticed that Sewell continued to hold her eyes while Abigail extolled his virtues. “It's work that I enjoy,” he said, with quiet modesty. “Did you know the Shakers in Kentucky?” he asked.

“I've heard good things about them.”

“Ah. Then perhaps you are considering becoming a Believer?”

Gennie couldn't think of a quick answer to that, so she just shrugged.

“That was too personal a question, I'm sorry,” Sewell said. “I only wondered because you've come such a long way just to be with Shakers.” He shifted his gaze and his smile to Abigail.

“I've come with difficult news, Abigail,” he said. “I may not be able to finish those oval boxes you wanted as quickly as I'd hoped. The police want to question me again this afternoon. I suspect they may arrest me for Julia's murder.”

Abigail dropped onto her rocking chair with a thump, ignoring the pile of knitting beneath her. “They can't possibly think you had anything to do with that. Can they?” Her voice came out as a squeak.

Now that she was no longer the object of attention, Gennie watched Sewell carefully. She was surprised at his open admission of his fears. She noted that he was more than thin; he was gaunt, his flesh drawn tightly over long, slight bones. In the light from the windows, his cheeks were hollow caverns beneath his cheekbones. Gennie felt an urge to feed him.

Before Sewell had a chance to answer, a thin young woman, dressed in worldly work clothes and carrying a basket full of fabric items, slipped in the door just behind him. She edged around and stood too close to him. He didn't move, but his eyes darted nervously. The young woman's grin and one arched eyebrow conveyed both flirtation and challenge, as if she were daring him to step out of bounds.

“Hello, Carlotta,” he said. With a nod to Gennie and Abigail, he was out the door before Carlotta could formulate a response.

Carlotta turned her grin on Gennie. “Dreamy, isn't he?” she asked. “You must be the girl who's takin' Julia's place, now she's dead.”

Gennie said nothing. As she remembered from Rose's description, Carlotta was a hired girl, a friend of Julia's, who worked in the kitchen, which probably explained her odd disposition. Kitchen work could make anyone cranky and rebellious.

“Are those the extra pincushions the sisters promised?” Abigail asked, with none of the warmth she'd lavished on Sewell.

“Yeah, and some of those ugly apple-head dolls.”

“I'll take them, and you can get back to work.”

“Sure,” said Carlotta. “Also, Fannie said I should ask if you want Miss Gennie here to have a sandwich during the noon meal, like Julia used to sometimes, so you can go eat in the dining room with the others. Of course, after Julia, you may not want any more girls left alone in the shop.”

“That'll be enough, Carlotta. No one can be sure it was Julia who took those items, so don't go spreading stories around. The poor girl is gone; leave her be.” Abigail turned to Gennie. “Would you be willing to stay and eat here while I'm in the dining room? After I return, you can have an hour to yourself before coming back to work. Otherwise, we have to close the store during the noon hour.”

“That would be fine,” Gennie said, trying to keep her enthusiasm out of her voice. An hour on her own, to wander around the village. Then she could finally get some useful sleuthing done.

“I'll be along in about half an hour then,” Carlotta said. “Wish I could stay for a chat, but the food won't cook itself.”

Abigail and Gennie watched Carlotta negotiate the snowy walk toward the Brick Dwelling House. “I know that girl is a friend of Dulcie's,” Abigail muttered, “but I'm glad she'll only be here through Mother Ann's Birthday. I doubt she does much work at all when no one is looking. It's so difficult these days, with so few of us. Right now we have nearly as much hired help as we do Believers, and none of them cares about work as we do. Not even Dulcie and Theodore, though they're the best of the lot.”

Abigail shook her head and returned to her rocking chair to resume her knitting. She seemed to have forgotten Gennie's presence. “Imagine accusing Julia of theft, just because she worked here,” Abigail muttered under her breath as she frowned at her stitches. “Why, it could have been anyone wandering in when there was just poor Julia to watch over everything. Probably just a child wanting a toy to play with. They have so little nowadays.”