“NO, MA’AM, I’M SORRY, BUT THE SHERIFF WANTS Y’ALL to stay put for now. We’ll let you know when it’s okay to leave.” Grady’s newest officer was well over six feet tall, with thick black hair that stuck out at odd angles. More black hair curled across his massive arms and broad hands. Since both he and the older officer were named Hank, and he looked so much like a black bear, the staff in the Sheriff’s Office had taken to calling him Bar.
Beatrice looked Bar up and down, then complied more readily than usual. “Well, I’ll just keep my bag with me, and soon’s you say the word, I go out that door.” She claimed the settee, placing her suitcase next to her and her pocketbook in her lap. Gennie squashed a chuckle; Beatrice had walled herself in for protection. Grady worried that Bar was too gentle for police work, but with those looks, he could intimidate without moving a muscle.
The guests had settled in the parlor after Grady told them they could not yet leave the hostel. No one seemed inclined to stay upstairs alone. Bar and Hank had scattered the chairs around the room, to keep individuals separate during Grady’s questioning. Everyone seemed content to remain as far apart as possible. Even the news that Brother Linus was missing did not allay their mistrust of one another.
It could be anyone, Gennie thought. It would take more than a few hours missing to convince her it was Brother Linus, however. She hadn’t known him well when she was growing up—she’d had far less contact with the brothers than the sisters—but she remembered him as cheerful and even-tempered. The idea that he would toss aside his beliefs and deep commitment for a fling with Mina Dunmore was laughable. Even if Linus had found Mrs. Dunmore attractive—which twenty-year-old Gennie couldn’t imagine—it seemed out of character for him to have followed through with his feelings. Besides, Mrs. Dunmore was just . . . well, unpleasant.
Gennie had been lucky enough to snag a wing chair and one of Daisy’s cast-off fashion magazines. Sun streamed through the open curtains. It would have been a perfect day for a worship service followed by a walk through the Shaker gardens. Her mouth watered as she thought about nibbling on tender young spearmint and lemon balm leaves or rubbing her hands against the lavender stalks that had begun to turn from brown to gray-green.
Instead, she was stuck inside with a group of people she’d be glad never to see again. Her quiet weeks of contemplation were not to be. She and Grady had been thrown together again by death. She’d needed to be alone because Grady’s presence confused her, stirred her up until she couldn’t think straight. Now here she was, stirred up anyway. She swung a crossed leg with unladylike vigor. She flipped the magazine shut, tossed it on a nearby table, and sprang to her feet.
“Ah, the young,” Horace von Oswald said. “Such energy.” Horace had, of course, appropriated the other wing chair, where he sat like a lump of lard, watching his fellow guests.
Gennie ignored him and paced over to a window. It was hard to tell that the worship service had been canceled—dozens of folks wandered the village, paying no attention to the paths. She let out a startled cry as a man appeared on the other side of the window. Gennie recognized him as one of the men she’d seen with Betty, the ghost watcher she’d met Friday night. He stared at her, then tried to peer beyond her into the room. Gennie yanked the curtain shut. She jumped as she turned and found Daisy Prescott standing right behind her.
“I suppose you can’t blame them for being curious,” Daisy said, “but it really is rude. Do you think Brother Linus is the murderer?”
“I doubt it,” Gennie said.
“Oh? Why not? Just because he’s a Shaker?” Daisy’s penciled eyebrows arched over her eyes. Gennie noticed that she’d plucked out every last eyebrow hair, which gave her an old-fashioned look, as if she’d come straight from the Roaring Twenties.
“No,” Gennie said, “not because he’s a Shaker, though I think it makes him a less likely suspect.”
“Really? I’d think it would make him more likely—all that stifled desire and so forth.”
“It’s a commitment people from the world don’t understand,” Gennie said. Aware she was getting testy, she moved away from Daisy and found a rocker set apart from the others. She just wanted to be left alone. She hadn’t realized before that Daisy, in her own self-effacing way, could be just as irritating as Horace and the others. Most of the guests seemed to be nursing deep grudges. Including the victim—Mina Dunmore had always sounded like she was angry at the world.
As she considered the room full of potential suspects, Gennie felt her interest quicken. What could have brought such an odd assortment of folks to the Shaker Hostel? None of them seemed to fit there. They had shown no curiosity about the Shakers—worse, they criticized Shaker beliefs and practices. A Shaker Hostel room cost a bit less than a room in the most respectable of the Languor boardinghouses, but North Homage was isolated, and there was only the one old car to provide transportation into town for shopping and entertainment.
Grady hadn’t questioned Saul Halvardson. He seemed the most easygoing of the group—was that just a cover? What was he doing there? Certainly not selling fancy undies to the sisters. He didn’t seem to have much interest in working, but he had money to spend on numerous bottles of port, cigars, and coffee.
During her brief time in the world, Gennie had learned that men often responded to her with interest. Normally she did not encourage their attentions. She was an engaged woman, and she made sure to keep her ring visible. However, now was not the time to worry about propriety. She caught Saul’s eye and sent him a rueful smile, as if to say, Isn’t this a mess? So inconvenient.
Saul was at her side in moments. He pulled another rocker next to hers and settled down for a friendly chat.
Gennie leaned toward him and gazed up with a trusting expression. She hoped Bar wasn’t watching; he might be concerned enough to report her behavior to Grady. “So what do you think, Mr. Halvardson? Did Brother Linus kill poor Mrs. Dunmore?”
“Call me Saul, I beg you. Mr. Halvardson sounds so . . . well, old. And may I call you Gennie? Lovely name—Gennie, that is. Suits you. It brings to mind sweet young maidens picking spring flowers.”
Gennie began to understand how Saul sold so much underwear, but she wasn’t impressed. In fact, she felt a sudden urge to excuse herself and take a warm bath with lots of soap. Instead, she tinged her expression with shy gratitude and leaned closer. “About Mrs. Dunmore,” she prompted him.
“Poor lady. I’m afraid it does look like that brother did it. Otherwise, why would he disappear? Isn’t that an admission of guilt?”
Gennie shrugged one shoulder and didn’t offer an opinion. In fact, she could think of several reasons Linus couldn’t be found, but her aim was to get Saul talking. “But what I don’t understand,” she said, “is why Brother Linus would do such a terrible thing. Can you?” She tilted her head at him. However, she refused to bat her eyelashes; there were some depths to which she would not sink.
“Men do unspeakable things,” Saul said. “Especially when ladies toy with their hearts.”
“I had no idea Brother Linus had any interest in Mrs. Dunmore’s heart. How did you know?”
Saul gazed into space while an enigmatic smile played around his full lips. It was very effective. “I suppose I am rather attuned to such things,” he said. “So when I heard them together in Mrs. Dunmore’s room last night, I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, of course, but not surprised.”
Gennie gasped. “You heard him in her room? In the middle of the night?” She was afraid she’d overdone it, but apparently that wasn’t possible with Saul.
“Yes, I fear so. It must have been two o’clock, pitch dark, and I was awakened from a deep sleep by lewd laughter. I thought you ladies might be alarmed, so I went out into the hall to find out where the sound was coming from. I was appalled, of course, when I realized it was Mrs. Dunmore’s room. I thought she wasn’t like that—widow lady and all. She must be at least forty.” His appreciative eyes roamed over Gennie’s young face.
Gennie had first heard about the man in Mrs. Dunmore’s room when Mrs. Berg had mentioned it at breakfast that morning. Saul hadn’t said a word about it then. So was he just trying to impress her, using the story to paint himself as the protective male? He was certainly pouring on the not-so-subtle flattery, at poor Mina Dunmore’s expense. Chances were he wouldn’t have told this same story to Grady.
“I would have been too scared to go out into the hall like that,” Gennie said. “What if someone had gotten into Mrs. Dunmore’s room from the outside?”
With a well-manicured hand, Saul waved away any suggestion of fear. “Oh, I knew it wasn’t dangerous. Like I said, Mrs. Dunmore was laughing, and the man’s voice didn’t sound threatening, what I could hear of it.”
“Could you tell who the man was from his voice?”
Saul rubbed his chin with his index finger. “Now that you mention it, the voice was pretty quiet.”
“How did you know it was a man?”
“Because it was so low and deep. Women just don’t talk like that. And Mrs. Dunmore’s laughter was, well, too friendly, if you catch my meaning.” His smile spread slowly, as if he’d drifted into pleasant memories.
“Couldn’t it have been someone other than Brother Linus? I mean, what about . . .” She leaned toward Saul and whispered, “What about Mr. von Oswald?”
Saul glanced at Horace, across the room. Before she could stop herself, Gennie allowed her gaze to follow. Horace sat alone, silent, watching them. She told herself he couldn’t possibly hear them, but she couldn’t shake the conviction that he knew what they were talking about. With his insatiable curiosity, it wouldn’t surprise her if Horace knew how to read lips. Just to be on the safe side, she turned away from him, to hide her face. Saul did the same.
“Somehow I just can’t believe that Mrs. Dunmore would invite Horace into her . . . No, It’s unthinkable,” Saul said. “They hated each other from the first moment they met.”
“Sometimes hate and passion go hand in hand,” Gennie said. Saul raised his eyebrows at her, and she knew she’d blundered. Sweet young maidens could be the objects of passion for men like Saul, but they weren’t supposed to have any insights about it. “I mean, what if they actually had met before, maybe when they were young? What if they had been in love, and then they got separated somehow, or one of them went away? When they saw each other again, the spark just ignited.” Gennie whispered with as much romantic fervor as she could manage. The notion was ridiculous, but Saul seemed to give it deep consideration.
“Now you mention it,” he said, “that could have happened. But wouldn’t they have given themselves away before now?”
“Perhaps. It makes more sense to me than the theory that Brother Linus was her visitor. I suppose you didn’t notice when they left Mrs. Dunmore’s room?”
“Well, actually, I did hear a door opening and closing sometime later, maybe a half hour or so. I was just drifting off again. Whoever it was sure was quiet, though. I didn’t hear any footsteps, and if it’d been Mrs. Dunmore and a man, it seems to me they’d be making a racket. They must have been imbibing port for quite some time.” He frowned, perhaps regretting his generosity with the port.
“Oh,” Gennie said, with a dollop of shocked innocence, “are you quite sure they were drinking together in her room? How do you know?”
Saul’s eyes darted sideways. “I’m sure I heard that they were. Someone said so.” He sat back and crossed his legs. “I could have heard wrong, of course.”
Gennie didn’t pursue the matter further, but she knew her digging might have turned up gold, at least a small nugget. Saul might just be creating facts out of Mrs. Berg’s speculations at breakfast, but there was another possibility—that he had seen the bottle in Mrs. Dunmore’s room. Or he’d given it to her himself.
“I don’t suppose you looked out the window?” Gennie asked.
“I was worn out by then. Next thing I remember, it was nearly time for breakfast. What about you? Didn’t you hear anything at all?”
“Oh, I sleep like a baby,” Gennie said. She had no intention of sharing any information, just collecting it.
Gennie stood at a small window halfway up the hostel staircase, watching the other guests drive away in the Society’s huge old Buick. An entire day had passed with no sign of Brother Linus and no progress in finding Mina Dunmore’s killer. Now that he suspected Brother Linus of the murder, Grady had told everyone they could leave the village for the afternoon—as long as they were back by evening. Horace had offered to drive. Gennie had decided to stay home, citing the onset of a sick headache. In fact, it had been some time since she’d felt so well—or so full of energy.
She watched the rear of the car disappear down the road to Languor, then waited to make sure the dust stayed settled. She listened for several moments. A faint tick-tock came through the open parlor door, but no other sound spoke of human presence. It struck her how rarely she had been completely alone in a building. For what she wanted to do, being completely alone was essential. Satisfied, she went downstairs to the kitchen. The warm, rich scent of rosemary biscuits baked in a wood-burning oven still hung in the air, making Gennie wish she could linger for a snack, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t guess how long the other guests’ errands in town might take. Mrs. Berg, at least, would have to be back no later than four o’clock to start fixing dinner, and it was already one forty-five.
Gennie was an observant young woman. She knew that Mrs. Berg had a master key for all the hostel rooms and that she carried it in her apron pocket. When she wasn’t wearing her apron, she usually tied the sash in a bow and hung it on a wall peg, leaving the key inside the pocket. Gennie located the apron without difficulty, extracted the key, and hurried upstairs. She stood in the hallway looking at the row of closed doors. Of all the guests, Gennie was most suspicious of Horace von Oswald. If she had time to search only one room, it should be his.
The master key worked smoothly, and she was inside Horace’s room in seconds. She closed the door behind her, locking it from the inside. If the worst happened and Horace came back early, at least he wouldn’t be put on guard by an unlocked door, and his fumbling with the lock would give her a few seconds to hide—where, she had no idea.
She started at one end of the room and worked her way across, examining everything she could find. His room was neat—by the world’s standards, anyway. He seemed to own almost as little as a Shaker brother. His few outfits—all of which Gennie had seen him wear—hung from hangers on pegs. A nightshirt looked like it had been tossed at another peg, probably by Mrs. Berg when she’d straightened the room. Shaving things lay on the desk, along with a pen and some blank sheets of paper. Pretty disappointing so far, Gennie thought. Time to dig deeper.
Like most Shaker retiring rooms, this one had drawers and a small cupboard built into the wall. Gennie opened the cupboard first. It was completely empty. She felt around it just to make sure. That puzzled her. Even Believers normally had small items—books, letters, journals—that stowed easily and neatly in their cupboards. She went on to the drawers. The top one held a small supply of socks and underwear. The sight of men’s underwear failed to shock Gennie—not because she was now of the world, which seemed to make some women more squeamish, but because she had done so many laundry rotations that male clothing was no mystery to her.
She moved quickly through the remaining three drawers and found nothing the least bit interesting. Horace didn’t even read, as far as she could see. He sounded so literate, though; he had to have books somewhere. Determined to find something to justify her mistrust of him, Gennie went through everything one more time. Nothing. Then she remembered a tidbit from her childhood—it was possible to hide small or flat items under the mattress of a Shaker bed.
Mrs. Berg had made Horace’s bed, that was clear. No Shaker sister would have left such wrinkles in the bedclothes. Gennie figured she could tear it apart and put it back together, and no one would be the wiser. She flipped the blanket back and dropped it over the foot of the bed, then ripped the sheets away from the mattress. The Shakers, who had many more spare mattresses than covenanted Believers, had piled three thin mattresses on each hostel bed. The people of the world required comfort. Her heart thudding with delighted anticipation, Gennie whipped off the first mattress. All she found was the next mattress. She slid the second mattress onto the floor. Again, she found nothing. Okay, there was still one last chance. The netting under the bottom mattress surely was tight enough to keep something—a journal, maybe—from falling to the floor. This time she moved more slowly, staving off disappointment. Nothing sat on top of the netting. However, through the netting, Gennie saw a small, dark, rectangular object. Horace had secured it to the bed with lengths of string that almost blended into the pattern of the strong fibers supporting the mattresses.
Gennie cried out in glee, then clamped her hand over her mouth. She reminded herself that Horace was crafty, and he’d been the one driving the Buick. He could show up at any moment. She fumbled at the knots holding the object to the bed, which were so complex they reminded her of a lock. She forced herself to slow down. If she couldn’t replicate those knots, Horace would know instantly that someone had been into his secret storage case. She leaned in close and tried to memorize each step as she loosened the strings. She could feel beads of sweat on her forehead; she swiped at them with her forearm without letting go of the knot she was puzzling over. Finally, after the longest five minutes of her life, she undid one knot. She repeated her actions. As the second knot loosened, the dark object slid onto the floor with a light thump.
Gennie crawled under the bed frame and retrieved the prize. It was a small, battered, leather case, just big enough to hold writing paper. The case was too old and inexpensive to have a built-in lock, but Horace had cleverly laced the handles together with more string. This man has something to hide. Gennie applied herself to the knot. By now she’d become an expert, so it took only a few seconds to unravel the makeshift lock. Feeling like it was Christmas morning, she laid the case on the bed and opened it.
Papers. She scooped them out, examined the case, even held it upside down and shook it, but nothing else fell out. She applied herself to the papers. The top page was handwritten, with small, neat letters and lines so straight they must have required a ruler. A centered title topped the page. It was a story—the same story Mrs. Berg had told them Saturday evening in the parlor, about the young Shaker sister who’d inherited a fortune and was killed for it. Gennie scanned several pages. Yes, it was very close, though some of Mrs. Berg’s details had been left out. But what did it mean?
She began riffling through the stack of pages, hoping for a clue, but before she could read any more, she heard a rumbling sound outside. A car door slammed, and the rumbling started again. She didn’t have to look out the window to know what had happened. One of the brothers must have driven a hostel guest home. Probably not Horace—after all, he’d been driving the others—but she couldn’t afford to get trapped in his room.
She selected one page from the middle of the stack, folded it into a small square, and crammed it into the pocket of her sweater. Now came the hard part—putting everything back the way it was. She stuffed the papers back in the case—more or less in the order she’d found them, she hoped. She applied herself to retying the string around the handles. Concentrate, she thought, and tried to envision each stage of the knot as it had untied. Before the image could slip from her mind, she retied the string around the handles of the case. She slid the case back into its string holder, and pulled the string ends through the bottom of the bed frame. Her fingers shook so violently that the strings slipped through them, and the case crashed to the floor. Gennie whimpered like a puppy as she crawled under the bed and dragged the case back into position. This time her hands obeyed her. The case stayed in its string container. She found the last set of strings and began the elaborate knot.
The hostel’s front door slammed.
With an effort of will, Gennie finished the last knot in record time. She dragged the mattresses back, one by one, and piled them on the bed, wincing as the frame creaked. The tangled bedclothes looked like an impossible mess. She extracted what she hoped was the bottom sheet.
Somewhere nearby, a bedroom door shut. She hadn’t heard it open. Maybe, just maybe, she was safe for a time. She’d begun to feel dizzy, so she allowed herself the luxury of a deep breath. She still had to be very quiet, she knew that. Any unexpected noise might trigger curiosity and a knock on the door. Getting away unseen might become impossible. She tucked the rest of the bedclothes into place and stood back to assess her work. The bed looked okay—a bit sloppy, like she’d found it.
She heard a scratching at the door, the distinct sound of a key entering a lock. She must have been mistaken earlier, when she’d assumed there was only one person in that car. Horace von Oswald had returned as well.
The key turned in the lock. She’d lost the knack of ongoing prayer, so she just pleaded for help—inspiration, sudden invisibility, anything. She heard a click as the lock was released. The door creaked. She jumped to her feet and spun around frantically. She could see only one place to hide, and it was behind the opening door. She had little hope she’d get away, but maybe, if Horace was startled enough when he saw her . . .
She held her breath as the door opened toward her and stopped just before it would have bounced off her toes. For several seconds, she heard nothing, no footsteps. The door remained open. She heard a drawer opening and realized Horace had entered soundlessly and gone to his built-in dresser, which meant his back should be toward her. She had a chance. She’d have to slip out soon; Horace would surely close his door for privacy.
She peeked around the edge of the door, into the room. The back she saw didn’t belong to Horace von Oswald. It was Beatrice Berg. She bent over an open drawer, pawing through the contents. It was now or never. Gennie took a deep breath and slid around the end of the door. She was fully visible for one agonizing second before her escape was complete. Still afraid to release her breath, she ran on tiptoe down the hallway toward the stairs. She didn’t dare go to her room; Beatrice would hear the door open and close. Instead, she hurried to the kitchen, where she dropped the master key back in Beatrice’s apron pocket. She slipped out the kitchen door, which Beatrice wasn’t likely to hear or see from Horace’s room.
Gennie ran and ran, ignoring the mud coating her shoes, until she reached the maple grove behind the foundation of the burned-out Water House. Only then did she stop. Leaning against cool tree bark, she gasped for breath. Questions swirled in her mind. How did Beatrice Berg get a second master key—and why? Was she just snooping around, or did she have a reason to visit Horace’s room while he was gone? What was she doing back from town, anyway? Had she discovered her key gone from her apron pocket? If so, she’d surely tumble to the notion that only Gennie had been home that afternoon. Gennie felt scared, excited, and guilty all at the same time. Though she had never signed the Shaker Covenant, she decided it was time for a confession—to Rose, definitely not to Grady. Not yet, anyway.