Eleven

“AM I STILL GOING TO HAVE A BIRTHDAY?”

Rose resisted the urge to hug Mairin; the child wasn’t comfortable with sudden touches, even ones meant to be affectionate and comforting. Instead, she stretched out her hand and silently invited Mairin to take a walk. The ground was still wet, so they followed the path from the Children’s Dwelling House to the unpaved central road. It was far from private; people from the world wandered about, seeking thrills of one sort or another. Rose tried not to dwell on their presence. Surely they would lose interest once Mina Dunmore’s murder had been solved and the ghost explained away. The sooner they accomplished both, the quicker North Homage could return to peace and worship and hard work.

“Yea, of course you’ll still have a birthday,” Rose said. “It’s just that it will have to be delayed for now, and . . . Mairin, you know that we’ve been having some troubles lately, don’t you?”

“A lady got killed,” Mairin said. “And some folks said Brother Linus killed her.”

“Who said that?”

“Folks from town. I heard them talking to each other. Did Brother Linus kill the lady?”

“I don’t think so. I think someone else did, but I don’t yet know who. That’s why I . . . I might not be able to come to your birthday party.”

Mairin said nothing. Rose glanced sideways to find her staring at the ground as she walked. “Do you understand, Mairin? I am eldress of the community; that’s like being a mother. Wilhelm is elder, like a father. We have a responsibility to take care of our charges, like a mother and father take care of their children. Sometimes that means we can’t do what we’d really like to do.”

Mairin’s only response was to kick a stone out of her way. Rose felt like kicking, too, but not at a stone. Here she was spouting the Shaker way of living in a family, and Mairin, at about five years of age, had watched her father kill her mother. She’d been neglected much of her short life. Rose and Agatha were the closest she’d gotten to being cared for by loving parents. And now she was being told that she didn’t count because the Shakers were Rose’s “real” family.

“All the other children will be at your party, and Sister Charlotte. Sister Gertrude is baking you an apple cake. And Sister Agatha wants you to come specially to her retiring room afterward, you and Nora both, to tell her all about the party.”

“She’s too sick to come,” Mairin said. It was a statement of fact and also made it clear that Mairin considered Agatha’s excuse valid. “Can I go now? I have to feed Angel.”

It took Rose several moments to understand that Mairin was talking about her kitten, not the ghost. “Of course, Mairin. How is Angel doing? Is she getting stronger?”

“Yea, lots stronger. She wriggles a lot more, and her voice is louder. She knows I’m her mama now. Bye.”

Rose watched her run on awkward legs, so agile in trees. Mairin headed for the Children’s Dwelling House. Perhaps she would become so engrossed in caring for her kitten that she’d forget Rose’s bumbling attempt to comfort her.

 

With less reverence than the book deserved, Rose arranged a copy of Shakerism: Its Meaning and Message, by Anna White and Leila S. Taylor, on the shelf in the new library. On impulse, she pulled it down again and opened it to a section that described the reappearance of Sister Caroline Witcher some months following her death. Sister Caroline had materialized as she had been in the flesh, and she had visited the sick, to spread comfort among them. She hadn’t roamed around empty buildings, putting on performances that drew the world into her village.

Rose was worried to distraction about her community, and what would become of it if the world came to believe that a brother had murdered one of their hostel guests—and that he hadn’t been the first North Homage brother to kill a woman. What would happen to them if the world truly believed the North Homage Shakers had been hiding a murder for a century?

Sheriff Grady O’Neal and his men were combing the countryside, with the help of a group of townsfolk, in search of Brother Linus Eckhoff. They all felt certain that poor, gentle Linus was indeed the killer. A thorough search of his retiring room in the Center Family Dwelling House had revealed nothing suspicious. It looked as if he had slept in his bed for at least part of the night. His wool work jacket and heavy work shoes were missing, as if he had dressed to go out in cool weather. Otherwise, his retiring room was as plain and sparsely furnished as any other Believer’s. His small comb and shaving mirror lay on a table that also held a basin of water. There was no evidence that he had shaved that morning.

Linus wasn’t a reader—he had no books in his retiring room, but he did keep a journal. It lay in full view on his pine desk. Rose and Grady both read through it and found no references to Mina Dunmore. In fact, Linus rarely mentioned people at all. He’d expressed far more interest in how to repair buildings and objects as simply and effectively as possible. In his journal, he’d relived the pleasure he got from finding creative ways to patch and restore. It was surely not the journal of a murderer, Rose thought. But Grady was unconvinced. “People just snap sometimes,” he’d said. “He’s our man, I’d bet on it.”

When the bell rang for evening meal, Rose made a desperate decision. She would go, unannounced, to dine at the hostel. Mrs. Berg would be furious, but that didn’t concern her. She had no appetite at the moment; she wouldn’t eat much. It might be her last chance to observe and question the hostel guests. If Linus were found and charged with murder, there would be no reason to keep the guests from leaving.

She dumped her pile of books on a library table and headed out the door, hoping not to run into worried Believers arriving from their various work assignments. The last thing she wanted to do was raise hopes that the killer was someone from the world, then find no support for those hopes. Dining at the hostel might easily yield nothing helpful. The guests were on their guard. But she had to try. Wilhelm would be arriving home on Tuesday, and he would blame her for the mess they were in. Not that Wilhelm’s opinion concerned her—she was well beyond caring—but he could make her work far more difficult if he believed he could show her to be incompetent. The one consolation to Wilhelm’s return was that Andrew would be with him. Andrew would help her to the best of his ability, and that knowledge gave her comfort.

Rose arrived at the Shaker Hostel just as the guests were convening in the parlor for a drink before dinner. Saul Halvardson bounded down the stairs with a bottle of sherry in each hand. He pulled up short when he saw Rose in the entryway.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, holding up the bottles. “I think you’ll agree we’ve all been under a strain.” He slid past her into the parlor. Rose decided to let them have their drinks in peace, and she headed for the kitchen.

“Don’t expect nothin’ fancy tonight,” Beatrice said, when Rose told her there’d be an extra person for dinner.

“I promise to eat very little.”

Beatrice cracked another egg into a large bowl and whipped the contents as if they were responsible for her being stuck in North Homage.

“Just so’s you know,” she said, “I’m leavin’ soon as I get the word I can go.”

“Will you go back home?” Rose asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care. Anywhere’s fine with me, long as it ain’t here.”

“Where is home, by the way?” Rose tried to keep her tone conversational, but it sounded strained to her own ears.

“No place, just a holler down south. You wouldn’t’ve heard of the place.” Her voice softened. “I liked it, though. We was poor, but we managed. My ma could cook up a mess of cornmeal so’s it tasted like fried chicken.”

For the first time, Mrs. Berg didn’t sound bitter, and Rose wanted to keep her in that mood.

“Is that where you learned to cook?”

“Yeah, from my ma. Pa used to say she was the best cook in all Kaintuc. She was somethin’, my ma. Bodacious, too—she once took her broom to a black bear that come right up to our door, and she chased that critter down the holler and up the other side. That bear never knowed what hit him.” She chuckled. “Never should’ve left.”

“Why did you leave?”

“On account of Mr. Berg, that’s why.” Her voice had regained its familiar edge. “Right mean, he was. Never should’ve married him. Ma warned me, but I wouldn’t listen.” Mrs. Berg’s face pinched and puckered as if she were watching an internal film. “Beat me, he did. But he got his comeuppance.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rose asked.

Beatrice’s head jerked toward her. The eggbeater dripped golden slime on the floor. “I said, I’m fixin’ to serve supper in twenty minutes, if I can get some peace.”

“Of course,” Rose said. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

 

“Rose, thank goodness.” Gennie was pacing a small circle in the hallway outside the kitchen. “I thought I saw you through the parlor door. I’ve been dying to talk to you. Come on.” She pulled Rose by the elbow toward the stairway, past the closed parlor door.

“I’ve learned some things, and I just can’t wait to tell you,” Gennie whispered as she shut the door of her upstairs room. Her eyes sparkled, which lightened Rose’s heart and aroused her suspicion. This was the first time Rose had been in her room, and she quickly noted the small touches that showed Gennie had joined the world—the pretty suits and dresses on hangers hooked over wall pegs, the array of perky hats, a lipstick tossed on her desk. She even smelled a hint of perfume, something sweet and flowery.

“You’ve been investigating on your own again, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m good at it, too.” Gennie grinned and flopped on her bed. “Although this time I had a narrow escape.”

“Oh, Gennie, do be careful.”

“Grab a chair, we don’t have much time. Saul will probably hand around seconds on sherry, but they’ve almost finished their first glasses.” Gennie told Rose about her conversation with Saul the day before.

“So,” Gennie concluded triumphantly, “Grady was wrong not to question Saul. To know there was a port bottle in Mrs. Dunmore’s room, he must have been there—or maybe he even gave the bottle to her.”

“Could he have been the man in her room?”

Gennie frowned. “Well, he did claim to have heard the man, but he hadn’t mentioned it at breakfast, when Mrs. Berg told us about it. He seemed to find Mrs. Dunmore so unattractive—though I guess he could have been pretending. But why wouldn’t he throw suspicion on Horace when I gave him the chance?”

“He insisted the voice didn’t belong to Horace?”

“It was more that he couldn’t believe the possibility,” Gennie said. “But I did believe it. That man is so creepy, he’s got to be up to something. All the time I talked with Saul, Horace just stared at us with those dead eyes. So I had to see what I could find out about him.”

“Gennie, you didn’t . . .”

“I did. I sneaked into Horace’s room when he went out for a while. I wasn’t sure when he’d be back, so I had to hurry, and I was just a bundle of nerves.” She grinned again, showing lovely teeth and bubbling excitement.

“But we installed locks on the guests’ doors,” Rose said, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more details than necessary.

“Oh, his door was locked, of course. I just . . . um . . . borrowed Mrs. Berg’s master key—she and the others drove to Languor for a shopping trip, so I thought I was safe, at least for a while. I went through Horace’s room as fast as I could. As it turned out, he only just returned to the hostel in time for sherry. Anyway, you’ll never guess what I found.”

“All right, what did you find?” Rose had to admit she’d caught Gennie’s excitement. If any evidence existed that could clear Brother Linus’s name, she wanted it.

“Papers, scads and scads of them. They were hidden in a leather case strapped to the bottom of Horace’s bed, so I knew they were important, if he tried that hard to hide them. Unfortunately, I didn’t get much time to read them ’cause I heard a car outside.”

“Oh, Gennie—”

“But I skimmed the first few pages, and they told the same story Mrs. Berg did Saturday night—you know, about the young sister looking for her fortune—and it was handwritten, like maybe Horace copied it down right after he heard it. Why would he do that? Anyway, when I heard the car I quick put everything back the way it was, except”—she reached in her sweater pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper— “I pulled out this one page, so we could study it.”

“Gennie, you stole something from Horace’s room? You invaded the man’s privacy, and you stole from him. We certainly never taught you to do that.”

Gennie pursed her lips. “Well,” she said, “I’ll agree that Agatha never taught me such behavior, but you did. How many times have you searched someone’s room without their permission so you could prove someone innocent or catch a murderer?”

Rose could think of nothing to say. She had to admit, sometimes she’d bent the rules she believed in for the sake of a higher good. As a result, she’d spent many hours in confession and prayer. Yet in her heart, she’d always believed she’d done what she had to do—that the Holy Father and Holy Mother Wisdom had guided her to the right end, even if the path had been a little crooked.

“You see, Rose, I just can’t believe that Brother Linus did what he’s been accused of doing. Something else is going on here, I know it.”

“I agree. All right, let me see what you’ve found.”

Gennie handed over one sheet of paper covered with handwriting. Rose read it through twice. It sounded familiar. She’d been too busy to read the article in the Languor County Courier that Andrew had told her about—the story of the Shaker sister who died from eating rhubarb leaves. This page looked like a segment from the middle of the story.

“I suppose Horace might be compiling Shaker stories, or perhaps ghost stories,” Rose said. “Perhaps he’s a writer of some kind, maybe a novelist. He is certainly well-spoken.”

“In a nasty sort of way,” Gennie said.

“I’m not convinced this has anything to do with Mrs. Dunmore’s death,” Rose said. “Why did you think it might be important?”

Gennie maintained her zeal in the face of Rose’s skepticism. “Don’t you see? Horace must be hiding some secret life. Maybe he’s a blackmailer or something. Maybe Mrs. Dunmore found out who he really was, and he killed her to keep her quiet.”

“Gennie, dear, how could he blackmail us with stories that have already been made public?”

Gennie’s fervor dimmed, just a little. “I’m not sure,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a good reason. Do you want me to put it back when you’re done?”

“Nay, for heaven’s sake, stay out of his room.”

Rose stood to leave, and Gennie touched the sleeve of her dress. “There’s something else, too.”

“Now what?”

Gennie spilled out the entire story of Beatrice Berg’s visit to Horace’s room. Rose dropped back in her chair as if an anvil had fallen on her chest. “You must tell Grady,” she said, when Gennie finished.

“He’ll kill me.”

“Probably not, but he will be angry, and so am I. You violated a guest’s privacy and put yourself in grave danger. If you were still in my care, you’d be missing special outings for a year. As it is, you are honor bound to tell Grady everything. It is clear that Mrs. Berg had a duplicate master key made, and I suspect she has used it before. She may be going through everyone’s rooms, even yours.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gennie said.

“It also means that Mrs. Berg may know more about the other guests than anyone else. If she is not the killer herself, she may know who is, which would put her in great danger.”

“Do you think she’s a blackmailer?”

“I don’t know, but I’m worried.”

“I’ll keep a close watch on her,” Gennie said.

“You are going to stay out of this, young lady. I have the power to send you back to Languor, and I won’t hesitate to do so. I’m sure Grady would be glad to move you himself. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Rose.”

They staggered their arrival in the dining room, so it wouldn’t be obvious that they’d been conferring. The other guests had finished their before-dinner drinks and had settled at the table. Rose entered last and chose the end seat, across the table length from Horace von Oswald. With a shiver, she noted that the seating arrangement was the same as it had been when she’d joined them three nights before. Mina Dunmore’s chair stood empty.

The clattering of utensils on crockery was the only sound as the diners filled their plates without speaking to one another. Dinner was simple—eggs scrambled with leftover ham, accompanied by brown bread and Shaker-canned beets. The women, even Mrs. Berg, showed little appetite.

“Off your feed, dear Mrs. Berg?” Horace asked. “I wonder why.”

Beatrice neither answered nor acknowledged his presence.

“Are you feeling ill?” Rose asked.

“Why don’t y’all just leave me alone,” Mrs. Berg said. “I don’t want to be here, that’s all. Don’t feel safe in my bed. Soon as they find Linus, I’m leaving.”

“Yet,” Horace said, “if the missing brother is found and arrested, won’t that make your bed safe once again?” He stabbed a slice of beet with his fork and watched purple liquid drip onto his plate.

Mrs. Berg picked at her eggs.

“I, for one, have no intention of leaving just yet,” Horace said. “I’m curious to see how the story turns out.”

“I think I’ll stay, too,” Daisy Prescott said. “I’m sure the police will be successful in catching the man who did this, so I’m not afraid. I like it here.”

“Oh, me, too,” Gennie said.

“Well, then, it’s settled,” Saul said. “We’ll all stay. I’ve enjoyed your company, all of you”—he beamed around the table and lingered on Daisy—“and I look forward to many more pleasant times together.”

“Y’all are crazy, just plain crazy,” Mrs. Berg said. “What if that man sneaks back here and poisons us all before the sheriff finds him?”

“Why do you think Mrs. Dunmore was poisoned?” Rose asked.

“Well, I mean . . . I heard there was nary a scratch on her, so I figured it had to be poison. What else could it be?”

“You know, there’s another possibility,” said Daisy. She sounded more animated than usual. When everyone turned toward her, she patted her hair and moistened her lips. “What if Mrs. Dunmore actually died of natural causes—say, a heart attack? What if she and Brother Linus were . . . I mean, you know, if they were together, and she simply died? Maybe he panicked and tried to hide the body, so no one would know they’d been . . . together.” She cut a tiny slice of beet and ate it.

“You know, I believe you’ve got something there,” Saul said.

“Intriguing,” said Horace. His eyes followed Daisy’s fork as she raised another minute sliver of beet to her mouth. “And why would he stuff poor Mrs. Dunmore into a dyeing vat? That is what happened, isn’t it, Sister?”

Rose chose that moment to take a large bite of bread. Grady had kept quiet about the circumstances of Mrs. Dunmore’s death—even she hadn’t heard anything about poison—but apparently rumors had spread. At least she could avoid confirming them.

“I suppose people do strange things when they panic,” Daisy said.

“Strange indeed.” Horace shoveled the remaining scrambled eggs onto his plate, and for once Mrs. Berg didn’t chide him. She didn’t seem to notice. She pushed aside her half-eaten meal, and Horace eyed it hungrily. “Are you afraid the food supplies are poisoned, Mrs. Berg?” he asked.

Several forks paused in midair.

“Ain’t poisoned. I cooked it myself. And don’t go lookin’ at me like I’m the murderer.”

“You are the only one who wants to leave,” Horace said. “I find myself wondering why that is.”

Beatrice grabbed her plate and wolfed down the rest of her meal. “There, satisfied? And since you’re making such a fuss, I’ll stay another couple days. Gotta find another job, anyways, and that ain’t so easy these days.”

“What good news,” Saul said. “I’d say that calls for a celebration. Shall we retire to the parlor, and I’ll bring down the port?”

Greatly relieved, Rose excused herself. Now that the hostel guests had decided to stay, she had some breathing space, and she wanted to use it fully. She was afraid she’d get little solid information from the guests about themselves. It was time to try elsewhere.