LIGHT RAIN DRIZZLED DOWN HER RETIRING ROOM WINDOW, but Rose barely noticed it. She rocked unevenly, pausing now and then as she followed a trail of thought, and pushing hard again when the trail led nowhere. The knock on her door distracted her, for which she was grateful.
Petite Sister Lydia, one of the Kitchen sisters, poked her head inside. “Sorry to bother you, Rose, but there’s a telephone call for you. Someone named Ida? It sounded important.”
Rose jumped up from her chair and left it rocking on its own. The phone hung on the hallway wall, but Rose was too impatient to find a more private setting. Lydia seemed to be the only sister about. Lydia would spread no rumors.
“Ida?”
“Oh good, you’re there.” Ida’s genteel voice was faintly tinged with a Kentucky twang, a lapse that Rose suspected was due to excitement. “I’ve just had a most intriguing chat with my friend Mr. DeBow, and I was sure you’d want to know immediately.”
“Bless you, Ida.”
“Thank you, my dear. It is Mr. DeBow who deserves the blessing. I must say, he threw himself into his task with only the little information you were able to provide, and I believe you will be delighted by the results. Now, you asked about an actress named Daisy Prescott—or perhaps Clarissa—who might have been on the stage five or six years ago. Mr. DeBow, as it happens, once followed the theater for his newspaper work, though he had retired by the time you asked about. He had never heard of a Daisy Prescott. He contacted all his old friends in the theater—those who were still living, of course—and asked about her. No one remembered her. However, when he mentioned a Clarissa and described what she might have looked like in those days, the memories emerged.”
“Wonderful! Could you hang on a moment, Ida? I forgot paper and pen.” She returned with a chair, as well.
“As I said, the name Clarissa rang a number of bells,” Ida continued. “Several people remembered a Clarissa Carruthers, who was unusually tall, quite slender and graceful, and an extraordinary actress. She performed on the stage and is still known in theater circles for her brilliant performance as Desdemona. It was widely thought she would eventually go to Hollywood and become famous.”
“But she didn’t?”
“Here is where the story becomes fascinating. Some of Mr. DeBow’s friends assumed she had gone to Hollywood, but they couldn’t recall a single film in which she’d appeared, not even with a bit part. With her talent and beauty, they thought she’d have no difficulty. Two actresses who used to be friends with Mr. DeBow”—Rose detected a slight emphasis on the phrase “used to be”—“said that they had heard Miss Carruthers had given up acting to marry a wealthy man, but they never heard more about it. It seems that Miss Clarissa Carruthers simply vanished. Not one person remembers so much as a glimpse of her waiting for a bus. I find that extraordinarily interesting, don’t you?”
“I do indeed,” Rose said. “Did Mr. DeBow hear any other stories or rumors about her—perhaps about other activities she might have been involved in while she was still on the stage?”
“Not really. Several of his friends confided that they’d never found her to be friendly or easy to get to know. She kept to herself. By all accounts, though, she was a stunning and quite serious actress. Very ambitious, too. Everyone Mr. DeBow spoke with was surprised to realize that she must have given up acting altogether. They’d thought she would die first.”
Rose replaced the receiver and sat in the hall for several minutes. Everyone thought she would die before giving up acting. Perhaps, in a way, she had.
Rose’s head was swimming with questions to which she almost had the answers. Patience had never been her greatest strength, which made it tough to wait several hours for night to fall. She had plans for the dark. Even more frustrating, a light rain had settled in. Rain might force her to wait another day to implement her scheme. Meanwhile, it was time for the evening meal, which Rose had no intention of missing. She would need her strength.
She gathered with the other sisters in a small room just outside the dining room. Putting aside her own agitation, she led the sisters in prayer, then single-file into the large dining room. The brethren entered from another door, also in silence and a much shorter line. The Believers stood at their places, the sisters across the room from the brothers, and prayed silently before seating themselves. The only sound was the scraping of chairs. In recent years, long benches had been replaced by rows of chairs, in deference to aging Shaker backs. The change had created more noise, but it was necessary.
Out of habit, Rose glanced around the two tables where the sisters sat. As eldress, she liked to keep an eye on her charges. At meals she could often tell if a sister was ill or unhappy, or if some squabble had caused rifts in the community. She sensed a general nervousness among the sisters—sideways glances and grim expressions, especially among a small group of younger sisters. All too many times, it was Sister Elsa who caused such discontent. This time, however, she couldn’t tell if Elsa was responsible. Her chair was empty.
Shaker meals tended to be quick, so Believers could return to work. No one seemed inclined to dawdle this evening, despite Gertrude’s wonderful fare. The spring vegetable soup, with its delicate lemony fragrance, disappeared in no more than two minutes, as did the ham and potato hash. Gertrude surprised them with lemon pie, Rose’s very favorite dessert, tart and sweet at the same time. She almost forgot to smile her thanks to the Kitchen Deaconess, who watched her expectantly.
When the meal ended, Rose led the sisters out of the dining room and pulled aside the two sisters, Lottie and Frieda, who had looked the most uncomfortable during the meal. She waited for the other Believers to scatter toward their evening chores before asking, “All right, what do you two know about Sister Elsa’s absence from evening meal? Where is she?”
Lottie and Frieda gazed at her in awe. They gave each other another of those irritating sideways glances.
“I do not hold you accountable for Elsa’s behavior,” Rose said, “but I have many tasks still to do before the evening worship, and I have very little patience.”
“Of course,” Lottie said. She cleared her throat. “Sister Gretchen asked if Frieda and I could help her a spell in the Laundry after the noon meal, and Sister Sarah said we could leave our sewing, so we went. When we got there, we found out that Sister Elsa had left without permission, soon after the noon meal.”
“Perhaps her feet were hurting,” Rose said, remembering Elsa’s dancing in the Shaker Hostel.
“Sister Gretchen didn’t think so,” Lottie said. “Sister Josie said she wasn’t hurt that badly, and Gretchen said she was walking fine.” Lottie clearly had little sympathy with Elsa’s injuries.
“Why didn’t Gretchen tell me Elsa had left her rotation?”
“She said you had your hands full with these awful killings. Frieda and I got the work done fast, and it had started to drizzle. Gretchen said we should go out and look for Elsa, in case she’d fallen ill. Mind you, Gretchen didn’t think she’d been the least bit ill. She had called Josie at the Infirmary, and Josie said Elsa hadn’t been there. So we all figured Elsa was, well, acting like she does sometimes.” Again, Lottie and Frieda exchanged glances, this time accompanied by smirks.
“And did you find her?”
“Yea, we did. We called all the other buildings and finally Brother Archibald said he’d been coming in from the north herb fields, and he saw Elsa heading right toward the old cemetery. It was raining by then, and we thought she’d probably gone indoors, but we decided we’d better check anyway.”
“Wise choice,” Rose said.
Hearing the impatience in Rose’s voice, Lottie became tongue-tied. Frieda took over. She had a sweet, soft voice and a gentle manner; it was tougher to be openly irritated when Frieda spoke.
“We found her in the old cemetery,” Frieda said. “She was kneeling before Brother Ezekiel’s marker, praying really hard.”
“She must have been soaked. She really could become ill. I assume you put her to bed?”
Frieda nibbled her lower lip. “We tried, truly we did. But she pushed us away and shouted at us to leave. She said we would be responsible for Wilhelm’s death if we interrupted her prayers.”
“So we had to leave her there,” Lottie added. “I mean, the bell was ringing for the evening meal, and we . . . We’re truly sorry. We should have tried harder.”
Rose said nothing. They should indeed have tried harder, and would have for anyone but Elsa. They had behaved badly and she would take them to task for it. Yet she understood—and was saddened. Elsa was a trial for all of the sisters. Perhaps that was why she had been sent to them. It was something to ponder. Later.
“Is she still out there?” Rose asked.
“As far as we know,” Frieda said.
“We’ll discuss this further some other time.”
After confirming that Elsa had not returned to her retiring room, Rose fetched her long cloak and pulled the deep hood over her head. The cloak was really too heavy for the warm evening, but one sister soaked to the skin was enough. Thank goodness the days were lengthening. She had a clear view of the cemetery as she reached the limestone wall surrounding it on three sides. Elsa was kneeling, her head hanging down, just the sisters had described. In no mood to waste time, Rose approached her. As she drew close, she realized that Elsa was no longer praying. Her shoulders heaved with sobs.
“Sister Elsa,” Rose said, more gently than she’d intended. “I’ve come to bring you indoors. You’ve prayed enough. The Holy Father has surely heard you.” Rose held out her hand. Elsa raised her head and looked up. Rain and tears dribbled down her round face, and her eyes were red, puffy, and miserable.
“I gotta keep prayin’,” she said, “else Wilhelm will die.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Rose said. “Come along now. Your voice is nearly gone. You’ve probably caught a chill. I seriously doubt our Mother and Father expect you to sacrifice yourself to save Wilhelm.” She tried to grab Elsa’s arm to pull her up, but Elsa plunked backward on her rear.
“Don’t expect you’d understand,” Elsa said, sounding a bit more like her petulant self. “It don’t matter if I die. I’m ready to go anytime, and if it’ll save Brother Wilhelm, I’ll go right this instant.”
Rose began to sympathize more with Lottie and Frieda’s decision to leave Elsa in the rain. However, Elsa was Rose’s responsibility, and she was coming indoors if Rose had to drag her. Elsa seemed to sense the imminent struggle and crossed her arms tightly over her generous bosom.
“I believe in Wilhelm’s innocence,” Rose said, “and I will prove it. But I can’t if my sisters insist on distracting me by putting themselves in danger. Every minute I spend here arguing with you is a minute I can’t use to find the real killer.”
Elsa’s arms dropped to her sides, and her stubborn expression dissolved into anguish. “It don’t matter what you do,” she said. “It’s gonna be too late. I called over to the Sheriff’s Office this afternoon to talk to Brother Wilhelm, cheer him up. The sheriff said Wilhelm couldn’t talk no more. Sheriff said he’s refusin’ food, but I’ll bet they’re starvin’ him, just like what happened to Mother Ann. I wanted to go and slip him some food, like Brother James did for Mother Ann when she was thrown in prison for weeks without food or water. But there ain’t even a car around here. Brother Wilhelm’s gonna die, I know it.”
Rose knelt down in the wet grass in front of Elsa. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you come back with me now, I’ll take you myself to see Wilhelm. Then perhaps you can persuade him to eat.”
Rose saw something in Elsa’s eyes that she’d never seen before. Gratitude. It was soon replaced by suspicion. “You’re just sayin’ that.”
Rose swallowed her anger at being accused of lying. “I promise you,” she said. “However, if you become ill, we will be forced to wait until you recover, which might be too late. We’d best get you into dry clothes. You may skip the evening worship and go straight to bed. I believe you have prayed enough for one day.”
Elsa accepted defeat. She rolled back on her knees and struggled to her feet, grunting and panting. Rose attributed her docility to sheer exhaustion, and that was fine with her. Elsa was unlikely to cause more distractions this evening. As they reached the path that cut through the center of North Homage, Rose realized the rain had stopped and streaks of blazing pink glowed through widening cracks in the clouds. Rose’s suspicions had begun to crystallize. With diligence and a heavenly boost, this night would prove her right.