GENNIE YAWNED BEHIND HER HAND. THIS WAS HER THIRD morning in the Hancock Fancy Goods Store, and each minute seemed longer than the last. The day before, she’d eagerly settled into a retiring room in the Brick Dwelling House, having arrived in the wee hours, just before the snow, with Helen Butterfield. Helen had wangled a room in the village as well, but at least it wasn’t right next to Gennie’s.
Then the excitement about the poisoned buckets started, and there was Gennie, trapped in the store, nibbling candied sweetflag for breakfast. For most of the day, the snow had kept them indoors and the customers away. Gennie tried to walk outdoors during her hour off, but everyone else stayed inside. She couldn’t find a soul to talk to or spy on or anything. For hours and hours, it was just her and Abigail and Helen. At least Helen went across the hall to the parlor for half an hour or so. To look over the furniture, she’d said, though Gennie had heard her voice once or twice, as if she might be using the telephone.
Today was busier, now that the roads were passable and the sun was slicing through the clouds in pale slivers. Several folks had come to buy eggs and inquire about the upcoming celebration. Mainly, they seemed interested in the free foods, which no one begrudged them. Abigail had brought several cakes to the store, and she handed out samples to each customer, often slipping the children an extra bite.
Gennie was tired and, to be honest, thoroughly thwarted. None of her scheming had worked so far. Rose had filled her in on everything she’d found out, which only served to demonstrate how boring and useless Gennie’s life was in contrast. She’d barely slept all night, waiting for something to happen, but of course nothing did, except that Helen had knocked on her retiring room door and stayed chatting for nearly an hour. Gennie had been raised to be polite to her elders, but Helen Butterfield would be a test to anyone’s good breeding. Gennie had pleaded exhaustion to get rid of her.
Gennie’s hour out of the store was still far off. She couldn’t help wishing that Honora Stearn would make another visit, or that one of the other suspects would arrive and do something, well—suspicious. When she heard the front door of the Trustees’ House open and shut, she hoped that perhaps God had taken pity on her frustration.
Dulcie Masters stood shivering in the doorway. She took a tentative step into the room, while her gaze took in the glorious colors and textures. Gennie wondered if she’d been in the store since her sister had worked there.
Seeing Gennie behind the glass counter, Dulcie gave her a tremulous smile. As she handed a basket to Gennie, she leaned over the counter and whispered, “Could I speak with you for a minute? Right away?”
Gennie glanced at Abigail, who, as always, sat across the room, rocking and knitting. “I suppose, but—”
“Please.”
Gennie had to admit her curiosity was intense. “Go across the hall to the parlor,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you there in a few moments.”
“These are all the dolls we were able to make yesterday,” Dulcie said, in a normal tone. “What with the excitement, and all.” Without a word to Abigail, she left the store. There was no sound of the front door opening; Gennie hoped Abigail hadn’t noticed.
Gennie grabbed a rag and dusted the counter, rubbing hard at a palm print left by a child reaching for some candy. She stood back as if to examine her handiwork, then folded the rag and stowed it in a basket on the floor behind the counter.
“Abigail,” she said, as she walked toward the door, “I’ll only be a minute. I’m just going to . . .” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the washroom down the hall.
“Of course, dear,” Abigail said, peering over her spectacles. “Take your time. We seem to be in a lull.”
Gennie crossed the hallway and eased the parlor door shut behind her. Dulcie was pacing in circles on the rug.
“Thank you so much, Gennie. I was worried you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I knew you were serious, but, frankly, I can’t imagine why you’d want to talk to me,” Gennie said. She gestured to a settee, but Dulcie kept pacing. Gennie figured the conversation might take a while, and she might as well be comfortable, so she claimed the settee for herself.
“I can’t find Rose anywhere,” Dulcie said.
“Yes?”
“You’ve got to help me find her. I must talk to her right away.”
“I would help you if I could,” Gennie said, trying for just the right touch of innocent confusion, “but I can’t imagine what you think I can do.”
Dulcie turned on her with impatience. “I know you two are friends. I need to find her. My . . . Everything has gone wrong. She’s the only one who can help me. Can’t you tell me where she might be?”
It took several moments for Gennie to recover from her surprise. Dulcie resumed her pacing.
“How did you know?” Gennie asked.
“That you two are friends? It wasn’t that hard, really. I saw her go into your room yesterday after supper. She didn’t come out for a long time.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be working in the kitchen?” Gennie’s question came out more accusatory than she’d meant, but she and Rose had been so sure it was a safe time to meet in the hired women’s wing of the dwelling house.
“I had something important to do,” Dulcie said. “I asked the kitchen sisters to let me go for the evening. I sat in the hallway for a while, thinking. I was in the shadow, I guess. Anyway, Rose didn’t see me.”
“Couldn’t you just tell me what you need to see Rose about? Maybe I could help you.”
“No! I mean, it’s just between Rose and me.”
Gennie felt a twinge of jealousy. Rose had confided nothing about Dulcie that might lead to such agitation—except, of course, that Julia had been Dulcie’s sister. But her anguish was immediate; perhaps it had nothing to do with her sister’s murder. Unless Dulcie had a suspicion about who killed Julia. But why would Rose keep such information secret from Gennie? Was she still being the protective mother hen, afraid her little chick would rush out into danger?
Gennie’s irritation dissolved when she noticed that Dulcie had slumped into a chair and begun to cry. Her tears were silent, the tears of despair. Gennie knelt at her side. “Dulcie, I know something is terribly wrong, and Rose has been helping you, but I promise she would urge you to let me help, too. Whatever it is, I won’t tell anyone else. You’ve got to trust someone right now. Rose is so busy tracking down this . . . the person who hurt your sister. She could be anywhere, even off in Pittsfield talking to the police or something. Why not just confide in me, and we’ll work out a solution together?”
Dulcie’s tears stopped. She turned dull eyes toward Gennie. “There’s no solution,” she said. “You can’t help me. Rose can’t either, but I always feel better when I talk to her. But this—she probably can’t help with this.” Dulcie stood—with some difficulty, Gennie noticed.
“You’d best get back to work. Abigail will be wondering. I’m sorry I bothered you. Please don’t worry about me. There’s nothing you can do.”
With her frustration near the bursting point, Gennie was relieved when her hour off arrived. Dulcie would be in the kitchen, helping to wash up after the noon meal, so there was no point in making another attempt to pry her secret out of her. Maybe later.
Rose’s description of her interview with Esther Jenkins had intrigued and puzzled Gennie, since Esther had seemed friendly when they’d met two days earlier. Maybe, Gennie thought, not without some worldly pride, I’ll be able to get more information from Esther than Rose can. She decided to visit the deserted Meetinghouse again, in hopes of finding Esther with her children.
A sharp wind sliced through her wool coat as she crossed the slushy road to reach the north end of the village, which was now mostly abandoned buildings. The one drawback of pleading poverty so she could live in the Brick Dwelling House was that she couldn’t just whip out twenty-six dollars to buy a Shaker cloak. Maybe Abigail would let her use one if she offered a small down payment and another reduction in her dwindling pay. It was worth a try. She could already feel the sniffles coming on, and she wouldn’t be much of a sleuth if she ended up sick in bed.
Gennie turned back and gazed over the whole village, or as much as she could see. No one seemed to be wandering about. Good. She didn’t want to be seen making a habit of entering unused buildings. On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t be long before the whole village knew of her connection with Rose. Dulcie had certainly tumbled to it easily, and she might mention it to someone else. All the more reason to work fast.
As Gennie trudged toward the Meetinghouse, she came upon footprints in the snow. They looked fresh. She tried matching her steps to them. They were much larger than her small feet, and her legs couldn’t span the spaces between the footsteps. Her suspicions were confirmed when she traced the imprints to the men’s entrance. The feet had not belonged to Esther and her children. Two men had recently visited the Meetinghouse. She examined the snow nearby and saw no evidence of footsteps leading back toward the road. The men might still be inside.
Gennie’s heart picked up speed in a most pleasant way. Probably the visit was innocent, but Gennie was desperate for excitement, and this was the closest she’d gotten to anything out of the ordinary. She decided not to announce her presence just yet, in case she might hear or see something helpful to the investigation.
The large windows to either side of the men’s entrance were boarded up, so Gennie rounded the corner of the building and headed for the back, where no one could see her from the village. She was aware she was creating a new path in the snow, but she tried to walk on her tiptoes, to make it look more like animal tracks. Thank goodness Abigail had insisted on lending her some galoshes.
Two windows along the north end of the Meetinghouse still contained glass. She hugged the wall and edged close to the first window until she could see inside. The building looked dark and empty. The old glass was thick, so she couldn’t hear even a mumble of voices. She leaned back against the wall and thought a moment. Her hands lay flat against the wood, and through one glove she could feel a rough edge that came off as she nervously picked at it. In her hand was a good-sized sliver of white paint. The back of her coat must be covered with bits of peeling paint. She’d have to remember to clean it off before going back to work.
This was getting her nowhere except frozen. On impulse, Gennie crouched below the bottom of the window and scooted underneath, gasping as the snow scraped her thighs. Once past, she stood again and edged toward the next window. This time, luck was with her. A corner of the glass had cracked and worked loose from the window frame, and no one had yet thought to cover the hole with a board—or perhaps no one had even noticed it.
Gennie peeked through the glass and still saw nothing. She pushed her ear as close as possible to the open corner of the window and listened. Now she heard voices—men’s voices. No wonder she hadn’t heard them before; they sounded calm and easy, like two friends discussing crops. There was nothing the least bit mysterious about them. She was disappointed. However, she wasn’t about to give up so easily on her first chance at excitement.
She wanted to see who the men were, but it meant looking straight into the window and taking the risk of being seen. She thought a minute. Okay, if they did look over and see her face, she would wave eagerly and go right inside, as if she were just out on a jaunt, exploring the village, and was delighted to find someone to talk to.
Her courage bolstered, she peered directly into the building and looked around. There they were, in the southeast corner, standing close together with their heads bent over a large piece of paper that looked like it might be a map. She recognized them at once—Aldon Stearn and Sewell Yates. Her excitement dimmed as she remembered that Sewell was an architect assigned to see about renovating some of Hancock’s deteriorating buildings. Aldon, as she recalled, worked with him. So all she’d discovered was two brothers doing their work.
Disappointed, she pulled away from the window and leaned back against the peeling wall. She hadn’t used much of her hour yet, she thought. She still had time to search some of the other abandoned buildings for Esther and her brood. Still, she was here. She might as well watch for a spell, see if they got into a discussion of Julia’s murder or something. Her feet weren’t frozen to numbness yet; when they were, she decided, she’d give up and leave.
Again, she placed her ear against the hole in the window. The men’s voices had become more animated. They were discussing future plans for the Meetinghouse, and the prospects pleased them.
“We could do a great service for the Society,” Aldon said, in his rich baritone.
“The space may seem too big for us now, but just think if we could dance again in here.” Sewell’s higher, gentler voice quavered with excitement. “Others would join us, I’m sure of it. It would take some work, though. The roof leaks, some of the wood is rotten, and all the windows will need to be replaced.”
Gennie pulled back as she imagined the men looking around the building and gazing at each window. After a few moments, she felt safe enough to listen again.
“We’ll talk the others into this,” Aldon was saying. “Mother Ann’s Birthday is bringing in some extra funds; I’ll approach Fannie about using some of them for building supplies. It’s for our future. You have done well, Sewell.”
Sewell’s response was muffled and husky, as if the compliment had choked him up. Gennie couldn’t resist a quick peek through the glass. Both men were gazing at the drawing in Sewell’s hands, and Aldon had stretched a fatherly arm around Sewell’s shoulders. Surprise was not a strong enough word for Gennie’s reaction; she was stunned. Was no one in this village what he or she seemed? From Rose’s description and from her own observation, Aldon seemed so harsh and distant, more intent on fire and brimstone than on human compassion. Yet here he was, offering warm encouragement to another.
Gennie peered through the window once more. The men had moved apart and appeared to be examining the Meetinghouse floor and walls. They neither spoke nor looked toward each other for several minutes, and Gennie grew bored. And very aware of her cold, wet feet. They weren’t numb yet, but maybe it was time to move on. With luck, she could still find Esther and have a quick talk with her before the Fancy Goods Store beckoned again.
She slogged back to the front of the Meetinghouse and out to the path leading east to the unused Ministry Shop. Esther might be there. Gennie’s thoughts were occupied with what she’d just heard and seen, and with what she hoped to learn from Esther, so it wasn’t until she’d reached the path that she thought to look around her. Just across the main road, on the path next to the Brick Dwelling House, stood Carlotta. She was carrying a large basket, as if she might be transporting items to the Fancy Goods Store. If so, however, she was heading in the wrong direction. It crossed Gennie’s mind to wonder if Carlotta had been spying on her from a north window in the dwelling house and had hurried outdoors hoping for gossip fodder.
So much for her chat with Esther. Carlotta would probably follow her and pretty soon all the hired workers, if not the whole village, would know that Esther was sneaking time with her children. Gennie sighed a puff of warm air and crossed the road toward Carlotta.
“Is this how you spend free time?” Carlotta asked, as Gennie came into earshot. “I could think of lots better things to do. Come on, I’m freezing. Let’s go to the kitchen and fix some tea. There’s nobody there now the washing up is done.” The word “washing” sounded more like “warshing,” and Gennie wondered if her own accent was so obvious that everyone, including Carlotta, already knew she’d come from Kentucky with Rose to work on the murder investigation. She wondered if they were all snickering behind her back about her feeble attempts at subterfuge. Gennie was not in the best of moods.
The basement kitchen seemed damp and cold to Gennie, but she removed her galoshes and soaked shoes, while Carlotta lit a small, and probably forbidden, fire in one of the ovens.
“Pull up a chair,” Carlotta said, “and toast those frozen toes. What was you doin’ out tramping around in the snow like that? A soft Southern girl like you, I thought you’d stay bundled up indoors.”
A small kitchen clock told Gennie she had only about ten minutes before she had to return to the store. Ten minutes was about all the time she could stand with the sharp-tongued Carlotta. Best to ignore Carlotta’s jabs and change the subject, Gennie thought.
“How do you like it here, Carlotta?”
“Okay, I guess. The work is pretty boring, but at least some exciting things are happening.”
“Julia’s murder, you mean?”
“Yeah, and this poisoning. I mean, I’m glad no one got sick, but you gotta admit, it spiced up the day. It’s got those high-and-mighty new Shakers and the hired men at each other’s throats, which is fun.”
“Who do you think killed Julia?”
Carlotta stiffened, like a wild animal ready to flee an attacker. “Why ask me?”
Gennie shrugged. “Just curious. You seem to be really observant, so I wondered if you’d picked up any clues that the police missed.”
Carlotta relaxed but didn’t answer.
“I know the police suspect Sewell, but he seems like such a nice man,” Gennie said. “Do you think he could have done such a terrible thing?”
“The police can’t see what’s in front of them,” Carlotta said, with a toss of her stringy hair.
“Who else should they be suspecting?”
Carlotta poked at the small oven fire, smiling to herself. “Just about anyone but Sewell.”
Gennie asked casually, “What about Dulcie? They weren’t really close, were they?”
“Dulcie? Not likely. She’s too puny, for one thing, and too timid, for another. They wasn’t close, though, that’s for sure. Julia brought shame to poor Miss Dulcie. Not enough to kill her for, though. That fiancé of hers, though, that’s a different matter.”
“Theodore?”
“Yep. Theodore acts all upright and good, but he’s a mean one. I saw him slap Dulcie once, over nothing. He expects her to follow orders, and if she doesn’t, well . . .”
“But why would he kill Julia? What reason could he possibly have?”
Carlotta looked at Gennie as if she were a pathetically innocent child. “He’s a man, ain’t he? Julia was beautiful, I’ll give her that, and fun, too. I never met the man that didn’t want her, since way back when she was a kid. Wouldn’t surprise me if Theodore settled for Dulcie because Julia wouldn’t have him.”
“You think he carried a torch for Julia all these years?”
“You don’t know much about men, do you? They always carry a torch for the ones they can’t get.”
Gennie glanced at the clock. Just a few minutes.
“I can call over to the store and tell Abigail I found you soaked and you need to dry out,” Carlotta said. Obviously, she wanted to talk more, and Gennie was loath to stop the flow.
“Thanks.”
Carlotta called from the kitchen telephone, while Gennie stoked the fire and pondered her next questions.
“What about the novitiates?” Gennie asked, when Carlotta returned.
“The novitiates,” Carlotta said, with an unpleasant sneer in her voice. “It’s hard to see any of them as Shakers. Except Sewell, maybe.” Her voice softened. “He’s sweet. He’s real nice to me, but he’s never so much as touched me.”
Gennie thought that he might more easily touch one of the other women. Carlotta obviously was sweet on him, but she wasn’t especially alluring.
“The police are just stupid. Sewell couldn’t hurt anyone. He’s as gentle as they come.” Carlotta threw more kindling into the tiny fire. A spot of red brightened each of her cheeks. It could just be an effect of the heat, but Gennie suspected her feelings for Sewell were more than a crush.
“What about Johnny Jenkins? I don’t know much about him, but he seems rather arrogant, for a Shaker novitiate.”
“Johnny Jenkins. His family wasn’t no better than mine or Julia’s and Dulcie’s, but that man puts on airs. Always wanted to be important, no matter what it took. He’s a good looker, though, no denying that.”
“Shaker novitiates usually learn to be humble,” Gennie said.
“That’ll be a long time coming for Johnny Jenkins,” Carlotta said, with a laugh. “He wants to be the richest man in the world, does Johnny Jenkins. I’ve seen him looking over the furniture like he’s pricing it for sale. One night I was going to the washroom, and I saw him heading for the attics—probably to see what treasures he could find up there that’d make him rich. I figure that’s why he’s here.”
“Here in Hancock, you mean? To get rich? How could he get rich as a Shaker?”
Again, Carlotta turned her pitying gaze on poor, innocent Gennie. “The Shakers are rich. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Look around you. Everybody else is poor, digging stones out of the ground to grow a potato or two. But the Shakers, they’ve got crops and businesses, and buildings they don’t even use. There’s lots of money to be had here. Johnny probably figures he can get at it if he becomes one of them. That’s the way Johnny always thought. That’s why he married Esther, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I forgot, you’re not from here. Esther’s from a rich Boston family. Johnny went to Boston when he was eighteen, and, the way I hear it, he wanted to find a wife with money. He thought he’d really made a catch when he latched onto Esther. Her family thought different, though. I heard her father tried to buy him off with a fat chunk of dough, but he figured he could get more if he got her to elope with him and then have a bunch of kids. He figured her parents would soften up and open their pockets when the grandkids arrived.”
“It didn’t work?”
Carlotta laughed. “Nope. Esther’s folks are hard as nails, just like she is. They cut her off, right out of their will. They’re still alive, far as I know, and they haven’t changed their minds. She’s their only child, too.”
“Doesn’t she have children?” Gennie asked.
“Yep. Six of ’em. They’re around here somewhere. Johnny doesn’t want ’em, that’s for sure. If they don’t soften up the grandparents, what good are they?”
“What about Esther? Doesn’t she want them?”
“Esther’s hard to figure. She thinks she’s better than the rest of us, but I guess she loves her kids.”
“I don’t understand why she’s here, then. Why not take her children and go back to Boston? Wouldn’t her folks welcome her?”
“Too proud to admit she messed up. That’s my guess, anyway. Julia knew her better.” Carlotta grinned. “Probably because Julia knew Johnny so well. He wasn’t exactly loyal to Esther, never mind the six kids. He pretends not to notice girls now because it suits his purpose.”
“Did he have a fling with Julia?”
“Didn’t everybody?”
“And Esther knew about it?”
Carlotta shrugged. “She’d be stupid if she didn’t.”
Both women were silent for several moments as they stared at the fading fire. Gennie knew she’d have to get back to the store soon, but she wanted to cover as many suspects as she could.
“What about Aldon Stearn?” she asked. “Did he have any reason to kill Julia?”
“Aldon,” Carlotta said, poking at the sticks. “He was the preacher in my church, you know. We were all in the same church—Sewell, Julia, Dulcie, Theodore, Johnny and Esther, and me. Honora was there, too, of course—strange, as ever.”
Gennie glanced at the clock. “I’d best get back. Abigail will be wondering.” She reached for her damp shoes. “Aldon seems very strict,” she added. “Do you suppose he has a soft side?”
“Oh, he can be kind enough,” Carlotta said, “when he thinks you’re ripe for salvation. But he sure can put the fear of Hell into a person. To this day, I look over my shoulder to see if the devil’s watching me.”