GENNIE HAD GROWN TOO USED TO BEDTIME IN THE WORLD. Here it was only 10 p.m., and the Brick Dwelling House might as well be a mausoleum. She gave up her attempt to sleep and tossed off her bedclothes. She was instantly sorry. She kept forgetting this wasn’t Kentucky. Dragging a wool blanket off her bed and wrapping it around her shoulders, she plunked down into the rocking chair by the window of her retiring room and began to rock vigorously. It wasn’t enough to use up her energy.
Rose was definitely having all the fun this time around. Even moving into the Brick Dwelling House had not assured Gennie a central part in the investigation, and she meant to change the situation. To be truthful, it was more than lack of excitement that frustrated her; she felt deeply responsible for what had happened to Dulcie. She should have found some way to convince the girl to confide in her. She agreed with Rose that Dulcie’s “accident” had probably been a murder attempt. It was the only thing that made sense. Maybe Theodore had pushed her to get rid of the baby, which would make him horribly evil. Or maybe Dulcie knew something about Julia’s death and had intended to use the information to secure a future for herself and her child. Gennie bounded out of her chair. She could sit and think of possibilities all night. She needed to do something.
She was feeling especially irritable because she’d had a phone conversation with Grady earlier in the evening, followed by a chat with Rose, and they’d both said the same thing—stay out of it. It was beginning to look as if they would never, ever let her grow up. She freed her left hand from the blanket and watched her diamond engagement ring dance in the moonlight. She loved the ring, and she loved Grady, but marriage was another matter altogether.
Her retiring room was on the third floor of the Brick Dwelling House. From her window, she could see much of the village. New snow had begun to fall. Since most of life took place within the dwelling house, the other buildings looked cold and empty, as if they’d been covered in white sheets until the inhabitants returned. Despite her longing for adventure, Gennie was grateful not to see any mysterious lights that required investigating.
As she considered another attempt at sleep, Gennie heard a creaking sound above her head. It was probably nothing—the old dwelling house surely creaked incessantly, and she just hadn’t noticed it. On the other hand, she knew that no one lived above her. The fourth and fifth floors were attics, used for storage. Then she remembered—Rose had mentioned finding evidence that someone was using the top attic. She hadn’t had time to give details, just that she’d found some fresh ink or something, and a lamp. What if it was the killer’s hideaway, where he—or she—hid anything that might be a clue?
Gennie stood in the middle of her room, clutching her blanket around her shoulders, and listened intently to the night sounds of the building. They were many, as she’d suspected, and they seemed to come from all directions. A cracking sound reminded her of cold snaps at home, when the roof sounded as if intruders were running across it. In the distance, a door opened and closed—probably a nocturnal trip to the washroom. Steps—were those steps on a staircase? Surely not, she was too far away from the stairs.
Gennie felt silly. Here she was, hoping for excitement, so of course she would hear all sorts of enticing sounds. They meant nothing. Well, she thought, if that’s the case, what’s to stop me from going up to the attics and having a look around? Rose’s description had been sketchy, which probably meant she didn’t want Gennie’s curiosity aroused. It had almost worked, but now Gennie was more curious than ever.
Her mind made up, she dressed in her work clothes and a sweater, since she knew the attics would be frigid. She turned out her bedside light and eased open her retiring room door. The hallway was dark, quiet, and incredibly long. For a moment, Gennie lost heart. How could she get past all those doors and up the staircase without waking someone? It would be just her luck if Carlotta, whose room she had to pass, was awake and listening. The story of Gennie’s nocturnal wanderings would be all over the village by morning. Well, she’d just have to plead a lifelong problem with sleepwalking. She wanted to see those attics.
Gennie had thought to wear her blue satin slippers, a gift from her future sister-in-law, so she wouldn’t have to worry about tapping sounds on the wood floor, but she could still make a racket. Back in North Homage, she used to know every squeaky board by heart; here she’d have to trust to luck.
She gently pulled her door shut behind her and tiptoed toward the staircase at the end of the hall. The building was old, but it must have been built with the best of Shaker craftsmanship, because the floor made few sounds. Gennie began to feel confident and walked more quickly, eager to pass the endless retiring room doors that could fly open at any moment. Just as she reached the staircase and took one step up, she felt a board shift under her foot and heard a screeching that must have reached all the way to the basement kitchen. She flattened against the wall, out of sight from all but the closest retiring room door. She held her breath as long as possible and then released it through her mouth. After several minutes, she’d heard no opening doors or startled cries, so she tried the next step.
It struck her that her guilty conscience was making her move so carefully. If she were looking for the washroom, she wouldn’t worry about creaking boards. Surely she could pretend she’d forgotten whether the washroom was upstairs or downstairs, couldn’t she? On the other hand, she had to admit she was rather enjoying the thrill of sneaking about. If only Rose could see her now, she would give up all hope of saving Gennie’s soul for the Shaker faith.
Once she had reached the fourth-floor attic landing, Gennie worried less about the retiring rooms below and more about what she might encounter as she moved upward. She wished she’d thought to bring a lantern, but looking for one would probably have awakened the entire building. She used the railing to guide herself to the top, then stood as quietly as possible and listened for sounds. Hearing nothing, she went immediately to the stairs that led to the fifth floor, where Rose had said she’d found the desk and ink.
By now, Gennie’s heart was pounding so loudly she figured it could be heard by anyone within fifty yards, be it man or ghost. A squeaky step was the least of her worries. She told herself that surely no one would be up there. She saw no light above her as she moved up the stairs, and she couldn’t imagine anyone sitting around in the dark attic in the middle of a February night. Using the railing, she moved up quickly to the landing.
Gennie could make out shapes in the murky moonlight that penetrated the snow-encrusted skylight. To the left of the landing, she found the alcove with the desk and chair that Rose had described to her. Without hesitation, she lit the lantern and placed it on the desk. As she sat on the chair, her imagination took fire. Who had been using this secret nook, and for what purpose? Was it a Believer, in need of some privacy? Was it a killer, planning his next attack? Could it be that more than one person met up here—lovers perhaps? No, surely there wasn’t room for lovers.
Rose had revealed little about her search of the desk, so Gennie repeated her movements, noting the red paint in the inkpot and the brushes wrapped in a rag. Two of them had been used and cleaned without benefit of liquid, leaving them stiff. Why would someone put red paint in an inkpot, and what on earth would it be used for?
Gennie picked up the lamp and moved around the small nook, examining the dark corners. Aside from dust and spiders, she found nothing. She stepped out of the nook and held the lamp high as she gazed around the rest of the attic. It was full of old chairs, boxes, and a few chests of drawers.
Drawers—what if something important was hidden in those drawers? Too excited now to worry about making noise, Gennie started pulling open drawers and riffling through their contents. Most were neatly filled with old and out-of-season clothing, as well as odds and ends that she couldn’t identify and didn’t care about. Then she reached the bottom drawer, closest to the desk. She pulled it open and gasped—two grotesquely wrinkled faces stared up at her with evil black eyes.
She forced herself to bend over and examine them more closely. They had small, soft bodies. One was covered in light brown wool, and the other in dark blue. Shaker dolls—a sister and a brother, dressed for Sabbathday worship. She picked up the sister and held it close to the lantern. Her heart had regained its normal rhythm, now that she saw what it was—a doll with a dried apple for a face. She’d seen a few in the store, she remembered. Abigail thought the china-faced dolls would be more appealing to customers, but these were less expensive. The dolls in the store hadn’t looked this frightening, though. This poor sister’s face had been decorated with more than rosy cheeks and button eyes. There were spots of scarlet on her forehead, showing just under her white cap. Gennie untied the cap and lifted it off. Someone had painted two red horns on the sister’s head.
Gennie’s entire body began to shake, and it was not from the cold. She felt herself in the presence of evil. She retied the cap over the profaned sister’s head and placed her back in the drawer. With deep foreboding, she picked up the brother. Like the nineteenth-century brethren, he wore a wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat that shadowed most of his face. With a shaking hand, Gennie lifted off the hat. Two red horns had been painted across his forehead and up to the top of his head. The work was careful, horrifying in its precision.
Gennie felt a sudden, intense need to talk to Rose. Adventure was all well and good, but this was more than she could handle alone. She smashed the brother’s hat back on his defiled head and closed him back in the drawer. Blowing out the lamp, she replaced everything as she had found it. She turned to the stairs. Then she heard what she should have been listening for all along—the slow, steady sound of feet ascending the staircase.
The tap-tap sounded like hard shoes on wood steps, still a floor or two away. Maybe the nocturnal wanderer was going downstairs, rather than up, and Gennie could hear the feet only because their owner saw no need to be quiet.
No, the steps were growing slowly louder. Someone was coming up the staircase to the attics.
Thank goodness she had extinguished the lamp and put everything back in place already. There was a slight odor of smoke in the air, but perhaps the visitor wouldn’t notice or would assume it had lingered for a long time, trapped in the attic. However, without the lamp, Gennie wasn’t sure which of the shapes around her might prove to be a good hiding place. She’d just have to take a chance.
Better to move to the other side of the stairwell, she decided. She desperately wanted to be able to see who was coming up those stairs, but it was more important not to get caught. It was a good bet this was a murderer coming inexorably toward her. Hoping her small body would fit into a hidden crevice, Gennie tiptoed past the railing that encircled the stairs on three sides. She selected a dark corner as far away as possible from the secret nook, which she assumed was the visitor’s destination.
The corner was so dark, she discovered, because it was full of one piece of furniture pushed up against another. She’d have to slide into the midst of the mess somehow. Thank goodness she no longer wore the long, loose work dress of the Shaker sister. Her slim-fitting wool dress was less likely to catch on something and pull the whole pile down on her.
She edged in back of a stack of ladder-back chairs, piled up next to a small chest. The sloped roof stopped the chairs and the chest from quite reaching the wall. If she could slip behind the chairs and get to the chest, surely no one would see her. The steps now sounded less than a floor away. Small as she was, the stack of chairs left her only a slit to move behind. She had to move faster, if she hoped to reach the chest and hide behind it.
Two more tiny steps, and she’d be there. She leaned sideways to reach the edge of the dresser. She instinctively tested the dark corner for cobwebs by reaching her left hand in back of the dresser. Her right arm began to follow on its own. She felt the fingers of her right hand catch on the back of a ladder-back chair, and the whole stack began to fall toward her. Her breath stopped in her throat. She held off the stack of chairs with one very shaky hand and slowly brought her other hand from behind the dresser.
The stack was balanced on the two back legs of the bottom chair. If she tried to right it, she would inevitably make a thumping sound. If she held on, the chairs might still slide outward from the bottom and come crashing down on top of her. Worst of all, if she stayed where she was, she might be visible to someone with a lamp.
She had no choice. Praying as she hadn’t since childhood, Gennie held on to the teetering stack of chairs and kept as still as she could on wobbly legs. She comforted herself that if she was about to be discovered by a heartless killer, at least she could make an unholy racket and wake the whole dwelling house. Maybe she’d be able to run for it, leap over the banister and drop onto the stairs below before she was captured and turned into a hostage. A broken leg would be a fair exchange for escape.
She heard a faint scratching sound in the wall behind her. Mice. As she steeled herself not to cry out if something furry brushed against her ankles, the back of a head appeared through the railing in front of her. Then shoulders and a large body followed. The intruder seemed shapeless, as if wearing a loose-fitting overcoat. He—or she—seemed to be laboring after climbing all those stairs. Gennie felt a prick of doubt. What Shaker would be winded by climbing a few flights of stairs? A very old one, perhaps. Might this be merely a Believer who couldn’t sleep and thought to make a nostalgic visit to the attic?
The figure reached the top step and paused, breathing heavily. Gennie peered through the maze of slats in front of her, looking for clues to the person’s identity. If it was a sister, Gennie thought she should be able to see at least the shape of a white indoor cap. Something covered the intruder’s head, but it didn’t look as smooth as a cap.
Gennie’s arms ached, and her muscles were starting to twitch from the effort to keep still. If only the creature would move. Gennie was almost ready to push the chairs over and make a run for it. She doubted she’d be able to hang on much longer.
The figure moved, lumbering toward the dresser next to the secret niche. To Gennie’s enormous relief, he or she did not light the lamp, but instead opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and reached inside. Holding something in both hands, the figure moved to the left to catch what little light the skylight offered. As the figure turned in profile toward Gennie, the light was just strong enough for her to recognize who she was—Helen Butterfield. The soft shape around her head looked like pincurls, and she was wearing a heavy robe.
Gennie stifled a gasp. Helen Butterfield. Of course. She always seemed to be around, claiming to be collecting furniture, yet somehow never spending much time doing it. But why? Was she seeking revenge for some unknown crime against herself or her family? How did she know about the dolls in the drawer? What did they really know about Helen? She had shown up so conveniently right after Julia’s murder, and she’d insinuated herself into the lives of the Hancock community. And on top of that, she used me to get here, Gennie thought, with a surge of resentment that almost toppled her precarious stack of chairs.
Gennie renewed her grip, now determined to escape and expose Helen Butterfield as an impostor—and probably a murderer. She willed her arms and legs to stop shaking and her breathing to be silent. Without the lamp, she had a chance to escape detection.
Helen took her bundle and quickly replaced it in the dresser drawer. She stood a moment, staring at the dresser, as if lost in thought. Then she turned full toward Gennie and headed for the staircase. Gennie wanted to close her eyes, like a child, and become invisible, but she had to see what was coming. Helen looked directly at her, or she seemed to. Gennie stiffened as something small and quick scurried between her feet and right toward Helen. Helen squealed, grabbed the railing, and bounced down the stairs.
Gennie dared to breathe again. She forced herself to wait until the footsteps had faded before she pushed the stack of chairs away from her and tried to steady it on the floor. Her weakened arms couldn’t hold on tightly enough, and the stack swayed too far in the opposite direction, threatening to fall toward the staircase railing.
The image of ladder-back chairs tumbling down the stairs after Helen Butterfield gave Gennie renewed strength. She clutched the pile and held it until it stabilized, then she slowly released her shaky grip. The chairs stayed put. Gennie wilted against the wall and closed her eyes. She had no desire to move, ever again. Finally, her breathing slowed to normal, and the eerie attic room became a less desirable place to spend the night. Besides, she was freezing, and she could feel a sneeze coming on—and she wanted more than anything to tell her story to Rose. Imagine—Helen Butterfield. It had never occurred to either one of them to suspect Helen of anything more than thoughtless nosiness. Now it seemed she might be something far worse than a busybody.