Dancing Dead (22 page)

She opened the workroom door and gazed around in confusion. The room had been stripped down to the furniture. She'd left several projects—mending and so forth—lying around, intending to finish them before packing up the tools. They were gone. Her sewing basket had disappeared, along with all her needles, pins, her shears, and the lovely calico pincushion old Brother Hugo had made for her shortly before his death.

She hurried across the hall to her old retiring room. It, too, was empty, except for the bed and the desk. She'd been studying North Homage's past and had left several old journals on her desk. They were gone. She'd taken her own journals and her mattress and bedclothes with her to her new retiring room, but nothing else. Her favorite blanket, the one in which she wrapped herself when she spent the end of a winter evening reading in her rocker, had disappeared—along with the rocker itself.

No Shaker brother had been asked to pack up her rooms. She'd left strict instructions that she wanted to do that herself. And no brother would have taken it upon himself to disobey her orders. Besides, the brothers were far too busy with spring planting to worry about whether the Ministry House had been emptied yet. Crops took precedence.

Two names popped into her mind—Horace von Oswald and Saul Halvardson. She hadn't been too concerned when Mrs. Berg had mentioned finding a valise full of small Shaker items under Saul's bed. One valise wouldn't hold enough to hurt the village financially. She'd intended to make sure it stopped, but she wasn't worried. But what if he was carting off everything he could get his hands on, intending to sell it all for his own profit? Collectors had begun to discover and appreciate Shaker designs and would probably pay well for good examples. Her cheeks burned with fury at the thought that Saul Halvardson might be taking advantage of them in such a way.

And then Horace von Oswald—the theft of journals looked more like his handiwork. She wouldn't put it past him to be combing the journals written by decades of North Homage Shakers for stories he could embellish to humiliate them. Were both Saul and Horace involved in this outrage? She had a mind to burst into their rooms and search them, inch by inch. As she paced back and forth across her now-empty retiring room, she fumed and refused to pray for calmness.

Eventually calm arrived, unbidden. A thought stopped her in mid-pace. If her thinking had any validity at all, it was the first link she had even suspected between two of the hostel guests. She could be wrong, of course. Saul might just be stealing everything he could pick up and carry, then hiding it somewhere until he could take it away, perhaps to another room in Languor. But what if he was stealing the journals because he knew Horace wanted them? And what if Horace was helping him transport the items off Shaker property? Horace might view it as one more way to hurt the Shakers.

Rose walked outdoors and circled the Ministry House. Hiding a load of furniture called for a safe, deserted area. The village had its share of abandoned buildings, but it was unlikely anyone could drive up to any of them, load up with furniture, and drive away, all without being seen from someone's window. So the pickup place must be closer to the edge of the village. Not in the fields, though—too open, too many brothers working in them. The orchard? The southeast end of the orchard hadn't been tended in years. A car probably couldn't make it, slogging through the fields, but a wagon could. With so many ghost hunters roaming the village, one more wagon wouldn't attract attention. Saul and his confederate could fill it with Shaker goods, cover everything with a blanket, and drive right through the middle of the village, with no one the wiser.

She headed back to the central road and walked west. Saul, if it was Saul, also might have selected a pickup spot somewhere on the west edge of the village. That's where the hostel was located, and it was the quickest way out of the village. She passed the abandoned South Family Dwelling House. Nay, surely that wouldn't work. So many people had been in and out of that building lately, what with Mairin's nighttime wanderings and finding Linus's body, that it was an unsafe place to hide anything. She kept walking until she had passed the Shaker Hostel, right on the west edge of the village and close to the road leading to Languor. On her left was only open countryside, to her right the Empyrean Mount. She'd surely have found anything hidden in the east end of the holy hill; besides, neither a car nor a wagon could get in there. The west side would work, though. North of the holy hill was the old cemetery, unused for decades, with a drop-off on the west edge. North of the cemetery were woods, dotted with shade-loving plants Brother Andrew grew for medicinal herb experiments. Andrew and his helpers checked the area regularly.

“Rose! I've been looking all over for you.” Gennie came running up behind her, her curls flying around her face. “I made the phone call—you know, to Mrs. Alexander in Pittsfield,” Gennie said, as they fell into step together. “I think she'd already started nipping at the sherry, but all it did was loosen her tongue. She gave me an earful about Horace von Oswald.” She lowered her voice as they passed in front of the hostel.

“Let's go back to the dwelling house,” Rose said.

Once they'd closed themselves into the library, Gennie said, “What your friend found out about Horace was true. Mrs. Alexander told a similar story without any prompting from me. Then she told me more. Sounds like Horace was way too big for his britches. He wanted to be a newspaper reporter, but not just any reporter. He was sure he was going to be the best newspaperman in the country. Mrs. Alexander said she'd once heard him lay out his whole life—first he'd write for the
New York Times
, reporting on all the important stuff, like politics and war. Then he'd take all his experiences and write books and become very famous. Folks got scared to be around him, 'cause he always scribbled in a notebook whenever they said something. Mrs. Alexander said he mostly seemed interested in digging out peoples' secrets, which is funny coming from her.”

“What happened with Harvard, did she know?”

“Well, she'd heard rumors. He bragged that he was going to Harvard to study politics and literature, that they'd begged him to come, gave him money and everything. That's when he got engaged to the daughter of Pittsfield's most prominent businessman. They were going to marry right away, so she could go with him to Boston. It was supposed to be a huge, expensive wedding, and everybody was talking about it.”

Gennie's expression sobered briefly, and Rose wondered if she were thinking about her own wedding, whether it would ever take place. “Anyway, as we already knew, his fiancée threw the ring in his face. According to Mrs. Alexander's story, Horace was tricking everyone. It was true that he'd been admitted to Harvard, but they hadn't pursued him. He'd been applying for years, that's why he'd been hanging around Pittsfield working on the newspaper. When he finally got accepted, he realized he didn't have the money to go, so he came up with a plan to get it. He courted a rich man's daughter and lied about his own success to get himself accepted by the family. His idea was that once he'd married the daughter, her father would foot the bill for Harvard just to save face.”

“Why didn't it work?”

“Harvard wanted a chunk of money ahead of time, before the wedding had taken place. Horace put them off as long as he could, but Harvard finally told him it was too late and they'd given his spot to someone else. His fiancée found the letter in his room. She ran out, he followed her into the street, and she threw the ring in his face. And that was that.”

Rose sat in silence, digesting the information. It certainly provided a reason for Horace's bitterness—he wasn't the sort to blame himself for his fate—yet the story wasn't complete enough to help her in the current situation.

“Terrence and the
Birdhill Bystander
editor weren't able to find out most of these details. How did Mrs. Alexander know?”

Gennie smirked. “Because Horace's room was in her boardinghouse. She watched the whole thing. She'd been dying to tell the story for years, but Horace's almost father-in-law was rich and powerful and had no intention of allowing everyone to know he'd been duped. He swore her to secrecy, and she was scared of what he could do to her if she broke her oath. She was afraid he'd buy up her boardinghouse and kick her out on the streets. So even under the influence of sherry, her fear kept her quiet.”

“This is wonderful work, Gennie. Thank you so much. But there's still one problem with the story.”

“What?”

“It seems to have nothing to do with the Shakers.”

Gennie clasped her hands together and held them against her lips. At first, Rose thought she was praying, but then she saw the corners of Gennie's mouth twitch, as if she were trying mightily to contain her excitement.

“You saved the best for last, didn't you?”

Gennie nodded. “It seems the future father-in-law was good friends with the Hancock Shakers. He was a shrewd businessman, and he respected how well the Shakers conducted their business affairs. He was always telling people how honest the Shakers were, how their products were such good quality. His daughter had spent many happy days visiting the Hancock sisters, while her father chatted and did business with the trustees.”

“Let me guess,” Rose said. “The daughter became a sister.”

“Yes! And her parents made it known that they had changed their will, leaving their entire fortune and their land not to their daughter, but to the Hancock Shakers. Mrs. Alexander said Horace was furious and left town soon after.”

“Are the parents still alive?”

“Yes, but the daughter died of pneumonia after about five years with the Shakers. Once she was gone, her father talked about changing his will again, but Mrs. Alexander doesn't know if he ever did so. She said he's still pretty powerful in town, so she made me swear I wouldn't tell her story to anyone in Pittsfield. She doesn't want me calling the father. She's really scared of him.”

“But you believe her story is true?”

“I do.” Gennie slid to the edge of her chair and leaned forward. “And there's one more truly wonderful part to the story. The daughter's name was Sarah Haskins.”

“Sarah Haskins. Sarina Hastings.” Rose relaxed against the slats of her chair. So she'd been right about Horace. After his disgrace in Pittsfield, he must have gotten as far away as possible, taking a series of jobs on small newspapers. He surely felt humiliated, and it was his character to blame others for his failures. He believed the Hancock Shakers would get the money he felt was his. It explained so much about him and provided several pieces to the puzzle. Without doubt Horace had planted the Sarina Hastings articles in newspapers, starting just after the announcement that North Homage was opening a hostel. Had he gone so far as to appear as the ghost? He was plump—was he the “pregnant” ghost several witnesses had reported?

However, several issues remained unresolved. Rose was quite sure that the ghost she and Gennie had seen in the Meetinghouse was not Horace von Oswald. It had been tall, quick, and definitely not pregnant. It could have been Saul or Daisy—or an outsider brought in by Horace to enhance the credibility of his ghost stories. And the most pressing question still begged an answer—granted Horace was a mean, bitter, vengeful man, but why would he kill Mina Dunmore and Brother Linus?

Twenty

L
IGHT 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.